Poems on Various Subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

The hapless youth who feels a real flame,
(So cruel Love, capricious god! decrees)
Long mourns, neglected by the lovely dame,
And long, enanguish'd, seeks in vain to please.

The fading langour of his mournful eye,
The faultering accent, trembling on his tongue;
The bosom heaving with the painful sigh,
The head propended as he droops along:

The dress neglected, and the slighted air,
(The faithful indicates of fervent love)
Disgust the fancy of the thoughtless fair,
And the preventions of his fortune prove.

While the false youth, with bless'd indifference gay,
(Who insincerely boasts bright Beauty's pow'r)
Oft bears the virgin's captive heart away,
And on her soft affections steals each hour.

102

His sprightly converse wins the list'ning ear;
Thoughts unimpassion'd point the happy way
T'improve each chance with brisk, assiduous care,
And the unguarded, flatter'd heart betray.

For me, the strong emotions of my mind,
My fond affection, my respectful fears,
Perplex my fancy, and my judgment blind:
Confus'd, I tremble when my love appears.

Thus I, perhaps, oppress'd by fear and grief,
Neglect each pleasing, softly soothing art;
With fruitless sighs, thus vainly seek relief,
And vainly strive to gain my Delia's heart.

Yet think, my Delia (thou, of all the fair,
With sensibility and sense adorn'd
In blest extreme, like Heav'n's peculiar care!)
You cause the grief for which your lover's scorn'd.

Oh then, thy lovely face with smiles array!
Think not my sadness speaks a sullen heart,
Or mournful words a peevish mind display:
I sink, alas! beneath Love's hopeless dart!

103

What tho' no sprightly wit adorns my tongue,
To bandy jocund laughter round the room?
What tho' I gaily chaunt no mirthful song;
But o'er my converse wear a sadd'ning gloom?

I once was cheerful as the new-born day,
Emerging gaily from the laughing east;
As blithe and sportive as the frolic May,
With choral birds and gaudy flow'rets drest.

Yon captur'd Lark, whose waining life decays,
Thro' the blue welkin while he wont to rove,
With dulcet pipe would hail Aurora's rays
With hymns of gratitude, and songs of love.

But darkling now, in close confinement pent,
His head he droops, and hangs his fainting wings:
His bosom pierc'd with dreary Discontent,
No more, alas! the mattin warbler sings.

My spirits thus, encag'd by black Despair,
Sink, inly fainting, in my love-lorn heart.
Give me but Hope, no lev'rock shall compare
With me, in gaiety or tuneful art.

104

For thee I'll fondly pen the tender lay,
And, while 'tis warbled by thy dulcet voice,
No feather'd tenant of the blooming spray
Shall with more perfect gratitude rejoice.