And give those scales, of silver white, As if thy frame were form'd to rise, But takes the plume that God has given, But, when I see that wing, so bright, Oh Virtue! when thy clime I seek, With brine still dropping from its wing, Just sparkle in the solar glow And plunge again to depths below; With whom my soul hath dwelt so long, Cast every lingering stain away, VOL. II. |