He who thinks a perfect melody,
Lives, for that time in harmony,
Walks for that time in liberty,
Loves for that time in purity.

Ah! when shall I, my glory,
Discern thy light in radiance shining,
Thy presence illusory,
To bring me sweet release from grief and pining?
When shall I see thine eyes, enchanting rapture,
And yield thee mine, as tender capture?

When will thy voice awaken
Mine ears with thrilling accents from their sadness,
And I, enthralled, o'ertaken
By the floods of its ineffable gladness,
Be swept away in ecstasy, and after
The marvel wanes, hasten to thee with laughter?

When will thy light effulgent

Not for an hour shall your dear thought escape me.
I keep it fast to cheer, to guide, to shape me.
As an old pilot held in sight a star,
As a wrecked man clings frantic to a spar,
So I maintain your love in memory,
My hope of haven, my security.

It must be true I love you well
Since your light words are whips of Hell.
But who has pain has songs to sell.
My profitable Friends, farewell!

Bright is the gloom oh venerable shade,
Which memory casts o'er worth that cannot fade,
Such worth as thine, where once in union join'd
The saints soft spirit, and the hero's mind;
Tho' mild, yet firm — magnanimous, sincere
Tho' dignified with virtue, not severe —
Fair lib'ral candour in thy accents flow'd,
And still thy loyal heart for Britain glow'd.

True to religion and its sov'reign power
Resign'd composure mark'd thy suff'ring hour,
And faithful mem'ry trac'd the glorious scene
Where christian truth first casts its light serene;

Who prizes fruit and scorns the tree?
Yet this fair Critic says of me,
I love the work, but hate the man!
Show charier charity who can!

My Lady, I was ever loth
To wait inactive to be loved,
I found in insult, whips from cloth,
When I was stung I moved.
But there is justice for whose sake
A sleepy dignity will wake.
If of my book you prize a part,
Honour a hand, deal fairly with a heart.
The thing you love is very me,
Come, eat the fruit, but love the tree!

Fierce Love the Muses fear not, but affect,
And gladly by his steps their own direct;
If One whose Genius is not am'rous try
To sing him, they, to teach refusing, fly;
But if some Lover his sweet song begin,
To him they joyfully come thronging in;
This witnesse the disorder of my tongue
When God or Man is subject of my song
But Love and Lycidas ; what I compose
Of them in streams of verse untroubled flows.

Her lost son Cupid careful Venus cried;
If any in the streets Love wandring spied,
He is my runaway, to Venus come
And have a kisse; but he that brings him home
Not a meer kisse shall have but further Joyes;
Hee's easie to be known from twenty Boyes;
Fiery, not white is his Complexion; Eyes
Sparkling; fair words his treacherous thoughts disguise.
His Lips and Heart dissent; like Honey sweet
His tongue, in's minde malice and anger meet:
A crafty lying Boy, mischief his play,
Curl'd headed, knavish-look'd; no little way

I said in pride, — To love's my need;
I will not have him loving me,
I'd walk unhobbled, and indeed
What woman loved was ever free! —

So for a man, I loved a ghost,
And knew chill rapture in the walks of thought,
But when I needed pleasure most,
Imagination gave me naught.

O! Had I given what I fought to take
I had not wept for this cold hunger's sake!

Adonis I lament; he 's dead! the fair
Adonis dead is! Loves his mourners are;
Venus , no more in Scarlet coverings rest,
Rise cloth'd in Black; and beating thy sad breast,
Adonis dead is, to the World declare;
  I wail Adonis, Loves his mourners are .
On barren Mountains doth Adonis ly,
A Boares white tusk hath gor'd his whiter thigh:
His short Pants Venus grieve; black blood distains
His snowy Skin, his Eye no life retains:
The Rose is from his pale Lip fled, with it
Died that dear Kiss which Venus nere will quit: