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A YOUNG LADY,
FROM HER LOVER,
BY GEO. CANNING, ESQ.
Ere this short winter's day be gone,
Perhaps deceiv'd by some fond notion, . Embrac'd in rapture of devotion,
(I quote such fancies to expose 'em)
Perhaps—but fiction be suppress?d, While real joy expands my breastMy faithful flame her heart approves, And O! transporting thought! she loves.
When Souls, by impulse sympathetic, By intuition most prophetic, By feelings, which they cannot smother, Leap at first glance to meet each other, When each itself in t' other traces, What matter for their diff'rent cases? Of kin, perhaps, in pre-existence, Without dull Reason's slow assistance, They recollect the happy union, And long to recommence communion. I must confess that such attraction, For ease, convenience, satisfaction, Were best if, on deliberation, It met with Reason's approbation : Not as of absolute dominion, To rule by dint of dark opinion ; Not as a Lord of sovereign sway, Whom love must worship and obey ;
But merely as the herd inferior
Two birds, suppose, of various feather, Hung in one room by chance together, To airs melodious tune their voices, While each the other's ear rejoices : If, without half a note erroneous, The song be perfectly harmonious, What matter for the forms or ages, Of bills, of feathers, and of cages ?
Dean Swift, whose talent lives no more, His Stella sung at forty-four ; And breath'd an idle wish to split In twain her beauty, years, and witOf half her charms he made a proffer For youth; but Time disdain'd his offer. Far happier I, who well could spare, Of each accomplishment a share, Yet leave an ample store of charms, To bring Elysium to my arms, Am not reduc'd those charms to barter, And cry to heedless Time for quarter
Fly, Sluggard, on thy swiftest wing,
Then firm in Constancy's reliance,
Perhaps, suspending mortal rage By silent sąp, and creeping age, By subtile, secret slow approaches, As mildew on the blade incroaches, Thou hop'st, malignant fiend ! to tame The ardor of love's fiercest flameVain shalt thou find thy keenest blast, Bliss once possess'd, thy power is past. Can years, while sense remains, destroy The memory of transcendent joy? Can years bright innocence impair? Can years make Virtue look less fair?
But Beauty, by thy influence.curst, May sicken-Tyrant, do thy worst ! I know thy power, and am prepar'd To meet thy sharpest darts unscar'd. Though Body, Mind, thou canst control,
Own thy survivor in the Soul; Vol. VI,
Whose perfect bliss is not enjoy'd
Ev'n here, as health and beauty fail,
Unconscious of the gradual wane,