by Eliza Acton
Go, cold and fickle trifler! go-
And bear thy traitor-smiles afar,
Where none, like me, too well shall know,
How hollow, and how vain, they are.
Go,-light of heart, and false of faith!
But never, till thine hour of death,
Dare with those treacherous lips profane
The sacredness of love again:-
No feeling of thy soul can claim
So sweet, so true, so pure a name-
Thine ev'ry look, and sigh, and tone,
Is vow'd to vanity alone!
I would my fortune had been cast
In some bright epoch of the past
When heroes, of high thought, and worth,
With lofty bearing trod the earth
And won, to grace a gallant name,
The guerdon of a fadeless fame:
Oh! I had bow'd in spirit then,
To god-like deeds, of god-like men;
And with the gen'rous, and the brave,
Had joy'd to find a home-and grave!
From visions of the olden time
I turn to trace thy mean career :-
Believe not thou wert ever dear!
Deem not, that I could love thee!-No!-
I have but feign'd as thou hast done,
And trifled with the trifler! -so,
Still may the mask thou wear'st be known;-
And while thy bosom's dark recess
Doth veil its subtle selfishness,
May'st thou be fated but to find,
Where'er thou go'st, a kindred mind!
Last updated January 14, 2019