To a Friend, With an Unfinished Poem
Thus far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme
Elaborate and swelling; Â yet the heart
Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers
I ask not now, my friend! the aiding verse
Tedious to thee, and from thy anxious thought
Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know)
From business wand’ring far and local cares,
Thou creepest round a dear-loved sister’s bed
With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look,
Soothing each pang with fond solicitude,
And tenderest tones medicinal of love.
I, too, a sister had, an only sister—
She loved me dearly, and I doted on her;
To her I pour’d forth all my puny sorrows;
(As a sick patient in a nurse’s arms,)
And of the heart those hidden maladies Â
That e’en from friendship’s eye will shrink ashamed.
O! I have waked at midnight, and have wept
Because she was not! Â Cheerily, dear Charles!
Thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a year;
Such warm presages feel I of high hope!
For not uninterested the dear maid
I’ve view’d  her soul affectionate yet wise,
Her polish’d wit as mild as lambent glories
That play around a sainted infant’s head.
He knows (the Spirit that in secret sees,
Of whose omniscient and all-spreading love
Aught to implore were impotence of mind!)
That my mute thoughts are sad before his throne, Â
Prepared, when He his healing ray vouchsafes,
Thanksgiving to pour forth with lifted heart,
And praise him gracious with a brother’s joy!
Dec. 1794
