To Laura

Laura! I heard thy warbled woes, At fading Twilight's solemn close: They met me in yon dreary vale, Just as the Ringdove ceas'd her tale. A tale like thine, which seem'd to speak, That soon her wounded heart would break! Was it, perhaps, she sought the grove, In lone solicitude of Love? Was it, like thee, a faithless mate She mourn'd too sadly, and too late? Surely it was—for with the note I found such melting anguish float, That watry vapours dimm'd my eye, And ALL MY SOUL WAS SYMPATHY.

Nor wonder that I so was mov'd. For I have suffer'd I have lov'd, Have felt the truest passion burn, Have known th' ecstatic blest return, Have watch'd the look of languor cast, To shew the rig'rous hour was past: Then have I press'd the blushing Fair, With pangs—how diff'rent from despair! Yet was the bliss so pure, so chaste, That Seraphs might the rapture taste. Alas! the joy was doom'd to fade, Like Day's proud flush in Evening shade— The EYE, so settled once, would range— The long-fix'd HEART began to change!

Ah! then, I thought with thee—to try The only refuge left—and fly. On many a foreign shore to roam, And leave my rending cares at home. Yes, I have trod the ALPINE steep, By rushing PO have stopp'd to weep; On the loud DANUBE's banks have stood, And Eastward cross'd the CASPIAN flood. 'Tis but ILLUSION;—yet remains Unfaded memory of pains, The circle wid'ning for relief, Has still the central point of grief! Then from th' alluring thought recoil— 'Tis desolating fruitless toil! But most avoid ITALIA's coast, Where ev'ry sentiment is lost, Where TREACH'RY reigns, and base DISGUISE, And MURDER—looking to the Skies, While sordid SELFISHNESS appears In low redundancy of scars. O! what can MUSIC's voice bestow, Or SCULPTUR'D GRACE, or TITIAN GLOW, To recompense the feeling mind For British virtues left behind? Here rather here, thy ills confound, To list the billows roar around, To see the misty Phantoms glide, On the choak'd river's willowy side, When the YOUNG MOON aspires to stream Her scanty Crescent's feeblest beam. Then, wistful mark the drenching show'rs That foil gav Summer's fairest flow'rs; Scorn the fierce storm, the season dare, And learn to TRIUMPH, or to BEAR! But if thy sorrow soften'd heart In vain resists the venom'd dart, With mine thy deep afflictions blend, And for a LOVER LOST, receive a FRIEND.