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Promptress of unnumber'd sighs, O snatch that circling bandage from thine eyes! O look, and smile! No common prayer Solicits, Fortune! thy propitious care! For, not a silken son of dress, I clink the gilded chains of politesse, Nor ask thy boon what time I scheme Unholy Pleasure's frail and feverish dream; Nor yet my view life's dazzle blinds-- Pomp!--Grandeur! Power!--I give you to the winds! Let the little bosom cold Melt only at the sunbeam ray of gold-- My pale cheeks glow--the big drops start-- The rebel Feeling riots at my heart! And if in lonely durance pent, Thy poor mite mourn a brief imprisonment-- That mite at Sorrow's faintest sound Leaps from its scrip with an elastic bound! But oh! if ever song thine ear Might soothe, O haste with fost'ring hand to rear One Flower of Hope! At Love's behest, Trembling, I plac'd it in my secret breast: And thrice I've view'd the vernal gleam, Since oft mine eye, with Joy's electric beam, Illum'd it--and its sadder hue Oft moisten'd with the Tear's ambrosial dew! Poor wither'd floweret! on its head Has dark Despair his sickly mildew shed! But thou, O Fortune! canst relume Its deaden'd tints--and thou with hardier bloom May'st haply tinge its beauties pale, And yield the unsunn'd stranger to the western gale!

1793.