TO
MISS
B—SH
,
OF
BRISTOL
.
BEFORE
I
seek
the
dreary
shore
,
Where
Gambia's
rapid
billows
roar
,
And
foaming
pour
along
;
To
you
I
urge
the
plaintive
strain
,
And
tho'
a
lover
sings
in
vain
,
Yet
you
shall
hear
the
song
Ungrateful
,
cruel
,
lovely
maid
,
Since
all
my
torments
were
repaid
With
frowns
or
languid
sneers
;
With
assiduities
no
more
Your
captive
will
your
health
implore
,
Or
tease
you
with
his
tears
.
Now
to
the
regions
where
the
sun
Does
his
hot
course
of
glory
run
,
And
parches
up
the
ground
:
Where
o'er
the
burning
cleaving
plains
,
A
long
external
dog-star
reigns
,
And
splendor
flames
around
:
There
will
I
go
,
yet
not
to
find
A
fire
intenser
than
my
mind
,
Which
burns
a
constant
flame
:
There
will
I
lose
thy
heavenly
form
,
Nor
shall
remembrance
,
raptur'd
,
warm
,
Draw
shadows
of
thy
frame
.
In
the
rough
element
the
sea
,
I'll
drown
the
softer
subject
,
thee
,
And
sink
each
lovely
charm
:
No
more
my
bosom
shall
be
torne
;
No
more
by
wild
ideas
borne
,
I'll
cherish
the
alarm
.
Yet
,
Polly
,
could
thy
heart
be
kind
,
Soon
would
my
feeble
purpose
sind
Thy
sway
within
my
breast
:
But
hence
,
soft
scenes
of
painted
woe
,
Spite
of
the
dear
delight
I'll
go
,
Forget
her
,
and
be
blest
.
D.
CELORIMON
.