LXXVIII.

TO CLARINDA.

[This is the lady of the drinking-glasses; the Mrs. Mac of many a toast among the poet's acquaintances. She was, in those days, young and beautiful, and we fear a little giddy, since she indulged in that sentimental and platonic flirtation with the poet, contained in the well-known letters to Clarinda. The letters, after the poet's death, appeared in print without her permission: she obtained an injunction against the publication, which still remains in force, but her anger seems to have been less a matter of taste than of whim, for the injunction has been allowed to slumber in the case of some editors, though it has been enforced against others.]

Clarinda, mistress of my soul, The measur'd time is run! The wretch beneath the dreary pole So marks his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen night Shall poor Sylvander hie; Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, The sun of all his joy.

We part--but, by these precious drops That fill thy lovely eyes! No other light shall guide my steps Till thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex, Has blest my glorious day; And shall a glimmering planet fix My worship to its ray?

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