THE EVE OF HYMEN.
’Tis late—and my Delia now hastens to rest,
Rapt into sweet visions, I wander alone,
Love soothes the fond wishes that glow in my breast,
With transports, to wealth, and to grandeur unknown.
Soft—soft be thy slumbers, dear, innocent fair,
Descend, smiling peace, on my bosom’s delight,
Hope sheds her pure beams on each long nourish’d care,
As day brightly dawns on the shadows of night.
Reclin’d on her pillow, now mute is that voice,
Whose sounds my affection insensibly stole,
And clos’d are those eyes, in whose beams I rejoice,
And veil’d are those lips which enrapture my soul.
Conceal’d are those cheeks where luxuriantly glow
The tenderest graces of beauty and youth,
And hidden from me is that bosom of snow,
The mansion of purity, virtue, and truth.
She’s absent, yet lovely and graceful to view,
Kind fancy restores the fair pride of my heart,
Spring calls forth the verdure of nature anew,
Her smiles to my senses fresh pleasures impart.
No more shall soft sorrow my verses inspire,
Despondence has clouded my spirits too long
In extacy sweeping the soul-breathing lyre,
Love, Hymen, and rapture enliven my song.