Sonnet. to Melissa

Whene'er thy angel-form salutes my eye, What tender spasms convulse my beating heart! My trembling limbs but small support impart; My aching bosom heaves the deep-drawn sigh! A wild confusion overwhelms my brain— My falt'ring tongue cleaves to the parching roof, My spirits fail!—ah, melancholy proof How well thou'rt lov'd;—tho' lov'd, alas! in vain! —Impell'd by sorrow, should my lovely Maid Bend her slow footsteps to the silent spot, Where this distracted head shall soon be laid In Death's chill clasp, by all—but her—forgot!!—

Oh! let her bid my wand'ring Spirit rest, And the green sod lie lightly on my Breast.