University of Virginia Library

On a fragment of some verses written by a Lady in praise of solitude.

Myra! dear maid, full many a weary hour
In joyless speed has pass'd, since first mine eye,
Met the faint outline of your early hopes,
Moist with the purest dew of Castaly:
And who, ah who, can willingly resign
The distant shadows of ideal joys,
In youth's fair morn by treacherous Fancy form'd,
That, like the floating rack on yonder sky,
Pass into nought as they had never been?
The time was once when oft the long day through,
Far, far too busy for my present peace,
O'er these the pensive fablings of your Muse
I hung enamour'd, whilst with anxious glance
The kindred feelings of my youthful years,
In visionary view full glad I found,
And blissful dreams familiar to my heart,
O'er which sweet Hope her gilding pale had flung:
Such, O! such scenes with Myra to have shared
Was all my fruitless prayers e'er askt of Fate.
(Filling each space imperfect you had left);
Oft would my partial hand the pencil take,
And bid the sketch unreal hues assume
Bright beams of light and colours not its own:
Mischance stood by and watch'd, and at an hour
When least I thought her near, with hasty hand
All my fair pictured hopes at once defaced.—
The traveller thus, when louring skies impend,
In sorrowing silence leaning on his staff,
From some ascent his weary steps have gain'd,
Breathless looks back, and pausing, ponders well
The lengthen'd landscape past; now hid he finds
Mid far-off mists, and thick-surrounding showers
Each city, wandering stream, and wildering wood,
Where late in joy secure he journied blyth,
Nor met the phantom of a single fear,
Where ev'ry cloud illumin'd by the sun,
Hung lovely, and each Zephyr fragrance breath'd.