Page:Poetical Works of the Right Hon. Geo. Granville.djvu/113

Rh That without hope ’t would die as ſoon, A little hope—but I have none. On air the poor chamelions thrive; Deny’d ev’n that, my love can live.

As tougheſt trees in ſtorms are bred, And grow in ſpite of winds, and ſpread, The more the tempeſt tears and ſhakes My love, the deeper root it takes.

Deſpair, that aconite does prove, And certain death, to others’ love; That poiſon, never yet withſtood, Does nouriſh mine, and turns to food.

O! for what crime is my torn heart Condemn’d to ſuffer deathleſs ſmart? Like ſad Prometheus, thus to lie In endleſs pain, and never die. indulgent, provident, and kind, In all things that excel ſome uſe deſign’d. The radiant ſun, of ev’ry heav’nly light The firſt, (did Mira not diſpute that right)