Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, And Manhood claims his stern dominion; Age will not every hope destroy, But yield some hours of sober joy. Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing To soothe its wonted heedless flow; Though now on airy visions borne, To you my soul is still the same. Oft has it been my fate to mourn, And all my former joys are tame. VOL. V. But, hence! ye hours of sable hue! I'll think upon your shade no more. Attuned to love her languid lyre; But now, without a theme to choose, The strains in stolen sighs expire. My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown; E- is a wife, and C And Carolina sighs alone, a mother, And Mary's given to another; And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me, Can now no more my love recall: In truth, dear L , 'twas time to flee; For Cora's eye will shine on all. And though the sun, with genial rays, And every lady's eye's a sun, These last should be confined to one. The aid which once improved their light, And bade them burn with fiercer glow, Now quenches all their sparks in night; Thus has it been with passion's fires, As many a boy and girl remembers, While all the force of love expires, Extinguish'd with the dying embers. But now, dear L—, 'tis midnight's noon, And clouds obscure the watery moon, Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, Described in every stripling's verse; For why should I the path go o'er, Which every bard has trod before? Yet ere yon silver lamp of night Has thrice perform'd her stated round, Which once contain❜d our youth's retreat; * TO 1. OH! had my fate been join'd with thine, 2. To thee these early faults I owe, To thee, the wise and old reproving: They know my sins, but do not know "Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. 3. For once my soul, like thine, was pure, 4. Perhaps his peace I could destroy, Yet let my rival smile in joy, For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. *First published in the first edition of Hours of Idleness.-ED. 5. Ah! since thy angel form is gone, My heart no more can rest with any; But what it sought in thee alone, Attempts, alas! to find in many. 6. Then fare thee well, deceitful maid, 7. Yet all this giddy waste of years, This tiresome round of palling pleasures; These varied loves, these matron's fears, These thoughtless strains to Passion's measures; 8. If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd: This cheek, now pale from early riot, With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd, But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. 9. Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, And once my breast abhorr'd deceit, For then it beat but to adore thee. |