The Works of Mr. Robert Gould In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould] |
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
Silvia's Indifference.
Ah! 'tis too sure! the Change appears at last,
And all my Hopes are, like a Vision past!
Instead of Love, dislike in Frowns does rise,
And the kind Fervour's vanish'd from her Eyes.
As in a backward Autumn, when the bright
Hyperion gives a raw and sickly Light,
The unrip'ning Fruit upon the Branches dies,
The with'ring Leaf around in Ruin lies,
And only Winter Scenes salute our Eyes,
So does her Coldness all Love's Product blight,
To Hope infectious, fatal to Delight.
The soft'ning Influence of her Eyes she veils;
No more her Breath is spent in am'rous Gales:
Hymen himself at Distance feebly shines,
And wonders why so swiftly He declines.
She now surveys me with no more Concern
Than Vice that Vertue which it scorns to learn.
If she does write, such Frost is in her Stile,
I read—but am in Greenland all the while.
My Voice (once prais'd) no more affects her Ears
Than Sermons which an Atheist yawning hears.
Or if I dance with like regard she sees
As fearful Beauties wou'd a loath'd Disease.
When e'er I gaze upon her Eyes, their View
She turns to find out Objects vain and new.
The Oaths of perjur'd Men affect her more
Than all the sacred Oaths I ever swore.
Musick she finds when others Love relate,
From me it sounds like the last Call of Fate.
Nothing I say, or do, or look can move,
Tho' e'ery Word's breath'd from the Soul of Love.
I sigh! I weep! I bleed! I burn! I die
Nor this affects her Heart, nor that her Eye,
She hears, she sees, and walks regardless by.
E'en Hope, that last Reserve, to Scorn does yield,
And wild Despair rides Victor o'er the Field;
Upon her Cruelty he rears his Throne,
With barbarous Joy beholds the Day his own,
And smiles, like her, to hear the dying Groan.
And all my Hopes are, like a Vision past!
Instead of Love, dislike in Frowns does rise,
And the kind Fervour's vanish'd from her Eyes.
59
Hyperion gives a raw and sickly Light,
The unrip'ning Fruit upon the Branches dies,
The with'ring Leaf around in Ruin lies,
And only Winter Scenes salute our Eyes,
So does her Coldness all Love's Product blight,
To Hope infectious, fatal to Delight.
The soft'ning Influence of her Eyes she veils;
No more her Breath is spent in am'rous Gales:
Hymen himself at Distance feebly shines,
And wonders why so swiftly He declines.
She now surveys me with no more Concern
Than Vice that Vertue which it scorns to learn.
If she does write, such Frost is in her Stile,
I read—but am in Greenland all the while.
My Voice (once prais'd) no more affects her Ears
Than Sermons which an Atheist yawning hears.
Or if I dance with like regard she sees
As fearful Beauties wou'd a loath'd Disease.
When e'er I gaze upon her Eyes, their View
She turns to find out Objects vain and new.
The Oaths of perjur'd Men affect her more
Than all the sacred Oaths I ever swore.
Musick she finds when others Love relate,
From me it sounds like the last Call of Fate.
Nothing I say, or do, or look can move,
Tho' e'ery Word's breath'd from the Soul of Love.
I sigh! I weep! I bleed! I burn! I die
Nor this affects her Heart, nor that her Eye,
She hears, she sees, and walks regardless by.
E'en Hope, that last Reserve, to Scorn does yield,
And wild Despair rides Victor o'er the Field;
Upon her Cruelty he rears his Throne,
With barbarous Joy beholds the Day his own,
And smiles, like her, to hear the dying Groan.
60
Thus, Silvia, were (by your Neglect constrain'd)
My Thoughts last Night in Vision entertain'd:
Thus 'twas I talkt, these very Words I write
Did anxious Fancy to the Muse indite.
I never, waking, said you were untrue,
Nor can I close the intellectual View.
Let it at least, preserve me thy Esteem,
That all my Doubts of thee are but a Dream.
Whatever Sleep suggests, what e'er my Fears,
And all that in thy alter'd Look appears,
You are, you shall, you will, you must be just
And I abuse thee by a mean Distrust.
Thou dost but for a while eclipse the Light
Of Love, to make it dearer to our Sight:
The Mask took off, but more commends the Fair,
And Hope arises brightest from Despair.
My Thoughts last Night in Vision entertain'd:
Thus 'twas I talkt, these very Words I write
Did anxious Fancy to the Muse indite.
I never, waking, said you were untrue,
Nor can I close the intellectual View.
Let it at least, preserve me thy Esteem,
That all my Doubts of thee are but a Dream.
Whatever Sleep suggests, what e'er my Fears,
And all that in thy alter'd Look appears,
You are, you shall, you will, you must be just
And I abuse thee by a mean Distrust.
Thou dost but for a while eclipse the Light
Of Love, to make it dearer to our Sight:
The Mask took off, but more commends the Fair,
And Hope arises brightest from Despair.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |