Sappho and Phaon, by Mary Robinson, , at sacred-texts.com
Weak is the sophistry, and vain the art
That whispers patience to the minds despair!
That bids reflection bathe the wounds of care,
While Hope, with pleasing phantoms, soothes their smart.
For memry still, reluctant to depart
From the dear spot, once rich in prospects fair,
Bids the fond soul enamourd there,
And its least charm is grateful to the heart!
He never lovd, who could not muse and sigh,
Spangling the sacred turf with frequent tears,
Where the small rivulet, that ripples by,
Recalls the scenes of past and happier years,
When, on its banks he watchd the speaking eye,
And one sweet smile oerpaid an age of fears!