University of Virginia Library

VIII.

“Thus have I done beneath this destiny,
Pitiless in power! and must I still deny
The sweet seduction, and go forth for Hate,
Renouncing Love, and raptures that so late
Were mine—with promise to be ever mine?
Where is my hope of youth—the life—the Bride?
Methinks the voice still murmurs at my side,
A murmur born of music!—and I see
The grove beside the brooklet; and the flowers
Breathe blushingly, nor tell of fleeting hours,
How joyful!—and the sweet repose of bowers,
Where sits and smiles the innocent Deity,
That sways without a consciousness, and deems
Herself the subject!
“These are not the dreams
Of truant fancies. Love is yet a thing
Of truth and bliss, that never spreads a wing,
Till we forswear his worship in desires
That cloud with smoke, and taint his altar fires!
Have I thus wander'd?
If to Hate decreed,
Am I not also sworn to Love, as well?—
My sovereign still, that never yet has freed,
And now invokes me with imperious spell!
The fascination of his eye still warms;
Still doth he woo me with a world of charms;
How glorious is the vision of delight
He paints for Fancy, on the memory's sight;
How sweet the forest shade, how cool the air,
What songs delicious rise and murmur there;
How peaceful all the pleasures, and what balm,
The breathing zephyr in that world of calm—
No strife, no doubt—the valley's wealth of shade,
Cool brooklet, and calm sunset!—unafraid,
Peace sits within her bowers, and all the grove
Murmurs experience of devoted Love!”