Laura to Anna Matilda

O ANNA, since thy graceful song Can wind the cadence soft among The heart's fine nerves, and ravish thence The wond'ring Poet's captive sense; 'Till warm'd by thy electric fire, His yielding soul, with fond desire, Glows but for thee—dispel thy fears, Nor stain thy downy cheek with tears. O quit thy "blushing scented bed," Pluck the pale roses from thy head, Again with native lustre shine, And round thy polish'd brow th' unfading MYRTLE twine.

Subdue the haggard WITCH, whose em'rald eye Darts fell Revenge, and pois'ning Jealousy; Mark, where amidst her ebon hair, The scaly serpents mingling twine While darting thro' th' infected air, The murd'rous vapours shine! O turn thee, ANNA, quickly turn, Where DELLA CRUSCA's torch shall burn For thee alone; his harp is strung, To the soft music of thy tongue; No Verse of mine his song inspir'd;— Thy notes so lov'd, so long admir'd, Still vibrate in his glowing heart, Where ev'ry chord is tun'd to thy poetic Art.

Ah! let me, for repose, repair, Where Sorrow steals to weep her care, Deep in some cave, or craggy cell, Where the lone Screech Owl loves to dwell.

And O! my cheerless couch I'll spread, While spangled with the lunar dew, The Nightshade, and the baneful Yew, Shall wind about my head. There will I breathe a strain forlorn, And like a ling'ring wint'ry morn, Pale and with chilling rays appear, Cold glimm'ring thro' a chrystal tear,

Yet let me DELLA CRUSCA's lays admire, Still gaze with hallow'd rapture on his fire; List his soft tones of melting mood, Sweeter than Ringdove ever coo'd, Tuneful as METASTASIO's tongue, Or plaintive PETRARCH's witching song.

I feel no wish, no selfish joy, Another's transports to destroy; Ambition is not worth the name, That meanly shines with borrow'd fame. No counterfeited bliss my heart shall own, The conscious Mourner sighs for BAYARD's vows alone.

Since his lov'd voice first caught my ear, Oft have I tried to calm my woe, Oft have I brush'd away the tear— The tear his numbers taught to flow. I seize the Lyre, to sooth my grief, Court mazy Science for relief;— Vain is the effort, 'tis in vain— The fierce vibration fills my brain, Burns thro' each aching nerve with poignant smart, And riots cureless in my bleeding heart.

'Tis not "the Bacchanalian bowl," Can free from pain the sick'ning soul; The "brew'd enchantment's" poison fell! The mellow grape's nectareous juice Suits the base mind; its baleful use Throws o'er the sense, a torpid spell.

But LETHE's pure and limpid stream, Shall calm the thought, from passion's dream, 'Tis there my breast shall seek repose, And drink "Oblivion to its woes."