Full often has my infant Muse,
Attun'd to love her languid lyre;
But, now, without a theme to choose,
The strains in stolen sighs expire.
My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown;
E—— is a wife, and C—— a mother,
And Carolina sighs alone,
And Mary's given to another;
And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me,
Can now no more my love recall—
In truth, dear Long, 'twas time to flee—
For Cora's eye will shine on all.
And though the Sun, with genial rays,
His beams alike to all displays,
And every lady's eye's a sun,
These last should be confin'd to one.
The soul's meridian don't become her,
Whose Sun displays a general summer!
Thus faint is every former flame,
And Passion's self is now a name;
As, when the ebbing flames are low,
The aid which once improv'd their light,
And bade them burn with fiercer glow,
- —— thank Heaven are flown.—[MS. Newstead.]
- In truth dear L——.—[Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.]
- The glances really don't become her.—[MS. Newstead.]
- No more I linger on its name.—[MS. Newstead.]
- And passion's self is but a name.—[MS. Newstead.]