Desponding, now upon the ground I lie, And, anxious, murmur to the desert air; Dark as the bosom of the stormy deep, Wild as its waves my thoughts succeeding roll; Cool reason vainly soothes the wretch to sleepOh! what is reason to the love-sick soul? Ye sweet companions of my lonely bow'r, Light as your wing that skims the midway sky, Nor bath'd my lids in sorrow's baleful dew. Hate to the Nymph I vow, and cold disdain: To meet her, panting, every nerve I strain, And show too plain her triumph o'er my heart. Where is my love? Alas! my transports die : See, see, the sun descends beneath the deep; And wish in vain to stay the parting light. ELEGY IV. Disappointed at not meeting JULIA, he accuses her of inconstancy. FAINT as the lustre of a lonely star, That sheds through night's abyss his distant fire, HOPE feebly glimmer'd on my heart's despair: Behold, behold, at length her lamp expire! Know, lovely VIRGIN, thy deluding art Hath lodg'd a thousand scorpions in my breast: Oh, say, what happier rival wins thy heart? Say, am I there no more a welcome guest? To a false FAIR-ONE have I told my tale? Thy charms the subject of my ev'ry song. Ye Swains, who heard so oft my raptur'd lays, False is the damsel that your wonder drew; Ye Nymphs who list'ned to the lavish'd praise, My soul's soft idol proves at length untrue. Nymphs of the vale, for me your pity spare; And grieve so fair a di'mond holds a flaw. Can FALSEHOOD's stain that dove-like heart defile? Ah, see the tear, by blushing honour shed! Lurks perfidy beneath that heav'nly smile? See LOVE with horror mark the guilty Maid! Yet, yet the tyrant of my breast she reigns: My wounded heart of cruelty complains, ELEGY V. He condemns the licentiousness of the age. TO false delights the YouTi of BRITAIN fly, Who court for happiness the WANTON's arms; Who darts on all the fond inflaming eye, And choiceless yields to all, for gold, her charms. When in the SYREN's fond embrace you sigh, And on her lip impress the burning kiss, DothFRIENDSHIP mingle with th' unhallow'd joy, Or Love's pure spirit swell the surge of bliss? When droops enjoyment, what is then the Fair? A flow'r that blooms, but quickly doom'd to fade; A sun that pours a momentary glare, And 'mid the tempest sinks,o'erwhelm'd in shade. |