I sigh, fair injured stranger! for thy fate;
But what shall sighs avail thee? Thy poor heart,
‘Mid all the ‘pomp and circumstance’ of state,
Shivers in nakedness. Unbidden, start
Sad recollections of Hope’s garish dream,
That shaped a seraph form, and named it Love,
Its hues gay-varying, as the orient beam
Varies the neck of Cytherea’s dove.
To one soft accent of domestic joy,
Poor are the shouts that shake the high-arched dome:
Those plaudits, that thy public path annoy,
Alas! they tell thee–Thou’rt a wretch at home!
O then retire and weep! Their very woes
Solace the guiltless. Drop the pearly flood
On thy sweet infant, as the full-blown rose,
Surcharged with dew, bends o’er its neighb’ring bud.
And oh that Truth some holy spell might lend
To lure thy wanderer from the syren’s power,
Then bid your souls inseparably blend
Like two bright dewdrops meeting in a flower.
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