 | Poems |  |
55
LAURA VINDICATED.
TO A FRIEND.
No, 'twas not love, in Laura's bower
Which made me oft consume the day;
She knew my heart owned Julia's power,
She knew my heart was far away.
Each soul but joyed a soul to meet,
With which itself could well agree:
Grief made to me her soothing sweet,
And Pity made her cherish me.
Which made me oft consume the day;
She knew my heart owned Julia's power,
She knew my heart was far away.
Each soul but joyed a soul to meet,
With which itself could well agree:
Grief made to me her soothing sweet,
And Pity made her cherish me.
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'Twas not because its purer white
From Scythian snow would gain the prize,
Which made me for whole hours delight
To watch her bosom's fall and rise:
But 'twas because that bosom swelled
With passions free from vice and art;
And 'twas because that bosom held
A generous, fond, and feeling heart.
From Scythian snow would gain the prize,
Which made me for whole hours delight
To watch her bosom's fall and rise:
But 'twas because that bosom swelled
With passions free from vice and art;
And 'twas because that bosom held
A generous, fond, and feeling heart.
'Twas not because her eyes were bright,
Which made me still with rapture view
Their orbs illume with azure light
Encircling seas of diamond-dew.
But 'twas [when first She heard, I pined
With love, which Honour's laws forbid]
Because a tear-drop soft and kind
Escaped from either lovely lid.
Which made me still with rapture view
Their orbs illume with azure light
Encircling seas of diamond-dew.
But 'twas [when first She heard, I pined
With love, which Honour's laws forbid]
Because a tear-drop soft and kind
Escaped from either lovely lid.
Oh! I've with her past days alone,
Nor bade her lips one kiss confer:
And oft we've talked in tenderest tone
Of love, yet ne'er of love for her:
But sometimes [when her gentle art
To lull my care some means has found]
So much her Friendship eased its smart,
I've thought, her Love might cure my wound,
Nor bade her lips one kiss confer:
And oft we've talked in tenderest tone
Of love, yet ne'er of love for her:
But sometimes [when her gentle art
To lull my care some means has found]
So much her Friendship eased its smart,
I've thought, her Love might cure my wound,
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But scarce the wish my mind could frame,
Before I scorned the selfish thought
Which aimed to load her soul with shame,
Who balm to mine had often brought.—
Friend, let these lines thy doubts remove,
For Laura's breast is Virtue's shrine:
It felt for me a Sister's love,
And found a Brother's heart in mine.
Before I scorned the selfish thought
Which aimed to load her soul with shame,
Who balm to mine had often brought.—
Friend, let these lines thy doubts remove,
For Laura's breast is Virtue's shrine:
It felt for me a Sister's love,
And found a Brother's heart in mine.
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