 | The rural lyre |  |
82
PAROXYSM OF THE MOMENT.
Fly me, Care! I will not be
Through the world a slave to thee!
Take thy fetters; know, my soul
Laughs, old Fiend, at thy controul.
O'er the feeble shake thy chain,
Nurse the love-sick widow's pain;
Dry the tear that leaves her eye,
Listen late and catch her sigh.
Tell her, to relieve her flame
Thou art come—She knows thy name.
Not the ghost that Fancy steals
From the charnel-house, reveals
Half the horrors of thy frown,
Half the serpents on thy crown,
Half the flames that round thee play
To burn my brain—Begone, I say!—
Guiltless rapture is my hire—
Is it that thou wouldst require?
Is it money? I have none—
Is it love?—I'll not be won—
Is it pity for the Great?
Take it. Misery weeps in state!
But thy woes and worldly wiles
Wound me not!—My Fancy smiles.
Through the world a slave to thee!
Take thy fetters; know, my soul
Laughs, old Fiend, at thy controul.
O'er the feeble shake thy chain,
Nurse the love-sick widow's pain;
Dry the tear that leaves her eye,
Listen late and catch her sigh.
Tell her, to relieve her flame
Thou art come—She knows thy name.
Not the ghost that Fancy steals
From the charnel-house, reveals
Half the horrors of thy frown,
Half the serpents on thy crown,
Half the flames that round thee play
To burn my brain—Begone, I say!—
83
Is it that thou wouldst require?
Is it money? I have none—
Is it love?—I'll not be won—
Is it pity for the Great?
Take it. Misery weeps in state!
But thy woes and worldly wiles
Wound me not!—My Fancy smiles.
Hither haste, luxurious Ease!
Bring thy phantoms form'd to please.
Lightly with ungirdled waist,
Mix my viands to thy taste;
Lay me softly on thy bed,
With thy roses bind my head;
Breathe a tender thrilling air,
Shed thy fragrance in my hair;
All my tones of spirit try,
Swift to pleasure set them high!
And, when thou hast finish'd, swear
Thou wilt shield my soul from Care.
Bring thy phantoms form'd to please.
Lightly with ungirdled waist,
Mix my viands to thy taste;
Lay me softly on thy bed,
With thy roses bind my head;
Breathe a tender thrilling air,
Shed thy fragrance in my hair;
All my tones of spirit try,
Swift to pleasure set them high!
And, when thou hast finish'd, swear
Thou wilt shield my soul from Care.
| The rural lyre | |