How shall I, then, the happy medium hit, And give the just proportion to my song? 10 How speak of beauty, elegance, and wit, Yet fear at once t’offend thee and to wrong? Sure to offend, if far the Muse should soar, And sure to wrong thee if her strength I spare: Still, in my doubts, this comfort I explore— That all confess what I must not declare. Yet on this day, in every passing year, Poets the tribute of their praise may bring; Nor should thy virtues then be so severe, As to forbid us of thy worth to sing. 20 Still I forbear; for why should I portray Those looks that seize—that mind that wins the heart— Since all the world, on this propitious day, Will tell how lovely and how good thou art? TO A LADY WHO DESIRED SOME VERSES AT PARTING. Oh! do not ask the Muse to show Or how we met, or how we part: The bliss, the pain, too well I know, That seize in turn this faithful heart. That meeting—it was tumult all— The eye was pleased, the soul was glad; But thus to memory I recall, And feel the parting doubly sad. Yes, it was pleasant so to meet For us, who fear’d to meet no more, 10 When every passing hour was sweet— Sweeter, we thought, than all before. When eye from eye new meanings steal, When hearts approach, and thoughts unite— Then is, indeed, the time to feel, But, Laura! not a time to write. And when at length compell’d to part, When fear is strong, and fancy weak; When in some distant good the heart For present ease is forced to seek; 20 When hurried spirits fall and rise, As on the changing views we dwell— How vainly then the sufferer tries In studied verse his pains to tell! Time brings, indeed, his slow relief, In whom the passions live and die; He gives the bright’ning smile to grief, And his the soft consoling sigh. Till then, we vainly wish the power To paint the grief, or use the pen; 30 But distant far that quiet hour— And I must feel and grieve till then. THE FRIEND IN LOVE. [About 1816.] Unhappy is the wretch who feels The trembling lover’s ardent flame, And yet the treacherous hope conceals By using Friendship’s colder name. He must the lover’s pangs endure, And still the outward sign suppress; Nor may expect the smiles that cure The wounded heart’s conceal’d distress. When her soft looks on others bend, By him discern’d, to him denied, 10 He must be then the silent friend, And all his jealous torments hide. When she shall one blest youth select, His bleeding heart must still approve; Must every angry thought correct, And strive to like, where she can love. Yet must he all his Pains conceal From her whom his fond Thoughts adore, In Fear of these which he must feel, If she that soothed them smiled no more. 20