will not weep! the world shall see
That I a nobler tribute pay;
More grateful both to heaven and thee,
By guiding them in virtue's way."

Embracing then her fondest cares,
She cast her raptur'd eyes above,
And breath'd to heav'n emphatic pray'rs,
Of mingled reverence and love.

APRIL 15, 1795.

* * * * *

[Footnote 13: I know not if I have expressed myself with much clearness
here, but I meant to describe a sea-fight as concisely as possible.]

TO M.I.

Light breezes dance along the air,
The sky in smiles is drest,
And heav'ns pure vault, serene and fair,
Pourtrays the cheerful breast.

Each object on this moving ball
Assumes a lovely hue;
So fair good-humour brightens all
That comes within her view.

Her presence glads the youthful train,
Reanimates the gay,
And, round her, by the couch of pain,
The light-wing'd graces play.

Her winning mein and prompt reply,
Can sullen pride appease;
And the sweet arching of her eye
E'en apathy must please.

To you, with whom the damsel dwells
A voluntary guest,
To you, Maria, memory tells,
This tribute is addrest.

The feeble strains that I bequeath,
With melody o'erpay;
And let thy lov'd piano breathe
A sweet responsive lay.

Although the mellow sounds will rise,
So distant from my ear,
The charmer Fancy, when she tries,
Can make them present here.

Can paint thee, as with raptur'd bend,
You hail the powers of song;
When the light fingers quick descend,
And fly the notes along:

Feel the soft chord of sadness meet,
An echo in the soul,
And waking joy the strains repeat,
When Mirth's-quick measures roll.

This "mistress of the powerful spell,"
Can every joy impart;
And ah! you doubtless know too well
How she can wring the heart.

She rules me with despotic reign,
As now I say <I>adieu_;
And makes me feel a sort of pain,
As if I spoke to you.

FEB. 14, 1797.

WRITTEN IN ZIMMERMANN'S SOLITUDE.

Hail, melancholy sage! whose thoughtful eye,
Shrunk from the mere _spectator's_ careless gaze,
And, in retirement sought the social smile,
The heart-endearing aspect, and the voice
Of soothing tenderness, which Friendship breathes,
And which sounds far more grateful to the ear,
Than the soft notes of distant flute at eve,
Stealing across the waters: Zimmermann!
Thou draw'st not Solitude as others do,
With folded arms, with pensive, nun-like air,