« 上一頁繼續 »
Yet temper'd with such chaste and awful fear
Tho' but in whispers breathed, to meet her ear.
It is to hope, tho' hope were lost,
Tho' heaven and earth thy passion crost;
Yet if thou dar'st not hope, thou dost not love.
It is to quench thy joy in tears,
To nurse strange doubts and groundless fears; If pangs of jealousy thou hast not proved,
Tho' she were fonder and more true
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,
Thou never yet his power hast known;
Now if thou art so lost a thing,
Here all thy tender sorrows bring,
And prove whose patience longest can endure;
In dreams of fondest passion most,
For if thou thus hast loved, oh! never hope a cure.
You tell me that you truly love;
Ah! know you well what love does mean? Does neither whim nor fancy move
The rapture of your transient dream?
Tell me, when absent, do you think
And doubt and fear you know not why?
Do you, when near her, die to say
How much you love, yet cannot tell? Does a look melt your soul away,
A touch your nerves with transport swell?
Could you for her, fame, wealth, despise?
The charms of every other fair
With coldness could you learn to view? Fondly unchang'd to her repair,
With transports ever young and new?
And tell me, at her loss or hate,
HARD is the fate of him who loves,
But to the lonely listening plain.
Oh! when she blesses next your shade,
Ye gentle spirits of the vale,
To whom the tears of love are dear, From dying lilies waft a gale,
And sigh my sorrows in her ear.
O, tell her what she cannot blame,
Not her own guardian angel eyes
With chaster tenderness his care; Not purer her own wishes rise,
Not holier her own sighs in prayer.
But if at first her virgin fear
Should start at love's suspected name, With that of friendship soothe her ear :True love and friendship are the same.
THE tears I shed must ever fall!
I mourn not for an absent swain, For thought may past delights recall,
And parted lovers meet again. I weep not for the silent dead,
Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er; And those they loved their steps shall tread, And death shall join to part no more.
Tho' boundless oceans roll'd between,
We mourn the tenant of the tomb,
But bitter, bitter are the tears
Of her who slighted love bewails; No hope her dreary prospect cheers, No pleasing melancholy hails.