To Alexander Cunningham
My godlike friend - nay do not stare,
You think the phrase is odd like;
But 'God is love', the Saints declare,
Then surely thou art godlike.
And is thy ardour still the same?
And kindled still at Anna?
Others may boast a partial flame,
But thou art a volcano.
Even wedlock asks not love beyond
Death's tie-dissolving portal;
But thou, omnipotently fond,
May'st promise love immortal.
Prudence, the bottle and the stew
Are fam'd for lovers curing:
Thy passion nothing can subdue,
Nor wisdom, wine nor whoring.
Thy wounds such healing powers defy;
Such symptoms dire attend them,
That last great antihectic try,
Marriage, perhaps, may mend them.
Sweet Anna has an air, a grace,
Divine magnetic touching!
She takes, she charms - but who can trace
The process of bewitching?