I hear the lov’d, the melting accents ſtill,
And ſtill the kind, the tender tranſport feel.
Again I ſee the ſprightly paſſions riſe,
And life and pleaſure ſparkle in his eyes.
My fancy paints him now with ev’ry grace,
But ah! the dear deluſion mocks my fond embrace;
The ſmiling viſion takes its haſty flight,
And ſcenes of horror ſwim before my ſight.
Grief and deſpair in all their terrors riſe;
A dying lover pale and gaſping lies,
Each diſmal circumſtance appears in view,
The fatal object is for ever new.
*************
For thee all thoughts of pleaſure I forego,
For thee my tears ſhall never ceaſe to flow:
For thee at once I from the world retire,
To feed in ſilent ſhades a hopeleſs fire.
My boſom all thy image ſhall retain;
The full impreſſion there ſhall ſtill remain.
As thou haſt taught my conſtant heart to prove;
The nobleſt height and elegance of love;
That ſacred paſſion I to thee confine;
My ſpotleſs faith ſhall be forever thine.
After Mr. Rowe’s deceaſe, and as ſoon as her affairs would permit, our authoreſs indulged her inconquerable inclination to ſolitude, by retiring to Froome in Somerſetſhire, in the neighbourhood of which place the greateſt part of her eſtate lay. When ſhe forſook the town, ſhe determined to return no more but to ſpend the remainder of her life in abſolute retirement; yet upon ſome few occaſions ſhe thought it her duty to violate this reſolution.
