11. My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, Alas! too late, I dearly know, That joy is harbinger of woe. XXVI. A Song. 1. THOU art not false, but thou art fickle, 2. The wholly false the heart despises, And spurns deceiver and deceit ; But her who not a thought disguises, Whose love is as sincere as sweet, When she can change who lov'd so truly, It feels what mine has felt so newly. 3. To dream of joy and wake to sorrow That cheated us in slumber only, To leave the waking soul more lonely, 4. What must they feel whom no false vision, But truest, tenderest passion warm'd? Sincere, but swift in sad transition, As if a dream alone had charm'd? Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, And all thy change can be but dreaming! XXVII. On being asked what was the " Origin of Love?" THE "Origin of Love!"-Ah why. That cruel question ask of me, When thou may'st read in many an eye And should'st thou seek his end to know- He'll linger long in silent woe; But live until I cease to be. XXVIII. Remember him, &c. 1. REMEMBER him, whom passion's power Severely, deeply, vainly proved: Remember thou that dangerous hour When neither fell, though both were loved. S 2. That yielding breast, that melting eye, That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh, 3. Oh! let me feel that all I lost But saved thee all that conscience fears; And blush for every pang it cost To spare the vain remorse of years. 4. Yet think of this when many a tongue, Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, 5. Think that, whate'er to others, thou Hast seen each selfish thought subdu'd: I bless thy purer soul even now, Even now, in midnight solitude. .6. Oh, God! that we had met in time, Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free, When thou had'st lov'd without a crime, And I been less unworthy thee! : 7. Far may thy days as heretofore From this our gaudy world be pass'd! And that too bitter moment o'er, Oh! may such trial be thy last! .8. This heart, alas! perverted long, Itself destroyed might there destroy; To meet thee in the glittering throng, Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. 9. Then to the things whose bliss or woe Like mine is wild and worthless allThat world resign-such scenes forego, Where those who feel must surely fall, $ 2 |