The cruel fair, for whom I burn,
    May one day to these shades return,
    And smiling with superior grace,
    Her lover seek around this place,
    And when instead of me she finds
    Some crumbling dust toss’d by the winds,
    She may feel pity in her breast,
    And, sighing, wish me happy rest,
    Drying her eyes with her soft veil,
    Such tears must sure with Heaven prevail.

    Well I remember how the flowers
    Descended from these boughs in showers,
    Encircled in the fragrant cloud
    She set, nor midst such glory proud. 
    These blossoms to her lap repair,
    These fall upon her flowing hair,
    (Like pearls enchased in gold they seem,)
    These on the ground, these on the stream;
    In giddy rounds these dancing say,
    Here Love and Laura only sway.

    In rapturous wonder oft I said,
    Sure she in Paradise was made,
    Thence sprang that bright angelic state,
    Those looks, those words, that heavenly gait,
    That beauteous smile, that voice divine,
    Those graces that around her shine: 
    Transported I beheld the fair,
    And sighing cried, How came I here? 
    In heaven, amongst th’ immortal blest,
    Here let me fix and ever rest.

    MOLESWORTH.

      Ye waters clear and fresh, to whose blight wave
    She all her beauties gave,—­
    Sole of her sex in my impassion’d mind! 
    Thou sacred branch so graced,
    (With sighs e’en now retraced!)
    On whose smooth shaft her heavenly form reclined! 
    Herbage and flowers that bent the robe beneath,
    Whose graceful folds compress’d
    Her pure angelic breast! 
    Ye airs serene, that breathe
    Where Love first taught me in her eyes his lore! 
    Yet once more all attest,
    The last sad plaintive lay my woe-worn heart may pour!

    If so I must my destiny fulfil,
    And Love to close these weeping eyes be doom’d
    By Heaven’s mysterious will,
    Oh! grant that in this loved retreat, entomb’d,
    My poor remains may lie,
    And my freed soul regain its native sky! 
    Less rude shall Death appear,
    If yet a hope so dear
    Smooth the dread passage to eternity! 
    No shade so calm—­serene,
    My weary spirit finds on earth below;
    No grave so still—­so green,
    In which my o’ertoil’d frame may rest from mortal woe!

    Yet one day, haply, she—­so heavenly fair! 
    So kind in cruelty!—­
    With careless steps may to these haunts repair,
    And where her beaming eye
    Met mine in days so blest,
    A wistful glance may yet unconscious rest,
    And seeking me around,
    May mark among the stones a lowly mound,
    That speaks of pity to the shuddering sense! 
    Then may she breathe a sigh,
    Of power to win me mercy from above! 
    Doing Heaven violence,
    All-beautiful in tears of late relenting love!