To Celia,

Oh! thou eclipse , and glory , of thy kind!
Thou vast o'erwhelmer of the drowning mind!
Bid me not write my thoughts, or speak my pain,
'Till thou hast giv'n me back my soul, again:
As well might shipwreck'd slaves, who, floating , lie,
Swim, through the billowy storms , which sweep the sky,
As my poor sighing breast its torments show,
And paint, in cool description, burning woe .
Lost to sense, mem'ry, meaning — all, but thee!
I drag on life's dull load, in misery .
Absent, from those dear eyes' destructive shine,
I pant, methinks, to tell thee, why I pine .
But, when I touch my pen , my flaming heart
Burns up , at once, and dazzles trembling art.
Love 's scatt'ring sparks , on my full bosom, fall,
And, kindling wild reflection, blows up all.
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