ANOTHER EXTRACT
From Ossian.
From grief a kind of joy doth flow,
When peace is in the breast;
Some minds indulge themselves in woe,
And love to be distress’d.
Altho’ by sad remembrance pain’d,
The heart still holds it dear,
The soft sensation is retain’d,
Tho’ causing many a tear.—
But sorrow wastes the mournful soul,
Its joyless days are few,
Whose heart of settled sadness full
Bids cheerfulness adieu!—
A willing stranger to delight,
It wastes in early bloom,
Like flowers which nightly mildews blight,
And scorching suns consume.—
The floweret bends its heavy head,
The killing drops to drink,
So does the mind to pleasure dead,
In cherish’d sorrow sink.—
But grief doth such in secret waste,
Their fleeting days are few,
Whose minds by settled gloom possess’d,
Bid cheerfulness adieu!—