Thou late best blessing of my joyful heart,
Now grown my grief, since I must now depart,
Behold the pangs I bear; look up and see
How much I grieve to go; and comfort me.
Curse on that cunning traitor's smooth deceit,
Whose craft has made me, to my ruin, great.
Curse on that artifice by which I fell,
Curse on these hands for wielding swords so well.
Tho' I should ne'er so fit for battle prove,
All my ambition's to be fit for love.
In his soft wars I would my life beguile,
With thee contend in the transporting toil,
Ravish'd to read my triumph in thy smile.
Boldly I'd strive, yet e'en when conqu❜ring yield
To thee the glory of the bloodless field.
With liquid fires, melt thy rich beauties down;
Rifle thy wealth, yet give thee all my own.
So should our wars be rapture and delight;
But now I'm summon'd to another fight.
'Tis not my fault that I am forced away;
But when my honor calls I must obey.
Durst I not death and ev'ry danger brave,
I were not worthy of the bliss I have.
More hazards than another would I meet,
Only to lay more laurels at your feet.
Oh! do not fear that I should faithless prove,
For you, my only life, have all my love.
The thought of you shall help me to subdue,
I'll conquer, faster, to return to you.
But, if my honors should be laid in dust,
And I must fall, as heav'n has said I must;
Ev'n in my death my only grief will be
That I for ever shall be snatch'd from thee!
That, that alone occasions all my fears,
Shakes my resolves, and melts me into tears.
My beating heart pants to thee as I speak,
And wishes rather than depart to break.
Feel how it trembles with a panic fright:
Sure it will never fail me thus in fight!
I cannot longer hold this fond discourse,
For now the trumpets sound our sad divorce.
Sound every trumpet there, beat ev'ry drum;
Use all your charms to make Achilles come.
Farewel -alas! I have not time to tell
How wond'rous loth I part,
Remember me, as I'll remember you,
Like me be constant, and like me be true:
Gods! I shall ne'er be gone; adieu, adieu, adieu
WAS night, and Heaven intent with all its eyes
Gazed on the dear deceitful maid;
A thousand pretty things she said,
A thousand artful tricks she play'd,
From me, deluded me, her falsehood to disguise.
She clasp'd me in her soft encircling arms,
She press'd her glowing cheek to mine,
The clinging ivy, or the curling vine,
Did never yet so closely twine;
Who could be man and bear the lustre of her charms?
By all the powers above,
"When winter storms shall cease to roar,
"When summer suns shall shine no more,
"When wolves their cruelty give o'er,
"Neæra then, and not till then, shall cease to love."
Ah! false Neæra! perjured fair! but know
I have a soul too great to bear
A rival's proud insulting air;
Another may be found as fair,
As fair, ungrateful nymph! and far more just than
Should'st thou repent, and at my feet be laid
Dejected, penitent, forlorn,
And all thy former follies mourn,
Thy proffer'd passion I would scorn :The gods shall do me right on that devoted head.
He who could first two gentle hearts unbind,
And rob a lover of his weeping fair,
Hard was the man, but harder in my mind
The lover still who died not of despair!
With mean disguise let others nature hide,
And mimic virtue with the paint of art,
I scorn the cheat of reason's foolish pride,
And boast the graceful weakness of my heart.
The more I think the more I feel my pain,
And learn the more each heavenly charm to prize;
While fools too light for passion safe remain,
And dull sensation keeps the stupid wise.
Sad is my day and sad my lingering night,
When wrapt in silent grief I weep alone;
Delia is lost, and all my past delight
Is now the source of unavailing moan.
Where is the wit that heighten'd beauty's charms! Where is the face that fed my longing eyes? Where is the shape that might have blest my arms Where are those hopes relentless fate denies?
When spent with endless grief I die at last,
Delia may come and see my poor remains,―
Oh Delia! after such an absence past,
Can'st thou still love, and not forget my pains?
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