Robert Treat Paine (1773–1811)

PATHETIC chantress! Nature’s feeling child!

Thou, like thy parent, rul’st a varied sphere,

Where judgment ripens, fancy blossoms wild;

Thy page the landscape, and thy mind the year.

Oft in the rainbow’s heaven-enchasing beams,

Thy hand, sweet limner, many a pencil dips;

And oft receive Piera’s sacred streams

New inspiration from Belinda’s lips.

Pure, as the bosom of the virgin rose,

Blooms the rich verdure of a heart sincere;

And e’en Belinda’s smile more radiant glows,

Through the clear mirror of a pearly tear.

But ah! her lyre in hushed oblivion sleeps,

While Edwin mourns, and all Parnassus weeps!