Think not, TRANSCENDANT MAID! my woe
Shall ever trouble thy repose;
The mind no lasting pang can know,
Which lets the tongue that pang disclose.
Sorrow is sacred when ’tis true,
In deep concealment proudly dwells:
And seems its passions to subdue,
When most th’ impulsive throb compels.
For HE who dares assert his grief,
Who boasts the anguish he may prove;