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Then, lordly savage, rends the captive heart
First gain'd by treachery, then tam'd by art.—
"Are these reflections then that Love inspires?
Is bitter grief the fruit of fair desires?
From whose example could I dream to find
A claim to curse, perhaps to wrong mankind?
Ah! long I strove to burst the' enchanting tie,
And form'd resolves, that ev'n in forming die;
Too long I linger'd on the shipwreck'd coast,
And eyed the ocean where my wealth was lost!
In silence wept, scarce venturing to complain,
Still to my heart dissembled half my pain-
Ascrib'd my sufferings to its fears, not you;
Beheld you treacherous, and then wish'd you true;
Sooth'd by those wishes, by myself deceiv'd,
I fondly hop'd, and what I hop'd, believ'd.-
Cruel! to whom? Ah! whither should I flee,
Friends, fortune, fame, deserted all for thee!
On whom but you my fainting breast repose?
With whom but you deposit all its woes?—
To whom but you explain its stifled groan?
And live for whom? but Love and you alone?
What hand to probe my bleeding heart be found?
What hand to heal?-but his that gave the wound?--
O dreadful chaos of the ruin'd mind!
Lost to itself, to virtue, humankind!
From earth, from heaven, a meteor flaming wide,
Link'd to no system, to no world allied;
A blank of Nature, vanish'd every thought
That Nature, Reason, that Experience taught,
Past, present, future trace, alike destroy'd,
Where Love alone can fill the mighty void :
That Love on unreturning pinions flown,
We grasp a shade, the noble substance gone--

From one ador'd and once adoring dream
Of Friendship's tenderness-ev'n cold esteem
(Humble our vows) rejected with disdain,
Ask a last conference, but a parting strain,
More suppliant still, the wretched suit advance,
Plead for a look, a momentary glance,

A latter token-on Destruction's brink

We catch the feeble plank of Hope, and sink.—
"In those dread moments, when the hovering
Scarce languish'd into life, again you came, [flame
Pursued again a too successful theme,

And dried my eyes, with your's again to stream;
When treacherous tears your venial faults confess'd,
And half dissembled, half excus'd the rest,
To kindred griefs taught pity from my own,
Sighs I return'd, and echo'd groan for groan;
Your self-reproaches stifling mine, approv❜d,
And much I credited, for much I lov'd.

"Not long the soul this doubtful dream prolongs,
If prompt to pardon, not forget its wrongs,
It scorns the traitor, and with conscious pride
Scorns a base self, deserting to his side:
Great by misfortune, greater by despair,
Its Heaven once lost, rejects an humbler care,
To drink the dregs of languid joys disdains,
And flies a passion but perceiv'd from pains;
Too just the rights another claims to steal,
Too good its feelings to wish Virtue feel,
Perhaps too tender or too fierce, my soul
Disclaiming half the heart, demands the whole.-
I blame thee not, that, fickle as thy race,
New loves invite thee, and the old efface,
That cold, insensible, thy soul appears
To Virtue's smiles, to Virtue's very tears;

[swear;

But ah! a heart whose tenderness you knew,
That offer'd Heaven, but second vows to you,
In fond presumption that securely play'd,
Securely slumber'd in your friendly shade,
Whose every weakness, every sigh to share,
The powers that haunt the perjur'd heard you
Was this a heart you wantonly resign'd
Victim to scorn, to ruin, and mankind?
Was this an heart?-O shame of honour, truth,
Of blushing candour, and ingenuous youth!
What means thy pity? what can it restore?
The grave that yawns till general doom's no more,
As soon shall quicken, as my torments cease,
Rock'd on the lap of Innocence and Peace,
As smiles and joy this pensive brow invade,
And smooth the traces by Affliction made,
Flames once extinguish'd Virtue's lamp divine,
And visits Honour, a deserted shrine!
No, wretch, too long on Passion's ocean tost,
Not Heaven itself restores the good you lost;
The form exists not that thy fancy dream'd,
A Fiend pursues thee that an Angel seem'd;
Impassive to the touch of Reason's ray
His fairy phantom melts in clouds away;
Yet take my pardon in my last farewell,
The wounds you gave, ah cruel! never feel!
Fated like me to court and curse thy fate,
To blend in dreadful union Love and Hate;
Chiding the present moment's slumbering haste,
To dread the future, and deplore the past;
Like me condemn the' effect, the cause approve,
Renounce the lover, and retain the love.
Yes, Love-even now in this ill-fated hour,
An exile from thy joys, I feel thy pow'r.

The Sun to me his noontide blaze that shrouds
In browner horrors than when veil'd in clouds;
The Moon, faint light that melancholy throws,
The streams that murmur, yet not court repose;
The breezes sickening with my mind's disease,
And valleys laughing to all eyes but these,
Proclaim thy absence, Love, whose beam alone
Lighted my morn with glories not its own.
O thou of generous passions purest, best!
Soon as thy flame shot rapture to my breast,
Each pulse expanding, trembled with delight,
And aching vision drank thy lovely light;
A new creation brighten'd to my view,
Nurs'd in thy smiles the social passions grew;
New strung, the thrilling nerves harmonious rose,
And beat sweet unison to others' woes;
Slumbering no more, a Lethe's lazy flood,
In generous currents swell'd the sprightly blood,
No longer now to partial streams confin'd,
Spread like an ocean, and embrac'd mankind;
No more concentering in itself the blaze,
The soul diffus'd Benevolence's rays,

Kindled on earth, pursued the' ethereal road,
In hallow'd flames ascended to its God.-

"Yes, Love, thy star of generous influence
Our gloomy dwelling in this vale of tears. [cheers
What? if a tyrant's blasting hand destroys
Thy swelling blossoms of expected joys,
Converts to poison what for life was given,
Thy manna dropping from its native Heaven,
Still Love victorious triumphs, still confess'd
The noblest transport that can warm the breast;
Yes, traitor, yes; my heart, to Nature true,
Adores the passion, and detests but you.

ON CONVERTING THE

LATE MR. WOODDESON'S HOUSE,

AT KINGSTON,

INTO A POOR-HOUSE, AND CUTTING DOWN THE GREAT WALK OF HIGH TREES BEFORE IT.

WHERE the broad path-way fronts yon ancient

seat,

Approach not, stranger, with unhallow'd feet,
Nor mock the spot, unshelter'd now, and bare!
The grove's old honours rose majestic there:
Its giant arms extending to defend

Thy reverend temples, man's and virtue's friend!
Secure thy walk, that unpierc'd gloom along,
No storm approach'd to silence Homer's song;
No beam to wound thy Heaven-directed eye:
The world's near tumult swept unheeded by.
Now, low as thine, these towering heads are laid,
Nor more embower the mansion in their shade;
Time-honour'd pile! that, owning thee its lord,
Saw ancient manners, ancient faith, restor'd;
In renovated youth beheld again

Saturnian days, the good Eliza's reign.

With thee too sheltering many an angel-guest, For what, but Heaven, serener than thy breast?— Bless'd mansion then, Simplicity's abode,

Where smiling Innocence look'd up to Gon; Where Nature's genuine graces charm'd the heart, Or Nature, polish'd but by classic art.

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