SONGS.
77
In all the pride of full-blown charms
Yield her, relenting, to my arms:
Her bosom touch with soft desires,
And let her feel what she inspires.
But, Cupid, if thine aid be vain
The dear reluctant maid to gain;
If still with cold averted eyes
She dash my hopes, and scorn my sighs;
O grant!—'tis all I ask of thee,—
That I no more may change than she;
But still with duteous zeal love on,
When every gleam of hope is gone.
Leave me then alone to languish;
Think not time can heal my anguish;
Pity the woes which I endure,—
But never, never grant a cure.
