Robert Treat Paine (1773–1811)

HASTE, Zephyr, fly, and waft to Anna’s ear

This bosom echo,—’t is my heart’s reply;

Say, to her notes I listened with a tear,

And caught the sweet contagion of a “sigh.”

But ah! that “last adieu!” oh! stern request!

Cold, as those tides of vital ice that roll

Through the chilled channels of her maiden breast,

When prudish sanctity congeals the soul.

O’er Fancy’s fairy lawn no more we rove;

No more, in Rhyme’s imperious hood arrayed,

Hold airy converse in the Muse’s grove,

While you a shadow seemed, and I a shade.

For know, Menander can thy features trace,

Nor more thy verse admire than idolize thy face.