'T IS past! the tuneless lethargy is o'er!
I fly from Dulness, and her mole-ey'd throng;
To Fancy, and to Love, I wake once more,
Once more, I wake to Rapture, and to Song;

Whence spring these transports of tumultuous bliss?
These sweet sensations whence, to Feeling true? —
They breathe, ambrosial, from my M ARY 's kiss;
They stream from her soft eyes of humid blue;

Dear maid! how oft, immerst in cheerless woe,
Close have I clasp'd thy visionary form;
How oft, has that ripe cheek's purpureal glow,
With radiant blushes streak'd the mental storm?

Tho' distant many a long, long, weary mile,
'Mid my lone path that angel-shape I view'd,
View'd, in the first faint Dawn, thy serious smile,
In Eve's pale van, thy fleeting frame pursu'd:

Has Summer aught more tempting than thy breast,
When Nature revels, unconfin'd, and free?
In Autumn's richest charms art thou not drest?
Winter, and tearful Spring, remain for me.

Yet, spite of Fortune, in cold Caution's spite,
(To Caution's Minions, fortune I resign,)
While envious stars withdraw their curtain'd light,
Pulse of my throbbing heart! thou shalt be mine!