html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Thousands wou'd seek the lasting Peace of Death,
And in that Harbour shun the Storm of Care,
Officious Hope still holds the fleeting Breath,
She tells them still,—to morrow will be fair:
She tells me, Delia, I shall thee obtain,
But can I listen to her Syren Song,
Who sev'n slow Months have drag'd my painful Chain,
So long thy Lover and despis'd so long?
By all the Joys thy dearest Celia gave,
Let not her once-lov'd Friend unpity'd burn;
So may her Ashes find a peaceful Grave,
And sleep uninjur'd in their sacred Urn:
To her I first avow'd my tim'rous Flame,
She nurs'd my Hopes, and taught me how to sue,
She still wou'd pity what the Wise might blame,
And feel for Weakness which she never knew:
Ah do not grieve the dear lamented Shade,
That hov'ring round us all my Suff'rings hears,
She is my Saint,—to her my Pray'rs are made,
With oft repeated Gifts of Flow'rs and Tears:
To her sad Tomb at Midnight I retire,
And lonely sitting by the silent Stone,
I tell it all the Griefs my Wrongs inspire,
The marble Image seems to hear my Moan:
Thy Friend's pale Ghost shall vex thy sleepless Bed,
And stand before thee all in virgin White;
That ruthless Bosom will disturb the dead,
And call forth Pity from eternal Night:
Cease, cruel Man, the mournful Theme forbear,
Tho' much thou suffer, to thy self complain,
Ah to recal the sad Remembrance spare,
One Tear from her, is more than all thy Pain.