Song.

SONG.

FAR from this throbbing bosom haste, Ye doubts and fears, that lay it waste; Dear anxious days of pleasing pain Fly, never to return again.

But, ah! return ye smiling hours, By careless fancy crown'd with flowers; Come, fairy joys, and wishes gay, And dance in sportive rounds away.

So shall the moments gaily glide O'er varying life's tumultuous tide; Nor sad regrets disturb their course, To calm oblivion's peaceful source.