To ETHELINDE

No longer let me weep a prey to love, Sad victim to ill-fated passion's sway; A thousand sighs will ne'er their source remove, Nor tears its fond remembrance wash away.

Ah me!—when sinks the heart by griefs deprest, And Hope denies her balmy soothings sweet, And busy Memory wrings the bleeding breast; Then, surely, then is wretchedness complete.

Come Hope, in Ethelinde's enchanting form, Come bid my useless tears forbear to flow; Check the wild passions in my breast that storm, Rude as the gusts o'er Erie's surfs that blow.

Why should I grieve?—no swain with artful tongue Has broke the vows I ventur'd to approve; For Alma's TRUTH my easy heart has won, Whose form is beauty and whose voice is love.

Does he not feel?—why then that frequent sigh When grief or sickness cloud my pensive face? Or why that pleasure sparkling in his eye, When cheerfulness and health resume their place?

Why does his cheek with sudden flushes glow, From a short absence when we meet again? Or why dejection hang upon his brow, When other fav'rites my attention claim?

Oh! if he loves—with passion such as mine— Life's varying scenes how easy shall I find? How light will be the woes of CAROLINE? How rich the pleasures shar'd with such a mind?

But—if I must a common lot deplore— Oh! if my ALMA chuse some happier fair, Then will I fly to some forgotten shore, And waste my sorrows on the desert air.

Ha!—will the forest's echoing glooms be found More cheering than the voice of Ethelinde? What!—can eternal absence heal my wound, Or blot his lov'd idea from my mind?—

No, surely, no—firm as the earth's broad base Are my affections round his virtues twin'd; And Time, beneath whose touch all else decays, Serves but the ligaments more close to bind.

Then will I stay, a votary to his charms, And, kneeling victor at Submission's shrine, Clasp the blest woman in my conquering arms, And all the heart that once was mine to her resign.