To M. S. G
Whene'er I view those lips of thine,Their hue invites my fervent kiss;Yet, I forego that bliss divine,Alas! it were--unhallow'd bliss.
Whene'er I dream of that pure breast,How could I dwell upon its snows!Yet, is the daring wish represt,For that,--would banish its repose.
A glance from thy soul-searching eyeCan raise with hope, depress with fear;Yet, I conceal my love,--and why?I would not force a painful tear.
I ne'er have told my love, yet thouHast seen my ardent flame too well;And shall I plead my passion now,To make thy bosom's heaven a hell?
No! for thou never canst be mine,United by the priest's decree:By any ties but those divine,Mine, my belov'd, thou ne'er shalt be.
Then let the secret fire consume,Let it consume, thou shalt not know:With joy I court a certain doom,Rather than spread its guilty glow.
I will not ease my tortur'd heart,By driving dove-ey'd peace from thine;Rather than such a sting impart,Each thought presumptuous I resign.
Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd braveMore than I here shall dare to tell;Thy innocence and mine to save,--I bid thee now a last farewell.
Yes! yield that breast, to seek despairAnd hope no more thy soft embrace;Which to obtain, my soul would dare,All, all reproach, but thy disgrace.
At least from guilt shall thou be free,No matron shall thy shame reprove;Though cureless pangs may prey on me,No martyr shall thou be to love.
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