haughty pride which so continually turns to contemplate itself; from
those passions which are so eager to be gratified; and from those
mistakes which it will be so almost impossible to eradicate? Even were
I to lose her, must I see her thus devoted?--The thought is--I cannot
tell what! Too painful for any word short of extravagance.

Impressed by feelings like these, the other day I sat down and threw a
few ideas into verse. The mind, surcharged with passion, is eager by
every means to disburthen itself. It is always prompt to hope that the
expression of it's feelings, if any way adequate, cannot but produce
the effect it wishes; and I wrote the following song, or love-elegy, or
what thou wilt.

Rash hope avaunt! Be still my flutt'ring heart;
Nor breathe a sorrow, nor a sigh impart;
Appease each bursting throb, each pang reprove;
To suffer dare--But do not dare to love!

Down, down, these swelling thoughts! Nor dream that worth
Can pass the haughty bounds of wealth and birth.
Yes, kindred feelings, truth, and virtue prove:
Yes, dare deserve--But do not dare to love!

To noble tasks and dang'rous heights aspire;
Bid all the great and good thy wishes fire,
The mighty dead thy rival efforts move,
And dare to die--But do not dare to love!

Thou knowest her supreme excellence in music; the taste, feeling, and
expression with which she plays; and the enchanting sweetness and