Hers are the pangs of wounded pride, The flame of love burns to destroy. In vain does memory renew The hours once tinged in transports' dye; And turns the past to agony. Those pangs to every feeling due: No cold approach, no alter'd mien, No He made me blest, and broke my heart. Friendless, forsaken and forlorn, The tears I shed must ever fall! * MISS C. * An uncommon vein of pathetic tenderness runs through this piece, and strongly excites the sympathetic feelings. IF IF F ever thou didst joy to bind If any bliss reserved for me Thou in the leaves of Fate shouldst see, Pregnant with hoarded joys in store; Now, now the mighty treasure give, In all the pride of full-blown charms But, Cupid, if thine aid be vain The dear reluctant maid to gain, She dash my hopes, and scorn my sighs; O grant O grant ('tis all I ask of thee) That I no more may change than she; When every gleam of hope is gone. Leave me then alone to languish, But never, never grant a cure. MRS. BARBAuld. As near a weeping spring reclined, And mourn'd a false ungrateful youth; An aged shepherd heard her moan, Address'd the lost despairing maid: A breaking heart by love betray'd, < Why "Why shouldst thou waste such precious showers, That fall like dew on wither'd flowers, But dying passion ne'er restored? Is quickly scorn'd when not adored. "Those liquid pearls from either eye, Which might an eastern empire buy, Unvalued here and fruitless fall; No art the season can renew When love was young, and DAMON true, "Cease, cease to grieve, thy tears are vain, Die, hapless ARaminta, die.” MRS. BARBAULD. Ан H stay! ah turn! ah whither would you fly, I follow not to conquer, but to die; In vain I call; for she, like fleeting air, CONGREVE. SWEET maid, I hear thy frequent sigh, *In Rowe's "Fair Penitent." |