Yet two short days, my Catharine! then no more,
Beneath our long-loved spires, thy graceful form
Shall lightly glide, to cheer my languid hour
With emanations sparkling, soft, and warm,
Shed from the mind’s rich stores; and with the charm
Of language accurate, by habit taught
Th’ ideal train with happiest powers to arm,
That rise in swift subservience to each thought,
Whether with Reason’s strength, or Fancy’s radiance fraught.
Now damp November’s desolating gale
Covers the brooks with shrunk and yellow leaves;
His iron skies scowl on our darling vale,
Nor aught from sway more stern the scene reprieves.
Of thee, since Destiny my heart bereaves,
Lone wintry sighs in unison ascend
With the chill blast which faded Nature grieves.
On me her griefs, but not her hopes attend;
Spring shall return to her, when distant far my friend!
No Expectation tells, with voice benign,
That future years shall give her back to me!
Thou may’st again behold these turrets shine,
These bowers may spread, these meadows bloom for thee,
But here no more wilt thou thine Anna see!
Yet not for that shroud those mild eyes in gloom!
She twines the cypress wreath, by Heaven’s decree,
For many a victim of the ruthless tomb;
Set are her heart-dear orbs where no blest mornings come!
For thee, loved maid, extracted be each thorn
That lurks amid the roses of thy fate,
Knowledge and Taste are thine, and bid thee scorn
Each shaft of Envy, Falsehood, Pride, and Hate;
For thou hast soar’d where they have never sat;
Traced Genius in his sun-track; with rapt gaze,
Adored bright Nature in her scenic state,
And in thy morn of life, and riper day,
Fed thy clear lamp of Faith from Truth’s unclouded ray!
Lichfield, Nov. 1805.