University of Virginia Library


200

HORATIAN ODE.

Say, when the captive bosom feels
A magic spell around it wove,
While o'er the cheek the soft blush steals;
Say, is it Love?
With pensive mien and devious pace,
To seek the dark embow'ring grove;
The pale moon's quiv'ring beams to trace;
Say, is it Love?
When, chain'd to one dear lonely spot,
The bosom feels no wish to rove,
All other scenes of bliss forgot;
Say, is it Love?
To tremble, while o'er Fancy's eye
A thousand dreadful visions move;
To hope, to fear, to weep, to sigh;
Say, is it Love?

201

To seek occasions, false and weak,
The darling object to reprove;
To look, what language fails to speak!
Say, is it Love?
To chide for ev'ry trivial crime;
To bid him from your rage remove;
To guide with Hope the wings of Time;
Say, is it Love?
To know no cheerful morn of rest;
No balmy hour of sleep to prove;
To hold Philosophy a jest!
Say, is it Love?
To cherish grief, nor dare complain;
To envy sainted souls above;
While jealous anguish rends the brain;
Say, is it Love?
Long have I, doom'd, alas! to grieve,
Against the fell enchantment strove;
Then, Fate, ah! let me “cease to live,
or cease to love!”