To Miss of Dublin

Embosom'd in the bloom-bespangled thorn, The lonely Minstel wakes her strain forlorn, And to the ear of Night unfolds her tale, Of ceaseless sorrow, and of widow'd wail: Thus, bending 'neath a more than common woe, At Mem'ry's shrine thy tears incessant flow. Yet why, ah, why, with cheerless gloom o'ercast, Still ponder o'er th' irrevocable past? Why, weeping, bend o'er Virtue's hallow'd tomb, Whence Hope, immortal Hope, dispels the gloom? To her mild sway thy tortur'd breast resign, And make, dear maid, her balmy pleasures thine.