I could have loved you—oh, so well!—
The dream, that wishing boyhood knows,
Is but a bright, beguiling spell,
That only lives while passion glows.
But, when this early flush declines,
When the heart's sunny morning fleets,
You know not then how close it twines
Round the first kindred soul it meets.
Yes, yes, I could have loved, as one
Who, while his youth's enchantments fall,
Finds something dear to rest upon,
Which pays him for the loss of all.
TO …. ….
Never mind how the pedagogue proses,
You want not antiquity's stamp;
A lip, that such fragrance discloses,
Oh! never should smell of the lamp.
Old Cloe, whose withering kiss
Hath long set the Loves at defiance,
Now, done with the science of bliss,
May take to the blisses of science.
But for you to be buried in books—
Ah, Fanny, they're pitiful sages,
Who could not in one of your looks
Read more than in millions of pages.
Astronomy finds in those eyes
Better light than she studies above;
And Music would borrow your sighs
As the melody fittest for Love.
Your Arithmetic only can trip
If to count your own charms you endeavor;
And Eloquence glows on your lip
When you swear that you'll love me for ever.
Thus you see, what a brilliant alliance
Of arts is assembled in you;—
A course of more exquisite science
Man never need wish to pursue.