O LOVE! in such a wilderness as this,

Where transport and security entwine,

Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,

And here thou art a god indeed divine.

Here shall no forms abridge, no hours confine

The views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire!
Roll on, ye days of raptured influence, shine!

Nor, blind with ecstasy's celestial fire,

Shall love behold the spark of earth-born time expire.

II.

Three little moons, how short, amidst the grove

And pastoral savannahs, they consume!

While she, beside her buskin'd youth to rove,

Delights, in fancifully wild costume,

Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume ;
And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare;

But not to chase the deer in forest gloom ;

'Tis but the breath of heav'n-the blessed air

And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to share.

III.

What though the sportive dog oft round them note,

Or fawn, or wild bird bursting on the wing;

Yet who, in love's own presence, would devote

To death those gentle throats that wake the spring;

Or writhing from the brook its victim bring?

Nonor let fear one little warbler rouse ;

But, fed by Gertrude's hand, still let them sing,

Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs,

That shade e'en now her love, and witness'd first her vows.

IV.

Now labyrinths, which but themselves can pierce,

Methinks, conduct them to some pleasant ground,
Where welcome hills shut out the universe,

And pines their lawny walk encompass round ;
There, if a pause delicious converse found,
"Twas but when o'er each heart th' idea stole,
(Perchance awhile in joy's oblivion drown'd,)

That come what may, while life's glad pulses roll,
Indissolubly thus should soul be knit to soul.

V.

And in the visions of romantic youth,
What years of endless bliss are yet to flow!
But mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth?
The torrent's smoothness ere it dash below!
And must I change my song? and must I show,
Sweet Wyoming! the day, when thou wert doom'd,
Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bow'rs laid low?

When where of yesterday a garden bloom'd,

Death overspread his pall, and black'ning ashes gloom'd!

VI.

Sad was the year, by proud oppression driv'n,

When Transatlantic Liberty arose,

Not in the sunshine, and the smile of heav'n,

But wrapt in whirlwinds, and begirt with woes,