TO A LADY WHO DESIRED SOME VERSES AT PARTING by GEORGE CRABBE

OH! do not ask the Muse to show
Or how we met, or how we part:
The bliss, the pain, too well I know,
That seize in turn this faithful heart.
That meeting -- it was tumult all --
The eye was pleased, the soul was glad;
But thus to memory I recall,
And feel the parting doubly sad.

Yes, it was pleasant so to meet
For us, who fear'd to meet no more,
When every passing hour was sweet --
Sweeter, we thought, than all before.
When eye from eye new meanings steal,
When hearts approach, and thoughts unite --
Then is, indeed, the time to feel,
But, Laura! not a time to write.

And when at length compell'd to part,
When fear is strong, and fancy weak,
When in some distant good the heart
For present ease is forced to seek, --
When hurried spirits fall and rise,
As on the changing views we dwell,
How vainly then the sufferer tries
In studied verse his pains to tell!

Time brings, indeed, his slow relief,
In whom the passions live and die;
He gives the bright'ning smile to grief,
And his the soft consoling sigh:
Till then, we vainly wish the power
To paint the grief, or use the pen:
But distant far that quiet hour;
And I must feel and grieve till then.

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