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Then frown not, fairest! if I try
To steal the moisture from your eye,
Or force your heart a sigh to send,
To mourn the Lover and the Friend.

No perfect joy my life e'er knew,
But what arose from love and you,
Nor can I fear another pain

Than your unkindness or disdain :
Then let your looks their pity lend,
To cheer the Lover and the Friend.

Whole years I strove against the flame,
And suffer'd ills that want a name;
Yet still the painful secret kept,
And to myself in silence wept,
Till, grown unable to contend,
I own'd the Lover and the Friend.

I saw you still: your generous heart
In all my sorrows bore a part,
Yet while your eyes with pity glow'd
No words of hope your tongue bestow'd,
But mildly bid me cease to blend
The name of Lover with the Friend.
Sick with desire, and mad with pain,
I seek for happiness in vain:
Thou, lovely maid! to thee I cry ;
Heal me with kindness, or I die!
From sad despair my soul defend,
And fix the Lover and the Friend.

Cursed be all wealth that can destroy
My utmost hope of earthly joy!
Thy gifts, O Fortune, I resign,
Let her and Poverty be mine!

And every year that life shall lend

Shall bless the Lover and the Friend.

In vain, alas! in vain I strive
To keep a dying hope alive:
The last sad remedy remains ;
"Tis absence that must heal my pains,
Thy image from my bosom rend,

And force the Lover from the Friend.

Vain thought! though seas between us roll,
Thy love is rooted in my soul;

The vital blood that warms my heart

With thy idea must depart,

And Death's decisive stroke must end

At once the Lover and the Friend.



HOPELESS, bereft of every joy

That life can give, or love destroy,
No opiate now can lull to rest,

But cold despondence chills my breast;
On my wan cheek the colour dies,
And every grace neglected flies;
My languid eyes no longer glow,

Their sparkling lustre dimm'd with woe

Slow lingering thus, I sink into the tomb,

Nor would I breathe a wish to' avert the' untimely doom.

For now, alas! these boasted charms
That fill'd each swain with soft alarms,

No longer please the' inconstant youth,
Whose late pledged vows of endless truth
Beguiled a heart unskill'd to feign,
Or mock the pleading lover's pain;
In vain he vow'd; his fickle mind
Nor vows control, nor faith can bind;
But fond of conquest, his insidious arts

Of soft believing maids still court the' unpractised

Yet thus though life's gay dreams are fled,
And every hope within me dead,

Low as I press my early bier

O'er me shall drop sweet friendship's tear,
And love-lorn maidens heave the sigh

Of balmy-breathing sympathy;

Pale o'er the spot where I am laid

The rustic primrose rear its head,

And mournful cypress shade the hallow'd space, Where Maia sleeps in peace, lock'd in death's cold embrace.

And thou, if chance should guide thee near
And bend thy steps to Maia's bier,

False youth! wilt thou suppress the sigh,
And cold avert thy cruel eye?

Wilt thou not rather curse thy art

Which sunk too deeply in my heart,

And mourn the perjured oaths you swore

To win the maid beloved no more;

Weep o'er my wrongs when 'tis, alas! too late,
And with repentant soul deplore sad Maia's fate!

When shelter'd in the silent urn

No more with fatal flames I burn;


What fruitless pangs will rend thy breast,
And urge what it so long repress'd!
Thy trembling lips will then upbraid
The guilty vows they lately made,
And many a keen regret shall dwell
On her thou taught'st to love too well;
While Passion's tide to purer bliss aspires,

And pitying Heaven accepts poor Maia's last desires.



O MARY! whilst the beams of joy
Within thy fickle bosom shine,
Thou little heedst, thou little know'st,
The bitter pangs that torture mine.
Whilst Fancy paints the world serene,
And Hope with wanton song beguiles;
I sigh amidst the crowded scene,
And think on thy deluding smiles.
When Rapture to her hall invites,

Or bids thee through her mazes fly,
The night-star guides my wandering feet,
The chill gale bears my wasting sigh.
Each mournful night my footstep calls
To ruin'd scenes and tottering aisles;
Where far from Rapture's revel halls,

I think on thy deluding smiles.

O Mary! when the bands of sleep

With sweet compulsion seal thine eyes, Think'st thou the dream that crowns thy rest E'er to my couch of sorrow flies?

The only bliss my soul can know,
The only vision that beguiles,
Is just to steal awhile from woe,
And dream of thy deluding smiles.
When to the voice of Pride I turn,

And clothe my sorrow in disdain;
When darkness shrouds my sinking form,
And silence lures me to complain;
Alike in dreary scenes forlorn,

Or 'midst the world's betraying wiles, Fond Memory checks the rising scorn, And dwells on thy deluding smiles.



THE tears I shed must ever fall;
I mourn not for an absent swain,
For thought can past delights recall,
And parted lovers meet again.

I weep not for the silent dead,

Their toils are pass'd, their sorrows o'er, And those they loved their steps shall tread, And death shall join to part no more.

Though boundless oceans roll'd between,
If certain that his heart is near,
A conscious transport glads each scene,
Soft is the sigh, and sweet the tear.
E'en when by Death's cold hand removed
We mourn the tenant of the tomb,
To think that e'en in death he loved,
Can gild the horrors of the gloom.

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