O love! in such a wilderness as this, Where transport and security entwine, Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, And here thou art a god indeed divine. Here shall no forms abridge, no hours confine The views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire! Roll on, ye days of raptured influence, shine! Nor, blind with ecstasy’s celestial fire, Shall love behold the spark of earth-born time expire. II. Three little moons, how short! amidst the grove And pastoral savannahs they consume! While she, beside her buskined youth to rove, Delights, in fancifully wild costume, Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume; And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare; But not to chase the deer in forest gloom; ’Tis but the breath of heaven—the blessed air— And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to share. III. What though the sportive dog oft round them note, Or fawn, or wild bird bursting on the wing; Yet who in love’s own presence, would devote To death those gentle throats that wake the spring, Or writhing from the brook its victim bring? No!—nor let fear one little warbler rouse; But, fed by Gertrude’s hand, still let them sing, Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs, That shade e’en now her love, and witnessed first her vows. IV. Now labyrinths, which but themselves can pierce, Methinks, conduct them to some pleasant ground, Where welcome hills shut out the universe, And pines their lawny walk encompass round; There, if a pause delicious converse found, ’Twas but when o’er each heart the idea stole, (Perchance a while in joy’s oblivion drowned) That come what may, while life’s glad pulses roll, Indissolubly thus should soul be knit to soul. V. And in the visions of romantic youth, What years of endless bliss are yet to flow! But, mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth? The torrent’s smoothness, ere it dash below! And must I change my song? and must I show, Sweet Wyoming! the day when thou wert doomed, Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bowers laid low! When where of yesterday a garden bloomed, Death overspread his pall, and blackening ashes gloomed! VI. Sad was the year, by proud oppression driven, When Transatlantic Liberty arose, Not in the sunshine and the smile of heaven, But wrapt in whirlwinds, and begirt with woes, Amidst the strife of fratricidal foes; Her birth star was the light of burning plains;[47] Her baptism is the weight of blood that flows From kindred hearts—the blood of British veins— And famine tracks her steps, and pestilential pains. VII.