SOLILOQUY XIX.

Ye soft complaints, and tender sighs,
That from my anxious bosom rise,
Take wing, and reach the distant skies.
Your gentle eloquence may move
The sacred object of my love
To heal the anguish of my breast,
Of God forlorn, and robb'd of rest.
But oh! what sighs, what soft complaint,
My grief and wild distress can paint?
What lover's pains can equal mine,
While at thy absence I repine?
Without thee pleasure is no more,
I die 'till thou my bliss restore.
At once thy lovely face reveal,
And all these gloomy fears dispel.
My lov'd Redeemer! let that name,
Which does thy tenderness proclaim,
Let that thy soft compassion move,
And waken all thy former love.
Thou taught'st my infant lips thy name,
And didst my first desires inflame:
Recall the kindness of my youth,
When first I gave my plighted truth;
Ev'n then I felt the fire divine,
My young affections all were thine.