L'AMANTE FURIOSO.

FRAGMENT XXVIII.

"Airs empressés! vous n'etes pas l'amour."

VOLTAIRE.

I.

Is this then the passion, is this the sweet anguish?

Fondly to feel, and as fondly inspire;

My poor silly heart in its folly would languish,

And sigh, the true martyr of love to inspire.

II.

Oh no! this is fury, 'tis rage, or 'tis madness,

It scares the mild feelings that dwell in the heart;

It wearies the senses, or sinks into sadness

The soul that in riot can ne'er take a part.

III.

Oft in the sweet dream that play'd o'er my pillow, Or in my warm'd fancy, Love's vision would

beam;

But oh! how unlike fleeting passion's wild billow O'er each yielding sense did it tenderly stream!

IV.

Led by the graces, surrounded by pleasures

Which aim at the heart, or which flow from the

soul;

I

Profusely endow'd with the mind's sterling trea

sures,

And veil'd in sweet sympathy's magical stole.

ས.

Though obvious, reserved, mysterious, yet simple,

Chastely endearing, and timidly wild;

Repuls'd by a frown, recall'd by a dimple;

Placid, though tender; though ardent, refin'd.

VI.

And couldst thou (thou maniac in passion) thus

Woo me,

And lay by these freaks, less persuasive than

fright'ning,

And cease with this fury of love to pursue me,

Nor always approach me-in THUNDER and

LIGHTNING;

VII.

If my poor little heart thou wouldst win, my wild

rover,

First give me of safety some positive token;

For to tell you the truth, my too vehement lover, My fear is, my poor little HEAD will be broken.

FRAGMENT XXIX.

"Un dolz plosar, non vaut quatorez ris."

GUILEM ESMIR.

HERE, Iris, pr'ythee take my lyre,

No more its pathos or its fire

Shall wrap me in delusive bliss,

Its chords my flying fingers kiss,
Nor to its sweet responsive string

Her song of soul thy mistress sing,