le, 2B4 LYRIC POEMS. There not a wound afflicts the meanest joint Of his fair partner, or her infant-train, (Sweet babes !) but pierces to his inmost soul. Strange is thy pow'r, O love ! what num'rous veins, And' arteries, and arms, and hands, and eyes, Are link'd and fast'ned to a lover's heart, By strong but secret strings! with vain attempt We put the Stoic on, in vain we try To break the ties of nature and of blood.; Those hidden threads maintain the dear. communion Inviolably firm : their thrilling motions Reciprocal give endless sympathy In all the bitters and the sweets of life. Thrice happy man, if pleasure only knew These avenues of love to reach our souls, And pain had never found 'em !" Thus sang the tuneful maid, fearful to try The bold experiment. Oft Daphnis came, And oft Narcissus, rivals of her heart, Luring her eyes with trifles dipt in gold, And the gay silken bondage. Firm she stood, And bold repuls'd the bright temptation still, Nor put the chains on; dangerous to try, And hard to be dissolv'd. Yet rising tears Sat an her eye-lids, while her numbers flow'd Harmonious sorrow ; and the pitying drops Stole down her cheeks, to mourn the hapless state Of mortal love. Love, thou best blessing sent To soften life, and make our iron cares Easy: But thy own cares of softer kind Give sharper wounds : They lodge too near theheart, Beat, like the pulse, perpetual, and create A strange uneasy sense, a tempting pain. Say, my companion Mitio, speak sincere, (For thou art learned now) what anxious thoughts, What kind perplexities tutnultous rise, If but the absence of a day divide Thee from thy fair beloved ! Vainly smiles The cheerful sun, and night with radiant eyes Twinkles in vain : The region of thy soul Is darkness, till thy better star appear. Tell, me, what toil, what torment to sustain The rolling burden of the tedious hours? The tedious hours are ages. Fancy roves Restless in fond enquiry, nor believes Charissa safe : Charissa, in whose life Thy life consists, and in her comfort thine, Fear and surmise put on a thousand forms Of dear disquietude, and round thine ears Whisper ten thousand dangers, endless woes, Till thy frame shudders at her fancy'd death ; Then dies my Mitio, and his blood creeps cold Thro' every vein. Speak, does the stranger-muse Cast happy guesses at the unknown passion, Or has she fabled all ? inform me, friend, Are half thy joys sincere? Thy hopes fulfill'd, Or frustrate? Here commit thy secret griefs
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