Pure , as the placid transports of thy breast,
My verse shall flow, in native graces drest;
My verse that scorns to fill a lying strain: —
The Muse shall tie meek F RIENDSHIP'S golden chain,
Where'er I go, thy gentle image, still,
Shall check each fault, and nobler aims instil;
Where'er I go, thy cordial glow shall warm
My bosom's secret shrine, and sweetly charm;
Tho' pressing pageants idly thwart my view,
And sad Reflection, weeping, turns to You .