Should the lone wanderer, fainting on his way,
Rest for a moment of the sultry hours
And though his path through thorns and roughness lay,
Pluck the wild rose or woodbine's gadding flowers;
Weaving gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree,
The sense of sorrow he awhile may lose;
So have l sought thy flowers, fair poesy
So charmed my way with friendship and the muse.
But darker now grows life's unhappy day,
Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come:
Her pencil sickening fancy throws away
And weary hope reclines upon the tomb;
And points my wishes to that tranquil shore
Where the pale spectre care pursues no more.
Charlotte Smith (1749-1806)
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