Page:The poetical works of Thomas Campbell.djvu/277

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What wert thou, maid?—thy life—thy nameOblivion hides in mystery;Though from thy face my heart could frameA long romantic history.
Transported to thy time I seem,Though dust thy coffin covers—And hear the songs, in fancy's dream,Of thy devoted lovers.
How witching must have been thy breath—How sweet the living charmer—Whose every semblance after deathCan make the heart grow warmer!
Adieu, the charms that vainly moveMy soul in their possession—That prompt my lips to speak of love,Yet rob them of expression.
Yet thee, dear picture, to have praisedWas but a poet's duty;And shame to him that ever gazedImpassive on thy beauty.
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