The Poetical works of Wm. Falconer With the life of the author. Cooke's Edition. Embellished with superb engravings |
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THE FOND LOVER.
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 | The Poetical works of Wm. Falconer |  |
THE FOND LOVER.
A BALLAD.
A nymph of ev'ry charm possess'd,
That native virtue gives,
Within my bosom all-confess'd,
In bright idea lives.
For her my trembling numbers play
Along the pathless deep,
While sadly social with my lay
The winds in concert weep.
That native virtue gives,
Within my bosom all-confess'd,
In bright idea lives.
For her my trembling numbers play
Along the pathless deep,
While sadly social with my lay
The winds in concert weep.
If beauty's sacred influence charms
The rage of adverse fate,
Say why the pleasing soft alarms
Such cruel pangs create?
Since all her thoughts, by sense refin'd,
Unartful truth express,
Say wherefore sense and truth are join'd
To give my soul distress?
The rage of adverse fate,
Say why the pleasing soft alarms
Such cruel pangs create?
Since all her thoughts, by sense refin'd,
Unartful truth express,
Say wherefore sense and truth are join'd
To give my soul distress?
96
If, when her blooming lips I press,
Which vernal fragrance fills,
Thro' all my veins th' sweet excess
In trembling motion thrills;
Say whence this secret anguish grows,
Congenial with my joy?
And why the touch where pleasure grows
Shou'd vital peace destroy?
Which vernal fragrance fills,
Thro' all my veins th' sweet excess
In trembling motion thrills;
Say whence this secret anguish grows,
Congenial with my joy?
And why the touch where pleasure grows
Shou'd vital peace destroy?
If when my fair, in melting song,
Awakes the vocal lay,
Not all your notes, ye Phocian throng,
Such pleasing sounds convey.
Thus wrapt all o'er with fondest love,
Why heaves this broken sigh?
For then my blood forgets to move;
I gaze, adore, and die.
Awakes the vocal lay,
Not all your notes, ye Phocian throng,
Such pleasing sounds convey.
Thus wrapt all o'er with fondest love,
Why heaves this broken sigh?
For then my blood forgets to move;
I gaze, adore, and die.
Accept, my charming maid, the strain
Which you alone inspire;
To thee th' dying strings complain
That quiver on my lyre,
O! give this bleeding bosom ease,
That knows no joy but thee;
Teach me thy happy art to please,
Or deign to love like me.
Which you alone inspire;
To thee th' dying strings complain
That quiver on my lyre,
O! give this bleeding bosom ease,
That knows no joy but thee;
Teach me thy happy art to please,
Or deign to love like me.
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