O Lucy, thou art snatch'd from folly,           

             Become too tender to be vain,           

             The world, it makes me melancholy,           

             The world would lure thee back again!           

             And it would cost me many sighs,           

             To see it win so bright a prize!           

                        

             Though passing apprehensions move me,           

             I know thou hast a noble heart;           

             But, Lucy, I so truly love thee,           

             So much admire thee as thou art,           

             That, but the shadow of a fear,           

             Wakes in my breast a pang sincere.           

            

            

       III.     

       THE ARTISAN.     

             This twilight gloom. This lone retreat—             This silence to my soul is sweet! Awhile escap'd from toil and strife, And all the lesser ills of life, Here only at the evening's close, My weary spirit finds repose; My sinking heart its freedom gains, Which poverty had bound in chains!           

             For here unheard the moments fly—             And so 

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