VIII.
[Was it a dignity of shape, an eye]
Was it a dignity of shape, an eye,
Or face, instinct with beauty's dazzling ray,
Whose power at once bade vanquish'd reason fly,
And swiftly stole me from myself away?
Had that been all, tho strong had been my grief
Not to have won the object of my care,
Time would with lenient hand have brought relief,
The cure, another equally as fair.
But though a thousand now I should behold,
And own them fairer than the maid I love,
My heart to all their beauties would be cold,
No charms my former passion could remove.
For youthful prepossession knit the tye,
Which our consenting hearts together drew;
With years the pleasing partiality,
And soft attractive impulse, firmer grew.
Fancy meantime unnumber'd visions spread,
In which no seas were rough, no tempests lour'd,
We saw, our hopes with extasy We fed,
And in each other's bosom fondly pour'd.
And can I with these loved ideas part?
Can I this dear, dear sympathy forego?
First from their place the strings of life shall start,
And the warm ruddy drops forget to flow.
Of thee bereft!—Oh! 'twere the worst of ills.—
Deep penetrates the thought with sore annoy
My shuddering heart; my inmost soul it chills;
And blasts each future scene of rising joy.
Of thee bereft!—It shall not, cannot be;—
Spite of the wayward accidents of life,
Yet once again our actions shall be free:
And oh, my Love! O dearer name, my Wife!
Again shall I infold thee in my arms,
And breathe my soul into thy faithful breast,
O'erpast misfortune with fresh transport warms,
The pangs of absence make us doubly blest.
