21
For, ah! the stream my thought supplies
With contradict’ry similies.
Does not its face reflect the sky?
And is not heav’n in thine eye?
Deep and clear it keeps its course,
Reflecting light with gentle force;
So does that lucid soul of thine
Embellish and illumine mine.
The gentle murmurs on its breast,
Like thine, allure and lull to rest.
Alas! if fancy change the side,
And view it with the turn of tide,
Where is its constancy? and where
That smoothness when the tempests tear?
The margin’d stream, with wild flow’rs dress’d,
Is by a thousand lovers press’d;
And, rifling all its softer charms,
It fills and wantons in their arms.
Not like the wave to me then seem,
But like the Pow’r that made the stream,
Good, kind, unchanging, true;
For such thou art—and such how few!
FROM A GENTLEMAN.
For three lone months I’ve strove to hide
What now I can no longer;
Tho’ silent grief has made me weak,
My love I find is stronger.
So, if your mind is like your form,
You cruel, sure, can’t be,
