_Harrington_ to _Harriot_.
_Boston._
LAST night I went on a visit to your house: It was an
adventure that would have done honour to the Knight of _La Mancha_. The
moon ascended a clear, serene sky, the air was still, the bells sounded
the solemn hour of midnight—I sighed—and the reason of it I need not
tell you. This was, indeed, a pilgrimage; and no _Musselman_ ever
travelled barefooted to _Mecca_ with more sincere devotion.
YOUR absence would cause an insufferable _ennui_ in your friends, were
it not for the art we have in making it turn to our amusement. Instead
of wishing you were of our party, you are the goddess in whose honour we
performed innumerable _Heathenish_ rites. Libations of wine are poured
out, but not a guest presumes to taste it, until they implore the name
of _Harriot_; we hail the new divinity in songs, and strew around the
flowers of poetry. You need not, however, take to yourself any
extraordinary addition of vanity on the occasion as your absence will
not cause any repining:
“Harriot our goddess and our grief no more.”
BUT to give you _my_ opinion on this important matter, I must descend to
plain truth, and acknowledge I had rather adore you a _present_ mortal,
than an _absent_ divinity; and therefore wish for your return with more
religious ardour than a devout disciple of the false prophet for the
company of the _Houri_.
THANKS to the power of imagination for our fanciful interview. Methought
I somewhere unexpectedly met you—but I was soon undeceived of my
imaginary happiness, and I awoke, repeating these verses:—
THOUGH sleep her sable pinions spread,
My thoughts still run on you;
And visions hovering o’er my head,
Present you to my view.
By FANCY’S magick pencil drest,
I saw my DELIA move;
I clasp’d her to my anxious breast,
With TEARS of joy and love.
Methought she said—“Why thus forlorn?—
Be all thy care resign’d:”—
I ’woke and found my DELIA gone,
But still the TEAR behind.