 | Valentine Verses |  |
153
THE ENNUYEE.
'Tis all in vain! books, scenes, pens, pencils fail;
'Tis all in vain! my work, my sight, my mind;
'Tis all in vain! my senses will prevail;
E'en words, are nothing. In the day I find,
Ten thousand thoughts incessantly inclin'd
To call me back, to pleasures past and gone;—
To vow's no longer mine!—I've none, I've none.
'Tis all in vain! my work, my sight, my mind;
'Tis all in vain! my senses will prevail;
E'en words, are nothing. In the day I find,
Ten thousand thoughts incessantly inclin'd
To call me back, to pleasures past and gone;—
To vow's no longer mine!—I've none, I've none.
O what are men? One man, whom nature graced,
And Virtue seem'd to nestle in his heart;
One man, from memory O ne'er defaced,
Who acted strangely, a deceiver's part.—
This line, if conscience makes the guilty start,
May chance to strike him; He was all to me,
And now, though all, as nothing he must be.
And Virtue seem'd to nestle in his heart;
One man, from memory O ne'er defaced,
Who acted strangely, a deceiver's part.—
This line, if conscience makes the guilty start,
May chance to strike him; He was all to me,
And now, though all, as nothing he must be.
154
How long I suffer, or am doom'd to live!
How long I sorrow, 'till in earth I lie!
How long I wearily must weep! I'd give
The world to tell the moment I must die.
To-day with pleasure could I wish to fly
From earth to Heaven; but it must not be,
I am not fit,—a wretched Ennuyee.
How long I sorrow, 'till in earth I lie!
How long I wearily must weep! I'd give
The world to tell the moment I must die.
To-day with pleasure could I wish to fly
From earth to Heaven; but it must not be,
I am not fit,—a wretched Ennuyee.
And is it so! Young Woman, take advice,
Rouse thee this instant from a scene of woe;
Wail not, but come, I'll tell thee in a trice
How to cure sorrow! for I truly know:
'Tis vain, such languid lifelessness to show,—
I feel not harshly; write a line to me,
I have receipt to cure the Ennuyee.
Rouse thee this instant from a scene of woe;
Wail not, but come, I'll tell thee in a trice
How to cure sorrow! for I truly know:
'Tis vain, such languid lifelessness to show,—
I feel not harshly; write a line to me,
I have receipt to cure the Ennuyee.
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