Gazette Of The United States

FOR THE GAZETTE OF THE UNITED STATES.
O D E.

COME ardent love, and fill my breast,
Come in thy varied vesture drest;
Collect each scatter'd straggling beam,
Awake the lambent fires,
And form one general, one destroying flame,
'Till fated havoc sinks, and with fatigue expires;
It comes—my labouring bosom swells,
I burn with strong desire,
Each weaker passion love repels,
And lights a general fire.
It comes—it comes—I feel the heat
In every strong pulsation beat,
Quick through the veins its glowings dart,
From every pore its sparklings start,
And the red life-blood boils about my heart.
Alas! I rave! my sense and reason fly,
And wild confusion whirls around each eye.
But peace, a lucid hour succeeds—
A short tranquility I feel;
My cooling heart in silence bleeds.
And the red streams in secret steal
Now o'er creation's ample round
I cast an anguish'd eye,
No objects here the prospect bound,
Save yon descending sky.
The stream that winds through yonder vale,
The bark that courts the kindly gale,
The breeze that sweeps the distant plain,
And undulates the golden grain;
The light and shade, that swift succeed
Along the verdure of the mead.
Afford no pleasure to my jaundic'd eye,
But pall the sight, and force the deep drawn sigh.
My friend whose presence once could charm,
My every care to rest,
Whose heart, with pure virtue warm,
Still warms a friendly breast;
Alas! I fly! his presence pains my soul,
And love, and black despair, each rending thought controul.
To scenes of solitude I go,
And sigh unutterable woe;
Even rocks, with sympathy, behold me weep,
And tears responsive, flow adown the craggy steep.
But why! ah why do I complain!
Why tell my passion to the world in vain!
All hope of happiness is fled;
My dreams of bliss are flown away,
A midnight tempest shrouds my morning ray—
Despair and darkness veil me in their shade.
If I possess'd a DELIA CRUSCA's pen,
An ANNA's ardour, and an Anna's art,
My magic muse, might move ******'s heart,
And charm her ear, to hear the love-lorn strain;
Then should my numbers roll sublime along,
And all my passion glow amidst the song.
Or if my pen in plaintive verse,
Would tell the pangs I know,
Slow as the sad funereal hearse,
The tale should sadly flow.
Or if soft pity, e'er distress'd
The heart that warms her spotless breast,
Still as the silent streamlets glide,
Where nought impedes the downward tide,
The softened sounds, should softly steal,
And learn her yielding soul to feel.
Or if reviving hope should smile,
And spread each soft alluring wile;
Gaily I'd raise the lively lay,
In wanton measure skip, and wildly fly away.
Or if cold frosty fear my breast should fill,
And each young joy, each budding transport chill;
Cloth'd with despair my every note should move,
And deep despondence drown the dying dirge of love.

ALMANZOR.
Sept. 20th, 1790.

Anna MATILDA; the elegant correspondent of DELLA CRUSCA.