 | Poems |  |
153
SUSPENCE.
AN ODE.
WRITTEN WHILE WAITING FOR THE COMING OF A LADY.
Shall I write—or still tormented,Musing sit, or lonely stray?
Yonder first—no, here contented,
Let me scribble care away.
Poh, 'tis idle—gods, I'll to her,
Venus, Cupid aid! vain fool,
What can they? Go, softly woe her,
Plead, and mingle soul with soul:
Quick adown that walk I'll wander—
Something white; oh sure 'tis she!
Nothing—nothing—ah, Leander,
Doubt is death to Helle's sea.
Watch! thou dotard time, move faster;—
But one hour—I thought it four!
Dull machine—unlike thy master,
Clicking even ever more!
All is hurry—expectation,
Panting, trembles in my breast;
Since I held her hand—vexation,
Thrice ten hundred minutes pass'd!
Come my love, my charmer, bless me,—
Or her thoughts, kind genius, bear!
But oh rather come, release me
From my soul-bewildering fear!
154
Aid the pleadings of my heart?
Hold—hold—torture past expressing—
Sure—she would not mock my smart!
Oh 'tis mighty—that same reason,
Spark divine—lord man's proud boast:
Love, his subject, rank in treason,
Hourly makes him quit the coast.
Little rebel, I'll subdue thee—
And thy dread companion doubt!
Nay, my friend, I still will woe thee;
Drive, but drive that monster out!
Send him to his proper station,
Lords, kings, ministers, or court,
Where the sons of expectation
Fall of place and promise short:
Send him to the bishop's palace,
Where the poor lean curate scouts:
Or to where, in suff'rings callous,
Client nine years law-suit doubts:
Send him just where is your pleasure,
Admirals, generals, surgeons-hall:
Playhouse poets, sharks of treasure,
E, O White's, or good Sir P---.
Vain, alas, my fond providing,
See, ah see—he haunts me here:
And with sneers my cares deriding,
Points me to the ideal fair:
Will she come? I fly to meet her:
Hence, vain muse, your rhymes I throw:
She comes, 'tis her—thanks, thanks, dear creature!
Blank—false, she's false—yet—
Sure she's true!
| Poems | |