HOW shall the muse in chinking rhyme impart
The warmth of gratitude that fires my heart,
To thee, my friend, who taught the easy way
To see my destiny as clear as day!
Nor need I now, with trembling steps and slow,
To yonder church's porch in terror go;
Or hail pale Cynthia in the coming year,
When first she's seen, and kindly means to hear
Each love petition, when the kneeling maid
Cold ashes pours on her fantastic head,
And there invokes the goddess to unfold
Some scroll of Destiny, by Fates enroll'd,
That names the man, whom bounteous they afford,
To be her lover, husband, fool, or lord;
Nor need the Cake of Silence now be made,
And I quite tongue-tied backward go to bed;
Saint Agnes, why such cruel fasts impose!
I ask thee not one secret to disclose;
Nor shall the apples e'er be pared again
To form a letter in my lover's name.
'Tis done! 'tis done! the Bridal Cake declares
The fixed prediction of my happy stars!
Fate lighten'd Fancy with her lucid beams,
And, lo! her shadows glided o'er my dreams, —
Sweet dreams inspir'd by tender nuptial ties,
How shall I paint them in their lovely dyes!
How tell Myrinda half the joys I feel,
And all the secrets of my dreams reveal!
Yet shall my pen the arduous task essay,
And some faint image to thy mind convey.