Sweet girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne’er forget;
And though we ne’er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain;
I would not say, “I love,”
but still,
My senses struggle with my will:
In vain to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt;
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies:
Perhaps, this is not love, but yet,
Our meeting I can ne’er forget.
What, though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke;
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale it never feels:
Deceit, the guilty lips impart,
And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul’s interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise.
As thus our glances oft convers’d,
And all our bosoms felt rehears’d,
No spirit, from within, reprov’d
us,
Say rather, “’twas the spirit
mov’d us.”
Though, what they utter’d, I repress,
Yet I conceive thou’lt partly guess;
For as on thee, my memory ponders,
Perchance to me, thine also wanders.
This, for myself, at least, I’ll
say,
Thy form appears through night, through
day;
Awake, with it my fancy teems,
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;
The vision charms the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora’s ray
For breaking slumbers of delight,
Which make me wish for endless night.
Since, oh! whate’er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await;
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image, I can ne’er forget.
Alas! again no more we meet,
No more our former looks repeat;
Then, let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom’s care:
“May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
That anguish never can o’ertake
her;
That peace and virtue ne’er forsake
her,
But bliss be aye her heart’s partaker!
Oh! may the happy mortal, fated [i]
To be, by dearest ties, related,
For her, each hour, new joys
discover, [ii]
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair bosom never know
What ’tis to feel the restless woe,
Which stings the soul, with vain regret,
Of him, who never can forget!”
1806.
[Footnote 1:
Whom the author saw at Harrowgate.
Annotated copy of ‘P. on V.
Occasions’, p. 64 (British Museum).]
[Footnote i: The Quarto inserts
the following lines:—
“No jealous passion shall invade,
No envy that pure heart pervade;” For he
that revels in such charms, Can never seek another’s
arms.]
[Footnote ii:
new joy discover.
[4to]]
TO LESBIA! i
1.
LESBIA! since far from you I’ve
rang’d, [ii]
Our souls with fond affection
glow not;
You say, ’tis I, not you, have chang’d,
I’d tell you why,—but
yet I know not.
2.
Your polish’d brow no cares have
crost;
And Lesbia! we are not much
older, [iii]
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,
Or told my love, with hope
grown bolder.
3.
Sixteen was then our utmost age,
Two years have lingering pass’d
away, love!
And now new thoughts our minds engage,
At least, I feel disposed
to stray, love!
4.
“Tis I that am alone to blame,
I, that am guilty of
love’s treason;
Since your sweet breast is still the same,
Caprice must be my only reason.
5.
I do not, love! suspect your truth,
With jealous doubt my bosom
heaves not;
Warm was the passion of my youth,
One trace of dark deceit it
leaves not.
6.
No, no, my flame was not pretended;
For, oh! I lov’d
you most sincerely;
And though our dream at last is ended
My bosom still esteems you
dearly.
7.
No more we meet in yonder bowers;
Absence has made me prone
to roving; [iv]
But older, firmer hearts than ours
Have found monotony in loving.
8.
Your cheek’s soft bloom is unimpair’d,
New beauties, still, are daily
bright’ning,
Your eye, for conquest beams prepar’d,
The forge of love’s
resistless lightning.
9.
Arm’d thus, to make their bosoms
bleed,
Many will throng, to sigh
like me, love!
More constant they may prove, indeed;
Fonder, alas! they ne’er
can be, love!
1806.
[Footnote 1: “The lady’s
name was Julia Leacroft” (’Note by Miss
E. Pigot’). The word “Julia”
(?) is added, in a lady’s hand, in the annotated
copy of ‘P. on V. Occasions’, p. 52 (British
Museum)]
[Footnote i: ‘To Julia’. [4to]]
[Footnote ii: ‘Julia since’. [4to]]
[Footnote iii: ‘And Julia’. [4to]]
[Footnote iv:
Perhaps my soul’s too pure for
roving.
[4to]]
[Footnote v:
Your eye for conquest comes prepar’d.
[4to]]
