Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. A bird of free and careless wing Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, The cold repulse, the look askance, In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine; My light of life! ah, tell me why Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow: My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain, And still thy heart, without partaking Pour me the poison; fear not thou! And Love, that thus can lingering slay. My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, STANZAS. ["THOU ART NOT FALSE."] THOU art not false, but thou art fickle, 'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest, Too well thou lov'st-too soon thou leavest. The wholly false the heart despises, To dream of joy and wake to sorrow 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! ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE "ORIGIN OF LOVE." THE "Origin of Love! -Ah, why And shouldst thou seek his end to know: My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, He'll linger long in silent woe; But live-until I cease to be. STANZAS. ["REMEMBER HIM," &c.] REMEMBER him, whom passion's power When neither fell, though both were loved. That yielding breast, that melting eye, 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. Yet think of this when many a tongue, Whose busy accents whisper blame, Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, And brand a nearly blighted name. Think that, whate'er to others, thou I bless thy purer soul even now, Oh, God! that we had met in time, Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; When thou hadst loved without a crime, And I been less unworthy thee ! Far may thy days, as heretofore, This heart, alas! perverted long, Then to the things whose bliss or woe, Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, Oh! pardon that imploring tear, Since not by Virtue shed in vain, My frenzy drew from eyes so dear; For me they shall not weep again. Though long and mournful must it be, The thought that we no more may meet; Yet I deserve the stern decree, And almost deem the sentence sweet. D 4 |