The voice hath spoke:  the pleasant sounds
          In memory’s ear in after time
        Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear,
          And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme.

        For, when the transient charm is fled,
          And when the little week is o’er,
        To cheerless, friendless, solitude
          When I return, as heretofore,

        Long, long, within my aching heart
          The grateful sense shall cherish’d be;
        I’ll think less meanly of myself,
          That Lloyd will sometimes think on me.

A VISION OF REPENTANCE

        (1796?  Text of 1818)

        I saw a famous fountain, in my dream,
          Where shady path-ways to a valley led;
        A weeping willow lay upon that stream,
          And all around the fountain brink were spread
        Wide branching trees, with dark green leaf rich clad,
        Forming a doubtful twilight-desolate and sad.

        The place was such, that whoso enter’d in
          Disrobed was of every earthly thought,
        And straight became as one that knew not sin,
          Or to the world’s first innocence was brought;
        Enseem’d it now, he stood on holy ground,
        In sweet and tender melancholy wrapt around.

        A most strange calm stole o’er my soothed sprite;
          Long time I stood, and longer had I staid,
        When, lo!  I saw, saw by the sweet moon-light,
          Which came in silence o’er that silent shade,
        Where, near the fountain, SOMETHING like DESPAIR
        Made, of that weeping willow, garlands for her hair.

        And eke with painful fingers she inwove
          Many an uncouth stem of savage thorn—­
        “The willow garland, that was for her love,
          And these her bleeding temples would adorn.” 
        With sighs her heart nigh burst, salt tears fast fell,
        As mournfully she bended o’er that sacred well.

        To whom when I addrest myself to speak,
          She lifted up her eyes, and nothing said;
        The delicate red came mantling o’er her cheek,
          And, gath’ring up her loose attire, she fled
        To the dark covert of that woody shade,
        And in her goings seem’d a timid gentle maid.

        Revolving in my mind what this should mean,
          And why that lovely lady plained so;
        Perplex’d in thought at that mysterious scene,
          And doubting if ’twere best to stay or go,
        I cast mine eyes in wistful gaze around,
        When from the shades came slow a small and plaintive sound: 

        “PSYCHE am I, who love to dwell
        In these brown shades, this woody dell,
        Where never busy mortal came,
        Till now, to pry upon my shame.