EXTRACTS FROM MY POCKET BOOK.
Literary Gazette 4th October 1823, Page 635
My heart is not light as when first, love,
That fond heart confided to thee,
The passion-flowers which thou hast nurst, love,
Are flowers of sadness to me.
Thou hast been to me as the spring gale, love,
That wooes the young bloom to unfold;
But when once its caresses prevail, love,
The warm sigh it breathed will grow cold.
Alas, when the heart is once won, love,
It is not held dear as before;
When the race has in triumph been run, love,
The prize is thought precious no more.
Farewell! thou hast trifled with me, love,
Yet for thee is my very last sigh;
She who trusted so fearless to thee, love,
Can but weep o'er thy falsehood, and die.