From these lone shades and ever-gloomy bowers,
Once the dear scenes of Henry's softer hours !
What tender strains of passion can impart
The pangs of absence to an amorous heart !
Far, far too faint the powers of language prove,
Language that slow interpreter of love!
Souls pair'd like ours, like ours to union wrought,
Converse by silent sympathy of thought;
O then, by that mysterious art, divine
The wild impatience of my breast by thine!
And, to conceive what I would say to thee,
Conceive, my Love, what thou wouldst say to me!

As in the tenderness of soul I sigh, Methinks I hear thy tender soul reply ; And as in thought, o'er heaps of heroes slain, I trace thy progress on the fatal plain, Perhaps thy thought explores me thro' the grove, And, softening, steals an interval of love; In the deep covert of a bowering shade Describes my posture-languishingly laid ! Now, sadly solac'd with the murmuring springs, Now, melting into tears, the softest things! And how the feign'd ideas all agree ! So bowers the shade, so melt my tears for thee! Here, as in Eden, once we blissful lay, How oft night stole, unheeded, on the day! Our soft-breath'd raptures charm’d the listening

grove,. And all was harmony, for all was love!

But hark! the trumpet sounds! see discords rise ! 'Tis honor calls; from me my Henry flies ! Honor to him, more bright than Rosamonda's eyes! Not thus my honor with his passion strove, His sighs I pitied, and indulg'd his love : He then cried, “ honor was an empty name, « And love a sweeter recompense than fame.''

Oh! had I liv'd in some obscure retreat, Securely, fair, and innocently sweet; How had I bless'd some humble shepherd's arms ! How kept my fame as spotless as my charms !