A lover's complaint in four misanthropic Spenserians: "'Twas woman's smiles in all their dazzling glow | When Fate's commission'd hand prepar'd th' unerring blow." The poem is signed "C." The Inspector, a British periodical, published three volumes in 1826 and 1827.
The look is gone, which smiling beam'd to save,
And life, alas! has nought of joy for me;
I seek a refuge, in the silent grave,
Refuge from time, — rest for eternity;
Oh! Man, if nought but Love's tempestuous sea
Hath bid thee call the tomb, thy haven, fair,
And were its waters calm, could'st thou yet be
Content to spread thy sails for ever there,
Nor waft from Earth a wish, — nor wing to Heav'n a pray'r.
Does high ambition form thy daring scheme,
A calm seclusion charm thy peaceful breast,
Of love more pure than mine, thou can'st not dream
Thou durst not hope for more than I possess'd;
And if a joy more blissful than the rest,
Could spread its bright beams on my view below;
Could veil life's future, distant in the west,
'Twas woman's smiles in all their dazzling glow
When Fate's commission'd hand prepar'd th' unerring blow.
Do'st thou too love? — and sum thy pure delight
In one blest hope, that bids all others bow,
Of all the sorrowing forms, that meet thy sight,
Mark well the deadliest cheek, — the palest brow,—
Mine was the quenchless flame — the sacred vow—
The love — that thought not of a parting hour.
It crown'd my bliss — it crowns my sorrow now
It is betray'd, but yet retains a pow'r
That Death shall find triumphant in my dying hour.
Do'st thou dare hope! — ('twill dawn but to deceive)
Away, away, with Hope, it seals thy doom;
Trust not its promises, if thou would'st live,
It sheds a ray, to light thee to thy tomb.
Trust not a tear — it falls but to betray:
Trust not a smile — (however sweet it shone.)
Both, both, have bless'd me in a brighter day,
And both, alas! deceiv'd me — and are gone,
And Love no more shall hail their doubtful second dawn.