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On sportive pinions once I flew, |
For me the peach and cherry grew, No want, nor grief I found. |
But short the date of pleasure is, While sorrows long prevail. Gone is the flattering scene of bliss-- |
Ah, hear my plaintive tale! |
The fowler came with fatal art, No friendly hand was nigh, |
He pierc'd my bleeding lover's heart, I saw him fall and die! |
Deep in the bosom of a wood I rear'd my chirping young; |
For them I sought the sweetest food, For them serenely sung. |
A school boy saw the downy nest Where all my treasure lay; |
No pity touch'd his harden'd breast, He stole my young away. |
Of love and pleasure thus bereft What can the wretched do? What other refuge now is left? For help I fly to you. |
To you whose tender bosom knows To feel for others' pain; To whom the wretched tell their woes Nor ever tell in vain. |
By thy kind care and bounty fed My griefs will lose their sting; Again I'll raise my drooping head, And plume my shatter'd wing. |
Again I'll hail the rising day, While pleasures round me throng; And raise my sweetest notes, to pay Thy bounties with my song. New-York, Oct. 20, 1788. |
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Email: Mary S. Van Deusen Copyright © 2014, InterMedia Enterprises |