O trust not smiles, for their light may hide
A heart where each gushing hope hath died;
And guide your lips, lest the careless jest
Should sadden a heart that hath long supprest
Its harrowing fears with a careless air,
And bound with a smile-wreath the brow of despair.
TO A BEAUTIFUL COQUETTE.
Say on; if I but hear thy lips
Make music with their balmy breath,
It is enough! I do not ask
That they revoke their doom of death.
Yes, I did take the poisoned cup
From thy fair hand, and madly drink;
And now, when I have found 'tis death,
Now, even now, I do not shrink.
Speak! tell me that my fevered brain
Was phrensied when I've thought thou'st smiled;
That the sweet hope I nursed so long
Was ill-begotten—Fancy's child.
Call me thy slave—a fond, mad fool—
Thou'lt say, alas, one mournful truth,
For I have wasted in this dream
The best of life, the pride of youth.
Say this, and more, and with the scorn
That suits thee better than thy smile,
Thy frown, though bitter, can not harm—
'Tis in the sweetness lurks the guile!
