Why dost thou mock the ties of constant love?
But half its joys the faithless ever prove,
They only taste the pleasures they receive,
When sure the noblest is in those we give.
Acceptance is the heav'n which mortals know,
But 'tis the bliss of angels to bestow.
Oh! emulate, my love, that task divine,
Be thou that angel, and that heav'n be mine.
Yes, yet relent, yet intercept my fate:
Alas! I rave, and sue for new deceit.
As soon the dead shall from the grave return,
As love extinguish'd with new ardor burn.
Oh! that I dar'd to act a Roman part,
And stab thy image in this faithful heart,
Where riveted for life secure you reign,
A cruel inmate, author of my pain:
But coward-like irresolute I wait
Time's tardy aid, nor dare to rush on fate;
Perhaps may linger on life's latest stage,
Survey thy cruelties, and fall by age:
No — grief shall swell my sails, and speed me o'er
(Despair my pilot) to that quiet shore
Where I can trust, and thou betray no more.
Might I but once again behold thy charms,
Might I but breathe my last in those dear arms,
On that lov'd face but fix my closing eye,
Permitted where I might not live to die,
My soften'd fate I wou'd accuse no more;
But fate has no such happiness in store.
'Tis past, 'tis done — what gleam of hope behind,
When I can ne'er be false, nor thou be kind?
Why then this care? — 'tis weak — 'tis vain — farewel —
At that last word what agonies I feel!
I faint — I die — remember I was true —
'Tis all I ask — eternally — adieu! —