Thou enterest on a stage, in sooth, Which few so fair unscathed may tread, And pardon, when it notes thy youth, Delight if dimm'd with dread. How well-how well, when yet a boy, An orb of glory and of joy, Of which thyself but saw the fall. And all of which Romance had dreamed, Look round-and where the bright-the holy- And apter Vice and craftier Folly, Where nobler Natures weep-despise. And Fashion smiles upon the crime, But frowns in wrath on the revealing; And nought save Silence, Memory, Time, Are hers, to whom a world was kneeling! Ah! doth the sin deserve the sting To gorge all Malice with her shame? And feel her glory grown a thing That Fops affect a scorn to claim ? And Thou, fair lady of my line, Sweet Namesake of my heart's recorded, Thou, too, art doom'd at least to shine Where nought save Art can be rewarded. In that false world to which thou 'rt chained, Who sins not, is too tame to reign; And Custom in an hour hath gained, What Vice for aye had stormed in vain. And duller-colder sins shall mar The gloss upon thy spirit's pinion; This sorcerer World but makes the star It most invokes, the most its minion. And all the pleasures which possess thee But dim thy heart while they caress thee;And Truth will lose her virgin beauty ;--And Art shall mould itself to Duty ;--And all that Fashion bids thee follow Leave Love forsworn and Friendship hollow. I would not meet thee when some years Have taught thy heart how folly sears, And trifles now so tempting frittered Away the youth they but embittered, When all our fancies most adore, Cling round that joyous form no more, When the still graces of the cheek Forget the soul's soft tale to speak. Nor would we seek to learn that tale, Nor court the coy thought from its veil, As one who with a charmed soul Sweet watch the while the lov'd one sleepeth ;--- But come-our robe aside we fling, No solemn measure at thy feet- When softer chords are touched, tho' lightly; Or, if our livelier satire steal A smile from one who smiles so brightly-- Too glad if thou wilt not despise A tale that boasts no charming' Giaours,' A strain that mingles smiles with sighs, Nor always smothers sense with flowersToo glad if thou but gently blame The simple string that ties our posies, Tho' violets take their wonted name, And rouge is banished from our roses--Too glad if thou the faults forgive, Which harsher eyes will judge severely; And if within thy memory live One line of His---who loves thee dearly! |