 | The works of Anna Lætitia Barbauld |  |
80
SONG IV.
[When gentle Celia first I knew]
When gentle Celia first I knew,
A breast so good, so kind, so true,
Reason and taste approved;
Pleased to indulge so pure a flame,
I called it by too soft a name,
And fondly thought I loved.
A breast so good, so kind, so true,
Reason and taste approved;
Pleased to indulge so pure a flame,
I called it by too soft a name,
And fondly thought I loved.
Till Chloris came:—with sad surprise
I felt the lightning of her eyes
Through all my senses run;
All glowing with resistless charms,
She filled my breast with new alarms,—
I saw, and was undone.
I felt the lightning of her eyes
Through all my senses run;
All glowing with resistless charms,
She filled my breast with new alarms,—
I saw, and was undone.
81
O Celia! dear unhappy maid,
Forbear the weakness to upbraid
Which ought your scorn to move;—
I know this beauty false and vain,
I know she triumphs in my pain,
Yet still I feel I love.
Forbear the weakness to upbraid
Which ought your scorn to move;—
I know this beauty false and vain,
I know she triumphs in my pain,
Yet still I feel I love.
Thy gentle smiles no more can please,
Nor can thy softest friendship ease
The torments I endure:
Think what that wounded breast must feel,
Which truth and kindness cannot heal,
Nor e'en thy pity cure.
Nor can thy softest friendship ease
The torments I endure:
Think what that wounded breast must feel,
Which truth and kindness cannot heal,
Nor e'en thy pity cure.
Oft shall I curse my iron chain,
And wish again thy milder reign
With long and vain regret:
All that I can, to thee I give;
And could I still to reason live,
I were thy captive yet.
And wish again thy milder reign
With long and vain regret:
All that I can, to thee I give;
And could I still to reason live,
I were thy captive yet.
82
But Passion's wild impetuous sea
Hurries me far from peace and thee;
'Twere vain to struggle more.
Thus the poor sailor slumbering lies,
While swelling tides around him rise,
And push his bark from shore:
Hurries me far from peace and thee;
'Twere vain to struggle more.
Thus the poor sailor slumbering lies,
While swelling tides around him rise,
And push his bark from shore:
In vain he spreads his helpless arms,
His pitying friends with fond alarms
In vain deplore his state;
Still far and farther from the coast,
On the high surge his bark is tost,
And foundering yields to fate.
His pitying friends with fond alarms
In vain deplore his state;
Still far and farther from the coast,
On the high surge his bark is tost,
And foundering yields to fate.
| The works of Anna Lætitia Barbauld | |