Though, now, on airy visions borne, To you my soul is still the same. Oft has it been my fate to mourn, [vii] And all my former joys are tame: But, hence! ye hours of sable hue! Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er: By every bliss my childhood knew, I'll think upon your shade no more. Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, And caves their sullen roar enclose [viii] We heed no more the wintry blast, When lull'd by zephyr to repose. Full often has my infant Muse, Attun'd to love her languid lyre; But, now, without a theme to choose, The strains in stolen sighs expire. My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown; [ix] E----is a wife, and C----a mother, And Carolina sighs alone, And Mary's given to another; And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me, Can now no more my love recall-- In truth, dear LONG, 'twas time to flee--[x] For Cora's eye will shine on all. And though the Sun, with genial rays, His beams alike to all displays, And every lady's eye's a _sun_, These last should be confin'd to one. The soul's meridian don't become her, [xi] Whose Sun displays a general _summer_! Thus faint is every former flame, And Passion's self is now a name; [xii] [xiii] As, when the ebbing flames are low, The aid which once improv'd their light, And bade them burn with fiercer glow, Now quenches all their sparks in night; Thus has it been with Passion's fires, As many a boy and girl remembers, While all the force of love expires, Extinguish'd with the dying embers. But now, dear LONG, 'tis midnight's noon, And clouds obscure the watery moon, Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, Describ'd in every stripling's verse; For why should I the path go o'er Which every bard has trod before? [xiv] Yet ere yon silver lamp of night Has thrice perform'd her stated round, Has thrice retrac'd her path of light, And chas'd away the gloom profound, I trust, that we, my gentle Friend, Shall see her rolling orbit wend, Above the dear-lov'd peaceful seat, Which once contain'd our youth's retreat; And, then, with those our childhood knew, We'll mingle in the festive crew; While many a tale of former day Shall wing the laughing hours away; And all the flow of souls shall pour The sacred intellectual shower, Nor cease, till Luna's waning horn, Scarce glimmers through the mist of Morn.