From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses, I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss; For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this. Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright'ning, Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage, On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning, With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage. But now tears and curses, alike unavailing, Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight; Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation, Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer; Love and hope upon earth bring no more We hence may meet, and pass each other by, Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught If these, - but let me cease the lengthen'd strain, Oh! if these wishes are not breathed in vain, 110 The guardian seraph who directs thy fate Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great. 1805. |