To Harriet

Thy look of love has power to calm

The stormiest passion of my soul;

Thy gentle words are drops of balm

In life's too bitter bowl;

No grief is mine, but that alone

These choicest blessings I have known.

Harriet! if all who long to live

In the warm sunshine of thine eye,

That price beyond all pain must give,—

Beneath thy scorn to die;

Then hear thy chosen own too late

His heart most worthy of thy hate.

Be thou, then, one among mankind

Whose heart is harder not for state,

Thou only virtuous, gentle, kind,

Amid a world of hate;

And by a slight endurance seal

A fellow-being's lasting weal.

For pale with anguish is his cheek.

His breath comes fast, his eyes are dim,

Thy name is struggling ere he speak,

Weak is each trembling limb;

In mercy let him not endure

The misery of a fatal cure.

Oh, trust for once no erring guide!

Bid the remorseless feeling flee;

'Tis malice, 'tis revenge, 'tis pride,

'Tis anything but thee;

Oh, deign a nobler pride to prove,

And pity if thou canst not love.