For to my soul she brought the sweet conviction,
That he was noble, generous, and refin'd:
Such as bright Fancy oft pourtrays in fiction,
With every charm to fascinate the mind.
Then Reason whisper'd he could ne'er deceive me,
Or with feign'd vows of tenderness beguile;
And little reck'd I that it e'er would grieve me,
To catch his looks of love, his heavenly smile.
Even now, when adverse fortune bids us sever,
Amid my sighs and tears she brings relief:
She tells me that his heart is mine for ever,
And that his virtues sanctify my grief.
Thus the heart-rending pangs of secret sadness, Reason has nurtur'd, but can ne'er remove : No! she must die with grief, or rave in madness, Ere for a moment I can cease to love!
FROM THE ABBATE BUONDELMONTE,
UNDER Friendship's fair disguise,
Love, in smiling frolic, lies;
Or, affecting anger, now,
Furls like Scorn its wrinkled brow;
Nay, with Hatred's sullen mien,
Crafty Love is frequent seen;
Pity's face too oft it wears,
Bath'd in subtle, well-feign'd tears:
But beware Love's wanton wiles,
O! beware his tears, and smiles;
Love in every form, believe,
Still is Love, and will deceive.
FRIEND of my heart! you ask in vain,
I cannot from my much lov'd lyre
Call forth the rapid, glowing strain;
Chill'd is the Muse's genial fire:
Sunk in profound repose she lies,
Lethean slumbers seal her eyes.
For see, no fair scene smiles around,
No warm sun bids the buds unclose;
No wild flowers sweet bedeck the ground,
No stream in tuneful murmurs flows;
No birds gay carol in the trees,
Nor sighs the foliage to the breeze:
But all is cheerless, bleak, and bare,
Save where just peeps the snow-drop's bell;
Chill fogs hang heavy on the air;
The blast raves loudly through the dell; And wet, and numb'd, the toiling swain Unwilling treads the miry plain.
how I contrive to spend The long-protracted gloomy hours, Since now, no more the Muse, my friend, Exerts her care-dispelling powers?
List: I will tell you how I strive
Far from my breast dark thoughts to drive:
If not too sternly frowns the day;
From social breakfast, when I rise,
I to the busy, city stray,
And ask some politician wise-
What army's beat, what state must fall
Before the hateful anarch, Gaul?
But, much more do I love to meet
The tender friends my heart holds dear:
Delighted, to their converse sweet
I listen with attentive ear;
Till pining Sorrow sleeps awhile,
And Pleasure wakes again a smile.
There, as I gaze on Stella's eyes,
Though mute, that eloquently speak; Hear Laura's voice like Zephyr's sighs, And mark the bloom on Mira's cheek; I think on her, the maid divine, In whom these varied beauties join!
Should winds and clouds the day deform,
I bid the cheering fire blaze bright,
And, shutting out the driving storm,
From morning dawn till dusky night
I sit, like some sage wight profound,
With countless volumes scatter'd round.
Intent with curious eye, I pore
O'er many a philosophic scroll;
Search History's exhaustless store,
The deeds of elder time unroll;
See serried legions crowd the field,
And free-born states to tyrants yield.
I turn the Chian-minstrel's page,
There, brutal Diomed appears;
There stern Pelides' quenchless rage,
There sad Andromache in tears:
I sigh o'er godlike Hector's fate,
And lofty Ilion's sinking state.
Oft, rapt by Ariosto's verse,
Or his who sang on Mulla's shore, I combat firm, with monsters fierce,
Rush to where swells the battle's roar; Or wondering stray through fairy bowers, Through trophied halls, and moss-clad towers,
Lo, Shakespeare waves his potent wand:
On wings of wind light spirits ride,
Embodied, at his high command,
Sons of past years before me glide :
Aw'd by the wild and solemn tones,
My soul his mighty magic owns.
With tender Petrarch, sad, I weep;
The realms of woe with Dante dare:
On venturous wing, with Milton sweep
Heaven's arch, and breathe inspiring air;
Or, hurried to the Boreal clime,
I trace the mystic Runic-rhyme.
Thus charm'd, unmark'd each moment steals,
Till roused by midnight-bell unblest,
I seek my bed;-where soft Sleep seals
My weary eyes in balmy rest;
And, glowing with each favourite theme,
I of Love, Hope, and Sorrow dream.
Inglorious now, on silent wings,
Thus moves day after day along;
But soon my lov'd lyre's slumbering strings
Will I awake; soon shall the song
Sacred to Glory's awful charms,
In rapid numbers call to arms!
CHARLES, grave or merry, at no lie would stick,
And taught at length his mem'ry the same trick.
Believing thus, what he so oft repeats,
He's brought the thing to such a pass, poor youth!
That now himself, and no one else, he cheats,
Save when unluckily he tells the truth.
An evil spirit's on thee, friend! of late-
Ev'n from the hour thou cam'st to thy estate.
Thy mirth all gone, thy kindness, thy discretion,
Th' estate has prov'd to thee a most complete possession.
Shame, shame, old friend! would'st thou be truly blest,
Be thy wealth's lord, not slave! possessor; not possess'd.
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