REMAINS OF ROBERT BLOOMFIELD (1824)

Yield thee to pleasure, old Care;

Hope—let me rejoice in thy truth;

Leave me, pale sickness; forbear,

And steal not the rose of my youth.

Spring; with thy charms, prithee come,5

I long for thy bright sunny hours;

Clothe the steep woods round my home;

And bid me revive with thy flowers.

Borne on the fresh blowing breeze,

The respite of Heaven descends.10

Joy; thy white hand let me seize;

I live for my father and friends.