The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. |
STANZAS.
|
| III. |
 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
215
STANZAS.
[Why, if perchance thy gaze I meet]
Why, if perchance thy gaze I meet,
Glows my wan cheek with crimson dye?
Why do my languid pulses beat
With quick'ned throbs when thou art nigh?
Why does my fault'ring language fail,
My trembling form its strength forego;
Why do my quiv'ring lips turn pale,
Chill'd by the touch of secret woe?
Glows my wan cheek with crimson dye?
Why do my languid pulses beat
With quick'ned throbs when thou art nigh?
Why does my fault'ring language fail,
My trembling form its strength forego;
Why do my quiv'ring lips turn pale,
Chill'd by the touch of secret woe?
Say, when thy tuneful voice I hear,
Why does my anguish'd bosom swell?
Why steals the fond unbidding tear
The soul's dire agony to tell?
Why when my feeble hand you press,
And whisper passion's transport sweet,
Why do I shun the fond caress,
And dread thy ardent flame to meet?
Why does my anguish'd bosom swell?
Why steals the fond unbidding tear
The soul's dire agony to tell?
Why when my feeble hand you press,
And whisper passion's transport sweet,
Why do I shun the fond caress,
And dread thy ardent flame to meet?
216
Ah! 'tis because too well I know
Love is a tyrant fickle boy;
His smiles conceal the pangs of woe,
His dearest gift is short-liv'd joy.
He soars aloft on Lovers' sighs;
In breaking hearts his temple rears,
With cunning care he blinds our eyes,
Then, laughing, mocks our falling tears.
Love is a tyrant fickle boy;
His smiles conceal the pangs of woe,
His dearest gift is short-liv'd joy.
He soars aloft on Lovers' sighs;
In breaking hearts his temple rears,
With cunning care he blinds our eyes,
Then, laughing, mocks our falling tears.
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |