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TO MISS STEPHENS.
A RHAPSODY.
Whither when doubts or fears molest,
By grief subdued, by toil opprest,
For solace shall I fly?
What charm shall each sad hour beguile?
The music of what voice—what smile—
The magic of what eye?
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Enchantress sweet, I turn to thee,
’Tis thine alone my thoughts to free
From each devouring care.
But ah! whilst those which I endure
Thou, only thou, canst chase or cure,
Thou plant’st another there.
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Angelic maid—how much ’tis thine.
With touch of melody divine,
To soothe the troubled heart!
Thine o’er the soul full sway to gain,
With chasten’d note and melting strain,
Beyond the reach of art.
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But thus, while music’s power I own,
Sweet songstress, ’tis not that alone
Which ravishes each sense;
That sparkling look, that speaking eye,
In whose soft radiance I descry
The soul of innocence;
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| SUN ANECDOTES. | 173 |
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That cherub smile, chaste Cynthia’s tread.
That coral lip of virgin red,
Ne’er yet by mortal press’d;
In native modesty array’d,
These charms conspire with music’s aid,
To fire my throbbing breast.
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When this thy earthly course is o’er,
Sure Heaven, with future bliss in store,
Shall bid thy spirit rise;
Design’d then from thy earliest birth,
To charm—a syren here on earth—
A seraph in the skies!
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