Fragment Poem by Robert Anderson

From Corby's hills, or scented groves,
O'er hanging woods, I lov'd to view
The village steeple point to Heav'n,
And mark'd the antient spreading yew;
Where all around,
Each narrow mound,
Gives to vain man a lesson true.

Departed spirits seem'd to say,
``Weak pilgrim in this vale of woe,
Like us, thou'rt hast'ning to the tomb;
In time all dear--bought joys forego!
The world of strife,
The toils of life,
Will health destroy, and lay thee low!''

Yes, I have paus'd on that lov'd spot,
And wept, and thought of follies fled;
And wish'd when life's career was run,
I there might rest my wearied head:
Where one short verse
Would truth rehearse,
In nervous language from the dead.

Now sighing, distant, I exclaim,
Adieu, ye minstrel--haunted bow'rs!
No more contemplative I range,
Where you beguil'd my early hours:
No more I find
What charms the mind--
O'er me a threat'ning tempest low'rs!

Dear chequer'd landscapes, rural scenes,
Where Eden winds his devious way!
Shall I, no more by fortune cross'd,
With heart enraptur'd own your sway?
I weep the past,
And shrink aghast
At ills that threaten life's decay!

Whoe'er thou art, excuse the Bard,
Who long has strove, in homely strain,
To lead the mind o'er virtue's path,
But ne'er would cause a mortal pain:
His faults forgive.
--Learn how to live;
If heav'nly joys thou hop'st to gain!