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.
TO A VIOLET.
Tho’ from thy bank of velvet torn,
Hang not, fair flower, thy drooping crest;
On Delia’s bosom shalt thou find
A softer sweeter bed of rest.