E'en suns, which systems now control, TO WOMAN WOMAN! experience might have told me, Oh memory! thou choicest blessing When join'd with hope, when still possessing; But how much cursed by every lover Ah! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your Through hours, through years, through soft brow, Nor deem me too happy in this; If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now, Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile, Oh, think not my penance deficient ! When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile, To awake will be torture sufficient. TO MARY ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE [The 'Mary' of this poem is not to be confounded with the heiress of Annesley, or Mary' of Aberdeen.] THIS faint resemblance of thy charms, Though strong as mortal art could give, My constant heart of fear disarms, Revives my hopes, and bids me live. Here I can trace the locks of gold The lips which made me beauty's slave. Here I can trace-ah, no! that eye, Whose azure floats in liquid fire, Must all the painter's art defy, And bid him from the task retire. Here I behold its beauteous hue; But where's the beam so sweetly straying, Which gave a lustre to its blue, Like Luna o'er the ocean playing? Sweet copy far more dear to me, Save her who placed thee next my She placed it, sad, with needless fear, Lest time might shake my wavering soul, Unconscious that her image there time, 't will cheer; My hope in gloomy moments raise; In life's last conflict 't will appear, And meet my fond expiring gaze. TO LESBIA [The Lesbia of this poem is Julia Leacroft.] LESBIA! since far from you I've ranged, Our souls with fond affection glow not; You say 't is I, not you, have changed, I'd tell you why, but yet I know not. Your polish'd brow no cares have crost; And, Lesbia! we are not much older, Since, trembling, first my heart I lost, Or told my love, with hope grown bolder. Sixteen was then our utmost age, Two years have lingering past away, love! And now new thoughts our minds engage, At least I feel disposed to stray, love! "T is I that am alone to blame, I, that am guilty of love's treason; I do not, love! suspect your truth, One trace of dark deceit it leaves not. 20 Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd, 29 New beauties still are daily bright'ning, Your eye for conquest beams prepared, The forge of love's resistless lightning. Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed, Many will throng to sigh like me, love! More constant they may prove, indeed; Fonder, alas! they ne'er can be, love! [1806.] |