Here sorrowing Love seeks a sequester’d bow’r. Calls on thy spring to calm his troubled breast; Bright Hope alights not on his pensive hour, Nor can thy favour’d fountains yield him rest.
Despair across his joys now intervenes, And sternly bids the little cherub fly; While his eyes close amid thy beauteous scenes. His last sighs bless the form that bids him die.
Farewell, then, Bristol! thou canst yield no joy, Thy woods look darken’d with funereal gloom, Sickness and Sorrow on thy green banks sigh, And all thy form is but a beauteous tomb.
Ah! may each future suff’rer, hov’ring near, Rais’d by thy genial wave, delighted view Returning joy and health, supremely dear, Long lost to him who sadly sighs adieu!
These shades were made for Love alone,— Here only smiles and kisses sweet Shall play around his flow’ry throne, And doves shall sentinel the seat.
Come, Delia! ’tis a genial day; It bids us to his bow’r repair:— “But what will little Cupid say?”— “Say! sweet?—why, give a welcome there.”
There not a tell-tale beam shall peep Upon thy beauty’s rich display,— There not a breeze shall dare to sweep The leaves, to whisper what we say.
When lovely Delphine sought the crowded scene, The painter’s mimic pow’r no longer mov’d; All turn’d to gaze upon her beauteous mien, None envied her, for, as they look’d, they lov’d.
Amid the proud display of forms so fair, Of each fine tint the pencil can impart, Nature with rapture seem’d to lead her there, To prove how she could triumph over Art.
From Mirth’s bright circle, from the giddy throng, How sweet it is to steal away at eve, To listen to the homeward fisher’s song, Whilst dark the waters of the ocean heave;—
And on the sloping beach to hear the spray Dash ’gainst some hoary vessel’s broken side; Whilst, far illumin’d by the parting ray, The distant sail is faintly seen to glide.
Yes, ’tis Reflection’s chosen hour; for then, With pensive pleasure mingling o’er the scene, Th’ erratic mind treads over life again, And gazes on the past with eye serene.
Those stormy passions which bedimm’d the soul, That oft have bid the joys it treasur’d fly, Now, like th’ unruffled waves of Ocean, roll With gentle lapse—their only sound a sigh.
The galling wrong no longer knits the brow, Ambition feels the folly of her aim; And Pity, from the heart expanding, now Pants to extend relief to ev’ry claim.