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Thou art not false but thou art fickle,
To those thyself so fondly sought;
Are doubly bitter from that thought:
The wholly false the heart despises,
And spurns deceiver and deceit; But she who not a thought disguises,
Whose love is as sincere as sweet,When she can change who loved so truly, It feels what mine has felt so newly.
To dream of joy and wake to sorrow
Is doom'd to all who love or live;
We scarce our fancy can forgive,
What must they feel whom no false vision,
But truest, tenderest passion warm'd?
As if a dream alone had charm'd?
ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE
“ORIGIN OF LOVE?”
THE “Origin of Love!"—Ah why
That cruel question ask of me,
He starts to life on seeing thee?
My heart forebodes, my fears foresee,
But live-until I cease to be.
REMEMBER HIM, &c.
REMEMBER him, whom passion's power
ely, deeply, vainly proved :
Remember thou that dangerous hour
When neither fell, though both were loved.
That yielding breast, that melting eye,
Too much invited to be blest:
The wilder wish reproved, represt.
Oh! let me feel that all I lost,
But saved thee all that conscience fears; And blush for every pang it cost
To spare the vain remorse of years.
Yet think of this when many a tongue,
Whose busy accents whisper blame, Would do the heart that loved thee wrong,
And brand a nearly blighted name,
Think that, whate'er to others, thou
Hast seen each selfish thought subdued : I bless thy purer soul even now,
Even now, in midnight solitude.
Oh, God! that we had met in time,
Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; When thou had'st loved without a crime,
And I been less unworthy thee!
7. Far may thy days, as heretofore,
From this our gaudy world be past ! And, that too bitter moment o'er,
Oh! may such trial be thy last!
This heart, alas! perverted long,
Itself destroy'd might there destroy ; To meet thee in the glittering throng,
Would wake Presumption's hope of joy.
Then to the things whose bliss or wo,.
Like mine, is wild and worthless all, That world resign-such scenes forego,
Where those who feel must surely fall.
Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,
Thy soul from long seclusion pure; From what even here hath past, may guess
where thy bosom must endure,
Oh! pardon that imploring tear,
Since not by Virtue shed in vain, My frenzy drew from eyes so dear;
For me they shall not weep again.
12. Though long and mournful must it be,
The thought that we no more may meet; Yet I deserve the stern decree,
And almost deem the sentence sweet.
Still, had I loved thee less, my heart
Had then less sacrificed to thine ; It felt not half so much to part,
As if its guilt had made thee mine.
INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL.
START not-nor deem my spirit fled :
In me behold the only skull, From which, unlike a living head, Whatever flows is never dull.