To Miss Seward

T HOU! whose bright genius — nor misfortune's doom
That struck the heart, nor female softness pure,
Which neither praise can tempt, nor fame allure,
Have yet impair'd — but whose unruffled plume
Bears thee with flight majestic (tho' serene)
Thro' fields of air, to that enchanting scene
Lov'd of the Muses, and propitious known
To the fam'd Lesbian — her immortal strain
Despair not, sweetest Minstrel! to attain!
Give to her amorous flames (tho' pure — thy own)
Compassion's tear! — her animated lyre
Familiar sound! — and whisper to the fair,
That a pure mind enraptur'd thoughts can share,
And Virtue's glow — improve Poetic fire.
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