E NAMOUR'D Bard! whose constancy alone,
Would call forth Fame, tho' tuneless were thy lyre,
Ah! with what harmony of plaintive moan,
Did'st thou still watch, and nurse thy vestal fire;

By V AUCLUSE ' springs, methinks, I meet thy shade,
Thy gentle shade, so innocent of blame,
Still mourning for the loss of that dear maid,
While each low echo murmurs Laura 's name.

Oh! elegant of manners! how I grieve,
That Love, still deepest, wounds the tender mind;
That, still, sad fate! his rosey fetters leave
In such, their keenest, cureless thorn behind;

For I have felt, to sacred impulse true,
The bliss;—and I have felt the torment too!