DEAR simple girl, those flattering arts, Mere phantoms of thine own creation; Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, July, 1804 TO October 26, 1806. TO MISS PIGOT.† ELIZA, what fools are the Mussulman sect, Who to women deny the soul's future existence, Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their defect, And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance. Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, He ne'er would have women from paradise driven, Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence, With women alone he had peopled his heaven. Yet still to increase your calamities more, Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, He allots one poor husband to share amongst four! With souls you'd dispense; but this last, who could bear it? His religion to please neither party is made; On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives most uncivil; Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been said, "Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the devil." "And my body shall sleep on its bier."-Private volume. Found only in the private volume, 418 Had Fortune aided Nature's care, For once forgetting to be blind, His would have been an ample share, If well-proportion'd to his mind. But had the goddess clearly seen, His form had fix'd her fickle breast; Her countless hoards would his have been, And none remain'd to give the rest. ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY,* COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY DEAR TO HIM.† HUSH'D are the winds, and still the evening gloom, Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, That clay where once such animation beam'd; The King of Terrors seized her as his prey, Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd. Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel, Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate! Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, Not here the muse her virtues would relate. But wherefore weep? her matchless spirit soars Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day; And weeping angels lead her to those bowers Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay. And shall presumptuous mortals heaven arraign, Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear, Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face; Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, Still in my heart retain their wonted place. TO EMMA. SINCE now the hour is come at last, When you must quit your anxious lover; Since now our dream of bliss is past, One pang, my girl, and all is over. Alas! that pang will be severe, Which bids us part to meet no more, Which tears me far from one so dear, Departing for a distant shore. • Miss Parker. To these stanzas, which are from the private volume, the following note this piece then, perhaps, any other in the collection; but as it was written at an earlier period than the rest (being composed at the age of fourteen,) and his first essay, he pref red submitting it to the indulgence of his friends in was attached: "The author claims the indulgence of the reader more for present state, to making either addition or alteration." • This poem is inserted from he private volure. SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age Not one poor trembler only fear betrays, TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY. § Oн, factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. TO M. S. G.* WHENE'ER I view those lips of thine, Their hue invites my fervent kiss; Yet I forego that bliss divine, Alas! it were unhallowed bliss. Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, How could I dwell upon its snows? Yet is the daring wish represt, For that, would banish its repose. A glance from thy soul-searching eye Can raise with hope, depress with fear; Yet I conceal my love, and why? I would not force a painful tear. I ne'er have told my love, yet thou Hast seen my ardent flame too well; And shall I plead my passion now, To make thy bosom's heaven a hell? No! for thou never canst be mine, Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. Then let the secret fire consume, I will not ease my tortured heart, Each thought presumptuous I resign. Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave Yes, yield that breast to seek despair, And hope no more thy soft embrace, Which to obtain my soul would dare, All, all reproach, but thy disgrace. At least from guilt shalt thou be free, No matron shall thy shame reprove, Though cureless pangs may prey on me, No martyr shalt thou be to love. TO CAROLINE.† THINK'ST thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, Though keen the grief thy tears exprest, When love and hope lay both o'erthrown; Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. Only printed in the private volume. ↑ Printed only in the private volume. |