Tell me, thou Syren Hope, deceiver, say,
Where is the promis'd period of my woes?
Full three long, lingering years have roll'd away,
And yet I weep, a stranger to repose:
O what delusion did thy tongue employ!
"That EMMA's fatal pledge of love,
" Her last bequest — with all a mother's care,
"The bitterness of sorrow should remove,
" Soften the horrors of despair,
"And chear a heart long lost to joy!"
How oft, when fondling in mine arms,
Gazing enraptur'd on its angel-face,
My soul the maze of Fate would vainly trace,
And burn with all a father's fond alarms!
And O what flattering scenes had Fancy feign'd,
How did I rave of blessings yet in store!
Till every aching sense was sweetly pain'd,
And my full heart could bear, nor tongue could utter more. —