| |
| ONCE more, dear maid, the wretched Arouet writes; | |
| His pen obedient, as his heart indites; | |
| These lines may haply waste your precious time, | |
| And his loathed writings may be deem’d a crime. | |
| Thou say’st that friendship can afford a cure | 5 |
| To the deep wounds, the sorrows I endure; | |
| The generous thought with rapture I pursue— | |
| It must be lovely, for it comes from you. | |
| But O how poor is friendship to express | |
| “The soul-felt pang of exquisite distress.” | 10 |
| Once I was happy—blest with native ease, | |
| A friend could cheer me, and a book could please; | |
| But now no joys from books or friendship flow, | |
| Not one poor respite to my load of wo. | |
| Did not you, dearest, see my fond distress, | 15 |
| Beyond all power of language to express? | |
| The whirling thought, the swift impassion’d kiss, | |
| Delirium sweet and agony of bliss. | |
| How have I listen’d when your accents broke, | |
| And kiss’d the air that trembled as you spoke. | 20 |
| Death, friendly Death will soon relieve my pain, | |
| Long sure he cannot be implored in vain. | |
| When to my sight the monarch of the tomb | |
| Shall rise terrific and pronounce my doom; | |
| Will then Amanda, ah! she will, I trust, | 25 |
| Pay the last tribute to my clay-cold dust: | |
| Will sighing say, here his last scene is o’er, | |
| Who loved as mortal never loved before. | |
| Dear, matchless maid! that kind concern display’d, | |
| Would sweetly soothe my melancholy shade. | 30 |
| O’er my lone tomb O yield that sad relief; | |
| Breathe the soft sigh and pour out all your grief; | |
| Or shed one tear in pity as you pass, | |
| And just remember that your Arouet was. | |
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