FRAGMENT XXVIII.
L'AMANTE FURIOSO.
“Airs empressés! vous n'etes pas l'amour.”
Voltaire.
I
Is this then the passion, is this the sweet anguish?
Fondly to feel, and as fondly inspire;
My poor silly heart in its folly would languish;
And sigh, the true martyr of love to inspire.
II
Oh no! this is fury, 'tis rage, or 'tis madness,
It scares the mild feelings that dwell in the heart;
It wearies the senses, or sinks into sadness
The soul that in riot can ne'er take a part.
III
Oft in the sweet dream that play'd o'er my pillow,
Or in my warm'd fancy, Love's vision would beam;
But oh! how unlike fleeting passion's wild billow
O'er each yielding sense did it tenderly stream!
IV
Led by the graces, surrounded by pleasures
Which aim at the heart, or which flow from the soul;
Profusely endow'd with the mind's sterling treasures,
And veil'd in sweet sympathy's magical stole.
V
Though obvious, reserved, mysterious, yet simple,
Chastely endearing, and timidly wild;
Repuls'd by a frown, recall'd by a dimple;
Placid, though tender; though ardent, refin'd.
VI
And couldst thou (thou maniac in passion) thus woo me,
And lay by these freaks, less persuasive than fright'ning,
And cease with this fury of love to pursue me,
Nor always approach me—in thunder and lightning;
VII
If my poor little heart thou wouldst win, my wild rover,
First give me of safety some positive token;
For to tell you the truth, my too vehement lover,
My fear is, my poor little
head will be broken.
