To Harriet
Thy look of love has power to calmThe stormiest passion of my soul;Thy gentle words are drops of balmIn life's too bitter bowl;No grief is mine, but that aloneThese choicest blessings I have known.
Harriet! if all who long to liveIn the warm sunshine of thine eye,That price beyond all pain must give,--Beneath thy scorn to die;Then hear thy chosen own too lateHis heart most worthy of thy hate.
Be thou, then, one among mankindWhose heart is harder not for state,Thou only virtuous, gentle, kind,Amid a world of hate;And by a slight endurance sealA fellow-being's lasting weal.
For pale with anguish is his cheek,His breath comes fast, his eyes are dim,Thy name is struggling ere he speak,Weak is each trembling limb;In mercy let him not endureThe misery of a fatal cure.
Oh, trust for once no erring guide!Bid the remorseless feeling flee;'Tis malice, 'tis revenge, 'tis pride,'Tis anything but thee;Oh, deign a nobler pride to prove,And pity if thou canst not love.
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