University of Virginia Library

TO CYNTHIA,

A FRAGMENT.

Fair are thy cold chaste beams, thy virgin face,
Of mild etherial hue and sweet aspect,
How many know thee not, nor aught regard
Thy tints delicious that are wont appear
On evening's shadowy mantle moist and grey!
What though, dear Maid, thou bear'st a borrow'd beam,
The sickly sister of the gaudy Sun,
How have I gazed thy beauties! when alone
At close of day, pacing in mournful mood
The yellow margin of the steril main,
Shagg'd with the sleet-worn summit of the cliff,
'Till oft emparadised, I deem'd the scene
Some looser cozenage of vagrant fancy,
Or fairy phantasm, that delusive thought,
Forms from the remnant of a passing dream.
Ah! who but you bears witness to the vows
That faultering speak of unrequited love?
To Whom but thee does Poesy unfold
The honey'd numbers of her bashful lay?
This mortal coil shook off, the Poet's eye,
Dimm'd with the dazzling radiance of the sun,
Full fondly flies to thee, and far retired,
With inspiration by thy silver light,
Surveys the changeful features of the world,
Flitting around the throng'd ideas wait,
Like charmed spirits obedient to his call,
To each its place he gives, whilst at his beck
Sudden the shade imperfect starts to life
And meets in form confest its Maker's eye.—