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Thy charms, Petrosa, which inspire
Unnumber'd swains to chant thy praise,
Bid me too join the tuneful choir,
My faint and timorous voice to raise.
And though more lofty songs invite,
Regard for once, an humble swain
The warbling thrush can oft delight
More than the skylark's louder strain.
Thy heavenly form, thy virtues too,
In notes of praise ascend the skies.
To opening charms, that strike the view,
Unceasing aspirations rise.
But midst these charms, by all confess'd,
One fault thy hopeless swains declare;
A heart there dwells within that breast,
Which knows no love, which heeds no prayer.
Despondent sighs, and notes of pain
Delight, they say, Petrosa's ear
To sue for pity, were as vain
As from the rocks to ask a tear.
Oh senseless throng! that callous breast
Proclaims her nature's favor'd child
While others pine, with love oppress'd,
Her thoughts are free, her slumbers mild.
And all that softness which gives grace
And honor to the female heart,
Though distant from its wonted place,
She harbors in a nobler part;
For, though that heart to every sound
Which would compassion move be dull,
The softness which should there be found
Kind Nature granted to her---skull.
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