Atticus Scriblerus to Olivia

The First and Last

I lov’d thee — how, no tongue can tell — 
 I love thee — all may question why;
But Reason, when they mock the spell,
 Gives to the scorners brief reply.
It was because thy gentle pow’r
 My fancy’s earliest blossom nursed;
Thine was my childhood’s sweetest hour
 And thine the love that warm’d it first.
Thou wast the eyelid of my soul — 
 Preserver of its purest sense;
And once beneath thy bland control
 It slept in holy innocence.
Oft to the brink of Ruin’s flood
 Thou cam’st a wand’rer to arrest,
And like the guardian mother, show’d
 The softness of a matron’s breast.
I gave thee first a tale of Time ¹
 Which withers Pleasure’s summer roses
Now take a tale of love like mine
 Which on the wings of Time reposes.
For Time and Love together grew
 First in Creation’s volume class’d;
And ancient Time where’er he flew,
 Found faithful Love surviving last.
The flow’rs of pomp, and fame, and wit
 Have left this hollow bosome bare;
But one long-hid remembrance yet
 Lives like the dark soft violet there.

It is the last! without a sigh
 None look on loves or friendships past.
None smile without a tearful eye
 When Joy’s bright moment is the last.
Think of me when in distant lands
 Perhaps thy wreath of fame is cast;
Think of me — from thy minstrel’s hands
 This gift is sacred — ’tis the last!

Dearer than pleasure’s summer glow
 When rosy footed hours glide fast,
Is that brief word which faint and slow
 Unwilling Friendship whispers last — 

Farewell! When jealous Time shall touch
 Thy bloom with Winter’s withering blast,
Such be thy friendships — only such
 Gild the bright hour and soothe the Last.

E++ B++

alias Atticus Scriblerus, Jun.