To a Lady, the Writer's Accomplished and Poetical Friend

T HE times are chang'd; — Apollo's wealth
Melts into recipes for health;
And Paeon is the name alone
By which the Cynthian God is known:
Poetic Zephyrs hither bring,
Though Winter frowns, a wreath of Spring.
Not for myself I ask the boon,
My vernal age is in the Moon ,
But for the Partner of my Lay
I court the Sun's averted ray.
Breathe your soft gales on Sappho's bed,
Your opiate balms around her shed,
Her cup of health with nectar fill,
And pain with sweet oblivion kill,
Chace from her life, as year from year,
Through fields of air the passing tear.
Apollo , tune the rescued lyre,
Claim the deserter from your choir,
Till rivals of your sway are flown,
And the dear tenant is your own;
Propitiate listening Time's delay,
Nor let Hygeia's pinion stray;
My genius and my guide restore,
Till I inhale your breath no more:
Then may the turf to Fame be dear,
And live in a " melodious tear . "
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