Long these with various arts and power contest Which shall hold empire o'er the hu man breast; Long Falsehood's lovely form and witching smile, From Truth's rough path her votaries beguile, For it seem'd drear, and sightless her - abode, But Falsehood's temple gay, and strew'd with flow'rs the road; Here no stern maxims check'd their wild career, But, as mad Pleasure call'd, they follow'd without fear. Tir'd with the warfare, Truth now hopeless sighs, Indignant leaves the world, and seeks her native skies; To Jove, her sire, she paints her slighted reign Usurp'd by Falsehood's gay delusive train: He bade her seek where, 'midst embowering shades, Bent o'er their lyres reclin'd th' Aonian maids, And ask their aid in this eventful hour, To crush her graceful rival's boasted pow'r. Swift Truth obeys; in accents sad and slow, Tells to each listening Muse her bitter woe; Tells how mankind her rigid precepts scorn, Whilst Falsehood's easy sway is joyful borne, And claims the efforts of the tuneful train, To check her daring rival's boundless reign. O Truth' th' Aonides reply, the mien Of Falsehood's bland, bewitching, gay, serene But from thy frown, and bosom-pierc ing eye, Mankind shrink back, and, wild with terror, fly; Thy precepts would be lov'd, thy rule obey'd, Wert thou in less forbidding robes ar ray'd; Then take this vest of many a various dye, Form'd to delight and captivate the eye; Deck'd in this habit, by the Muses fram'd, Of figure lovelier, and Fiction nam'd'; Seek thou again the world, and soon confest, Thy power shall govern o'er the human breast.' Victorious o'er her rival, Truth obey'd, Swift bade adieu to each Aonjan maid, And as her precepts, rigid deem'd of O'er these and many a tale of real woe The tear of sympathy will ever flow; Yet still, O fiction! equal is thy sway, Equal the pow'r of thy enchanting lay! For see we not in Wieland's glowing strain,* In gorgeous panoply the warrior-train; See youthful Huon trace the desarts hoar, And meet on Libanon's uncultur'd shore ; Where, by a tyrant's rage, his footsteps bend, His love Amanda, Sherasmin his friend? And feel we not each pang his hero feels, As, with a Milton's pow'r, the bard reveals The lovers torn by Passion's direst pains? And own, as flow the fancy-breathing' strains, (Whilst admiration brightens thro' the tear) His matchless prowess and her faith And does affection end in this? Must we at last so coldly sever? And vanish all our dreams of bliss? Yes, yes, alas! it must be so, Tho' 'tis to me a pang severe; Tho' oft I breathe the sigh of woe, And shed full oft the sorrowing tear.> Yet still it must be, you and I Tho' many a flagging hour must fy Were never destin'd for each other; E're I so well can love another. For oh! I lov'd thee, fondly lov'd Thy dewy lip, thy eye's soft languish; And once thy look my soul had inov'd With throbbing joy, or nameless anguish. And many a happy hour we've known Whilst in each others arms reclining; And oft the winter's night hath flown, I at its swiftness. e'en repining. For much too short I thought each mi nute Which thus o'erflow'd with heav'nly blisses, Yet felt an age of rapture in it, Whilst it was sweeten'd with thy kisses. And oft when closely press'd to thine, My soul upon thy lips hath hung, And deem'd a seraph's voice divine, The love-taught murm'rings of thy tongue. But when the glowing dream was over, And reason govern'd o'er my mind, Then, then I, sorrowing, could discover I wish'd a kindred soul refin'd. One who amid the vacant space Between each flashing of desire, Could, with a fancied angel's grace, Breathe the soft lay, or sweep the lyre. Who, tho' a woman in my arms, Amidst th'impassion'd hour of joy, Might still possess the mind's bright charms, And beauties seen not by the eye: But 'twas not this that made me fly thee, Not this alone which made me prove To thee inconstant, and deny thee The transports of an ardent love. Oh no! but 'twas that well I knew I ne'er was destin'd Fortune's minion, That riches from me ever flew Swiftly as on the swallow's pinion. And I resolv'd thou ne'er should'st share The misery which I expected, Shouldst feed with ine on Sorrow's fare, Be by the world like me neglected. 'Twas these lorn sombre visions taught Thy lover to appear untrue, Adieu! once more; and since we part, Which beam'd alike on ev'ry one, Nor could the sigh of softuess move, Unless 'twas breath'd for me alone; But now I'll wildly rove around, Now flirt with that, and now with this, And 'mid these wand'rings may be drown'd The throbbing dream of former bliss! |