I sigh, fair injur'd 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-arch'd 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,
Surcharg'd with dew, bends o'er its neighbouring bud.

And ah! 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 dew-drops meeting in a flower.