Those lips so pure, that mov’d but to persuade,
Still to the last enliven’d and endear’d. 
Those eyes at once her secret soul convey’d,
And ever beam’d delight when you appear’d.

Yet has she fled the life of bliss below,
That youthful Hope in bright perspective drew? 
False were the tints! false as the feverish glow
That o’er her burning cheek Distemper threw!

And now in joy she dwells, in glory moves! 
(Glory and joy reserv’d for you to share.)
Far, far more blest in blessing those she loves,
Than they, alas! unconscious of her care.

[Footnote:  On the death of a younger sister.]

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

1786.

While thro’ the broken pane the tempest sighs,
And my step falters on the faithless floor,
Shades of departed joys around me rise,
With many a face that smiles on me no more;
With many a voice that thrills of transport gave,
Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave!

ON A TEAR.

Oh! that the Chemist’s magic art
Could crystallize this sacred treasure! 
Long should it glitter near my heart,
A secret source of pensive pleasure.

The little brilliant, ere it fell,
Its lustre caught from CHLOE’S eye;
Then, trembling, left its coral cell—­
The spring of Sensibility!

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light! 
In thee the rays of Virtue shine;
More calmly clear, more mildly bright,
Than any gem that gilds the mine.

Benign restorer of the soul! 
Who ever fly’st to bring relief,
When first we feel the rude controul
Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief.

The sage’s and the poet’s theme,
In every clime, in every age;
Thou charm’st in Fancy’s idle dream,
In Reason’s philosophic page.

That very law [Footnote] which moulds a tear,
And bids it trickle from its source,
That law preserves the earth a sphere,
And guides the planets in their course.

[Footnote:  The law of Gravitation.]

TO A VOICE THAT HAD BEEN LOST. [Footnote 1]

    Vane, quid affectas faciem mihi ponere, pictor? 
    Aeris et lingua sum filia;
    Et, si vis similem pingere, pinge sonum.  AUSONIUS.

Once more, Enchantress of the soul,
Once more we hail thy soft controul. 
—­Yet whither, whither did’st thou fly? 
To what bright region of the sky? 
Say, in what distant star to dwell? 
(Of other worlds thou seemst to tell)
Or trembling, fluttering here below,
Resolv’d and unresolv’d to go,
In secret didst thou still impart
Thy raptures to the Pure in heart? 
   Perhaps to many a desert shore,
Thee, in his rage, the Tempest bore;
Thy broken murmurs swept along,
Mid Echoes yet untun’d by song;
Arrested in the realms of Frost,