To Anna Matilda

Heaven OF MY HEART! again I hear Thy long-lost voice, but ah! the tear Steals from my lids, and deadly pain Creeps in cold langour thro' each gasping vein. And can that mind I love so well, Thy Soul's deep tone, thy Thought's high swell, The proud poetic fervour, known But in thy breast's prolific zone, Can these combine to curse me? can that gaze, In whose rich orb the FAIRY FANCY plays, Thro' which, the charms that ART and NATURE show, Spring to the judgment, and there brighter glow; Can that be chang'd to anger? canst thou doom My future wish to dwell upon the tomb? Canst thou, SO KEEN OF FEELING! urge my fate And bid me mourn thee, yes, and MOURN TOO LATE? O rash severe decree! my madd'ning brain Cannot the pond'rous agony sustain, But forth I rush, as varying Frenzy leads, To cavern'd lakes, or to the diamond meads, O'er which the sultry noon-beams wide dissuse, And slake their eager thirst with lingering dews; Or to yon sullen slope that shuns the light, Where the black forest weaves meridian night, Disorder'd, lost, from hill to plain I run, And with my Mind's thick gloom obscure the Sun! For naught to me, alas! can now avail The fresh'ning vapours of the perfum'd dale, The distant sea-waves' variegated green Or the soft anguish of Night's eye serene, They cannot yield me comfort, tho' the Spring Should shake spontaneous beauty from her wing, Or guide my footsteps to th' enchanted lawn, Where blushing pleasure hymns the birth of dawn, Still would I pause to weep, still would I turn From scenes like these, to th' neglected Urn That mid some grove in solemn ruin lies, And tells, how th' forsaken Lover dies! There would I fondly clasp the broken stone, And whisper ev'ry mental pang I've known, Repeat the dread inexorable word, That stern MATILDA spoke—MATILDA! most ador'd!

When at the last year's close of May, From thy sweet chains I burst away, And dash'd my woe-worn Harp upon the ground, Still in my flight Love's rapt'rous hope was found. But now all soothing Hope is past; in vain I check'd my progress on the midland main, In vain to EUROPE'S CONTINENT I came, Lur'd by the light of thy poetic flame, In vain I bade my wandring toil be o'er, And on MATILDA call'd with trembling tongue ONCE MORE.

And think'st thou, ANNA! that my love, Like thine, could ever faithless prove, That in some female REUBEN's praise, I the impassion'd verse could raise; That I so quickly led astray, Could wake the warm inconstant lay? No—tho' conceal'd, I struck my lyre, When by dull EVENING's fading fire Pale ECHO sat; who as she caught the sound, Gave the week murmur to the woods around; Yet, 'twas thy Image fill'd my mind— I heard a tuneful Phantom in the wind, I saw it watch the rising Moon afar, Wet with the weepings of the twilight Star, Assiduous Zephyr told me it was thou, And wond'ring, NOT DECEIV'D, I breath'd the friendly vow.

If I have wrong'd thee, my hot tears Shall melt thy rage, or flow for years; For oh! till then my days shall go In deep regret, unalter'd woe, In mute reflection, heavy care, And SOLITUDE's supreme despair! But still for thee my breast shall beat With the most faithful honest heat; Then save me, save me, let thy radiant smile Again restore me, or again beguile; With melting music calm my bosom's groan, O deign to pity him, who loves but thee alone! And whither shall I turn from thee? For in thy absense all things fade; FRIENDSHIP, I know, is but a glitt'ring shade, A sweet deception—strange uncertainty! Nor could AMBITION's busy rage An anguish such as mine assuage, Vain must the world's best glories prove, To fill the vacuum in the heart of love.

How brightly spreads the op'ning flow'r! What beauteous life informs the bow'r! How fair the streams of curling silver glide! How rich the harvest waves its golden pride! 'Tis LIGHT's creation all—when that retires, The pictures perish, and the charm expires. So the faint colours of my mimic lays, Drew their false lustre from MATILDA's blaze; But soon the tints shall vanish—'tis decreed, And endless darkness come, if SHE recede.

THEN HEAR MY WORD, by that fierce Orb, Whose flame scarce all the skies absorb, By ev'ry winged blast that goes To its full banquet on the Rose; By truth, eternal, undefil'd, By gentlest Sorrow's warblings wild; By the gay tresses of the morn; By Earth, and Sea, and Heaven, 'tis sworn, That ne'er again this hand shall fling Its feeble tremors to the string, Till thou, MATILDA! bidst the measure pour, Till then, THY DELLA CRUSCA WRITES no MORE.