To Belinda

[ZaunköniG]

To Belinda

Pathetic chantress! Nature’s feeling child!
Thou, like thy parent, rul’st a varied sphere,
Where judgment ripens, fancy blossoms wild;
Thy page the landscape, and thy mind the year.

Oft in the rainbow’s heaven-enchasing beams,
Thy hand, sweet limner, many a pencil dips;
And oft receive Piera’s sacred streams
New inspiration from Belinda’s lips.

Pure, as the bosom of the virgin rose,
Blooms the rich verdure of a heart sincere;
And e’en Belinda’s smile more radiant glows,
Through the clear mirror of a pearly tear.

But ah! her lyre in hushed oblivion sleeps,
While Edwin mourns, and all Parnassus weeps!