To Sensibility.

In Sensibility's lov'd praise         I tune my trembling reed;     And seek to deck her shrine with bays,         On which my heart must bleed!     No cold exemption from her pain         I ever wish'd to know;     Cheer'd with her transport, I sustain         Without complaint her woe.     Above whate'er content can give,         Above the charm of ease,     The restless hopes, and fears that live         With her, have power to please.     Where but for her, were Friendship's power         To heal the wounded heart,     To shorten sorrow's ling'ring hour,         And bid its gloom depart?     'Tis she that lights the melting eye         With looks to anguish dear;     She knows the price of ev'ry sigh,         The value of a tear.     She prompts the tender marks of love         Which words can scarce express;     The heart alone their force can prove,         And feel how much they bless.     Of every finer bliss the source!         'Tis she on love bestows     The softer grace, the boundless force         Confiding passion knows;     When to another, the fond breast         Each thought for ever gives;     When on another, leans for rest.         And in another lives!     Quick, as the trembling metal flies,         When heat or cold impels,     Her anxious heart to joy can rise,         Or sink where anguish dwells!     Yet tho' her soul must griefs sustain         Which she alone, can know;     And feel that keener sense of pain         Which sharpens every woe;     Tho' she the mourner's grief to calm,         Still shares each pang they feel,     And, like the tree distilling balm,         Bleeds, others wounds to heal;     While she, whose bosom fondly true,         Has never wish'd to range;     One alter'd look will trembling view,         And scarce can bear the change;     Tho' she, if death the bands should tear,         She vainly thought secure;     Thro' life must languish in despair         That never hopes a cure;     Tho' wounded by some vulgar mind,         Unconscious of the deed,     Who never seeks those wounds to bind         But wonders why they bleed; -     She oft will heave a secret sigh,         Will shed a lonely tear,     O'er feelings nature wrought so high,         And gave on terms so dear;     Yet who would hard INDIFFERENCE choose,         Whose breast no tears can steep?     Who, for her apathy, would lose         The sacred power to weep?     Tho' in a thousand objects, pain,         And pleasure tremble nigh,     Those objects strive to reach, in vain,         The circle of her eye.     Cold, as the fabled god appears         To the poor suppliant's grief,     Who bathes the marble form in tears,         And vainly hopes relief.     Ah Greville! why the gifts refuse         To souls like thine allied?     No more thy nature seem to lose         No more thy softness hide.     No more invoke the playful sprite         To chill, with magic spell,     The tender feelings of delight,         And anguish sung so well;     That envied ease thy heart would prove         Were sure too dearly bought     With friendship, sympathy, and love,         And every finer thought.