Blest Poetess! that tell'st so soft thy woe, I love to ponder o'er thy mournful lay In climes remote, where wan, forlorn, and slow, To the wash'd strand, I bend my listless way. Now on Savannah's beach I wayward read, In joy of grief, thy pity-moving strain, While smiles afar the variegated mead, And not a wave disturbs the glassy main. Like thee, the Muse has, from my infant hours, With smiles alluring won me to the grove; Snatch'd in a playful mood some scatter'd flow'rs, To deck my head, gay emblems of her love. But mine of light, deceitful hues are made, While thine, of bloom perennial, ne'er will fade.
