University of Virginia Library

TO MRS. ------.

Yes, Heav'n can witness how I strove
To love thee with a spirit's love;
To make thy purer wish my own,
And mingle with thy mind alone.
Oh! I appeal to those pure dreams
In which my soul has hung on thee,
And I've forgot thy witching form,
And I've forgot the liquid beams
That eye effuses, thrilling warm—
Yes, yes, forgot each sensual charm,
Each mad'ning spell of luxury,
That could seduce my soul's desires,
And bid it throb with guiltier fires.—
Such was my love, and many a time,
When sleep has giv'n thee to my breast,
And thou hast seem'd to share the crime
Which made thy lover wildly blest;
E'en then, in all that rich delusion,
When, by voluptuous visions fir'd,
My soul, in rapture's warm confusion,
Has on a phantom's lip expir'd!
E'en then some purer thoughts would steal
Amid my senses' warm excess;
And at the moment—oh! e'en then
I've started from thy melting press,
And blush'd for all I've dar'd to feel,
Yet sigh'd to feel it all again!—
Such was my love, and still, O still
I might have calm'd th'unholy thrill:
My heart might be a taintless shrine,
And thou its votive saint should be;
There, there I'd make thee all divine,
Myself divine in hon'ring thee.
But, oh! that night! that fatal night!
When, both bewilder'd, both betray'd,
We sunk beneath the flow of soul,
Which for a moment mock'd control;
And on the dang'rous kiss delay'd,
And almost yielded to delight!
God! how I wish'd, in that wild hour,
That lips alone, thus stamp'd with heat,
Had for a moment all the pow'r
To make our souls effusing meet!
That we might mingle by the breath
In all of love's delicious death;
And in a kiss at once be blest,
As, oh! we trembled at the rest!—
Pity me, love! I'll pity thee,
If thou indeed hast felt like me.
All, all my bosom's peace is o'er!
At night, which was my hour of calm,
When from the page of classic lore,
From the pure fount of ancient lay,
My soul has drawn the placid balm,
Which charm'd its little griefs away;
Ah! there I find that balm no more.
Those spells, which make us oft forget
The fleeting troubles of the day,
In deeper sorrows only whet
The stings they cannot tear away.
When to my pillow rack'd I fly,
With wearied sense and wakeful eye,
While my brain maddens, where, O where
Is that serene consoling pray'r,
Which once has harbinger'd my rest,
When the still soothing voice of Heaven
Has seem'd to whisper in my breast,
“Sleep on, thy errors are forgiven!”
No, though I still in semblance pray,
My thoughts are wandering far away;
And e'en the name of Deity
Is murmur'd out in sighs for thee!