University of Virginia Library

Ah Tyrant Prince! ah more than faithless Tancred!
Ungenerous and inhuman in thy Falsehood!
Hadst Thou, this Morning, when my hopeless Heart,
Submissive to my Fortune and my Duty,
Had so much Spirit left, as to be willing
To give Thee back thy Vows, ah! hadst Thou then
Confess'd the sad Necessity thy State
Impos'd upon Thee, and with gentle Friendship,
Since we must part at last, our Parting soften'd;
I should indeed—I should have been unhappy,
But not to this Extream—Amidst my Grief,
I had, with pensive Pleasure, cherish'd still
The sweet Remembrance of thy former Love,
Thy Image still had dwelt upon my Soul,
And made our guiltless Woes not undelightful.
But coolly thus—How couldst thou be so cruel?—
Thus to revive my Hopes, to soothe my Love
And call forth all its Tenderness, then sink me
In black Despair—What unrelenting Pride
Possess'd thy Breast, that thou couldst bear unmov'd
To see me bent beneath a Weight of Shame?
Pangs thou canst never feel? How couldst thou drag me,
In barbarous Triumph at a Rival's Car?
How make me Witness to a Sight of Horror?
That Hand, which, but a few short Hours ago,
So wantonly abus'd my simple Faith,
Before th' attesting World given to another,
Irrevocably given!—There was a Time,
When the least Cloud that hung upon my Brow,
Perhaps imagin'd only, touch'd thy Pity.
Then, brighten'd often by the ready Tear,
Thy Looks were Softness all; then the quick Heart,
In every Nerve alive, forgot it self,
And for each other then we felt alone.
But now, alas! those tender Days are fled;
Now thou canst see me wretched, pierc'd with Anguish,
With studied Anguish of thy own creating,
Nor wet thy harden'd Eye—Hold, let me think—
I wrong Thee sure; Thou canst not be so base,
As meanly in my Misery to triumph—
What is it then?—Why should I search for Pain?—
O 'tis as bad!—'Tis Fickleness of Nature,
'Tis sickly Love extinguish'd by Ambition—
Is there, kind Heaven! no Constancy in Man?
No stedfast Truth, no generous fix'd Affection,
That can bear up against a selfish World?
No, there is none—Even Tancred is inconstant!

Hence! let me fly this Scene!—Whate'er I see,
These Roofs, these Walls, each Object that surrounds me,
Are tainted with his Vows—But whither fly?
The Groves are worse, the soft Retreat of Belmont,
It's deepening Glooms, gay Lawns, and airy Summits,
Will wound my busy Memory to Torture,
And all its Shades will whisper—faithless Tancred!—
My Father comes—How, sunk in this Disorder,
Shall I sustain his Presence?