Elegy: Still, blooming Health, thy modest graces shed

Still, blooming Health, thy modest graces shed
O'er the clear surface of my Thespia's cheek;
There let thy fresh, thy glowing tints be spread,
Thy smiles enlightening, and complacence meek.

Protect her where she goes, ye gentle Powers,
Pure Denizons of undulating air,
Whether from glowing noon-tide's sultry hours,
Or Evening's dewy shades, protect the Fair.

'Tis true, my Thespia, I indeed confess
That selfish are the prayers and vows I pay,
With no disinterested voice I bless
The Gods, or pour the supplicating lay.

For, ah! from thee, and from thy looks, I find,
Warm to my heart each cordial joy must flow,
Sweetening the ills of Life; from thee my mind
Must taste its keenest sense of piercing woe.

Thine is the master-key each spring to rule,
Each hidden movement of my secret thought;
Sure thou wert bred in some Enchanter's school,
Who all his spells and mystick charms has taught.

Yet then would Holy Truth with thee reside,
Truth which unbounded Confidence may trust?
Yet then would mean Deceit fly far aside?
And wild Caprice confounding false and just?

Would'ft thou have said, as I, struck dumb with fear,
Tremblingly pointed out my humble bower,
Haply Tranquility and Peace are there,
For them I scorn the gawdy farce of Power?

O thou sincerest! how shall I repay
The endless debt of gratitude I owe?
Quickly, my Fair, point out to me the way,
And shew the path, for thou alone canst shew.

Tho silent is thy tongue, thy speaking eye,
The modest blushes o'er thy cheeks which rove,
That deep-drawn breath, that panting breast reply,
The sole return is tenderness and love.

Will this suffice? and dost thou ask no more?
What the spontaneous feelings needs must give?
Oh! let me lavish on thee all my store,
Nor cease to love thee till I cease to live.

For ever rivetted within my heart
Thy dear unsullied image shall remain:
When from that seat I bid it to depart,
May I by some tremendous stroke be slain!

No common death I shall deserve to die,
To pine by inches on a barren strand,
Scorch'd by the vengeful Sun's severest eye,
Nor by one sportive wandering Zephyr fann'd:

To freeze on some bleak rock: to glut the rage
Of howling beasts within the dreary waste:
Or live, in youth despis'd, in helpless age
Th' extremities of want and woe to taste:

To walk a moving plague among mankind,
Shunn'd, hated, and refused the alms I crave,
Refused Despair's last, only wish, to find
A still retirement in the peaceful grave:

In that fond hope to be deceived, to hear
With soul yet conscious, in the church-yard way
The fierce invective cast upon my bier,
And scornful Laughter dancing o'er my clay:

All this, and more, I shall deserve to prove,
When led by changeful Fancy's wanton eye,
I turn a faithless truant to thy love,
And on the wings of vagrant Falsehood fly.