Thou, to whose shrine I bow; at whose command,
(Though low my reed and artless be my hand,)
I take the rural pipe and sing and play,
Regardless what the senseless world may say.
Though mean’s the bard, I’m bid by Love to write,
And this shall plead for what I now indite.
Love reigns the mighty monarch of the mind,
Knows no superior, by no laws confined—.
But triumphs still without the least control
O’er all the grand endowments of the soul.
Believe the muse! the flame, no more supprest
Glows with unusual ardour in my breast;
Thy dear idea fills my every thought,
Nor e’en in slumber is thy name forgot:
Thy charms are ever present to my view;
Whate’er I do or say, I think on you.
When balmy sleep seals up these wearied eyes,
And Fancy bids her images arise,
I fondly clasp thee in my longing arms,
And gaze transported on thy matchless charms:
So pleased with this illusion do I seem,
I wake but grieved to find it all a dream.
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Since you, and you alone, are all my care,
Accept these lines—the fairest of the fair!
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