[THE FLOWERS OF THE SPRING.]

The Crocus, new expanded, mourns
Her Fate, and many a tear is shed;
Lest, when Maria home returns,
Her transient Sweets should all be [sped].
The Vi’let yet remains unclos’d,
Nor gives her fragrance to the Gale;
But soon, to every Eye expos’d,
She must her balmy breath exhale.
Then come, ere yet the wandering Bee,
Has all her hoarded wealth possess’d; 10 
While yet she holds her Sweets for thee
Enfolded in her Azure Vest!
For, tho’ we cannot yet describe
The Bloom that warmer Scenes unfold,
We now can boast a lovely Tribe
That bare their bosoms to the Cold.
These Children of the early Year
Must soon their rip’ning Charm[s] disclose;
Then, while they live, do thou appear;
In mercy, wait not for the rose! 20 

[LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.]

And prophecied of years to come,
Whence hapless youth would date their Doom:
Is this her praise, is this her Due,
“Whom all admire, esteem, approve?
And, if you say the Charge is true,
“Is it her Crime, if Men will love?
If they will gaze where Bullets fly,
No wonder they are struck and die.”
Not so the Muse the Murd’ress reads;
Alas! she glories in her Deeds. 10 
Observe her Looks, remark her Air:
Lo! all is wicked Triumph there.
Could I but think, on this same day,
She would with some Contrition pray,
That never she again would take
A Captive Heart or Conquest make;
But would with penitential Sighs
Veil that fair face, hide those bright Eyes;
Command that Wit, and try her best
To let poor gazing Mortals rest— 20 
Then would I all these Charges blot,
And all the past should be forgot!
Alas! I see no Signs of Grace:
Still there is Triumph in her face;
And on this very Day we find
The same her Form, the same her Mind!
Then, since the Fair affects her Reign,
’Tis bootless that her Slaves complain.
At once, then, let them own her power,
And hail the Day and bless the Hour, 30 
That to the World a Sovereign gave,
Who, though she will mankind enslave,
Yet rules she with so sweet a Sway,
’Tis Pride, ’tis pleasure to obey!—

[HOPELESS LOVE.]

Why wilt thou thus our Hopes defeat,
My too impatient, pleading heart?
Why shew in us such Joy to meet,
Yet fear in her ’tis Joy to part?
For what has our Impatience gain’d,
But more to fear the fate to come;
While, half-respected, half-disdain’d,
We trembling wait the dreaded Doom?
Can’st thou support that grievous State
That Hearts like thee too often prove, 10 
The darkest, the severest Fate—
An endless, joyless, hopeless Love?—
She may indeed with pitying Smile
The pain she causes kindly meet;
May sweetly soothe our Woes awhile,
And hold us fast in Bondage sweet.
May yield the Hand, may drop the Tear,
And with Reproof Compassion blend—
Then, with harsh Looks and Words severe,
May drop into the distant Friend. 20 
For then some happier Man may wake
The slumbering Wish, the new Desire;
When she the offer’d Hand may take
And give the Heart his prayers require.
And then what Pangs wilt thou endure,
When all the Friendship she can spare
Will grieve the Wound it cannot cure,
And mock the Love it will not share;
While his triumphant Looks convey
The proud Delight that fills his breast, 30 
And those dear Eyes themselves betray
The Thoughts not yet by Words confest.
O Jealousy, severest Ill
That suffering Man is doom’d to know,
That so the Root of Joy can kill
The fruit again can never Grow!
Yet still there is a Way to heal
[All that] I suffer, dread, deplore;
Since, what is worse than Death to feel,
In Death will soon be felt no more. 40 

[UNION.]

Say, when I leave thee, Love, wilt thou
Some moments to my Love allow,
And his in this fond Absence be
Who lives and who would die for thee?
And, when thy Friends adjure thee, “Come,
And leave thy pensive thoughts at home”—
Wilt thou reply, in that sweet tone:
“The Man who loves me thinks alone,
And thinks of me with many a sigh;
In all his Visions there am I; 10 
For me one constant wish he forms,
To shield me from Life’s Cares and Storms;
Still Watchful at my Side to stand
And still present the guarding Hand.
For I can feel no Grief nor Care
But he would heal or he would share;
And never Joy could touch an Heart
That he would not to mine impart.
Then say, tho’ I confess not Love,
If this should not my Bosom move? 20 
Shall I not his one Instant be,
Who lives and who would die for me?”