When pleasure seem'd to welcome all,
And morning hail'd a welcome night.

E'en love has lost its soothing power,
Its spells no more can chain my soul;
I must not venture in the bower,
Where Wit and Verse and Wine controul.

And yet, I fear, in thoughtless mirth
I once did say, Eliza, dear!
That I would tell the world thy worth,
And write the living record here.

Come Love, and Truth, and Friendship, come,
Enwreath'd in Virtue's snowy arms,
With magic rhymes the page illume,
And fancy sketch her varied charms--

Which o'er the cares of home has thrown
A thousand blessings, deep engraved,
For every heart she makes her own,
And every friend is free-enslaved.

No Inspiration o'er my pen
Glows with the lightning's vivid spell;
My soul is sad--forgive me then,
My heart's too full the tale to tell!

Yet, if the humblest poet's theme
Be welcome in Eliza's name;