Elegy: Ah! whence, my Thespia, can that anguish flow

Ah! whence, my Thespia, can that anguish flow,
That silent anguish of expressive woe?
That sigh which from thy struggling bosom stole?
That look which pierces to thy inmost soul?
Ah! say, my Thespia, I conjure thee say,
To me the hidden cause thou mayst display:
Half of thyself, I claim my lawful share;
Yet would to Heaven that I the whole might bear
Unveil thy thoughts in confidence to me;
And trust a bosom fraught with sympathy.
From thee would I my labouring heart confine?
And are not all its deepest secrets thine?

Wretch that I am! am I (who thee from pain
To shield, would pour out life at every vein),
Am I the cause? and couldst thou ever spy
A look of coldness glancing from my eye?
To thee a cold blank look? Oh! too refined,
And subtile errour of thy feeling mind!
A delicacy apt too deep to dive,
To each nice touch to tenderly alive!
Though I esteem it as a blessing sent,
As the more polish'd mind's chief ornament,
A sacred spark kindled by Heaven's own ray,
Yet let not Sensibility betray.

Thou weep'st; where did my tongue profanely rove?
How could I blame thee? 'twas excess of Love.
O let me circle thee with strict embrace,
Warm breast to breast, and glowing face to face,
(My fixed lips while speechless rapture ties),
Imbibe the lucid moisture of thine eyes,
Thy melting spirit in each breath inhale,
Gaze on thee till the nerves of vision fail,
And quite o'erpower'd by Love's imperious sway,
Feel all my fainting soul dissolve away.