 | Safie |  |
Oh, love! what art thou? Sadly sweet!
A grief the bosom pants to meet;—
A weary source of restlessness,
That makes all other woes seem less:—
Thy charms are such, that, syren like,
Upon the tranced heart they strike:—
Thy hapless victims all admire
The gilded ray of future ruin;—
For darksome woe waits present wooing,
As blacken'd embers follow fire.
'Tis thine to lead the ardent soul
To deeds that spurn a cool controul;—
Through scenes of varied woe and joy,
To break the spirit and destroy.
'Tis thine to pause, retreat, and range,—
To promise truth, and yet to change;—
To lead to poverty and care,—
To bondage,—madness,—and despair!
A grief the bosom pants to meet;—
A weary source of restlessness,
That makes all other woes seem less:—
Thy charms are such, that, syren like,
Upon the tranced heart they strike:—
54
The gilded ray of future ruin;—
For darksome woe waits present wooing,
As blacken'd embers follow fire.
'Tis thine to lead the ardent soul
To deeds that spurn a cool controul;—
Through scenes of varied woe and joy,
To break the spirit and destroy.
'Tis thine to pause, retreat, and range,—
To promise truth, and yet to change;—
To lead to poverty and care,—
To bondage,—madness,—and despair!
| Safie | |