Her sorrows she is wont to hide,
Her joys she shares on every side;
She is her doting mother’s pride,
Her father’s jewel.
If we, who style this world so bad,
But strove, like her, to make it glad,
Life then would seem by far less sad,
Nor half so cruel.
SAMSON AND DELILAH.
Thou art o’erbold, Delilah, thus to try
Thy traitorous arts upon a soul like mine,
And lure me to eternal slavery
With glances warm like wine.
One clasp of my strong hands at will could break
Thy tender body, like a fragile flower.
How darest thou prey of my heart to make,
And plot against my power?
Hast thou no fear the brute in me will rise,
Wrathful, and tear thy shapely limbs apart,
And dull the jewelled lustre of thine eyes,
And still thy faithless heart?
Why dost thou let me look upon thy face,
And see myself embowered in thine eyes,
And every curve of thy lithe figure trace
Beneath thy robe’s disguise.
What harm have I wrought thee that thou shouldst stand
And menace all my life with one great woe?
Thou hast me in the hollow of thy hand—
Take me or let me go!