To you, with whom the damsel dwells A voluntary guest, To you, Maria, memory tells, This tribute is addrest. The feeble strains that I bequeath, With melody o'erpay; And let thy lov'd piano breathe A sweet responsive lay. Although the mellow sounds will rise, So distant from my ear, The charmer Fancy, when she tries, Can make them present here. Can paint thee, as with raptur'd bend, You hail the powers of song; When the light fingers quick descend, And fly the notes along: Feel the soft chord of sadness meet, An echo in the soul, And waking joy the strains repeat, When Mirth's-quick measures roll. This "mistress of the powerful spell," Can every joy impart; And ah! you doubtless know too well How she can wring the heart. She rules me with despotic reign, As now I say <I>adieu_; And makes me feel a sort of pain, As if I spoke to you. FEB. 14, 1797. WRITTEN IN ZIMMERMANN'S SOLITUDE. Hail, melancholy sage! whose thoughtful eye, Shrunk from the mere _spectator's_ careless gaze, And, in retirement sought the social smile, The heart-endearing aspect, and the voice Of soothing tenderness, which Friendship breathes, And which sounds far more grateful to the ear, Than the soft notes of distant flute at eve, Stealing across the waters: Zimmermann! Thou draw'st not Solitude as others do, With folded arms, with pensive, nun-like air, And tearful eye, averted from mankind. No! warm, benign, and cheerful, she appears The friend of Health, of Piety, and Peace; The kind Samaritan that heals our woes, The nurse of Science, and, of future fame The gentle harbinger: her meek abode Is that dear home, which still the virtuous heart, E'en in the witching maze of Pleasure's dance, In wild Ambition's dream, regards with love, And hopes, with fond security, to pass The evening of a long-protracted day, Serenely joyful, there. IN MEMORY OF MR. AGOSTINO ISOLA, OF CAMBRIDGE, Who died on the 5th of June, 1797. Awake, O Gratitude! nor let the tears Of selfish Sorrow smother up thy voice, When it should speak of a departed friend. A tender friend, the first I ever lost! For Destiny till now was merciful, And though I oft have felt a transient pang, For worth unknown, and wept awhile for those, Whom long acquaintance only made me love, No keen regret laid pining at my heart, Nor Memory in the solitary hour, Would sting with grief, as when she speaks Thy virtue, knowledge, wisdom, gentleness, Thy venerable age, and says that I Had once the happiness to call thee friend.