Robert Anderson Poems
Ah! who is she whose tresses wild,
Bespeak her sorrow's frantic child?
'Tis Kate, whose bosom fraught with woe,
Sweet peace again can never know;
Who, careless, wandering all day long,
Sings to herself this plaintive song:--
``Come Death! thou friend to the distrest,
Srike, strike, at once, this tortur'd breast,
And ease poor Kate, who cannot rest!''
In infancy, her father died:
And she, her mother's only pride,
Was forc'd (hard fate!) at plenty's door
The mite of pity to implore.
But soon, ah! soon an orphan left;
Of ev'ry stay, save Heaven, ...
A Lesson To Youth
Tho' Youth thy path be strewn with flow'rs,
And mirth leads on the rosy hours;
Soon manhood proves the past a dream,
And joys, once priz'd, now sorrows seem.
O Youth! beware of pleasure's wile!
For danger lurks beneath her smile:
'Tis wise, in time, her haunts to shun;
Who woos the nymph, is soon undone!