ODE I .

Why will dear Sabina find
Ills beyond the present hour?
Why torment her gentle mind
With malicious Fortune's pow'r?
To Fate belongs to-morrow's dawn,
But let to-day be all our own.

While 'tis given to hear thy voice,
Breathe the softness of thy soul;
Let us, dearest maid! rejoice,
Let us fill the sprightly bowl;
And whisp'ring low the favour'd youth,
Commend his tenderness and truth.

Wherefore doth thy fading cheek
Speak the doubt, the tender fear?
Why that faint essay to speak?
Tell me, why that starting tear?
Does Damon slight thy gentle chain,
And sigh for Rhodope again?
Ah! too plain that streaming eye
Speaks my lov'd Sabina's pain;
Vain the voice of festive joy,
Sorrow waits the lover's train!
Too weak, alas! the pow'rful bowl,
To cure the sickness of the soul.