Page:Poems - Lewis (1812).djvu/90

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POEMS.
Come, social Pleasure; with thy goblet stealMy thoughts from musing o'er Death's mournful Lists! Come, Friendship; Let thy converse make me feelThe blest conviction—"Virtue still exists!"—
And "last, not least," Come, Love! It's pain to sooth,Bid round my burning front thy pinions play; With gentle hand my scattered tresses smooth,And kiss with roseate lips my tears away:
And for that generous service, gracious Elf,Through life I'll bless thee, whose benignant art For one sweet moment stole me from myself,And poured kind balsam on a wounded Heart.
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