The Confession

In vain I strive my heart to shield, Spite of myself that heart will yield; In vain would hide a thousand ways What every conscious look betrays:—

The jest assum'd, th' averted eye, Poorly conceal the stifled sigh; Each stolen touch, which love impels, The heart's emotion trembling tells.

Yet not Eliza's charms alone, Could ruling reason thus dethrone; Her blooming graces, tho' with pain, My cautious bosom might sustain.

But arm'd with that enchanting mien, Which speaks the feeling mind within; How can my soften'd breast be free, Thus caught by Sensibility?

Yet not for me the tear will start, Which proves Eliza's tender heart; Yet not for me the smile will speak, Which brightens in Eliza's cheek;

Lost in the whirl of fashion'd life, Where Nature is with Joy at strife; Her unembarrass'd looks declare, That Love is not triumphant there:—

Lur'd by the hope of gaudier days, The pompous banners Wealth displays: Each fond emotion distant keeps, And all her native softness sleeps.