To Peace then sacred be the shady grove!
Be there no murmurs heard — but those of love:
Love, fled from noise and cities, haunts the glade,
The falling fountains, and the silent shade,
Inspires each warbling songster in the bower,
Breathes in each gale, and blossoms in each flower.
When every object thus their charms combine,
What bosom can resist the power divine?
Too feeble that, which now the Muse inspires,
And, with her own, admits still warmer fires.
Here, here I felt the soft infection rise,
Pant at the breast, and languish in the eyes,
When Mira to my humble cot was led,
Love's willing victim, to an husband's bed;
And now still feel, in smoother channels, run
Those streams, that rapid passion first begun:
Esteem, affection, friendship ne'er decline:
Nor are her virtues less for being mine.