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What good soe'er the gods dispense,
Still on her love depends;
That peevish Fortune sends.
From Fortune's fickle power;
Confirm’d by thee before.
The favours she bestows;
The faithful bosom knows.
Contented I resign
Happy while that is mine.
Berkhamstead. Bid adieu, my sad heart, bid adieu to thy peace ! Thy pleasure is past, and thy sorrows increase; See the shadows of evening how far they extend, And a long night is coming, that never may end; For the sun is now set that enliven'd the scene, And an age must be past ere it rises again. Already deprived of its splendour and heat, I feel thee more slowly, more heavily beat : Perhaps overstrain’d with the quick pulse of pleasure, Thou art glad of this respite to beat at thy leisure ; But the sigh of distress shall now weary thee more Than the flutter and tumult of passion before.
The heart of a lover is never at rest,
WRITTEN AFTER LEAVING HER AT NEW BURNS.
How quick the change from joy to woe!
Next day the scene was overcast;
Fear not that time, where'er we rove,
with the kind support you give,
ON HER ENDEAVOURING TO CONCEAL
HER GRIEF AT PARTING.
Ah! wherefore should my weeping maid suppress
Those gentle signs of undissembled woe ? When from soft love proceeds the deep distress,
Ah! why forbid the willing tears to flow? Since for my sake each dear translucent drop
Breaks forth, best witness of thy truth sincere, My lips should drink the precious mixture up,
And, ere it falls, receive the trembling tear. Trust me, these symptoms of thy faithful heart,
In absence shall my dearest hope sustain, Delia ! since such thy sorrow that we part,
Such when we meet thy joy shall be again. Hard is that heart, and unsubdued by love,
That feels no pain, nor ever heaves a sigh;
Such hearts the fiercest passions only prove,
Or freeze in cold insensibility.
The gentle source from whence thy sorrows flow; Nor think it weakness when we love to feel,
Nor think it weakness what we feel to show.
Hope, like the short-lived ray that gleams awhile
Through wintry skies, upon the frozen waste, Cheers e’en the face of misery to a smile ;
But soon the momentary pleasure 's past. How oft, my Delia, since our last farewell,
(Years that have roll’d since that distressful hour,) Grieved I have said, when most our hopes prevail,
Our promised happiness is least secure.
And hoped once more to gaze upon your charms; As oft some dire mischance has interposed,
And snatch'd the expected blessing from my arms. The seaman thus, his shatter'd vessel lost,
Still vainly strives to shun the threatening death ; And while he thinks to gain the friendly coast,
And drops his feet, and feels the sands beneath, Borne by the wave steep-sloping from the shore,
Back to the inclement deep; again he beats The surge aside, and seems to tread secure;
And now the refluent wave his baffled toil defeats. Had you, my love, forbade me to pursue
My fond attempt, disdainfully retired,
The ill-fated passion by yourself inspired ;
Hopeless to gain, unwilling to molest With fond entreaties whom I dearly loved,
Despair or absence had redeem'd my rest. But now, sole partner in my Delia's heart,
Yet doom'd far off in exile to complain,
Eternal absence cannot ease my smart,
And hope subsists but to prolong my pain.
Here end my life, or make it worth my care; Absence from whom we love is worse than death,
And frustrate hope severer than despair.
R. S, S. ALL-WORSHIPP'D Gold! thou mighty mystery! Say by what name shall I address thee rather, Our blessing, or our bane ? Without thy aid, The generous pangs of pity but distress The human heart, that fain would feel the bliss Of blessing others; and, enslaved by thee, Far from relieving woes which others feel, Misers oppress themselves. Our blessing then With virtue when possess'd; without, our bane. If in my bosom unperceived there lurk The deep-sown seeds of avarice or ambition, Blame me, ye great ones, (for I scorn your censure,) But let the generous and the good commend me; That to my Delia I direct them all, The worthiest object of a virtuous love. Oh! to some distant scene, a willing exile From the wild uproar of this busy world, Were it my fate with Delia to retire ; With her to wander through the sylvan shade, Each morn, or o'er the moss-imbrowned turf, Where, bless'd as the prime parents of mankind In their own Eden, we would envy none ; But, greatly pitying whom the world calls happy, Gently spin out the silken thread of life; While from her lips attentive I receive The tenderest dictates of the purest flame, And from her eyes (where soft complacence sits Illumined with the radiant beams of sense) Tranquillity beyond a monarch's reach. Forgive me, Heaven, this only avarice