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If through the garden's flow'ry tribes I stray, Where bloom the jes'mins that could once allure, Hope not to find delight in us, they say,
For we are spotless, Jessy, we are pure.
Ye flow'rs! that well reproach a nymph so frail,
And all my fame's abhorr'd contagion flee;
That bids the morn propitious smile on me.
Thus for your sake I shun each human eye:
Raise me from earth; the pains of want remove,
Be but my friend! I ask no dearer name;
Be such the meed of some more artful fair: Nor could it heal my peace, or chase my shame, That pity gave what love refus'd to share.
Force not my tongue to ask its scanty bread,
Haply, when age has silver'd o'er my hair,
And vow'd to waste her life in pray'rs for mine.
I saw her foot the lofty bark ascend;
I saw her breast with ev'ry passion heave; I left her, torn from ev'ry earthly friend;
O! hard my bosom, which could bear to leave.
Brief let me be; the fatal storm arose;
The billows rag'd; the pilot's art was vain: O'er the tall mast the circling surges close; My Jessy floats upon the wat'ry plain!
see my youth's impetuous fires decay;
FAR in a wild unknown to public view,
A life so sacred, such serene repose, Seem'd heaven itself, till one suggestion rose; That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey, This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway: His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, And all the tenor of his soul is lost:
So when a smooth expanse receives imprest