To His Lady

Given up to my fate, shunning notice, I go To the woods that first offer their glooms to my eye; Scattering through them a thousand lamentings of woe To the wind, on whose wings they but wander to die. Though thine ear they deserve not, I cannot but sigh To behold them go ruined the very same way They would take if redressed, to me back they must fly, Where, alas, they for ever and ever will stay!

But what shall I do, Lady? where for relief Can I turn, if thou fail'st my kind angel to be, Or whose aid will avail me in seasons of grief, If my mournful complaints find not pity in thee? Thou alone hold'st my soul so enchanted—I know From my plaints that thou always turn'st smiling away, Yet still I adore and plain to thee, as though Thou would'st really care aught if I perished to-day.

I appeal to the trees that o'ershadow the dell; They have heard what from thee I conceal, and their tongue, If it can give account of distraction, will tell What I murmured their green summer branches among. But who can speak calmly my grief? let them then Wrong me not, fear no longer my speech shall repress; Who from year to year's end would consent to complain, Without hope or expectance of any redress?

But redress is refused with such cruel commands, As were never imposed upon any before, For if others have ceased setting forth their demands, Weeping only in secret the evils they bore, It will hardly have been without some slight relief To their pangs, but with me pain so melts into pain, That my fancy ev'n fails to set bounds to my grief, So I still suffer that which I cannot explain.

If e'er through my long brief of wrongs and defeats, I at any time chance my regards to extend, It is only by dealing in brilliant deceits, That my still cherished cause I can hope to defend. But thy quick expositions—one dim frown of pride, One warm blush of resentment cuts short my defence, And, outpleaded, I turn from thy beauty to chide, If not curse both my want of perception and sense.

Yet what harm have I done thee? what wrong? not a shade! Save that—Anger herself might forgive me the sin— I have wished myself ruined, if only, stern maid, To take vengeance on thee, tyrannising within. SONG of sorrow, go forth! I've already said more Than they charged me, yet less than I trusted to say; Let them ask me no further, lest further the store Of my Lady's defects in my wrath I betray.