Smit by the glance of your bright eyes When I, Amanda, fondly gaze, Strange feelings in my bosom rise And passion all my reason sways:
Worlds I would banish from my view, And quit the gods — to talk with you. The smile that decks your fading cheek, To me a heavy heart declares;
When you are silent I would speak But cowardice alarms my fears: All must be sense that you do prize, All that I say — be grave and wise.
When wandering in the evening shade I shared her pain, and calmed her grief, A thousand tender things I said, But all I said gave no relief:
When from her hair I dried the dew, She sighed, and said — I am not for you! When drooping, dull, and almost dead With fevers brought from sultry climes,
She would not wrap my fainting head; But recommended me some rhymes On patience and on fortitude, And other things — less understood.
When, aiming to engage her heart With verses from the muses’ stock; She sighed, regardless of the art, And counted seconds by the clock;
“And thus, ( she said ) will verse decay, “And thus the muse will pass away!” When languishing upon her bed In willow shades, remote from towns,
We came; and while Priscilla read Of chrystal skies and golden crowns: She bade us at a distance stand, And leaned her head upon her hand.
So, drooping hangs the fading rose, When summer sends the beating shower: So, to the grave Amanda goes, Her whole duration — but an hour!
Who shall controul the sad decree, Or what, fair girl, recover thee? Such virtue in that spirit dwells — Such fortitude amidst such pain!—
And, now, with pride my bosom swells, To think I have not lived in vain. For, slighting all the sages knew, I learn philosophy from you.
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