Literary Gazette, 1st March 1823, Page 139
Head of Ariadne.
Oh, why should Woman ever love,
Throwing her chance away,
Her little chance of summer shine,
Upon a rainbow ray?
Look back on each old history,
Each fresh remembered tale;
They'll tell how often love has made
The cheek of woman pale;—
Her unrequited love, a flower
Dying for air and light;
Her love betrayed, another flower
Withering before a blight.
Look down within the silent grave;
How much of breath and bloom
Have wasted,—passion's sacrifice
Offered to the lone tomb.
Look on her hour of solitude,
How many bitter cares
Belie the smile with which the lip
Would sun the wound it bears.
Mark this sweet face! oh, never blush
Has past o'er one more fair,
And never o'er a brighter brow
Has wandered raven hair.
And mark how carelessly those wreaths
Of curl are flung behind,
And mark how pensively the brow
Leans on the hand reclined.
'Tis she of Crete!—another proof
Of woman's weary lot;
Their April doom of sun and shower,—
To love, then be forgot.
Heart-sickness, feelings tortured, torn,
A sky of storm above,
A path of thorns,—these are love's gifts,—
Ah, why must woman love!