Poems (Pizey)/The Smile
THE SMILE.
Oh say, sweet smile, deceiving syren, say, Why dost thou thus beguile my trembling heart?Why with my feelings so unkindly play— Why seek to charm me with thy magic art?
To make me feel more keenly, dost thou try To make me pine in anguish and despair?O play no more around false Mary's eye, Thou'lt make me fancy she again is fair.
Yes; fair she is with ev'ry outward grace That can delude the heart; true, she is fair—But inward beauties have, alas! no place In that fair form, in that bewitching air.
No, treacherous smile, thou can'st no more deceive, Nor all thy arts my heart again betray;No more will I again thy wiles believe, Nor own again the magic of thy sway.