TO A LADY, WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR, BRAIDED WITH HIS
OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER, TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN.
These locks which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine;
Than all th’ unmeaning protestations,
Which swell with nonsense, love orations.
Our love is fix’d, I think we’ve
prov’d it,
Nor time, nor place, nor art, have mov’d
it;
Then wherefore should we sigh, and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine.
With silly whims, and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic.
Why should you weep like Lydia Languish,
And fret with self-created anguish.
Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights, to sigh half frozen:
In leafless shades, to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene’s a garden.
For gardens seem by one consent
(Since SHAKESPEARE set the precedent;)
(Since Juliet first declar’d her
passion)
To form the place of assignation.
Oh! would some modern muse inspire,
And seat her by a sea-coal fire,
Or had the bard at Christmas written,
And laid the scene of love in Britain;
He surely in commiseration,
Had chang’d the place of declaration.
In Italy I’ve no objection,
Warm nights are proper for reflection;
But here, our climate is so rigid,
That love itself, is rather frigid;
Think on our chilly situation,
And curb this rage for imitation.
Then let us meet, as oft we’ve done,
Beneath the influence of the sun;
Or, if at midnight I must meet you,
Oh! let me in your chamber greet you;
There we can love for hours together,
Much better in such snowy weather,
Than plac’d in all th’ Arcadian
groves,
That ever witness’d rural loves;
There if my passion fail to please,
Next night I’ll be content to freeze;
No more I’ll give a loose to laughter,
But curse my fate, forever after.
* * * *
TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER.
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:
“No jealous passion shall invade,
“No envy that pure breast pervade;”
For he that revels in such charms,
Can never seek another’s arms;
“Oh! may the happy mortal fated,
“To be by dearest ties related;
“For her each hour new
joy discover,
“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.”
* * *
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