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Robert Anderson (Роберт Андерсон)


A Reflection


Estrang'd from all I once held dear,
Reflection turns to pleasures past;
And pond'ring on life's mad career,
At future days I shrink aghast.

A secret pang oft rends my breast,
Soft pity's tear could not remove;
It robs me of night's soothing rest,
And days of pain it makes me prove.

It made me soon a child of care,
And stole from me health's blooming rose;
But I this pang must silent bear,
Till death the painful scene shall close.

Returning seasons charm no more,
That erst this bosom fir'd with joy;
The smiles of hope can nought restore,
And but my fancied joys destroy.

I fondly gaze, nor vain my aim,
On nature's grand unerring plan;
And sighing, inwardly exclaim,
Alas! how thoughtless is frail man!

The wither'd flow'ret in the shade,
To me presents a hast'ning doom;--
A few short hours may see me laid
Unpitied, in the narrow tomb.

In youth we trifle time away,
On tempting pleasures, idly vain;
In manhood, join a world too gay,
And crush the joys we hope to gain.

Oh! when my latest hour draws near,
Then may I own the moments blest;
And, wearied with my wand'rings here,
Believe with truth, death's slumber's rest! 



Robert Anderson's other poems:
  1. Epistle the Tenth
  2. Dick Watters
  3. Epitaph on Maria of the Cottage
  4. Enigma the First
  5. Lines to a Redbreast


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