To Cynthia's Ghost. An Elegy. Poem by Henry Baker

Stay! Fleeting Air!
Thou dear resemblance of my lovely Fair!
Why from me dost thou fly, beloved Shade?
Not thus would she thou picturest have fled.
Her Angel--Form, the Glories of her Face,
Her pleasing Mein, her all--commanding Grace,
Thou wear'st indeed:--in Thee too let me find
Her only Pride,--the Pride of being kind.

Ah! let me clasp Thee in my eager Arms!
And once again inrich Me with thy Charms!
O let me taste those Lips where Nectar flows,
Those Cheeks out--blushing the unfolding Rose,
Thy Breath where all Arabia's Spices joyn,
Sweeter than Myrtle Groves, or Wreaths of Jessamine!
It may not be!--from my deceiv'd Embrace
The Shadow shrinks, and turns away its Face;
Stay, cruel Shade! O wherefore dost thou fly?
Why to these Arms dost Thou thy self deny?
Stay: stay: Thou lovely Semblance of my Fair!
Will Cynthia leave her Thyrsis in Despair?

Let me, at least, thy beauteous Form survey,
And gaze--until I gaze my self away!
Let me, once more, inraptur'd with Surprize,
Behold the usual Sweetness of thine Eyes!
Let me, once more, a wonted Smile receive,
And give a Joy which only Thou canst give!
Stay, lovely Shade! dear Semblance of my Fair!
Will Cynthia leave her Thyrsis in Despair?

She's gone! she's gone! outstripping Thought she fled,
To range the gloomy Regions of the Dead:
But tho' she's gone, her Image in my Mind
In its full Bloom of Beauty's left behind.
Thyrsis! for ever there Thou may'st thy Cynthia find.