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72 |
IRISH MELODIES. |
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When every tongue thy follies nam'd,
I fled the unwelcome story; Or found, in ev'n the faults they blam'd,
Some gleams of future glory. / still was true, when nearer friends Conspir'd to wrong, to slight thee ; The heart, that now thy falsehood rends, Would then have bled to right thee. But go, deceiver! go, —
Some day, perhaps, thou'It waken From pleasure's dream, to know The grief of hearts forsaken.
Even now, tho* youth its bloom has shed,
No lights of age adorn thee: The few, who lov'd thee once, have fled,
And they who flatter scorn thee. Thy midnight cup is pledg'd to slaves,
No genial ties enwreath it; The smiling there, like light on graves, Has rank cold hearts beneath it.
Go — go — tho' worlds were thine,
I would not now surrender One taintless tear of mine For all thy guilty splendour!
And days may come, thou false one! yet, When even those ties shall sever ;
When thou wilt call, with vain regret, On her thou'st lost for ever; |
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