Poems (Campbell)/To an Hypocrite
TO AN HYPOCRITE.
Thy heart is hard—thou hast no tear Like that which drops from Pity's eye,Her angel voice was never dear, Nor can thy bosom heave the sigh,The tender sigh! for other's anguish,— Then, haste thee—to thy pleasures fly,And leave me here in grief to languish.
Yet, thou hast said—perhaps hast sworn— Thy soul was tenderness and truth!Go, Hypocrite! thou canst not mourn O'er a bruis'd heart, and blighted youth,With'ring away with grief and sorrow! Or, if thou dost, I fear, in sooth,'Tis but the semblance thou dost borrow.
Yet thou canst talk, oh, wond'rous well! Of sympathy and feeling too;And bid thy changeful bosom swell With pity that it never knew,And seem all tenderness and passion! Yes! to thy baser nature true,Thou weep'st, and why?—it is the fashion!