"Come, with that pensive brow, that forehead fair,
And that rich length of dark redundant hair;
Come, with those winning graces that enthrall'd,
And held my poor heart captive:"———so he call'd
To her who could not hear; yet not the less,
In dream and nightly vision he would press
Her matron lip of love, and he would strain
Her faithful bosom to his breast again,
Till Hope itself was fled, and, day by day,
The soft illusion melted all away.
Friend of my heart! to you I pour the strain
That wakes the Poet's widow'd griefs again;
Here in this breast his mirror'd sorrows see,
Each fond complaint again revives in me.
My heart reflects the melancholy line,
And more than half of Parnell's grief is mine.
With twinkling light behold, at midnight hour
The lamp is burning in the Poet's tower;
Pale o'er the page his studious brow is bent,
His eye still scans the sage's dark intent,
Page:The Poetical Works of Thomas Parnell (1833).djvu/17
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