 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
27
DAMON and SYLVIA.
From forth the church, all-blithsome, gay,
The youthful Damon came,
Handing his Bride in trim array,
A fair and wealthy dame;
Whilst poor forsaken Sylvia stood,
Her lilly'd cheek devoid of blood.
The youthful Damon came,
Handing his Bride in trim array,
A fair and wealthy dame;
Whilst poor forsaken Sylvia stood,
Her lilly'd cheek devoid of blood.
“Oh, Damon, Damon, perjur'd youth,
“But for a moment stay,
“Are all your vows and boasted truth
“Like Gosmore blown away?—
“Give, give me back my heart again;—
“You cannot—for 'tis broke in twain.
“But for a moment stay,
“Are all your vows and boasted truth
“Like Gosmore blown away?—
“Give, give me back my heart again;—
“You cannot—for 'tis broke in twain.
“Did you not swear for Me alone
“Each vow to heav'n did rise?
“Did you not swear a Monarch's throne
“Without Me you'd despise?
“I, witless, thought you true as dove,
“And by my own weigh'd Damon's love.
“Each vow to heav'n did rise?
“Did you not swear a Monarch's throne
“Without Me you'd despise?
“I, witless, thought you true as dove,
“And by my own weigh'd Damon's love.
“But Wealth, that bane of Constancy,
“Lur'd Damon's heart away,
“On swallow-wings false Riches fly—
“True Love can ne'er decay:
“Had I the world to give—you know,
“That world on Damon I'd bestow.
“Lur'd Damon's heart away,
“On swallow-wings false Riches fly—
“True Love can ne'er decay:
“Had I the world to give—you know,
“That world on Damon I'd bestow.
28
“Was there a pain touch'd Damon's breast,
“But Sylvia doubly knew?
“Was there a joy to make me blest,
“But took its rise from You?
“Was there a wish—(Why heaves this sigh?)—
“Of Damon's that I cou'd deny?
“But Sylvia doubly knew?
“Was there a joy to make me blest,
“But took its rise from You?
“Was there a wish—(Why heaves this sigh?)—
“Of Damon's that I cou'd deny?
“Behold the face you once so prais'd,
“With grief how pale, how wan!—
“Those eyes, on which you so have gaz'd,
“How dim—how woe-begone!
“Cou'd you my inmost bosom bare,
“You'd Damon see—and black Despair.
“With grief how pale, how wan!—
“Those eyes, on which you so have gaz'd,
“How dim—how woe-begone!
“Cou'd you my inmost bosom bare,
“You'd Damon see—and black Despair.
“But hold—I came not to upbraid,
“I hither came to die;—
“Beneath the turf when Sylvia's laid,
“Give but one tender sigh;
“'Tis all I ask, 'tis all I want,
“Happy if this small boon you grant.”—
“I hither came to die;—
“Beneath the turf when Sylvia's laid,
“Give but one tender sigh;
“'Tis all I ask, 'tis all I want,
“Happy if this small boon you grant.”—
She said—and straight a dagger aim'd,
It quaff'd her bosom's gore;
That bosom which, with Love inflam'd,
Despair had pierc'd before;—
Inconstant Damon felt the blow,
And all his future days were woe.
It quaff'd her bosom's gore;
That bosom which, with Love inflam'd,
Despair had pierc'd before;—
Inconstant Damon felt the blow,
And all his future days were woe.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |