 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
205
The CONVERT.
The sun beam'd forth intensely bright,
Exulting in meridian light,
When blooming Sylvia sought the bow'r,
To pass in shade the noon-tide hour;
It chanc'd that I too wander'd there;
And, when reclin'd I saw the fair,
A soft desire my soul possest,
And fondness melted in my breast.
Oh, goddess of my heart! I cry'd,
Lo, nature smiles in genial pride!
The feather'd warblers coo and bill,
But sweeter Sylvia's cruel still?
To gentler use thy charms employ;
The voice of love invites to joy.
Exulting in meridian light,
When blooming Sylvia sought the bow'r,
To pass in shade the noon-tide hour;
It chanc'd that I too wander'd there;
And, when reclin'd I saw the fair,
A soft desire my soul possest,
And fondness melted in my breast.
Oh, goddess of my heart! I cry'd,
Lo, nature smiles in genial pride!
The feather'd warblers coo and bill,
But sweeter Sylvia's cruel still?
To gentler use thy charms employ;
The voice of love invites to joy.
Canst thou, she answer'd, breathe the name
Of love, yet urge a sensual flame?
True passion hopes sublimer joys;
It never to possess destroys;
And beauty only looks divine
While virtue gives it light to shine.
Of love, yet urge a sensual flame?
True passion hopes sublimer joys;
It never to possess destroys;
206
While virtue gives it light to shine.
With all successful knowledge told
Wou'd melt the kind, or warm the cold,
I strove her reas'ning to confute;
But fortitude was absolute;
Her voice had magic like her eyes,
And wisdom fix'd her beauty's prize.
Converted now, self-satisfied,
Adoring what I once decried,
Deserting folly's giddy maze,
Induc'd fair chastity to praise,
Before love's sacred throne I bend;
Dear Sylvia's swain, and virtue's friend.
Wou'd melt the kind, or warm the cold,
I strove her reas'ning to confute;
But fortitude was absolute;
Her voice had magic like her eyes,
And wisdom fix'd her beauty's prize.
Converted now, self-satisfied,
Adoring what I once decried,
Deserting folly's giddy maze,
Induc'd fair chastity to praise,
Before love's sacred throne I bend;
Dear Sylvia's swain, and virtue's friend.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |