There love's soft blandishments entwine
Round every human heart but mine;
What though Italia's nymphs I find
More charming than half womankind;
Yet, as they are not like to thee,
Italia's nymphs are nought to me!
On Virgil's tomb I'll hang my lyre,
There shall the rust consume the wire;
Sigh to the winds in low return,
And o'er his sacred ashes mourn,
While one weak string is left to bear
The plaintive murmur through the air;
Nor poesy again be chose
The vehicle of bosom-woes.
Vain, vain's the skill, the trial's o'er,
And Italy shall charm no more;
No more shall France, in spirits wild,
Dress up the humours of her child;
Home I return to breathe with thee
The better air of Liberty;
To breathe near thee must have some power
O'er the dark demons of the hour!
Fear not, my Anna, I shall tell
How long I've lov'd, and ah! how well;
To this one wish my soul shall bend —
"To be alone thy bosom-friend!"