Disappointed Love
Where yonder ivy clasps Religion's dome,
And in its vest of solemn green attires;
Where the high grass looks down on man's last home,
And each base weed above him proud aspires;
A youth is laid, who long ne'er knew to close
Those eyes, that now are clos'd for ever there:
No more in Virtue's cause his bosom glows;
No more on Misery drops his honest tear.
Mild as the breath that fans the vernal sky,
His soul, Benevolence, was all thine own!
Open as day, in his ingenuous eye,
Th' unclouded rays of guileless candour shone!
'Twas not in anxious friendship's soothing aid,
'Twas not in potent med'cine's lenient art,
Of fixt despair to raise the drooping head,
To heal the bruises of a wounded heart.
He heard not him whose words essay'd to save,
Or gloomy smil'd at Comfort's idle breath;
Loathing his food, and longing for his grave,
He nurs'd the dreadful appetite of death.
Shy and unsocial was he wont to roam,
With careless hand attir'd, in crazy mood;
All heedless, or of hours, or friends, or home,
The polish'd savage of the shaggy wood.
Unwarn'd by dewy nights' descending shade,
(Ah! 'tis not sickness hardy Sorrow fears!)
Unwearied with his way, the rambler stray'd,
And liv'd on Mis'ry's bitter meat, his tears!
His ardent heart for one too lovely burn'd;
By one too fair that ardent heart was broke:
He felt the transport of a love return'd;
He felt the torment of a heart sorsook.
He knew her in her childhood's artless day;
Him of the tiny throng she lov'd the best;
Her infant favours bless'd the hour of play,
The fairy mistress of his baby breast.
Then, to her little fav'rite was she true;
Successless, then, each cherub rival strove;
With growing years the mutual fondness grew,
Till ripen'd Beauty's blush proclaim'd it love.
Yet with that blush, to Beauty's self that lent
A dearer charm and more bewitching grace,
The artless smile of undisguis'd consent
Beam'd sweetly forth, and shar'd an angel face!
Oh, transports pure! that wings ye had not worn!
Fleeting, as pure! for, ah, too swift ye flew!
Full soon the lover (with what anguish torn!)
Found the fair object of his trust untrue.
A suitor came; Fortune's high plumes he bore,
All gay in Fortune's sumptuous car he came;
Of all seducing wealth a boundless store
Lent a resistless splendour to his claim.
On the bright claim each dazzled parent smil'd,
Of rapturous love the wild romance deride,
Seduce with specious words their yielding child,
And fling the garb of prudence o'er their pride.
With filial rev'rence Vanity conspir'd;
Visions of Grandeur to her fancy rise!
The glittering phantom soon her bosom fir'd,
And Truth's chaste colours fade before her eyes.
Now, to her mind a mournful form appears!
Reproach and mute despair possess his face!
Now, pomp's bright shapes, returning, dry her tears,
And from the scene the injur'd phantom chase.
Thenceforth to him, sad exile from her eyes,
Heav'n's lightsome vault seem'd Horror's dreary cave:
Of her's bereft, no smile of earth or skies
Could lure his wish from yonder peaceful grave!
Soon of that sacred tower each leaping bell
Proclaim'd another's triumph to his ear;
Of each fond hope extinct he heard the knell!
The festive sounds insulted his despair!
But heal'd are all his wounds: his woes are past:
Still lies his quiet heart to move no more:
The agitated thing has stopp'd at last.
And giv'n its wild tumultuous beatings o'er.
Yonder he lies; — the grass has cloth'd his grave:
Ah! 'tis the grave alone consoles Despair!
There, fair deserter, has thy tranquil slave
Forgot thy face, nor knows that thou art fair.
Sad penitent! too late thy tears deplore
A loss, life's brilliant scenes can ne'er supply:
Full soon the baseless joys of pride are o'er
The Muse has heard thee, 'mid thy splendours, sigh!
Not stately roofs, nor India's rich array;
Nor public admiration's flatt'ring eye;
Nor blaze of tapers, nor the concourse gay;
Nor all the breath of warbling Italy;
Have power to heal the lacerated breast,
By keen regret of love's lost pleasures torn!
Have power to charm that living pang to rest
Which mourns a faithful lover left forlorn!
Of crowns and garlands could the showy pride
Console the pagan victim's ebbing life?
Could sweetest odours sooth it as it died?
Or incense soften the keen-pointed knife?
Inhuman fathers! who to Hymen's fane
The lovely victims of your av'rice lead;
Deck'd by your mocking hands with trappings vain,
To writhe in ribbands, and in pomp to bleed.
And in its vest of solemn green attires;
Where the high grass looks down on man's last home,
And each base weed above him proud aspires;
A youth is laid, who long ne'er knew to close
Those eyes, that now are clos'd for ever there:
No more in Virtue's cause his bosom glows;
No more on Misery drops his honest tear.
Mild as the breath that fans the vernal sky,
His soul, Benevolence, was all thine own!
Open as day, in his ingenuous eye,
Th' unclouded rays of guileless candour shone!
'Twas not in anxious friendship's soothing aid,
'Twas not in potent med'cine's lenient art,
Of fixt despair to raise the drooping head,
To heal the bruises of a wounded heart.
He heard not him whose words essay'd to save,
Or gloomy smil'd at Comfort's idle breath;
Loathing his food, and longing for his grave,
He nurs'd the dreadful appetite of death.
Shy and unsocial was he wont to roam,
With careless hand attir'd, in crazy mood;
All heedless, or of hours, or friends, or home,
The polish'd savage of the shaggy wood.
Unwarn'd by dewy nights' descending shade,
(Ah! 'tis not sickness hardy Sorrow fears!)
Unwearied with his way, the rambler stray'd,
And liv'd on Mis'ry's bitter meat, his tears!
His ardent heart for one too lovely burn'd;
By one too fair that ardent heart was broke:
He felt the transport of a love return'd;
He felt the torment of a heart sorsook.
He knew her in her childhood's artless day;
Him of the tiny throng she lov'd the best;
Her infant favours bless'd the hour of play,
The fairy mistress of his baby breast.
Then, to her little fav'rite was she true;
Successless, then, each cherub rival strove;
With growing years the mutual fondness grew,
Till ripen'd Beauty's blush proclaim'd it love.
Yet with that blush, to Beauty's self that lent
A dearer charm and more bewitching grace,
The artless smile of undisguis'd consent
Beam'd sweetly forth, and shar'd an angel face!
Oh, transports pure! that wings ye had not worn!
Fleeting, as pure! for, ah, too swift ye flew!
Full soon the lover (with what anguish torn!)
Found the fair object of his trust untrue.
A suitor came; Fortune's high plumes he bore,
All gay in Fortune's sumptuous car he came;
Of all seducing wealth a boundless store
Lent a resistless splendour to his claim.
On the bright claim each dazzled parent smil'd,
Of rapturous love the wild romance deride,
Seduce with specious words their yielding child,
And fling the garb of prudence o'er their pride.
With filial rev'rence Vanity conspir'd;
Visions of Grandeur to her fancy rise!
The glittering phantom soon her bosom fir'd,
And Truth's chaste colours fade before her eyes.
Now, to her mind a mournful form appears!
Reproach and mute despair possess his face!
Now, pomp's bright shapes, returning, dry her tears,
And from the scene the injur'd phantom chase.
Thenceforth to him, sad exile from her eyes,
Heav'n's lightsome vault seem'd Horror's dreary cave:
Of her's bereft, no smile of earth or skies
Could lure his wish from yonder peaceful grave!
Soon of that sacred tower each leaping bell
Proclaim'd another's triumph to his ear;
Of each fond hope extinct he heard the knell!
The festive sounds insulted his despair!
But heal'd are all his wounds: his woes are past:
Still lies his quiet heart to move no more:
The agitated thing has stopp'd at last.
And giv'n its wild tumultuous beatings o'er.
Yonder he lies; — the grass has cloth'd his grave:
Ah! 'tis the grave alone consoles Despair!
There, fair deserter, has thy tranquil slave
Forgot thy face, nor knows that thou art fair.
Sad penitent! too late thy tears deplore
A loss, life's brilliant scenes can ne'er supply:
Full soon the baseless joys of pride are o'er
The Muse has heard thee, 'mid thy splendours, sigh!
Not stately roofs, nor India's rich array;
Nor public admiration's flatt'ring eye;
Nor blaze of tapers, nor the concourse gay;
Nor all the breath of warbling Italy;
Have power to heal the lacerated breast,
By keen regret of love's lost pleasures torn!
Have power to charm that living pang to rest
Which mourns a faithful lover left forlorn!
Of crowns and garlands could the showy pride
Console the pagan victim's ebbing life?
Could sweetest odours sooth it as it died?
Or incense soften the keen-pointed knife?
Inhuman fathers! who to Hymen's fane
The lovely victims of your av'rice lead;
Deck'd by your mocking hands with trappings vain,
To writhe in ribbands, and in pomp to bleed.
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