LOVE.
Cold blows the wind upon the mountain’s brow,
In murmuring cadence wave the silv’ry woods,
The feather’d tribes mope on the leafless bough,
And icy fetters hold the silent floods;
But endless spring, the Poet’s breast shall prove,
Whose Genius kindles at the torch of Love.
For him, unfading blooms the fertile mind,
The current of the heart for ever flows;
Fearless, his bosom braves the wintry wind,
While thro’ each nerve eternal summer glows;
In vain would chilling APATHY controul
The lambent fires that warm the lib’ral soul.
To me, the limpid brook the painted mead,
The crimson dawn, the twilight’s purple close,
The mirthful dance, the Shepherd’s tuneful reed,
The musky fragrance of the opening Rose;
To me, alas! all pleasures senseless prove,
Save, the sweet converse of the Friend I LOVE.