To My First Love, and My Last

I S it Nature? — Is it Art,
That can wind thee round my heart?
Where are now ( thy conquering arms)
Beauty's flame, and vernal charms?
Dimpled smiles, and blooming cheek,
That in love, though mute, could speak?
They are vanish'd — they are fled —
Still in fetters I am led;
Memory no more can tell,
Why in youth we lov'd so well;
Or describe the magic power,
That enchanted every hour?
All her shadows, in the air,
Of the parting ray despair.
It is habit that endears ,
When the passion disappears,
From the senses to the mind ,
Prompts the change that Love can find;
Though his dart away he tost,
It was dropp'd — it was not lost.
Friendship, with her soothing hand,
Shall the temper'd shaft command;
And, the commerce to improve,
Pays the debt she owes to Love.

Another leaf , in homage due,
To his first Love the Myrtle sends;
To thee his young ambition flew,
To thee his drooping foliage bends.

A pearl of thine — 'tis Flora's tear,
Calls into life his parting breath;
His renovated stem can rear,
Can steal the Winter's arm from Death.
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