Thou on my Laura's cheek hast spread MUNDAY. ODE. COME here, fond youth, whoe'er thou be, I'll teach thee what it is to love, It is to be all bathed in tears; To lie whole ages at a beauty's feet; To kneel, to languish, and implore; And still, though she disdain, adore: It is to do all this, and think thy sufferings sweet. It is to gaze upon her eyes With eager joy and fond surprise; Yet temper'd with such chaste and awful fear Nor must one ruder thought presume, Though but in whispers breathed, to meet her ear. It is to hope, though hope were lost; Though heaven and earth thy passion cross'd, Though she were bright as sainted queens above, And thou the least and meanest swain That folds his flocks upon the plain, Yet if thou darest not hope thou dost not love. It is to quench thy joy in tears; To nurse strange doubts and causeless fears: If pangs of jealousy thou hast not proved, Though she were fonder and more true Than any nymph old poets drew, Oh, never dream again that thou hast loved. If, when the darling maid is gone, If any hopes thy bosom share But those which love has planted there, Or any cares but his thy breast enthrall, Thou never yet his power hast known; Love sits on a despotic throne, And reigns a tyrant, if he reigns at all. Now if thou art so lost a thing, And prove whose patience longest can endure; We'll strive whose fancy shall be lost In dreams of fondest passion most; For if thou thus hast loved, oh, never hope a cure! MRS. BARBAULD. TO FANCY. OH Thou! whose empire unconfined No more the sharp-fang'd Sorrows rend, To soothe the woes of absent love, The full orb'd moon, that rose all glowing, Begins her lifted lamp to pale; What time to charm the listening vale, In softly pleasing light the queen Yet sweeter than his warbled story Nor haply shall I ever find That tongue to me alone unkind, On every grief but mine so ready Like mine her bosom now may feel Though maiden modesty dissemble; So whispers Hope: by Fancy led With stifled smiles of patient rancour, Ah! still, though whisper'd to deceive, F. LAURENCE. VOL. III. U TO A YOUNG LADY. WHY thus decline my troubled eyes, My voice, in broken murmurs ending? Yet, dawning from my looks distress'd, Read-ah too dear! the fond confession. In vain! what these soft tumults.show, What means the sigh, the blush unbidden. But hope not ever thus secure To dart thy wildly wandering glances : Thou soon shalt feel in bloom mature; O skill'd in every graceful art That adds a polish'd charm to beauty; Be mine those pleasing cares to' impart Which best refine the gentle heart, Be mine to teach the tender duty. F. LAURENCE. |