SONNET XIV. TO ELIZA.
And banished I am if but from thee.
Shakespeare.
O lovely Maid, whose bosom knows no guile!
Enchanting fair, that robs me of my rest!
Fond Fancy traces oft thy heav'nly smile,
Which rais'd a passion in this peaceful breast.
Tho' distant from the place I hold so dear,
I ne'er forget those joys I knew of late;
But, like the dove who mourns his absent mate,
Pining in grief, love prompts the painful tear.
Lonely I range the briary woods along,
Where Nature's wildness charm'd my infant view;
Pensive I hear at noon the woodlark's song—
Still busy Memory paints our last adieu;
For what avails to me the beauties of the grove,
Since I am doom'd to mourn far from the maid I love!
