So many a day, in life's advance, I knew; So they commenced, and so they ended too. All Promise they all Joy as they began! But Joy grew less, and vanish'd as they ran! The promised joy, that like this morning rose, Broke on my view, then clouded at its close; E'en Love himself, that promiser of bliss, Made his best days of pleasure end like this: He mix'd his bitters in the cup of joy Nor gave a bliss uninjured by alloy. THE MAGNET. WHY force the backward heart on love, That of itself the flame might feel? When you the Magnet's power would prove, Say, would you strike it on the Steel? From common flints you may by force But when, approaching by degrees, So must the Lover find his way To move the heart he hopes to win — Must not in distant forms delay Must not in rude assaults begin. For such attractive power has Love, STORM AND CALM. [FROM THE ALBUM OF THE DUCHESS of rutland.] AT sea when threatening tempests rise, When angry winds the waves deform, The seaman lifts to Heaven his eyes, And deprecates the dreaded storm. "Ye furious powers, no more contend; "Ye winds and seas, your conflict end; "And on the mild subsiding deep, "Let Fear repose and Terror sleep!" At length the waves are hush'd in peace, No helm she feels, no course she keeps, Sick of a Calm the sailor lies, And views the still, reflecting seas; Or, whistling to the burning skies, He hopes to wake the slumbering breeze: The silent noon, the solemn night, The same dull round of thoughts excite, He wishes for the Storm again. Thus, when I felt the force of Love, I suffer'd much, but found at length I slept, I waked, and, morn and eve, No thought arose the soul to grieve, Of wearied passions still and tame."Alas!" I cried, when years had flown "Must no awakening joy be known? "Must never Hope's inspiring breeze "Sweep off this dull and torpid ease "Must never Love's all-cheering ray "Upon the frozen fancy play"Unless they seize the passive soul, "And with resistless power control? "Then let me all their force sustain, "And bring me back the Storm again.” SATIRE. I LOVE not the satiric Muse: Attack a book-attack a song · You will not do essential wrong; You may their blemishes expose, And yet not be the writer's foes. But when the man you thus attack, And him expose with critic art, You put a creature to the rack You wring, you agonise, his heart. No farther honest Satire can In all her enmity proceed, Than passing by the wicked Man, If so much virtue yet remain That he would feel the sting and pain, The Muse her sting should not apply: |