 | Young Arthur |  |
If your eyes are attractive, and mine they arrest,
No censure is yours, but shall censure be mine?
If, a moment, soft flutterings ruffle my breast,
Shall a weak indiscretion be construed design?
On your cheeks, and your lips, if all gaze with delight,
And mine eyes, wand'ring there, soft expression reveal;
No blame can be yours, that you're blooming and bright,
But shall I be condemn'd because fated to feel?
No censure is yours, but shall censure be mine?
If, a moment, soft flutterings ruffle my breast,
Shall a weak indiscretion be construed design?
On your cheeks, and your lips, if all gaze with delight,
And mine eyes, wand'ring there, soft expression reveal;
No blame can be yours, that you're blooming and bright,
But shall I be condemn'd because fated to feel?
That you're bright, and your're blooming, I see, and admire;
That I am susceptive, you see, and you smile;
But shall fancy's warm glow be accounted love's fire?
And shall you boast a triumph you gain'd but by guile?
I gaz'd; it was thoughtless—no hope could be mine—
One sedate look of modest reproof had been kind;
Had made me the scarcely-form'd feeling resign,
And my homage transfer from your face to your mind.
That I am susceptive, you see, and you smile;
But shall fancy's warm glow be accounted love's fire?
And shall you boast a triumph you gain'd but by guile?
25
One sedate look of modest reproof had been kind;
Had made me the scarcely-form'd feeling resign,
And my homage transfer from your face to your mind.
Your eyes oft met mine, but they look'd no reproof;
Their beams, trifling fair, were e'en softer than mild;
Some charm—what, I know not—kept reason aloof;
'Twas an indirect feeling, nor tranquil, nor wild;
I was caught for the moment; you triumph'd your time—
I censure not—let your own reason declare
If feeling entrapp'd is condemn'd as a crime,
How shall honour decide on the wish to ensnare?
Their beams, trifling fair, were e'en softer than mild;
Some charm—what, I know not—kept reason aloof;
'Twas an indirect feeling, nor tranquil, nor wild;
I was caught for the moment; you triumph'd your time—
I censure not—let your own reason declare
If feeling entrapp'd is condemn'd as a crime,
How shall honour decide on the wish to ensnare?
I was caught for the moment, you triumph'd too soon;
A little more art had confirm'd your decree;
I was caught, and I flutter'd—when—thanks for the boon!
You smil'd with derision,—I sprung and was free;
I'm free! and your triumph now vainly pursue;
My fancy, not feeling, was caught—I respire—
Now your beams losetheir splendour, your roses their hue;
And I pity what, weakly, I thought to admire.
A little more art had confirm'd your decree;
I was caught, and I flutter'd—when—thanks for the boon!
You smil'd with derision,—I sprung and was free;
I'm free! and your triumph now vainly pursue;
My fancy, not feeling, was caught—I respire—
Now your beams losetheir splendour, your roses their hue;
And I pity what, weakly, I thought to admire.
| Young Arthur | |