Not to thy Form, of soul-enchanting Grace; Not to thy swan-like Neck, thine Arm most fair: Not to thy silver Voice, whose Heaven-fraught Air The frenzied Horror of Despair could chace: Not that mild-beaming Eye, that lovely Face, Whose sweet-etherial Power far thence could bear The stormy Gloom from the stern brow of Care:— Not all which charm'd the admiring sight to trace, These lines are vow'd. — Nor seek they a Return Of Sentiment: — they breathe but to thine Urn, High-gifted ROBINSON! — with Grief they say All these transcendant Charms avail'd thee not; They fill'd with Misery thine envied Lot— Thy GENIUS, LYRE, and HEART waft thee to cloudless Day.
