Philenia to Alfred

Alfred! the heaven lent muse is thine, Then bid impetuous sorrow cease; And at the bright Apollo's shrine, Recal thy exil'd heart to peace.

Vain is the tear in anguish shed, And vain the pang by passion fed, Then to the muse thy moments give, And for her deathless laurel live.

Ne'er hope in careless crouds to find A refuge for thy lonely mind, Think not the sympathetick sigh, The language of the moving eye, Will o'er thy with'ring sorrows flow; Envy will sneer, and rancour frown, Or ignorant malice drag thee down, And scorn to solace what it cannot know. Yet there are some to mercy true; And such my griefs have found, Who o'er each life-destroying wound, Shed pity's healing dew.

Such be thy favour'd lot, for they Will live beyond the summer day, Will mid'st the weeping autumn smile, And e'en the wintry waste beguile; Will thy sad breast from anguish free, The friends of gentleness and thee.

But, if the slave of love thou art Still languish and endure, For when that strikes the feeling heart, Like death, it has no cure.