Dispels the cloud, with melancholy fraught,
That absence throws upon her tender thought.
Blest be the pencil! whose enchantment gives
To wounded Love the food on which he lives;
Rich in this gift, tho’ cruel ocean bear
The youth to exile from his faithful fair,
He in fond dreams hangs o’er her glowing cheek,
Still owns her present, and still hears her speak.
Oh! Love, it was thy glory to impart
Its infant being to this magic art!