Oh , Thou! of meek and modest brow!
Whose eye's blue languish thrill'd my breast,
When wilt thou feel an equal glow,
And bid my throbbing passion rest?

Unheard, I tune my votive reed;
Unpity'd, mid the wilds I weep;
My grief, alas! thou do'st not heed,
Tho' sighing Loves sit on thy lip.

The first bright streaks that tinge the air,
When Morning flings her roses round,
Can nothing with thy cheek compare,
Where Heav'n's more beauteous tints are found;

Pure as N OON 's cloudless summer-sky
Thy panting bosom's veiny white,
Where latent Raptures, nestling, lie,
To guard the regions of delight.

But ah! thy heart when I explore,
Untaught for other's woe to grieve,
Transport, or hope, I view no more,
'Tis dull, cold W INTER 's sullen E VE !