Expression, child of soul! I love to trace
Thy strong enchantments, when the poet’s lyre,
The painter’s pencil, catch the vivid fire,
And beauty wakes for thee each touching grace!
But from my frighted gaze thy form avert,
When horror chills thy tear, thy ardent sigh,
When frenzy rolls in thy impassion’d eye,
Or guilt lives fearful at thy troubled heart:
Nor ever let my shudd’ring fancy hear
The wasting groan, or views the pallid look
Of him the Muses lov’d, when hope forsook
His spirit, vainly to the Muses dear —
For charm’d with heavenly song this bleeding breast
Mourns it could sharpen ill, and give despair no rest.
C.R.O.T.N.A.R.