TO
ANNA
MATILDA
.
AND
art
thou
then
,
alas
!
like
me
,
OFFSPRING
of
frail
mortality
?
Must
ruthless
Time's
rude
touch
efface
Each
lovely
feature's
varying
grace
?
And
must
tow'rds
earth
that
form
incline
,
And
e'en
those
eyes
forbear
to
shine
?
Yet
,
when
with
icy
hand
he
throws
,
Amongst
thine
auburn
locks
,
his
snows
,
The
freezing
influence
ne'er
shall
dart
,
To
chill
thy
warmly-beating
heart
;
And
scorning
Death's
oblivious
hour
,
Thou
shalt
exult
—
beyond
his
pow'r
.
Methinks
,
as
Passion
drives
along
,
As
frantic
grown
,
I
feel
thy
Song
;
Eager
I'd
traverse
LYBIA's
plain
,
The
tawny
Lion's
dread
domain
To
meet
thee
there
:
nor
flagging
Fear
,
Should
ever
on
my
cheek
appear
:
For
e'en
the
Forest's
King
obeys
Majestic
WOMAN's
potent
gaze
.
Or
,
left
on
some
resourceless
shore
,
Where
never-ceasing
billows
roar
;
Which
teeming
clouds
,
and
heavy
hail
,
And
furious
hurricanes
assail
,
Far
to
the
Pole
—
while
half
the
year
,
On
Ebon
throne
sits
NIGHT
severe
;
And
to
her
solitary
court
,
Sea-fowl
,
and
monsters
fierce
resort
—
E'en
there
,
MATILDA
!
there
with
thee
,
Impending
horrors
all
should
flee
;
Thy
lustre
of
poetic
ray
,
Should
wake
an
artificial
day
.
Sure
thou
wast
never
doom'd
to
know
What
pangs
from
care
,
and
danger
flow
;
But
fairest
scenes
thy
thoughts
employ
,
And
Art
,
and
Science
,
bring
thee
joy
.
The
quick'ning
sense
,
the
throb
divine
,
Fancy
,
and
Feeling
,
all
are
thine
;
'Tis
thine
,
by
blushing
Summer
led
,
A
show'r
of
roses
round
thee
shed
,
To
hie
thee
forth
at
Morn's
advance
,
In
wild
excess
of
rapt'rous
trance
;
And
see
the
Sun's
proud
deluge
stream
,
In
copious
tides
of
golden
beam
;
While
faint
his
Sister-Orb
on
high
,
Fades
to
a
vapour
of
the
sky
.
When
gradual
evening
comes
,
to
hide
,
In
sabling
shades
,
CREATION's
pride
;
When
heaving
hills
,
and
forests
drear
,
And
less'ning
towns
,
but
scarce
appear
;
While
the
last
ling'ring
western
glow
,
Hangs
on
the
lucid
lake
below
;
Then
trivial
joys
(
I
deem
)
forgot
,
Thou
lov'st
to
seek
the
humble
cot
,
To
scatter
Comfort's
balm
around
,
And
heal
pale
Poverty's
deep
wound
;
Drive
sickness
from
the
languid
bed
,
Raise
the
lorn
Widow's
drooping
head
;
Render
the
new-made
Mother
blest
,
And
snatch
the
Infant
to
thy
breast
.
O
ANNA
,
then
,
if
true
thou
say
,
Thy
radiant
beauties
steal
away
,
Yet
shall
I
never
fail
to
find
Eternal
beauties
in
thy
mind
.
To
those
I
offer
up
my
vows
,
And
Love
,
which
Virtue's
self
allows
;
Unknown
,
again
thou
art
ador'd
,
As
once
by
him
,
thy
"
bosom's
Lord
.
"
DELLA
CRUSCA
.