TO SENSIBILITY. Helen Maria Williams Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Williams, Helen Maria, 1759-1827. Poems on various subjects: with introductory remarks on the present state of science and literature in France. London G. and W. B. Whittaker 1823 pp. [111]-116.

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TO SENSIBILITY . In SENSIBILITY'S lov'd praise I tune my trembling reed , And seek to deck her shrine with bays , On which my heart must bleed ! No cold exemption from her pain I ever wish to know ; Cheer'd with her transport , I sustain Without complaint her woe . Above whate'er content can give , Above the charm of ease , The restless hopes and fears , that live With her , have power to please . Where , but for her , were Friendship's power To heal the wounded heart , To shorten sorrow's ling'ring hour , And bid its gloom depart ? 'Tis she that lights the melting eye With looks to anguish dear ; She knows the price of every sigh , The value of a tear . She prompts the tender marks of love Which words can scarce express ; The heart alone their force can prove , And feel how much they bless . Of every finer bliss the source ! 'Tis she on love bestows The softer grace , the boundless force , Confiding passion knows ; When to another , the fond breast Each thought for ever gives ; When on another leans for rest , And in another lives ! Quick , as the trembling metal flies When heat or cold impels , Her anxious heart to joy can rise , Or sink where anguish dwells ! Yet though her soul must griefs sustain Which she alone can know , And feel that keener sense of pain Which sharpens every woe ; Though she , the mourners' grief to calm , Still shares each pang they feel , And , like the tree distilling balm , Bleeds others' wounds to heal ; Though she , whose bosom , fondly true , Has never wish'd to range , One alter'd look will trembling view , And scarce can bear the change ; Though she , if death the bands should tear She vainly thought secure , Through life must languish in despair , That never hopes a cure ; Though wounded by some vulgar mind , Unconscious of the deed , Who never seeks those wounds to bind , But wonders why they bleed ; — She oft will heave a secret sigh , Will shed a lonely tear , O'er feelings nature wrought so high , And gave on terms so dear . Yet who would hard INDIFFERENCE choose , Whose breast no tears can steep ? Who , for her apathy , would lose The sacred power to weep ? Though in a thousand objects pain And pleasure tremble nigh , Those objects strive to reach in vain The circle of her eye . Cold as the fabled god appears To the poor suppliant's grief , Who bathes the marble form in tears , And vainly hopes relief . Ah , GREVILLE ! why the gifts refuse To souls like thine allied ? No more thy nature seem to lose , No more thy softness hide . No more invoke the playful sprite To chill , with magic spell , The tender feelings of delight , And anguish sung so well ; That envied case thy heart would prove Were sure too dearly bought With friendship , sympathy , and love , And every finer thought .