When to another, the fond breast
  Each thought for ever gives;
When on another, leans for rest. 
  And in another lives!

Quick, as the trembling metal flies,
  When heat or cold impels,
Her anxious heart to joy can rise,
  Or sink where anguish dwells!

Yet tho’ her soul must griefs sustain
  Which she alone, can know;
And feel that keener sense of pain
  Which sharpens every woe;

Tho’ she the mourner’s grief to calm,
  Still shares each pang they feel,
And, like the tree distilling balm,
  Bleeds, others wounds to heal;

While she, whose bosom fondly true,
  Has never wish’d to range;
One alter’d look will trembling view,
  And scarce can bear the change;

Tho’ she, if death the bands should tear,
  She vainly thought secure;
Thro’ life must languish in despair
  That never hopes a cure;

Tho’ wounded by some vulgar mind,
  Unconscious of the deed,
Who never seeks those wounds to bind
  But wonders why they bleed;—­

She oft will heave a secret sigh,
  Will shed a lonely tear,
O’er feelings nature wrought so high,
  And gave on terms so dear;

Yet who would hard indifference choose,
  Whose breast no tears can steep? 
Who, for her apathy, would lose
  The sacred power to weep?

Tho’ in a thousand objects, pain,
  And pleasure tremble nigh,
Those objects strive to reach, in vain,
  The circle of her eye.

Cold, as the fabled god appears
  To the poor suppliant’s grief,
Who bathes the marble form in tears,
  And vainly hopes relief.

Ah Greville! why the gifts refuse
  To souls like thine allied? 
No more thy nature seem to lose
  No more thy softness hide.

No more invoke the playful sprite
  To chill, with magic spell,
The tender feelings of delight,
  And anguish sung so well;

That envied ease thy heart would prove
  Were sure too dearly bought
With friendship, sympathy, and love,
  And every finer thought.

A SONG.

I.

No riches from his scanty store
  My lover could impart;
He gave a boon I valued more—­
  He gave me all his heart!

II.

His soul sincere, his gen’rous worth,
  Might well this bosom move;
And when I ask’d for bliss on earth,
  I only meant his love.

III.

But now for me, in search of gain
  From shore to shore he flies: 
Why wander riches to obtain,
  When love is all I prize?

IV.

The frugal meal, the lowly cot
  If blest my love with thee! 
That simple fare, that humble lot,
  Were more than wealth to me.