“Sure, waken’d there, remorse shall rise,
  And bid his perjur’d bosom shed,
That tender tear, my heart denies,
  Cold, icy cold, congeal’d, and dead.”

Then, wildly through each well-known way
  Again she fled, the youth to seek: 
Nor paus’d, ’till Cynthia’s mournful ray,
  Play’d paly, on her paler cheek.

Once more she sought the river’s side,
  The goal of her accomplish’d way,
Where, ’whelm’d beneath the rising tide,
  Her heart’s dissever’d treasure lay!

Amaz’d! convuls’d! she shriek’d! she sprung! 
  She clasp’d it in its wat’ry bed! 
The dirge of death the night-blasts sung;
  The morn, in tears, beheld them dead.

Their pale remains with pious care,
  Beneath the vernal turf we laid;
Remembrance loves to linger there,
  And weep beneath the willow shade.

And oft, the fairest flowers of spring,
  What time the hours of toil are spent,
The village youths and virgins bring,
  To grace her moss-clad monument.

INVOCATION TO SLEEP.

Come, gentle sleep! thou soft restorer, come,
  And close these wearied eyes, by grief oppress’d;
For one short hour, be this thy peaceful home,
  And bid the sighs that rend my bosom rest.

Depriv’d of thee, at midnight’s awful hour,
  Oft have I listen’d to the angry wind;
While busy memory, with tyrant pow’r,
  Would picture faded joys, or friends unkind.

Or tell of her who rear’d my helpless years,
  But torn away, ere yet I knew her worth;
How oft, tho’ nature still the thought endears,
  Has my worn bosom heav’d its tribute forth.

Come, then, soft pow’r, whose balmy roses fall
  As heavenly manna sweet, or morning dew;
Beneath thy wings, my troubled thoughts recall,
  And, haply, lend them some serener hue.

SONNET.

TO MUSIC.

Hail!  Heavenly Maid, my pensive mind,
  Invokes thy woe-subduing strain;
For there a shield my soul can find,
  Which subjugates each dagger’d pain. 
When beauty spurns the lover’s sighs,
  ’Tis thine soft pity to inspire;
And cold indifference vanquish’d lies,
  Beneath thy myrtle-vested lyre. 
Oh! could contention’s demon hear
  Thy seraph voice, his blood-lav’d spear
He’d drop, and own thy power;
That smiling o’er each hapless land,
Sweet peace might call her hallow’d band,
To crown the festive hour.

TO ******

0 Nymph! with cheeks of roseate hue,
Whose eyes are violets bath’d in dew,
So liquid, languishing, and blue,
  How they bewitch me! 
Thy bosom hath a magic spell,
For when its full orbs heave and swell,
I feel—­but, oh!  I must not tell,
  Lord! how they twitch me!

ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL WASHINGTON.