 | New Poems by George Crabbe |  |
Song—
When Jacob served in Rachel's sight,Herself his promised pay,
Seven years were past in such delight,
Each seemd a single day:
Swiftly the moments seemed to glide,
While they, no change discerning,
Considered not the turning tide,
Nor thought that Tide had turning:
But when the youth had gained his prize,
And slept, no Fear possessing,
No sooner had he oped his Eyes
Than lo! a view distressing.
“O! this is not the maid divine,
“To whom I made my vow;
“'Twas Rachel when I made her mine,
“But O! 'tis Leah now!”
So bright their view in Lovers' Eyes,
No stormy cloud appearing,
How fixed to them the changing skies,
And every sound how cheering,
They smile to hear of Ills to come,
From which, what pair are free?
“It may be so”, They cry, “with some;
“With us it will not be.”
But Fortune the affairs of Life
In other Mode arranges,
And Lo! how Rachel, made a wife,
To Leah quickly changes—
Alas! I fear we now are wrong,
This looks like Satire, not like Song,
A Song should be on Chloe's cheeks,
Her air that breathes—Her eye that speaks,
Her tongue that Wisdom's self confounds,
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With all the hundred thousand graces,
That truth or the true lover traces;
But Songs like these, if duly written,
Require an heart completely smitten—
| New Poems by George Crabbe | |