Sweet as the sleep of innocence the day,
  By transports measured, lightly danced away;
  To love, to bliss, the unioned soul was given,
  And—­ah, too happy!—­asked no brighter heaven. 
  And must the hours in ceaseless anguish roll? 
  Will no soft sunshine cheer my clouded soul? 
  Can this dear earth no transient joy supply? 
  Is it my doom to hope, despair, and die? 
  O, come once more, with soft endearments come;
  Burst the cold prison of the sullen tomb;
  Through favored walks thy chosen maid attend
  Where well-known shades their pleasing branches bend;
  Shed the soft poison of thy speaking eye,
  And look those raptures lifeless words deny. 
  Still he, though late, reheard what ne’er could tire,
  But, told each eve, fresh pleasures would inspire;
  Still hope those scenes which love and fancy drew,
  But, drawn a thousand times, were ever new.

  Can fancy paint, can words express,
  Can aught on earth my woes redress? 
  E’en thy soft smiles can ceaseless prove
  Thy truth, thy tenderness, and love. 
  Once thou couldst every bliss inspire,
  Transporting joy and gay desire;
  Now cold Despair her banner rears,
  And Pleasure flies when she appears;
  Fond Hope within my bosom dies,
  And Agony her place supplies. 
  O thou, for whose dear sake I bear
  A doom so dreadful, so severe,
  May happy fates thy footsteps guide,
  And o’er thy peaceful home preside;
  Nor let E——­a’s early tomb
  Infect thee with its baleful gloom.

Still another poem, of more genuine beauty and strength than either of these, has been preserved in her own handwriting, which I doubt not the reader will thank me for introducing here, although it bears more of recrimination than the others.

  Thy presents to some happier lover send;
  Content thyself to be Lucinda’s friend. 
  The soft expression of thy gay design
  Ill suits the sadness of a heart like mine—­
  A heart like mine, forever doomed to prove
  Each tender woe, but not one joy of love.

  First from my arms a dying lover torn,
  In early life it was my fate to mourn. 
  A father next, by fate’s relentless doom,
  With heartfelt woe I followed to the tomb. 
  Now all was lost; no friends remained to guide
  My erring step, or calm life’s boisterous tide.

  Again th’ admiring youths around me bowed;
  And one I singled from the sighing crowd. 
  Well skilled he was in every winning art—­
  To warm the fancy, or to touch the heart. 
  Why must my pen the noble praise deny,
  Which virtue, worth, and honor should supply?

  O youth beloved! what pangs my breast has borne
  To find thee false, ungrateful, and forsworn! 
  A shade and darkness o’er my prospect spreads,
  The damps of night and death’s eternal shades. 
  The scorpion’s sting, by disappointment brought,
  And all the horrors of despairing thought,
  Sad as they are, I might, perhaps, endure,
  And bear with patience what admits no cure. 
  But here my bosom is to madness moved;
  I suffer by the wrongs of him I loved.