11. My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, That joy is harbinger of woe. XXVI. A Song. 1. THOU art not false, but thou art fickle, The tears that thou hast forc'd to trickle But her who not a thought disguises, 3. To dream of joy and wake to sorrow We scarce our fancy can forgive, To leave the waking soul more lonely, 4. What must they feel whom no false vision, But truest, tenderest passion warm'd? Sincere, but swift in sad transition, As if a dream alone had charm'd? XXVII. On being asked what was the "Origin of Love?" THE "Origin of Love!"-Ah why That cruel question ask of me? And should'st thou seek his end to know My heart forebodes, my fears foresee,}} He'll linger long in silent woe But live-until I cease to be. XXVIII. Remember him, &c. 1. REMEMBER him, whom passion's power Severely, deeply, vainly proved- Remember thou that dangerous hour When neither fell, though both were loved. S That yielding breast, that melting eye, That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh, 3. Oh! let me feel that all I lost, But saved thee all that conscience fears, And blush for every pang it cost 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. 5. Think that whate'er to others--thou Hast seen each selfish thought subdu'd; I bless thy purer soul even now, 6. Oh, God! that we had met in time Our hearts as fond-thy hand more free ; { When thou had'st lov'd without a crime, And I been less unworthy thee! 7. Far be thy days as heretofore From this our gaudy world be pass'd! And that too bitter moment o'er, Oh! may such trial be thy last! 8. This heart, alas! perverted long, Itself destroyed might there destroy; To meet thee in the glittering throng, Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. 9. Then to the things whose bliss or woe |