Elegy: The truest Love is most reserved and shy

The truest Love is most reserved and shy,
No look of confidence or boldness wears,
Known by the humble brow, and soften'd eye,
And full of wavering doubts, and anxious fears.

When I perceived that Thespia had o'ercome
My yielding heart, and fixt her empire there,
That from her hands I must receive my doom,
And all my future weal must flow from her,

How did my bosom fluctuate with the pain
Of native bashfulness and strong desire!
What varying conflicts did I not sustain!
How struggled soft respect, with Passion's fire.

Oft did I wish the secret to have told,
But awe withheld, and modest dread prevail'd;
Her presence all my faculties controul'd,
And every settled resolution fail'd.

At length with firm intent I sought the Fair,
With firm intent to pour out all my heart,
At once display the story of my care,
And the long misery of consuming smart.

To a sequester'd grove her steps I drew,
She without guile, went innocently free,
No ill suspecting, for no ill she knew,
Nor fear'd to trust herself alone with me.

At first my usual converse I assay'd,
Hoping from thence to gain a tranquil air,
And as along the winding path we stray'd,
With frequent blossoms deck'd her flowing hair.

But still my shorten'd breath fast went and came,
O'er my embarrass'd limbs a stiffness hung,
My heart throbb'd strong, and shook my labouring frame,
And fears, I knew not how, unnerved my tongue.

Resolved to speak, some secret power restrain'd;
Ashamed, and angry with myself I grew,
With crimson consciousness my cheeks were stain'd,
And quick again the conscious stains withdrew.

She, whether observant all the while,
Or else this strange confusion to relieve,
Talks with her wonted ease, and careless smile,
But brief and vague each answer which I gave.

Then chang'd my fickle will it's first design,
Determined sudden on some future day,
Then would I each perplexity entwine,
And every ardent wish before her lay.

A transient calm succeeded in my breast;
Yet sure, thought I, they were not so conceal'd,
But she th' emotions of my heart hath guess'd;
She too may haply wish they were reveal'd.

Though now my faultering tongue its aid denies,
She must have read the language of my soul,
Nor have I mark'd displeasure in her eyes,
When forth from mine the glance of Love hath stole.

Then turning round in haste, as if afraid
Lest diffidence again might intervene,
Not daring to erect my timid head,
My hesitating lips disclosed my pain.