From his far isle the gentle stranger came
Who taught our lips to love his liquid name,
Found a new home beneath our western sky
Won all our hearts and left us but to die.
Not to the sober and staid,
Leading a quiet life,
But to men whose paths are laid
Ever through storm and strife —
Here is a song from me,
Sent to the tragic West,
Message of sympathy
To the hearts that can never rest.
This is the song I send
Out to the Western land —
Sinner, and martyr, and friend,
Brother! you'll take my hand.
Folly of old, with gay deceit,
When Love was seeking Virtue's bower,
Led the bright boy to Beauty's feet;
And she, in that one fatal hour,
Enwove a chain so strong, so fair,
It bound them both for ever there!
More cruel far than murder's self is he,
Who, having kindled once love's Eden-bloom,
With warm Persuasion's spell, in some young heart,
E'er lets Indifference blight it or Neglect; —
For Love — true Love can flower but once in life,
In woman's life — the Aloe of her heart!
As Cupid , from his Cruel Sport,
Return'd, to Grace his Mother's Court,
In Triumph leading Bleeding Hearts,
Throbbing with Love, transfix'd with Darts;
Himself untouch'd! the Hunter stray'd
Into a Cooling, Myrtle Shade,
And saw a Lonely, Lovely Maid.
No sooner did young Master spy
The Virgin's soft, refulgent Eye,
Than did his Opening Breast receive
A Wound, like Those, He, often, gave;
And, down his Arms and Hearts He threw,
And languishing, full, in her View,