To Amelia

W HAT Saint, or Angel, can reprove
Joy at her praise, that 's dear to Love!
A wreath, surpassing all renown —
The Nation's gift — the Hero's crown!
From a pure fountain sprung the charm,
That Hope can bless, and Fear disarm;
For it has made the heart its guide;
Nor ever stray'd from Honour's pride.
Of her , my solitude is proud,
Though careless of the fame that 's loud:
No babbling Echos hear the sound;
The air it breathes no wind has found;
The tale no whisper shall impart;
Or trust the secret from the heart.
But impotent is that relief,
Against the filial Mourner's grief;
Congenial to his tear I deem
The partial note's enchanting theme.
With apathy, in pride of youth,
I 've heard applause, the bane of truth;
Have seen the eloquent surprize
Beam from the mute, but speaking eyes:
But, when a Mother's praise I heard,
Love knew the tone, and bless'd the word;
No diffidence could bar the door,
And pride of joy could sleep no more.
Nor blame the heart, nor chide the Muse,
If in their antiquated views,
The wither'd form, that 's now in earth
But grac'd the living Parent's worth,
Can thee disarm — when through my tears
Thy harp is tun'd — thy hand appears;
When praise, by thee , to Love address'd,
Is a new thorn, and bane of rest;
From the similitude it bore
To musick — that is heard no more.
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