 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
133
THE Lover's WISH.
Ye righteous Pow'rs! who fill the Thrones above,
Since cruel Phæbe scorns my proffer'd Love;
Be this my Fate, be this my happy End,
(That Phæbe once may know, she lost a Loving Friend.)
Since cruel Phæbe scorns my proffer'd Love;
Be this my Fate, be this my happy End,
(That Phæbe once may know, she lost a Loving Friend.)
Soft on her panting Beauties let me lay,
And sweetly look and languish Life away;
Then fix'd for Death, I'll act the Roman's Part,
And plunge the friendly Dagger to my Heart:
And as the Crimson Life flows trickling down,
May tuneful Artists my last Moments crown;
May all their Harps in softest Musick joyn,
To wake my Soul, and lift it all Divine.
And now methinks, I lie
On Phæbe's panting Breast,
My Soul begins to die,
And soon will be at Rest:
Hark! the speaking Strings complain
In a dying, dying Strain.
Lo! I strike the truest Heart;
Now, Phæbe! You and I must Part,
Never to meet,
Never to meet,
(Those Words my tender Bosom tore)
Phæbe! we must meet no more;
Then hugg me closer to your Breast,
For now and only now I'm bless'd.
And sweetly look and languish Life away;
Then fix'd for Death, I'll act the Roman's Part,
And plunge the friendly Dagger to my Heart:
And as the Crimson Life flows trickling down,
May tuneful Artists my last Moments crown;
134
To wake my Soul, and lift it all Divine.
And now methinks, I lie
On Phæbe's panting Breast,
My Soul begins to die,
And soon will be at Rest:
Hark! the speaking Strings complain
In a dying, dying Strain.
Lo! I strike the truest Heart;
Now, Phæbe! You and I must Part,
Never to meet,
Never to meet,
(Those Words my tender Bosom tore)
Phæbe! we must meet no more;
Then hugg me closer to your Breast,
For now and only now I'm bless'd.
Now let the softest Musick play,
For Oh! I feel my Life decay:
Hark! the sweetly-warbled Airs
Sooth my Pains and lull my Cares;
Then, Phæbe! take this last Adieu!
For now I must—will Part with You.
Oh! come some Angel down,
And guide me to my Home;
For now the Streams of Life decay,
Death admits of no Delay:
All trembling on the Brink I stand,
My Soul beholds her Native Land,
Phæbe! adieu! it will not stay,
It flitts, it starts, 'tis gone away.
For Oh! I feel my Life decay:
135
Sooth my Pains and lull my Cares;
Then, Phæbe! take this last Adieu!
For now I must—will Part with You.
Oh! come some Angel down,
And guide me to my Home;
For now the Streams of Life decay,
Death admits of no Delay:
All trembling on the Brink I stand,
My Soul beholds her Native Land,
Phæbe! adieu! it will not stay,
It flitts, it starts, 'tis gone away.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |