To Della Crusca

Whilst I danced gaily in the round Of Folly, on her fairy ground; And play'd, and sung, and laugh'd away The feath'ry hours of Life's short day, Thy INVOCATION, like the flame Which starts from the Electric frame, Struck on my heart! I figh'd, I turn'd, And ANN A yet for DELLA CRUSCA mourn'd. When wounded PRIDE suffus'd its blush, And o'er my nerves its tremors rush.

Ne'er will I "leave my secret bow'r, To cheer thy melancholy hour." Secure within I will remain, And smile at thy factitious pain; And when thy Poetry so sweet Shall next my wand'ring glances meet, I'll spare a sigh to moments fled— But ANNA shall to thee be dead. See—to my couch I laughing turn— Poetic Passions vainly burn! The freshest Rose-leaves for my head Shall form a blushing scented bed; The elastic Camomile unprest, Invite the sick'ning heart to rest. FLORA shall ev'ry gift show'r round, And bid her bright gems deck the ground, The MYRTLE only there Shall ne'er unfold its od'rous boughs, Ne'er flaunt its blossoms fair, Frail, and alluring as thy vows! 'Tis Love's devoted tree— Oh! bid it seek some other home, Nor spread its sweets for me, Nor shed its poison round my Dome!

Hah! didst thou hope I should not trace The mental features of thy face? Didst thou believe the thickest veil Could DELLA CRUSCA'S brow conceal? Oh! how impossible a task To hide thy radiance in a mask! Thy living fires destroy the skreen. Thou stand'st consest!—thy form is seen.

Yes, write to LAURA! speed thy sighs, Tell her, her DELLA CRUSCA dies; In sweetest measures sing thy woes, And speak thy hot LOVE'S ardent throes;— And when it next shall please thy heart Towards some other Fair to start, The gentle Maiden's vers'd in cures For ev'ry ill, fond Love endures. She "drinks Oblivion" to its pains— And vows to stain her pallid cheek With juices of red Grapes so sleek, And sings adieus in Bacchanalian strains.

FALSE Lover! TRUEST Poet! now farewel! Hark! in yon Curfews sound is toll'd the knell Of our departed Loves. The pensive tale The surging aether floats across the vale; The Elegiac sound sooths my sad ear, And the moist lid sustains a trembling tear. The crimson veil which deck'd yon mountain's brow, And glided into gentlest tints, but now, Already blackens down its swelling side, And soon the beauties of the plain will hide— The outstretch'd beauties! where salubrious toil Calls food, and riches from the sterile soil. O! wondrous magic! shall great Labour's name, Remain unhallow'd by the voice of Fame? CREATIVE LABOUR! whose all-bounteous hand Drops flow'rs, and fruits, and forests o'er the land; Who bids th' indented river curving fly, Or fix, a silv'ry lake beneath the eye!

But these all sink before the falling Night, Who tries to sezie the flitting beams of light, But the proud light its am'rous touch eludes, And a dim shadow o'er the landscape broods. Soft drizzling rain, the patter'd trees confess, And chilling breezes on my bosom press. My hair, whose curls, late floated o'er my breast, Weighty with moisture, clings around my vest— Where—where's the hand to press those tresses dry, The fond encircling arm, the cheering eye? Why sigh the winds tumultuous thro' the woods. Why weeps the Night in such impetuous floods? It is the loss of DELLA CRUSCA'S Muse, Which thus with sorrow every plant imbues; For never shall again his "Golden Quill," With magic passion ev'ry bosom thrill. He yet may write, but ANNA 'twas alone Lured down his guardian Goddess from her throne; Who whilst she pour'd the richest of her store, And charm'd his heart with bright poetic lore, Phophetic, thus his future hist'ry read, And wreath'd it in the laurels for his head: "If false, thou e'er MATILDA'S heart should'st wring, And to another nymph presume to sing, My inspiration thou no more shalt know, My fire in thee, no more divinely flow." The Goddess spoke, her words were mark'd by fate, And DELLA CRUSCA mourns his ANNA'S wrongs, too late!