EFFUSION VII.

W ELL thou art gone — gone to the City's throng,
My soul's sad partner! mid the generous cares
And kind solicitudes of pitying friends
To sooth thy bosom's anguish. Be they blest
Who in the wounds of thy affliction seek
To pour the healing balm! and may they not
The task of Love ply vainly. Me, the while,
Here shall heart-eating Solitude consume —
O'er saddest thoughts still brooding; or asar
(Call'd by life's busy turmoil) over heights
Of Alpine dreariness, my feet shall climb,
To the once-peaceful vale, where sinuous Taff.
(Stunn'd by Vulcanian clamour) writhing, shifts
His devious course, and seeks for peace in vain
As vainly I. Nor this sequester'd cot,
Mid circling scenes romantical, embower'd —
Once how belov'd! — nor Taff's remoter vale,
Late, by the magic of Vulcanian art,
Grown populous — nor busy cares of Life —
No — nor the Muse's song, in this sad heart
Shall ever more its wonted calm renew.
Lost is the charm of Life — the treasur'd hope
That, o'er our shipwreck'd fortunes buoyant still,
Sooth'd our lone bosoms. She, alas! is gone
In whom (to every other comfort dead)
Fondly we liv'd, and, in a dream of joy,
Dwelt on the bliss-foreboding charms that bloom'd
In her all-graceful form, and gracious mind —
Perfection's germe! — deeming our night of life
For such entrancing vision all too short.