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(Written between Dover and Calais, in July, 1792)
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BOUNDING Billow, cease thy motion; Bear me not so swiftly o'er! Cease thy roaring, foamy Ocean! I will tempt thy rage no more. Ah! within my bosom beating, Varying passions wildly reign! Love, with proud Resentment meeting; Throbs by turns of joy and pain! Joy, that far from foes I wander, Where their arts can reach no more; Pain, that woman's heart grows fonder, When the dream of bliss is o'er! Love, by fickle fancy banished, Spurned by Hope, indignant flies! Yet, when love and hope are vanished, Restless Memory never dies! Far I go, where Fate shall lead me, Far across the troubled deep! Where no stranger's ear shall heed me; Where no eye for me shall weep. Proud has been my fatal passion! Proud my injured heart shall be! While each thought and inclination Proves that heart was formed for thee! Not one sigh shall tell my story; Not one tear my cheek shall stain! Silent grief shall be my glory, Grief that stoops not to complain! Let the bosom, prone to ranging, Still, by ranging, seek a cure! Mine disdains the thought of changing, Proudly destined to endure! Yet ere far from all I treasured, T*******! ere I bid adieu, Ere my days of pain are measured, Take the song that's still thy due! Yet believe no servile passions Seek to charm the wandering mind; Well I know thy inclinations, Wavering as the passing wind! I have loved thee, dearly loved thee, Through an age of worldly woe! How ungrateful I have proved thee, Let my mournful exile show! Ten long years of anxious sorrow, Hour by hour I counted o'er; Looking forward till tomorrow, Every day I loved thee more! Power and Splendour could not charm me; I no joy in Wealth could see; Nor could threats or fears alarm me -- Save the fear of losing thee! When the storms of fortune pressed thee, I have sighed to hear thee sigh! Or when sorrows dire distressed thee, I have bid those sorrows fly! Often hast thou smiling told me Wealth and Power were trifling things, While Love, smiling to behold me, Mocked cold Time's destructive wings. When with thee, what ills could harm me? Thou could'st every pang assuage! Now, alas! what Hope shall charm me? Every moment seems an age! Fare thee well, ungrateful rover! Welcome Gallia's hostile shore; Now the breezes waft me over; Now we part -- to meet no more! |
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