Then, Stella! tho' the fires decay
That lit me to thy arms,
Nor distant far the envious day
Shall dim thy mellowing charms;
Tho' youthful joys return no more,
Rememberance shall remain,
And past delights recounted o'er,
Shall give delight again.
Let Memory, then, the record true
Of youthful passion bring,
And o'er the wintery hearth, renew
The blooming hours of spring.
FROM THE FRENCH OF CHAULIEU.
O TELL me not, with groundless fear,
That, bending to some other beauty,
I may forget you once were dear,
And vow to her my tender duty.
No, loveliest! no! for though the youth,
Who sees thy charms, may break for ever
All former vows of plighted truth,
Faithless again shall he be never.
THE LOVER'S COMPLAINT. TO MISS H. B. 1778.
O! WHAT shall my feelings declare?
O! how shall I number my woes?
Since I caught such a glance of the fair,
As has banish'd all hope of repose.
At beauty how oft have I gaz'd,
Of beauty, how oft have I
For beauty was form'd to be prais'd,
And her smiles to unfetter the tongue!
Hither throng, all ye tender desires!
Ye Muses! ye Loves! hither throng;
HONORIA awakens my fires,
'Tis HONORIA who merits the song.
But all my endeavours are vain ;
"Twere madness her praises to scale;
A poet! and not breathe a strain-
A lover! and courage to fail!-
But what would avail all his art,
When the poet considers the theme? The lover with firmness might part, Whose happiness seems but a dream!
From a task, that would pose bigot-zeal, 'Tis sure no discredit to fly;
At her feet too, where monarchs might kneel, Methinks, 'twere a pleasure to die!
'Tis late, that I came to the plain,
But late, I consulted my ease;
My youth was an era of pain,
And my quiet-the sport of the seas!
But still, on what shore I was thrown,
The rigors whate'er of the clime;
My liberty sweet, was my own,
And I dreaded no victor, but time!
Alas! that a nymph of the grove,
More fatal than tempests should be;
Alas! that the arrows of Love,"
Should only be poison'd for me!
Whene'er on my rivals I muse,
To what depths of despair am I hurl'dFor how but to doubt, can he choose, Whose rivals consist of a world!
Then, since neither titles nor birth,
Nor talents, her hand can ensure;
Since kingdoms fall short of her worth,
For the purchase-a CROESUS were poor!
Cease, cease, thy demerits to heed,
Essay her compassion to move;
Tho' a shepherd-thy truth may succeed,
For the price of HONORIA, is love!
THEY tell me, in the sparkling bowl
There is a balm for every care;
They tell me, there, the tortured soul
May find a refuge from despair.
Then gaily pass the goblet round,
And freely let the nectar flow!
If joy is in the goblet found,
Oh! who would nurse the thorn of woe?
I feel, I feel, the glowing tide!
'Tis circling round my frozen heart, Thro' ev'ry vein I feel it glide
New warmth, new vigour, to impart.
Come bring the wreath of rosy twine,
The harp so long forsaken bring,
And while my bosom glows with wine,
My lip again of joy shall sing.
Ah! sweet, but long forgotten strain,
And harp that's lain neglected by,
Since pleasure's cup was fill'd with pain,
And hope's fair flower was doom'd to die.
Yet look not back, change, change the theme,
And talk of joys for ever bright;
Think of the past as of a dream,
That vanish'd at the morning's light.
Sweet the buds our brows are shading,
Bright the goblet sparkling high,
The rose of pleasure knows no fading,
The goblet's ruby cannot die.
Of joy, of joy alone, I'll sing!
Sorrows past rememb'ring never;
While, my harp, thy silver string
Pleasure's song is warbling ever.
FROM THE FRENCH OF MONTREUIL.
WHY ask so oft, with fond alarms,
If constant I'll remain?
And o'er my heart how long thy charms
Will hold their wonted reign?
No more these questions let me hear,
Since I can not reply ;-
I do not know, my Sylvia dear,
The day when I shall die.
|