Which this despairing breast shall know no more.

Since this what frenzy has inspir'd my mind!
My tortur'd mem'ry cannot it retrace;
No relique now of former days I find,
But horrors, which e'en madness can't efface.

My dearest brother, and my tenderest friend,
O come, and save me from this dark abyss!
Draw hence the darts which my rack'd bosom rend!
And bear me with you to the realms of bliss!

Ah! whence that pang which smote my shuddering heart?
Where now, for refuge, can lost Anselm fly?
'Tis Death! I know him by his crimson dart!
And, am I fit? Oh heav'ns! I cannot die!

My spirit is not form'd for rapid flight;
It cannot cut the vast expanse of air,
No, never can it reach the realms of light,
For sin, a weight immoveable, lies there!'

Thus wretched Anselm rav'd: unhappy youth!
Though passion hurried thee so far astray,
Thy infant soul ador'd the God of Truth,
And virtue usher'd in thy vernal day.

Oh! had he learn'd his passions to restrain,
And let cool reason in his breast preside,
His op'ning wisdom had not bloom'd in vain,
Nor had he, ere the prime of manhood, died.

Yet, if remorse could expiate his guilt,
If the worst sufferings could the crime erase,
If tears could wash away the blood he spilt,
Then Anselm's penitence obtain'd him grace.

AUGUST 20, 1794.

IN A LETTER to A.R.C. ON HER WISHING TO BE CALLED ANNA.

Forgive me, if I wound your ear,
By calling of you Nancy,
Which is the name of my sweet friend,
The other's but her fancy.

Ah, dearest girl! how could your mind
The strange distinction frame?
The whimsical, unjust caprice,
Which robs you of your name.

_Nancy_ agrees with what we see,
A being wild and airy;
Gay as a nymph of Flora's train,
Fantastic as a fairy.

But _Anna's_ of a different kind,
A melancholy maid;
Boasting a sentimental soul,
In solemn pomp array'd.

Oh ne'er will I forsake the sound,
So artless and so free!
Be what you will with all mankind.
But _Nancy_ still with me.

THE LONELY WALK,

To W.S.B.

When the grey evening spreads a calm around,
Tell me, has thy bewilder'd fancy sought,
Retir'd in some sequestered spot of ground,
Rest, from the labour of eternal thought?

When, wrapt in self, the soul enjoys repose,
The wearied brain resigns its fervent heat,
In dream-like musing every care we lose,
And wind our way with slowly-moving feet.

Oft, to indulge the thou