TO ———.
Think not, TRANSCENDANT MAID! my woe
Shall ever trouble thy repose;
The mind no lasting pang can know,
Which lets the tongue that pang disclose.
Sorrow is sacred when ’tis true,
In deep concealment proudly dwells:
And seems its passions to subdue,
When most th’ impulsive throb compels.
For HE who dares assert his grief,
Who boasts the anguish he may prove;
Obtains, perhaps, the wished relief,
But O! he surely does not love!
The lover is a man afraid,
Has neither grace, nor ease, nor art;
Embarrassed, comfortless, dismay’d,
He sinks, the Victim of his Heart.
He feels his own demerits most,
When he should most aspire to gain;
And is at length completely lost,
Because he cannot urge his pain.
And when, alas! her hand shall bless
Some more attractive youth than HE;
He never can adore the less,
But glories in his agony.
He sees her to the altar led,
And still commands his struggling sighs;
Nor will he let one tear be shed,
He triumphs then, for then he dies!
For the New-York Weekly Magazine.