Richard Bingham Davis (1771–1799)

YES, I must bid thy ecstasies farewell,

Sweet soother of my soul! no more thy power,

That oft has beamed upon the gloomy hour,

Shall fold my spirit in ethereal spell.

No more I ’ll watch thee, wafted on the wing

Of fragrant eve, from the lone warbler’s throat;

No more I ’ll hear thee touch the expressive string,

Or swell with softening grace the airy note.

Past is thy charm that could my bosom thrill,

That name, on thy soft undulations borne,

Which fancy heard in each delightful thrill—

Eliza’s name is from my bosom torn,

And when Eliza dwells not in the strain,

Thy sweetest notes are harsh, my energies in vain.