Poems on Several Occasions, Elegy

Still, Blooming Health, upon my Thespia's face, Through the clear surface let thy tints appear, O'er every feature shed thy modest grace, And let thy balmy smiles be ever there.

Protect her where she goes, ye Gentle Powers, Pure Denizons of undulating air, Whether from glowing noon-tides sultry hours, Or Evening's dewy shades, protect the Fair.

'Tis true, my Thespia, I indeed confess That selfish are the prayers and vows I pay, With no disinterested voice I bless The Gods, or pour the supplicating lay.

For, ah! from thee, and from thy looks, I find, Warm to my heart each cordial joy must flow, Sweet'ning the ills of Life; from thee my mind Must taste its keenest sense of piercing woe.

Thine is the master-key each spring to rule, Each hidden movement of my secret thought; Sure thou wert bred in some Enchanter's school, Who all his spells and mystick charms has taught.

Yet then would Holy Truth with thee reside, Truth which unbounded Confidence may trust? Yet then would mean Deceit fly far aside? And wild Caprice confounding false and just?

Wouldst thou have said, as I, struck dumb with fear, Tremblingly pointed out my humble bower, Haply Tranquillity and Peace are there, For them I scorn the gawdy farce of Power?

O thou sincerest! how shall I repay The endless debt of gratitude I owe? Quickly, my Fair, point out to me the way, And shew the path, for thou alone canst shew.

Though silent is thy tongue, thy speaking eye, The modest blushes o'er thy cheeks which rove, That deep-drawn breath, that panting breast reply, The sole return is tenderness and love.

And is that all? and dost thou ask no more? Whether I will or no, I needs must give That gift, nay lavish on thee all my store, Nor cease to love thee till I cease to live.

For ever rivetted within my heart Thy lov'd, thy dearest image shall remain: Whene'er from thence I bid it to depart, May I by some tremendous stroke be slain!

No common death I shall deserve to die, To pine by inches on a barren strand, Scorch'd by the 'vengeful Sun's severest eye, Nor by one sportive wandering Zephyr fann'd:

To freeze on some bleak rock: to glut the rage Of howling beasts within the dreary waste: Or live, in youth despis'd, in helpless age Th' extremities of want and woe to taste:

To walk a moving plague among mankind, Shun'd, hated, and refus'd the alms I crave, The only thing I wish for not to find, A still retirement in the peaceful grave:

In that fond hope to be deceiv'd, to hear With soul yet conscious, in the church-yard way The fierce invective cast upon my bier, And Scornful Laughter dancing o'er my clay:

All this, and more, I shall deserve to prove, When led by changesul Fancy's wanton eye, I turn a faithless truant to thy love, And on the wings of vagrant Falsehood fly.