Original - Duke Divinity School

And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven Green.
To behold the wandring Moon,
Riding near her highest noon.
Like one that had been led astray
Through the Heaven’s wide pathless way;
And oft, as if her head she bow’d,
Stooping through a fleecy Cloud.
Verses by Mrs. Singer Rowe on the Death
of Her Husband 63
In what soft Language shall my Thoughts break free,
My dear Alexis! when I talk of Thee?
Nor Nymph, nor Grace, of all the fancied Train,
Nor weeping Loves, shall aid my pensive Strain:
True Passion has a Force, too strong for Art;
She needs no Muse, who can invoke her Heart.
Tasteless of Forms and from all Comfort torn,
The Husband, Lover, and the Friend, I mourn:
Whate’er to Worth or Tenderness was due,
Whate’er Excess the fondest Passion knew,
I felt: My Prayers to Heav’n were all for Thee,
And Love inspir’d me first with Piety.
Oh! Thou wert all my Triumph, and my Pride:
My Hope, my Peace, my Shelter, and my Guide!
Thy Love (sweet Study!) busied all my Days,
And my full Soul’s Ambition was Thy Praise.
Why has my Heart this fond Engagement known?
63 A revised version found in The Plain Dealer #79 (December 21, 1724), 186–88; original in Alexander
Pope, editor, Poems on Several Occasions (London: Bernard Lintot, 1717), 43–48.
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