The Coquette | Page 7

Down my pale cheeks the tide of
sorrow flows; Dead to all joy that Fortune can bestow, In vain for me
her useless bounties flow. Take back each envied gift, ye powers divine,
And only let me call Fidelio mine. Ah, wretch! what anguish yet thy
soul must prove! For thou canst hope to lose thy care in love; And
when Fidelio meets thy tearful eye, Pale fear and cold despair his
presence fly. With pensive steps I sought thy walks again, And kissed
thy token on the verdant plain; With fondest hope, through many a
blissful hour, We gave our souls to Fancy's pleasing power. Lost in the
magic of that sweet employ, To build gay scenes and fashion future joy,
We saw mild Peace over fair Canaan rise, And shower her pleasures
from benignant skies. On airy hills our happy mansion rose, Built but
for joy--no room for future woes. Round the calm solitude with
ceaseless song,
* * * * *
Sweet as the sleep of innocence the day, By transports measured,
lightly danced away; To love, to bliss, the unioned soul was given,
And--ah, too happy!--asked no brighter heaven. And must the hours in
ceaseless anguish roll? Will no soft sunshine cheer my clouded soul?
Can this dear earth no transient joy supply? Is it my doom to hope,
despair, and die? O, come once more, with soft endearments come;

Burst the cold prison of the sullen tomb; Through favored walks thy
chosen maid attend Where well-known shades their pleasing branches
bend; Shed the soft poison of thy speaking eye, And look those raptures
lifeless words deny. Still he, though late, reheard what ne'er could tire,
But, told each eve, fresh pleasures would inspire; Still hope those
scenes which love and fancy drew, But, drawn a thousand times, were
ever new.
Can fancy paint, can words express, Can aught on earth my woes
redress? E'en thy soft smiles can ceaseless prove Thy truth, thy
tenderness, and love. Once thou couldst every bliss inspire,
Transporting joy and gay desire; Now cold Despair her banner rears,
And Pleasure flies when she appears; Fond Hope within my bosom dies,
And Agony her place supplies. O thou, for whose dear sake I bear A
doom so dreadful, so severe, May happy fates thy footsteps guide, And
o'er thy peaceful home preside; Nor let E----a's early tomb Infect thee
with its baleful gloom.
Still another poem, of more genuine beauty and strength than either of
these, has been preserved in her own handwriting, which I doubt not
the reader will thank me for introducing here, although it bears more of
recrimination than the others.
Thy presents to some happier lover send; Content thyself to be
Lucinda's friend. The soft expression of thy gay design Ill suits the
sadness of a heart like mine-- A heart like mine, forever doomed to
prove Each tender woe, but not one joy of love.
First from my arms a dying lover torn, In early life it was my fate to
mourn. A father next, by fate's relentless doom, With heartfelt woe I
followed to the tomb. Now all was lost; no friends remained to guide
My erring step, or calm life's boisterous tide.
Again th' admiring youths around me bowed; And one I singled from
the sighing crowd. Well skilled he was in every winning art-- To warm
the fancy, or to touch the heart. Why must my pen the noble praise
deny, Which virtue, worth, and honor should supply?

O youth beloved! what pangs my breast has borne To find thee false,
ungrateful, and forsworn! A shade and darkness o'er my prospect
spreads, The damps of night and death's eternal shades. The scorpion's
sting, by disappointment brought, And all the horrors of despairing
thought, Sad as they are, I might, perhaps, endure, And bear with
patience what admits no cure. But here my bosom is to madness moved;
I suffer by the wrongs of him I loved.
O, had I died by pitying Heaven's decree, Nor proved so black, so base,
a mind in thee! But vain the wish; my heart was doomed to prove Each
torturing pang, but not one joy of love. Wouldst thou again fallacious
prospects spread, And woo me from the confines of the dead? The
pleasing scenes that charmed me once retrace-- Gay scenes of rapture
and ecstatic bliss? How did my heart embrace the dear deceit, And
fondly cherish the deluding cheat! Delusive hope, and wishes sadly
vain, Unless to sharpen disappointment's pain.
These are but the fragmentary proofs of her poetic ability; still they are
the most that have been preserved bearing _full authenticity_; yet these
betray a skilful and accustomed pen, though stamped with the
bitterness of woe.
Here, then, we will take up the idea which we