To Anna Matilda

In VAIN I FLY THEE—'tis in vain, The swift bark bears me o'er the boist'rous main; For mid the giant shades that sweep The heaving bosom of the deep, When rushing clouds, lash'd by the gale, Spread o'er the sun their transient veil, THY FORM APPEARS!—I see thee haste Lightly athwart the wild'ring waste! And shake thy burnish'd locks, and smile, I see thee—and adore the while. Do I adore thee?—ah, my Fair!

Since first thy sweet song sooth'd my heart, I've never known a bliss, a care,

But thou, MATILDA, gav'st a part! When in HELVETIA's groves I lay, For thee my hot sighs stole away, And oft with thee, methought at "morning's hour, Seated in chrystal roseate tow'r, I saw the Goddess Health pursue The skimming Breeze, thro' fields of Dew;" While the high lark with quiv'ring poize, Told the gay story of his vernal joys! And oft as Twilight on the western edge, Had twin'd his hoary hair with sabling sedge, IMAGINATION fondly turn'd to thee, And sought the solace of dear SYMPATHY. Nor yet the yellow RHINE's impetuous wave, A short oblivion of my passion gave; Heedless I trod the sportive banks of RHONE, For ANNA! O I live, I live for thee alone! And when to LAURA's tomb I came, Glowing with PETRARCH's purest flame, As the first drop my pity shed, I started as if thou wert dead! But hark! what cruel sounds are these, Which float upon the languid breeze, Which fill my mind with jealous fear, Ah! REUBEN is the name I hear. For him my faithless ANNA weaves A wreath of Rose, and Myrtle leaves; On which the winged, am'rous Boy Has freely wept with tears of joy— And binding soft her fav'rite's brows, She mingles her too-tender vows. Hence sounds severe!—no more intrude— Leave me to Peace and Solitude, Leave me to tread Life's varying slope— Leave me awhile to cherish Hope! For e'en cold Criticks have conceiv'd,

So much alike our measures run, And e'en the gentle have believ'd,

That ANNA AND THAT I WERE ONE— Would it were so!—we then might prove The Sacred, settled unity of Love. O supposition vain! alas! I've seen seven fleeting lustres pass, And now the flush of life is o'er, And if I e'er could please, I please no more, Yet tho' my hasty youth is flown, ANNA! I worship thee unknown— And check for thee my wand'ring course, And yield to thy mysterious force— And I again will take my flute When slumb'ring Nature's self is mute, Save where perchance the Aspin wood That whispers o'er yon Midnight flood, Shall drop its shatter'd honors round, In seeming sorrow at the sound. And as my faithful voice I raise, With all the fervency of praise, O may I lure thee from thy secret bow'r To cheer once more my melancholy hour— So shall I grateful bless strong Fate's decree, That bids me still RETURN TO POETRY—and THEE.