Henry Deceived

God OF THE BOW! how blind art thou! Surely the fillet on thy brow Is coarser wove, than was the case When Mortals view'd thee face to face. For well we know thine Eyes celestial, When seen of old by Belles terrestrial, Were deck'd with bandeau light and airy, As might become a Summer Fairy. Their soft blue orbs so slight were bound, Thy piercing glance no hind'rance found; The Gossamour's transparent skin Reposing on the lucid air, Appear'd no longer light or thin, If with thy veil it should compare.

Then was thy sight like Eagles' keen! Nor Gods nor Men escap'd thine eye, Nor cavern dark, nor beamy sky— Nay, Thoughts, scarce born, by thee were seen. But now—oh dull of eye and heart! Thou know'st not WHENCE Love's ardours start; And when stiff * *'s lines appear, Thou whisper'st in my HENRY's ear That they are EMMA's!!

HENRY believes—HENRY admires; He thinks he sees his EMMA's fires Dart vig'rous through each labour'd page— He knows, and feels her tender rage; Then asks—"And can a Man like me, Call forth such Poetry in thee?" Believing that the pen is mine, He faints with rapturous pause, on each delusive line.

Thou, HENRY, ne'er canst learn the wounds I felt, Whilst you, unconscious, such barbed Satire dealt. Midst your fond praise, my pierc'd heart inly bled, And shame bow'd down your EMMA's sorrowing head. What! to be lov'd for Wit I never own'd! And by a STRANGER's Verse to be dethron'd! How did I hate the graces of her song— The cluster'd sweets that round her soft lute throng; Which like the Bees of Hybla's yellow woods, Appear'd to pour their wealth in golden floods. My fancy pictur'd richer notes than fell From him of old, who to the verge of hell Led forth the wife he lov'd;—but ah! when read, Mad jealousy, and childish envy fled; The harmless lines I saw, without one sigh, And SMILING WONDER flash'd across my eye.

Mistaking HENRY look once more; Again read * *'s Verses o'er! Should I complain of love betray'd? I, write like some forsaken Maid— Whilst the warm blood within thy veins Flows but for ME? Whilst EMMA reigns Supreme within thy inmost soul, And distant, yet can still controul Its inmost movements, and desires, And knows HERSELF sole object of its fires Should She in dismal ditties mourn, Whilst Love and Truth so brightly burn? Mistaking HENRY, look once more— Again read * *'s Verses o'er! Were I the Poet, Thou the theme, Think'st thou like her's my Verse would gleam: With sunny rays, and misty hills, Any myrtle groves, and foamy rills? Oh no, THYSELF—HENRY, Thyself alone Should stand confest on Love's ETERNAL THRONE; Round THEE the brightness of my Verse should shine, Round THEE my living Lays for ever, ever twine!

If Verse descriptive warms thy heart, If that, bids throbs of Passion start, I could seize Fancy's various clue; Untired, her shifting steps pursue. I'd call Night's Lamp a Chrystal Bow— Bid her, her silv'ry shafts bestow Upon the tufted emerald plain, Or shower them o'er the shining main: Or when the full orb'd jolly Moon Rode dull, and thoughtless to her noon, I'd swear she dress'd her white-lock'd hours In choicest hue;—and call'd forth flow'rs Of softer tint, and mild perfume, Wove in her own translucent loom, To deck the world o'er which she hung— An amorous, ray-crown'd, hov'ring Dove! But when all this is said or sung, It is not, foolish HENRY, LOVE.

I'd bear thee to the mountain's height, Rear'd, midst the sparkling dome of night; Observe the Court of Heaven hung round With drops of flame on azure ground; Shew where bright VENUS rolls her car, And where chill SATURN—monstrous Star! Through thirty years drives torpid on, And all these Summers counts as ONE. Bid Thee regard almost with scorn Our trisling System;—where is borne In fond Attraction's airy chain THE MIGHTY PLANETARY TRAIN. For oh, beyond that System's bounds— Where that, in all its various rounds Ne'er shed the faintest ray— Where the vast Sun's unmeasur'd light In rushing floods, in boundless flight, Ne'er imitated Day; Far, far beyond new orbits trace In wider heavens, in grander space, Their gorgeous way in flame! And these, again, in turn shall shrink, Abash'd, amidst CREATION sink, And hardly own a name.

All these may ADORATION move— With strong Devotion touch the soul, Bid Piety her incense roll— But still, my HENRY, 'tis not LOVE.

In future know, when vagrant Verse Shall any other strain rehearse, Though the rapt Pen may nicely blend All TRUTH or FICTION e'er could lend To elevate the Lay. Though all APOLLO's fire should seem T' illume the Page with sacred beam, And bless the Bard with bayes— Yet, if LOVE thrills not in each turn, Nor seems along the line to burn, Nor gives each verse the touch divine— They are not wrote to THEE, nor are their glories MINE.