A Collection of Original Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Goddess fair, whom I adore,
Dry your eyes, and weep no more;
Richer those tears than Jason's fleece,
Might sooth a jarring world to peace:
Were one of them but shed for me,
How bless'd! how happy shou'd I be!
Could I engross thy slightest care,
'Twould banish from my soul despair.

That goddess to whose charms, in heav'n,
The wreath of matchless beauty's giv'n,
(A wreath which better might agree,
Conser'd, my lovely nymph, on thee)
To give her swelling soul relief,
Oft stains her lucid eyes with grief;

But for no trivial toy she sighs;
A lover lost bids sorrow rise.

Since then, at thy superior shrine,
The willing world their hearts resign;
The bard, whose hope you oft beguile,
Who only lives upon thy smile,
With timid accent dares remind,
Pity's for worthier ends design'd;
Say, why should brutes be thus caress'd?
Let nobler passions fire thy breast;
And to complete the ev'ry grace
That spans thy shape, and blooms thy face;
Such wanton cruelty disdain,
And weep the wrongs of some poor swain,
Who, hopeless, drags the galling chain.
Haste! haste! to snatch the present hour,
And from the train, who own thy pow'r,

Select a lover to thy arms,
Bless some fond youth with all thy charms.
If you would chuse sincerity
And truth—your choice will light on me.

For this to Love I'll altars raise,
The woods shall eccho with his praise;
And to the god aloft shall rise
Thick wreaths of perfum'd sacrifice;
The Muses, with no other name
Shall swell the full-blown trump of fame.