Beauty and worth in her alike contend
To charm the fancy and to fix the mind;
In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend,
'I taste the joys of sense and reason join'd.
On her I'll gaze when others' loves are o'er,
And dying press her with my clay-cold hand-
Thou weep'st already as I were no more,
Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand.
Oh! when I die, my latest moments spare,
Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill:
Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair,
Though I am dead, my soul shall love thee still.
Oh! quit the room; oh! quit the deathful bed;
Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart:
Oh! leave me, Delia! ere thou see me dead;
These weeping friends will do thy mournful part.
Let them, extended on the decent bier,
Convey the corse in melancholy state,
Through all the village spread the tender tear,
While pitying maids our wondrous loves relate.
WHAT Scenes of bliss my raptur'd fancy fram'd
In some lone spot with Peace and thee retir'd!
Though reason then my sanguine fondness blam'd,
I still believ'd what flattering Love inspir'd.
But now my wrongs have taught my humbled mind
To dangerous bliss no longer to pretend;
In books a calm but fix'd content to find;
Safe joys! that on ourselves alone depend.
With them the gentle moments I beguile
In learned ease and elegant delight,
Compare the beauties of each different style,
Each various ray of Wit's diffusive light.
Now mark the strength of Milton's sacred lines,
Sense rais'd by genius, fancy rul'd by art,
Where all the glory of the Godhead shines,
And earliest innocence enchants the heart.
Now, fir'd by Pope and Virtue, leave the age
In low pursuit of self-undoing wrong;
And trace the author through his moral page,
Whose blameless life still answers to his song.
If time and books my lingering pain can heal,
And reason fix its empire o'er my heart :
My patriot breast a noble warmth shall feel,
And glow with love, where weakness has no part.
Thy heart, O Lyttelton! shall be my guide;
Its fires shall warm me and its worth improve:
Thy heart! above all envy and all pride,
Firm as man's sense, and soft as woman's love.
And you, O West! with her your partner dear, Whom social mirth and useful sense commend, With Learning's feast my drooping mind shall cheer, Glad to escape from Love to such a friend.
But why so long my weaker heart deceive?
Ah! still I love in pride and reason's spite :
No books, alas! my painful thoughts relieve,
And, while I threat, this Elegy I write.
O SAY, thou dear possessor of my breast!
Where's now my boasted liberty and rest?
Where the gay moments which I once have known?
O, where that heart I fondly thought my own?
From place to place I solitary roam,
Abroad uneasy, nor content at home.
I scorn the beauties common eyes adore;
The more I view them, feel thy worth the more :
Unmov'd I hear them speak, or see them fair,
And only think on thee-who art not there.
In vain would books their formal succour lend;
Nor Wit nor Wisdom can relieve their friend :
Wit can't deceive the pain I now endure,
And Wisdom shows the ill without the cure.
When from thy sight I waste the tedious day,
A thousand schemes I form and things to say;
But when thy presence gives the time I seek,
My heart's so full, I wish, but cannot speak.
And could I speak with eloquence and ease,
Till now not studious of the art to please,
Could I, at woman who so oft exclaim,
Expose (nor blush) thy triumph and my shame.
Abjure those maxims I so lately priz'd,
And court that sex I foolishly despis'd,
Own thou hast softn'd my obdurate mind,
And thus reveng'd the wrongs of woman kind;
Lost were my words and fruitless all my pain;
In vain to tell thee, all I write in vain :
My humble sighs shall only reach thine ears,
And all my eloquence shall be my tears.
And now (for more I never must pretend) Hear me not as thy lover, but thy friend : Thousands will fain thy little heart ensnare, For, without danger, none like thee are fair; But wisely choose who best deserves thy flame, So shall the choice itself become thy fame; Nor yet despise, though void of winning art, The plain and honest courtship of the heart: The skilful tongue in Love's persuasive lore, Though less it feels, will please and flatter more, And, meanly learned in that guilty trade, Can long abuse a fond unthinking maid. And since their lips so knowing to deceive, Thy unexperienc'd youth might soon believe: And since their tears, in false submission dress'd, Might thaw the icy coldness of thy breast; O! shut thine eyes to such deceitful woe: Caught by the beauty of thy outward show, Like me they do not love, whate'er they seem; Like me-with passion founded on esteem.
Too well these lines that fatal truth declare
Which long I've known, yet now I blush to hear.
But say what hopes thy fond ill-fated love?
What can it hope, though mutual it should prove?
This little form is fair in vain for you,
In vain for me thy honest heart is true;
For wouldst thou fix dishonour on my name,
And give me up to penitence and shame?
Or gild my ruin with the name of Wife,
And make me a poor virtuous wretch for life?
Could'st thou submit to wear the marriage-chain,
(Too sure a cure for all thy present pain)
No saffron robe for us the godhead wears,
His torch inverted and his face in tears.
Though every softer wish were amply crown'd, Love soon would cease to smile where Fortune frown'd:
Then would thy soul my fond consent deplore,
And blame what it solicited before;
Thy own exhausted would reproach my truth,
And say I had undone thy blinded youth:
That I had damp'd Ambition's nobler flame,
Eclips'd thy talents and obscur'd thy fame;
To madrigals and odes that wit confin'd,
That would in senates or in courts have shin'd,
Gloriously active in thy country's cause,
Asserting freedom, and enacting laws.
Or say, at best, that negatively kind
You only mourn'd and silently repin'd ;
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