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ADIEU, ye walls that hold my favourite maid !
Adieu, fair city, Beauty's darling seat ! At length adieu! at length, though late delay'd,
From you my steps unwillingly retreat. Yet from the summit of this neighbouring hill,
While scanty morn deals forth the light of day, Where your proud domes yon ample valley fill,
My eyes shall take their lingering last survey. And Fancy there that envied roof descries
Where dwells the dear possessor of my heart: There lull'd in happy sleep my fair one lies,
Nor knows nor pities my unceasing smart. O, would some friendly dream my grief disclose !
-Butcease,vain mind, the fond petition cease Nor vex her gentle breast with fruitless woes;
Peace to her threshold, to her slumbers peace. Enough for me, if when Hyperion's ray
Unlocks the brighter glories of her eye, Her kindest wish shall speed me on my way;
While from her soul escapes the struggling sigh. Nor yet, so Hope, sweet flatterer, would suggest,
Nor yet of Love unconscious is her heart;
Nor unlamented shall I now depart.
How joyed my soul such blessings to receive! Each hope she gave that honour could afford;
With every bliss that virtue ought to give!
When from her presence, forced by fate I came,
Sudden her cheeks the virgin bloom forsook : In her moist eye the rising sorrows swam,
And kind concern hung mournful on her look. Grief, ill conceald,seem'd bursting from her breast;
The fond ‘farewell,' her faltering voice denied; With equal warmth my closing hand she press’d,
And looks and nods the fond ‘farewell'supplied.
Fair city, happy walls, at length adieu!
I go; but leave my soul's best part behind; I go from joy, from pleasure, and from you;
Love, only love accompanies my mind:
Guard well your choicest charge, this favourite
So may the sun rise gorgeous on your towers ! Me on my hated way let darkness shade,
Smit by the furious blasts and rattling showers. In glooms congenial to my sorrowing mind
May the sick sky its troubled visage shroud; My plaints be answer'd by the muttering wind;
And heavy as my heart each louring cloud.
In vain doth Phoebus, at the call of morn,
New trick his beams fresh rising from the sea; In vain doth spring the laughing fields adorn;
Without my love she shines no spring to me. 0, could the seasons but my love restore !
So might my soul their genial pleasures taste: Or bless'd with her I'd hear the whirlwind roar;
And brave the tempest of the’unshelter'd waste!
For she alone can Time's dull space beguile,
Or with fresh joys improve the happy hour: For she can bid the wintry landscape smile,
Or add new beauties to the vernal hour.
II. ON RETURNING HOME FROM WINCHESTER. In vain, O native fields, ye strive to please,
In vain to joy your various scenes invite: Nor can ye give my soul its wonted ease;
Nor can ye give my fair one to my sight! Joy is not here: fly, sweet Remembrance, fly,
Fly where I revel'd late in Pleasure's train; Recall the fleeting form to Fancy's eye;
And live o'er all the blissful hours again. Mine was the lot, from every youth to bear
The prize how envied, how desired by all! Mine was the lot, where hundred nymphs were fair,
To lead the fairest through the mazy ball. How felt my soul when she to music moved,
In youthful prime and blooming beauty warm! Each step, each attitude her form improved,
And a new grace arose on every charm. Slow I obey'd, though music gave command,
Her palm's soft touch one moment to resign; Again, ere music bade, I seized her hand,
And lock'd the lovely treasure fast in mine. If then that momentary loss was pain,
This age of absence how shall I abide? Ah! who will bring her to my wish again,
Whom adverse fate and distant lands divide ?
Where are those joys, those tender joys I felt,
When from the dance retired we sat apart? On her alone my eyes all fondness dwelt;
How have their rebel looks betray'd my heart!
Grace, harmony, and sense distinct and clear,
With mildness in her modest language meet; Attention hangs upon my ravish'd ear;
And what her eyes began, her words complete.
Away, thou silken son of foppish pride!
This is no ear for such discourse as thine: Go, let thy vows and hackney'd arts be tried
In vain devotion at yon painted shrine.
Nor think that love, true love, could e'er impart,
False as your idol's bloom, such mimic joys: Affected mirth that springs not from the heart;
Jests without wit, and flattery that cloys.
By thee, my fair one, let me sit and sigh;
And mark the graces that around thee move; Catch the dear pain that glances from thine eye,
And yield my soul to softness and to love.
Ah no, in pity snatch thy hand from mine,
And hide those fatal beauties of thy cheek; Nor let thine eyes so soft a look incline, Lest my fond heart with tenderness should
Thy charms, my love, o'ercome me with delight,
Thy voice, thy look, thy smile-alas, I dream! Ye well known domes, that rise upon my sight,
Once dear indeed! how hateful now ye seem! Ah mock me not, my friends, with loathed joy;
My sickening soul such greetings cannot bear: Nor this the form that fill'd my greedy eye; Nor that the voice which charm'd my listen
Where is that look? Oh, where that lovely smile?
Torn from those blessings from her presence torn, In sighs, in tears I waste the absent while,
Sad as the sick man's night, impatient for the
SEVERE, O Love, thy tyrant power I feel,
My heart, my life, my freedom all are thine; Lo, at thy awful throne submiss I kneel,
Stern as thou art, thy milder ear incline.
If e'er my stubborn will thy power repell’d,
If e'er with thee in impious contest strove, If e'er my tongue thy mysteries reveal'd;
A shameless recreant to myself and love;
If e'er my heart its plighted promise broke,
If aught but love did e'er possess my mind; Then bow I calmly to the lifted stroke;
Then to thy rage vindictive yield resign'd.
But if, true votary to thy sovereign power,
My infant hands thy laughing altars dress’d, If from my birth to this afflictive hour
Thy hopes, thy joys have flutter'd in my breast;