TO M. S. G.
1.
Whene’er I view those lips of thine,
Their hue invites my fervent
kiss;
Yet, I forego that bliss divine,
Alas! it were—unhallow’d
bliss.
2.
Whene’er I dream of that pure breast,
How could I dwell upon its
snows!
Yet, is the daring wish represt,
For that,—would
banish its repose.
3.
A glance from thy soul-searching eye
Can raise with hope, depress
with fear;
Yet, I conceal my love,—and
why?
I would not force a painful
tear.
4.
I ne’er have told my love, yet thou
Hast seen my ardent flame
too well;
And shall I plead my passion now,
To make thy bosom’s
heaven a hell?
5.
No! for thou never canst be mine,
United by the priest’s
decree:
By any ties but those divine,
Mine, my belov’d, thou
ne’er shalt be.
6.
Then let the secret fire consume,
Let it consume, thou shalt
not know:
With joy I court a certain doom,
Rather than spread its guilty
glow.
7.
I will not ease my tortur’d heart,
By driving dove-ey’d
peace from thine;
Rather than such a sting impart,
Each thought presumptuous
I resign.
8.
Yes! yield those lips, for which I’d
brave
More than I here shall dare
to tell;
Thy innocence and mine to save,—
I bid thee now a last farewell.
9.
Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair
And hope no more thy soft
embrace;
Which to obtain, my soul would dare,
All, all reproach, but thy
disgrace.
10.
At least from guilt shall thou be free,
No matron shall thy shame
reprove;
Though cureless pangs may prey on me,
No martyr shall thou be to
love.
