Of him, whom Science once held dear,
And Fancy seem'd to mark her own,
(Reflexion, spare the anguish'd tear!)
Ah! little, now, is heard or known;

Immerst in silent, hopeless woe,
To Prudence lost, to Pleasure cold,
Can the mute page my passion show,
Can words my bleeding breast unfold?

Then, dear Invisible, forbear
To wake one spark of former pride,
Nor the deep wounds of Sorrow tear,
That Feeling would for ever hide!