I have just come to town, and sent your father the answer to his commands. Your letter was highly interesting, and your lines to the Quaker, “Ah! why do I sigh?” extremely beautiful. You are, indeed, my Anthenæ, and let the following verses convince you. My poems are printing at Bristol in a most elegant style—this makes one of them.
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“There lurks within thy lyre a dangerous spell,
That lures my soul from Wisdom’s dauntless aim;
Yet if I know thy generous bosom well,
Thou would’st not dash me from the steeps of
Fame.
Trust me, thy melting, plaint, melodious flow,
Could animate to love the icy grave;
And yet, if thy pure feelings well I know,
Thou would’st not sink me to an amorous slave!
Graced with no vantage, nor of birth nor wealth,
That to Ambition’s happier sons belong;
E’en at the price of my sole treasure—health,
I own that I would be renown’d for song!
For this I wander from the world aside,
Muttering wild descants to the boiling deep,
’Mid the lone forest’s leafy refuge hide,
And slight the blessings of inactive sleep.”
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Now, considering that this comes neither from a “very old” nor “very ugly fellow,” you might excuse some warmth of colouring. To use another quotation of my own—
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“Why, though thy tender vow recal another.
May not my rapt imagination rove,
Beyond the solemn softness of a brother,
And live upon thy radiant looks of love?”
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| PERIOD OF 1801. | 217 |
In reply to your desire of knowing why I thought Moore intended you, I can only repeat that it was mere supposition, founded on the idea that he could not be in your company without poetic emotion. But on my soul, I think you are be-rhymed enough for one lady!
