Elegy II. in Answer to the Foregoing

Thou, whom long since I number'd for my own, To whose kind view in life's first happy days Each young ambition of my heart was known, For fame my ardour, and my love of ease,

Say, wilt thou pardon, that a-while I thought (The thought how vain!) my feelings to disguise? Too well thou knew'st, by Myra's lessons taught, The soul's soft language, and the voice of eyes:

Thou knew'st—perhaps, ere to myself 'twas known— The impatient struggling of the sigh supprest; And early saw'st, instructed by thy own, The infant passion kindling in my breast:

" No longer then I'll seek to hide my pain, " No longer blush the secret to impart;" The mask, which wrong'd thy friendship, I disdain, " And boast the graceful weakness of my heart."

Nor shall the jealous God with hand severe Afflict his vassal, tho' a rebel long; Already hath he breath'd the humble prayer, And pour'd already the repentant song.

But, ah! in vain his art the poet tries, The power of numbers he exerts in vain; The maid regards them with unconscious eyes, And hears, but will not understand, the strain:

Yet hath she seen—for nothing could conceal— The wild emotions of his labouring breast; The fond attention, that devour'd her tale; The hand that trembled, when her hand it prest:

While his pleas'd ear upon her accents hung, Oft hath she mark'd the involuntary sigh, Love's "broken murmurs" forming on his tongue, And love's warm rapture starting to his eye:

And she hath seen him whelm'd in bitterest woe, When her frown spoke some error unforgiven; And she hath seen each kindling feature glow, When her smile cheer'd him with a gleam of heaven.

But, when in verse he breathes his amorous care, (As if she knew not what to all is known His arts she praises, but neglects his prayer, Nor deem the poet, or the verse, her own.

Say then, O say (for, sure, thou know'st full well Each tender thought with happiest skill to dress) His heart's strong feelings how his tongue shall tell! How speak—what language never can express!

Teach him those arts that did thy suit commend, When love first prompted Myra to be kind; And, that those arts may prosper, let thy friend His love's soft advocate in Myra find.

Then, while the happy means thy lesson shows To win the maid his passion to approve, Then Myra shall recount—for Myra knows— What blessings are in store for those that love:

Myra shall tell her, that from love alone Flows the pure spring of happiness sincere; And love, with power to lovers only known, Doubles each joy, and lessens every care;

And each warm transport of her conscious heart, And each fair hope, that doth her state attend, With generous ardor Myra shall impart, And point her own example to her friend:

And if her sense shall Damon's claim approve, And if her candour deem his vow sincere, Her tongue shall speak the interest of his love, Her gentle eloquence enforce his prayer:

And all that tenderest pity can suggest, And each soft argument her thought can find, Myra shall urge—O be her pleading blest!— To win her fair companion to be kind:

And when—for friendship must not pass them o'er— She gives the frailties of his youth to fight, O may her pencil place—he asks no more— Each little merit in the fairest light!

Clara, perchance, may learn to love an heart, (Proud tho' the boast, it is an honest pride) Where nothing selfish ever claim'd a part, Which owns no purpose it should wish to hide;

Warm with the love of virtue and mankind, At others bliss where social feelings glow; And where, when sorrow wrings the worthy mind, The tear is ready for another's woe:

This praise the youth is fond to call his own; No higher worth he seeks his claim to grace; His hope he builds upon his love alone, And his love stands on reason's solid base:

No sudden blaze, the meteor of a day, Its transient splendor o'er his heart doth pour; Kindled at virtue's fire, the steady ray Shall shine thro' life, and gild its latest hour.

If such an heart can please, if such a flame With kindred ardour can inspire her breast, His first ambition hath obtain'd its aim— To Heaven and Fortune he commits the rest.

But if, regardless of the honest prayer, The maid unpitying, on his love should frown; If fate's worst shock the youth is doom'd to bear, Each prospect darken'd, and each hope o'erthrown;

Too humbly fearful of th' all-ruling power To strike the blow that sets the spirit free, Prison'd in life, he'll wait the appointed hour, And, patient, bend him to the hard decree:

Yet ne'er (however shifts the varying scene) Shall her dear image from his mind depart; Still fresh the lov'd idea shall remain, Warm in each pulse, and woven with his heart:

Unchang'd thro' life, still anxious for her peace, For her to heaven his daily prayer shall rise; And, when kind fate shall grant the wish'd release, His last weak breath shall bless her as it flies:

Then, when in earth's cold womb his limbs are laid, (For, sure, her servant's fall shall reach her ear) Clara, perchance, will sigh, and grant his shade The kind compassion of a pious tear:

Yes—she will weep—for gentle is her breast— Tho' his love pleas'd not, she will mourn his doom; And, haply, when with flowers his grave is drest, Her hand may plant a myrtle o'er his tomb.

This meed, at least, his service may demand; This—and 'tis all he asks—his truth may claim: No breathing marble o'er his dust shall stand; No storied urn shall celebrate his name:

Enough for him, that, where his ashes lie, When kindred spirits shall at times repair, The prosperous youth shall cast a pitying eye, The slighted virgin pour her sorrows there:

Enough for him, that pointing to his stone, The sad old man his story shall relate, Then smite his breast, and wish, with many a groan, No child of his may meet so hard a fate.