O CEASE, MATILDA! Ceasethe strain,
That woo's INDIFFERENCE to thy arms;
For what are all her boasted charms?

And would'st thou then, her torpid ease,
Her listless apathy to know,
Renounce the magic POW'R to PLEASE,
And lose the LUXURY of WOE?
Why does thy stream of sweetest song,
In many a wild maze wind along;
Foam on the Mountain's murm'ring side;
Or thro' the vocal covert glide;
Or among fairy meadows steal? —
It is, because thy HEART can FEEL!
Alas! if Peace must be unknown,
Till ev'ry nerve is turn'd to stone,
Till not a tear-drop wets the eye;
Nor throbs the breast for Sorrow's sigh,
O may I never find relief,
But PERISH, in the PANG of GRIEF!