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But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'ertake us,
And our breasts which alive with such sympathy glow, Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us,
When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low:
Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure,
Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow; Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full measure,
And quaff the contents as our nectar below.
When, to their airy hall, my father's voice
TO M. S. G.
WHENE'ER I view those lips of thine
Their hue invites my fervent kiss; Yet I forgo 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,
United by the priest's decree; By any ties but those divine,
Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. Then let the secret fire consume,
Let it consume, thou shalt not know; With joy I court a certain doom,
Rather than spread its guilty glow.
I will not ease my tortured heart,
By driving dove-eyed peace from thine; Rather than such a sting impart,
Each thought presumptuous I resign. Yes ! yield those lips, for which I'd brave
More than I here shall dare to tell ; Thy innocence and mine to save,
I bid thee now a last farewell.
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.
Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,
Suffused in tears, implore to stay ;
Which said far more than words can say ?
Though keen the grief thy tears exprest,
When love and hope lay both o'erthrown; Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast
Throbbed with deep sorrow as thine own. But when our cheeks with anguish glowed,
When thy sweet lips were joined to mine,
Were lost in those which fell from thine.
Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek,
Thy gushing tears had quenched its flame,
In sighs alone it breathed my name.
And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,
In vain our fate in sighs deplore;
But that will make us weep the more.
Again, thou best beloved, adieu !
Ah! if thou canst o'ercome regret,
Our only hope is to forget!
THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE.
Away with your fictions of flimsy romance !
Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove; Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love. Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow,
Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove, From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow,
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love!
If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse,
Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove, Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse,
And try the effect of the first kiss of love.
I hate you, ye cold compositions of art,
Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove, I court the effusions that spring from the heart
Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love.
Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes,
Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move: Arcadia displays but a region of dreams;
What are visions like these to the first kiss of love?
Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth,
From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove; Some portion of paradise still is on earth,
And Eden revives in the first kiss of love.
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove – The dearest remembrance will still be the last, Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.