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Hers are the pangs of wounded pride,
Of blasted hope, of wither'd joy,
The flame of love buros to destroy.
In vain does memory renew
The hours once tinged in transports' dye;
And turns the past to agony.
every feeling due :
To win a heart-and break it too!
No cold approach, no alter'd mien,
That just would make suspicion start;
the dire extremes between;
Neglected, and neglecting all,
The tears I shed must ever fall ! *
* An uncommon vein of pathetic tenderness runs through this piece, and strongly excites the sympathetic feelings.
F ever thou didst joy to bind
If any bliss reserved for me
Now, now the mighty treasure give,
In all the pride of full-blown charms
But, Cupid, if thine aid be vain
O grant ('tis all I ask of thee)
Leave me then alone to languish,
s near a weeping spring reclined, The beauteous ARAMINTA pined,
And mourn'd a false ungrateful youth; While dying echoes caught the sound, And spread the soft complaints around
Of broken ows and alter'd truth ;
An aged shepherd heard her moan,
Address'd the lost despairing maid :
A breaking heart by love betray'd.
“ Why shouldst thou waste such precious showers, , That fall like dew on wither'd flowers,
But dying passïon ne'er restored ?
Is quickly scorn'd when not adored.
46 Those liquid pearls from either eye,
Unvalued here and fruitless fall;
No tears a wandering heart recall.
« Cease, cease to grieve, thy tears are vain,
Vie with a weeping southern sky;
Au stay! ah turn ! ah whither would you fly,
Too charming, too relentless maid ? I follow not to conquer, but to die ;
You of the fearful are afraid.
In vain I call; for she, like fleeting air,
When prest by some tempestuous wind, Flies swifter from the voice of my despair, Nor casts one pitying look behind. *
SWEET maid, I hear thy frequent sigh,
* In Rowe's “ Fair Penitent."