For, when it streams from that pure source,
No bribes the heart can win
To check, or alter from its course,
The luxury within.
Peace to the phlegm of sullen elves,
Who, if from labour eased,
Extend no care beyond themselves,
Unpleasing and unpleased.
Let no low thought suggest the prayer,
Oh! grant, kind Heaven, to me,
Long as I draw ethereal air,
Sweet Sensibility!
Where'er the heavenly nymph is seen,
With lustre-beaming eye,
A train, attendant on their queen,
(Her rosy chorus) fly;
The jocund loves in Hymen's band,
With torches ever bright,
And generous friendship, hand in hand
With pity's wat'ry sight.
The gentler virtues too are join'd
In youth immortal warm;
The soft relations, which, combined,
Give life her every charm.
The arts come smiling in the close,
And lend celestial fire;
The marble breathes, the canvas glows,
The muses sweep the lyre.
"Still may my melting bosom cleave
To sufferings not my own,
And still the sigh responsive heave
Where'er is heard a groan.
"So pity shall take virtue's part.
Her natural ally,
And fashioning my soften'd heart,
Prepare it for the sky."
This artless vow may Heaven receive,
And you, fond maid, approve:
So may your guiding angel give
Whate'er you wish or love!