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A collection of poems on various subjects

including the theatre, a didactic essay; in the course of which are pointed out, the rocks and shoals to which deluded adventurers are inevitably exposed. Ornamented with cuts and illustrated with notes, original letters and curious incidental anecdotes [by Samuel Whyte]

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ELEGY III. ON THE INSTABILITY OF AFFECTION.
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116

ELEGY III. ON THE INSTABILITY OF AFFECTION.

Friendship and love!—what more could heaven impart,
In two fond breasts when mutual ardours glow?
Hence every balm that soothes the feeling heart,
Hence all the joys of social union flow.
How oft the theme of speculation made!
How oft, alas! to futile form confin'd!
How oft prophan'd some sordid views to aid!
The fatal snare of many a generous mind!
O, where in native grace do you preside,
In what bless'd mansion keep your envied seat?
Swell you the train of luxury and pride,
Or to the cot and humble vale retreat?
To every trite declaimer are you known,
And prompt you still the sentimental tongue?
Are you in labour'd systems justly shown,
Or faithfully in mystic legends sung?

117

Haply the offspring of a feverish brain,
Which but to folly and illusion tend;
Or why so fruitless is the task to gain
The constant mistress, or the steadfast friend?
Full many a curious descant have I heard
The storied flights of amity to prove,
And known it, O, my aching heart! averr'd
The female mind not mutable in love!
If e'er the female mind be constant found,
If love and friendship more than empty names,
If e'er sincerity success has crown'd,
How have I barr'd, how forfeited my claims?
How! how beyond atonement have I err'd?
How could I so egregiously offend,
That all my vows are to the winds preferr'd,
And all my fairy dreams in anguish end?
If vows of mine e'er virgin ear betray'd,
Or friendship's arduous task I sought to shun,
Come forth, wrong'd man! come forth, deluded maid!
Confront me now—'twere just I were undone.

118

None comes there forth?—why is it then decreed
My dearest aims must still abortive prove?
Still my true heart with disappointment bleed,
The dupe of friendship, and the slave of love?
Oh! he gives nothing who gives all his store!
Poor thriftless bankrupt! thou may'st learn at last,
From sad experiment, instructive lore!
'Tis expectation binds attachment fast.
Suspense and doubt solicitude awake,
And specious craft not honesty is priz'd,
Weep, virtue, weep! none love for virtue's sake;
And modest merit is a thing despis'd.
All truth and fondness friend and mistress both,
Bask in the sunshine and await your bliss;
A cloud in view! they shun you with an oath,
Or to the foe betray you with a kiss.
By no regards, no obligations tied,
When shorn the flock is, and the harvest's o'er,
The double mind can all respects deride,
And in the face of kindness shut the door.

119

Yet honour reigns the boast of every mouth,
On every tongue incessant fervors blaze;
The words indeed appear the words of truth,
But fickleness and falsehood mark their ways.
Friendship to friendship, love to love succeeds,
Quick as the shootings of the northern ray;
And, as his printless predecessor speeds,
Each to the next yields momentary sway.—
One friend, one chosen friend, I once possess'd,
And did I in the hour of trial fail?
Still be his virtues, his desert confess'd,
But o'er his lapses memory drop the veil.
And thou, sweet peerless maid! for whom I live,
For whom in vain I breathe the tender sigh,
My only treasure was a heart to give,
My only consolation now—to die.
Depress'd beneath accumulating grief,
Thou dear, sole object of my anxious care!
Life of my life!—I see there's no relief;
Yet love will hope, tho' reason must despair.

120

O, be thou bless'd! still that distinguish'd brow
With wreaths of ever-blooming roses bound!
Nor that pure bosom's animated snow
E'er feel the thorns my tortur'd bosom wound—
Had I some lowly villager been bred,
With rustic notions and of manners rude;
Unschool'd in principles which ill bestead,
Nor with vague theories my mind imbu'd,
To misery I had not been consign'd:
Such is the boasted privilege to know!
And all the advantage of a cultur'd mind,
To point distress and give an edge to woe.
The lustre of thy charms at distance view'd,
Struck, not enthrall'd, I then had safe admir'd;
Thy worth unknown had ne'er my soul subdu'd,
Thy angel smiles with no delusion fir'd.
Some truer maid, the Charlotte of the plains,
With torpid preference I might regard;
For sensibility small favour gains,
And pure affection seldom meets reward.

121

The chill of waning love's averted eye,
The port assum'd, the faint abstracted air,
The formal welcome, speech constrain'd and shy,
Bless'd state of apathy! are stingless there.
There faith supplanted finds a sure resource,
And slighted services as sure redress;
'Tis not for common minds to feel their force,
Or pine thro' life in exquisite distress.
O, bless'd in ignorance! thrice happy clown!
Well may'st thou pipe and frisk it o'er the plain,
Well may he sing who never felt a frown,
Well may he smile who never met disdain.
For pity's sake the cruel kindness spare,
You who the soul are studious to refine;
Too much of sorrow man is doom'd to bear,
Ah! why expose him to a fate like mine?