Ah! whence that pang which smote my shuddering heart? Where now, for refuge, can lost Anselm fly? 'Tis Death! I know him by his crimson dart! And, am I fit? Oh heav'ns! I cannot die! My spirit is not form'd for rapid flight; It cannot cut the vast expanse of air, No, never can it reach the realms of light, For sin, a weight immoveable, lies there!' Thus wretched Anselm rav'd: unhappy youth! Though passion hurried thee so far astray, Thy infant soul ador'd the God of Truth, And virtue usher'd in thy vernal day. Oh! had he learn'd his passions to restrain, And let cool reason in his breast preside, His op'ning wisdom had not bloom'd in vain, Nor had he, ere the prime of manhood, died. Yet, if remorse could expiate his guilt, If the worst sufferings could the crime erase, If tears could wash away the blood he spilt, Then Anselm's penitence obtain'd him grace. AUGUST 20, 1794. IN A LETTER to A.R.C. ON HER WISHING TO BE CALLED ANNA. Forgive me, if I wound your ear, By calling of you Nancy, Which is the name of my sweet friend, The other's but her fancy. Ah, dearest girl! how could your mind The strange distinction frame? The whimsical, unjust caprice, Which robs you of your name. _Nancy_ agrees with what we see, A being wild and airy; Gay as a nymph of Flora's train, Fantastic as a fairy. But _Anna's_ of a different kind, A melancholy maid; Boasting a sentimental soul, In solemn pomp array'd. Oh ne'er will I forsake the sound, So artless and so free! Be what you will with all mankind. But _Nancy_ still with me. THE LONELY WALK, To W.S.B. When the grey evening spreads a calm around, Tell me, has thy bewilder'd fancy sought, Retir'd in some sequestered spot of ground, Rest, from the labour of eternal thought? When, wrapt in self, the soul enjoys repose, The wearied brain resigns its fervent heat, In dream-like musing every care we lose, And wind our way with slowly-moving feet. Oft, to indulge the thought-exploded sigh, When, slowly wandering at the close of day, Light emanations from th'abstracted eye, With transient beauty in the sun-beams play, Thy sister seeks the solitary shade. Her mind inhaling the aerial gloom, Sees, not-observing, the fair landscape fade, And sullen mist usurping day-light's room. Not her's the feelings which regret inspires, When sorrows keen have made the spirits low; Adversity has damp'd the youthful fires, And all the tears that fall are tears of woe. Ah no! possessing every social bliss, I cannot, will not at my fate repine; Or ask for happiness excelling this, When such a world of treasures now are mine! And, when the melancholy grove I seek, Scarce can my palpitating heart controul, While silent tears are trembling on my cheek, The flood of pleasure swelling in my soul.