Page:Waes me for Prince Charly.pdf/5

 

When wilt thou break my stubborn heart? O death how slow to take my part? Whatever I pursue denies, Death, death itself like Myra flies.

Love and despair, like twins, possest, At the same fatal birth my breast! No hope could be, her scorn was all, That to my dissant lot could fall.

I thought alas ! that love could dwell, But in warm climes, where no snow fell; Like plants that kindly heat require, To be maintain'd by constant fire.

That, without hope, 'twoud' die as soon, A little hope—but I have none: On air the poor Camelions thrive: Deny’d even that my love can live.

As toughest trees in storms ate 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 other’s love, That poison never yet withstood, Does nourish, mine and turn to food.