Moral Pieces, in Prose and Verse

A DAMP and dewy wreath that grewUpon the breast of Spring,A harp whose tones are faint and few,With trembling hand I bring.

The clang of war, the trumpet's roar,May drown the feeble note,And down to Lethe's silent shore,The scattered wreath may float.

But He, who taught the flowers to springFrom waste neglected ground,And gave the silent harp a stringOf wild and nameless sound;

Commands my spirit not to trustHer happiness with these:A bloom that moulders back to dust,A music soon to cease.

But seek those flowers unstain'd by time,To constant virtue given,And for that harp of tone sublime,Which seraphs wake in Heaven.