Ere yet I bid a long, a last farewell To the sweet Muse, reluctant to forego The sacred solace and enchanting spell Which charm'd my solitude, and sooth'd my woe-- Ere I renounce my harp, and cease to know The poet's rapture, when his eye surveys The heavenly visions fancy doth bestow, On which her favored sons alone may gaze, Once more I lift my voice to sing in Mira's praise. While sickly flattery heaps the unhallowed shrine Of pomp and pride with praise that palls the sense, Let spotless candor, Heaven-born truth be mine: Base are the praises sold at truth's expense: Mira! thy name all falsehood drives from hence! Accept this tribute due to worth like thine-- Accept this offering of a heart from whence No guile shall rise to taint this verse of mine, But friendship's holy signet sanctify each line. O might I deem my verse could live beyond The petty confines of the dreary tomb-- Might I believe my wishes not too fond, That point to fame beyond the eternal gloom-- When this frail form shall in the grave consume, That future ages shall my works behold-- Then, Mira, on this page thy name's perfume Should breathe a fragrance, when the hand is cold And crumbled into dust which here that name enrolled. As long as years revolved, and seasons came, Tho' other flowers should fade away and die, An ever-blooming flower should be thy name, Dipped in the radiance of the evening sky: When marble monuments in ruins lie, And sculptured pillars from their bases fall, Could I but place fair Mira's name on high In Fame's eternal, adamantine hall, Then would my lot be blessed, my hopes accomplished all. Tho' placed by Fate in this ungenial clime, Where scarce the sacred Muse hath deigned to tread-- These Western lands, where Song appears a crime, And Genius rears a sad and sickly head-- And tho' malignant stars their influence shed-- Yet might I boast thy friendship, I would bend No more when black misfortunes round me spread; But my last breath in thankfulness would send, And tell to future times thou wast my only friend. I have seen womankind in all their charms-- Yea! all that beauty, wealth, and wit bestow-- With all that strikes the eye, or fancy warms, In festal halls, where gold and diamonds glow, And gay costumes that mock the painted bow Of Iris hanging on Heaven's battlements: Yet not all these could bid my bosom know Such admiration, or such joys dispense, As when the maiden smiled in heavenly innocence.