While mis'ry's weeping moments seem
A ling'ring age of tears.

Then breathe my sorrows, plaintive lute!
And pour thy soft consoling tone,
While I, a list'ning mourner mute,
Will call each tender grief my own.




LINES

WRITTEN IN A COTTAGE BY THE SEA-SIDE

(_In which the Author had taken Shelter during a violent Storm_),

UPON SEEING AN IDIOTIC YOUTH SEATED IN THE CHIMNEY-CORNER, CARESSING A
BROOM.


'Twas on a night of wildest storms,
When loudly roar'd the raving main,--
When dark clouds shew'd their shapeless forms,
And hail beat hard the cottage pane,--

Tom Fool sat by the chimney-side,
With open mouth and staring eyes;
A batter'd broom was all his pride,--
It was his wife, his child, his prize!