TO CLARA.
And could’st thou think our commerce thus should end,
Oblivion thus blot out the sacred fire,
Thy virtues, worth, and merit that expire,
That does adorn my lovely charming friend:
Ah no! while mem’ry holds her seat
Within the precincts of this breast,
The soft sensation e’er will beat,
And e’er remain my steadfast guest;
Nor, while the blood flows round my heart,
With the blest image will I part:
While o’er each raptur’d scene will fancy play,
And friendship’s consecrated flame shall light the way.
Alas! my mind recalls with rapturous joy
Those early times when tender Clara smil’d;
Nor pain nor sorrow did our souls annoy,
When social converse the soft hours beguil’d.
Where oft’ when Sol’s bright beams illum’d the morn,
Together we have tripp’d the pearly lawn;
With rapturous joy have hail’d the new-born day,
And tun’d to nature’s God the vocal lay:
And oft’ when evening’s sable humid cloud
The glowing sun retiring did uncloud,
On airy pinions borne, by fancy rais’d,
With solemn awe and adoration gaz’d
At that great power, whose mandate does controul,
Combine, connect, and regulate the whole.
Thus did our bosoms mutual glow
With sacred friendship’s flame;
We only wept for others’ woe,
Not did we weep in vain:
For white-rob’d charity, borne by the breeze along,
Heard and approv’d the sympathizing song.
Those early joys, alas! are o’er,
For fate’s barb’d arrows struck my soul;
Pale sorrow does my bosom gore,
And anguish all my mind controul:
My heart’s unstrung, no more can music charm,
Nor mirth nor pleasure my cold bosom warm;
For melancholy’s poison to me clings,
And sorrow’s dark veil’d mantle round me flings:
For, O alas! unpitying Heav’n
Has clos’d in everlasting sleep,
The gentlest soul that e’er was giv’n
O’er misery’s sad form to weep:
Though kind, though chaste, to virtue strict allied,
To Death’s unerring shafts—she bow’d—and died!
Yes, dear Maria, though thou art no more,
Reflection e’er will prey upon my heart;
Until we meet upon that blissful shore,
In joys uninterrupted, ne’er to part.
But hark, what magic sound
Thrilling the ambient air around,
So soft, so gentle—now more loud,
Some seraph, surely, rides upon the cloud;
Or, is it Orpheus with his heav’n-born lay,
Driving the mystic shades of pain away:
Or is it friendship’s dulcet voice, whose strain
Can thus raze out the troubles of the brain;
O yes, ’tis friendship—friendship’s hallow’d song,
To her alone such heavenly powers belong.
Angelic maid, again strike the wrapt wire,
Let music’s softest notes flow from thy lyre;
With sweet vibrations cut the liquid air,
And banish from our souls corroding care;
For when thy flowing numbers ride the gale,
The woe-struck heart forgets her tragic tale;
To black-rob’d melancholy bid adieu,
We catch the rapturous sound, and only think of you.
EMMA.
New-York, Sept. 24, 1796.
For the New-York Weekly Magazine.