ODE TO MISS H—L—D.

1768.

AMIDST the wild and dreary dells,
 The distant echo-giving bells,
 The bending mountains head;
 Whilst Ev'ning, moving thro' the sky,
 Over the object and the eye,
 Her pitchy robes doth spread. 

There gently moving thro' the vale,
 Bending before the blust'ring gale,
 Fell apparitions glide;
 Whilst roaring rivers echo round,
 The drear reverberating sound
 Runs thro' the mountain side:

Then steal I softly to the grove,
 And singing of the Nymph I love,
 Sigh out my sad complaint;
 To paint the tortures of my mind,
 Where can the Muses numbers find? 
Ah! numbers are too faint! 

Ah! H—l—d, Empress of my heart,
 When will thy breast admit the dart,
 And own a mutual flame? 
When, wand'ring in the myrtle groves,
 Shall mutual pleasures seal our loves;
 Pleasures without a name? 

Thou greatest beauty of the sex,
 When will the little God perplex
 The mansions of thy breast? 
When wilt thou own a flame as pure,
 As that seraphic souls endure,
 And make thy Baker blest? 

O! haste to give my passion ease,
 And bid the perturbation cease,
 That harrows up my soul! 
The joy such happiness to find,
 Would make the functions of my mind
 In peace and love to roll.