Posterity Will Accord to Him the Pity Which Laura Refuses

Alas, with ardour past belief I glow!None doubt this truth, except one only fair,Who all excels, for whom alone I care;She plainly sees, yet disbelieves my woe.O rich in charms, but poor in faith! canst thouLook in these eyes, nor read my whole heart there?Were I not fated by my baleful star,For me from pity's fount might favour flow.My flame, of which thou tak'st so little heed,And thy high praises pour'd through all my song,O'er many a breast may future influence spread:These, my sweet fair, so warns prophetic thought,Closed thy bright eye, and mute thy poet's tongue,E'en after death shall still with sparks be fraught.

Alas! I burn, yet credence fail to gainAll others credit it save only sheAll others who excels, alone for me;She seems to doubt it still, yet sees it plainInfinite beauty, little faith and slow,Perceive ye not my whole heart in mine eyes?Well might I hope, save for my hostile skies,From mercy's fount some pitying balm to flow.Yet this my flame which scarcely moves your care,And your warm praises sung in these fond rhymes,May thousands yet inflame in after times;These I foresee in fancy, my sweet fair,Though your bright eyes be closed and cold my breath,Shall lighten other loves and live in death.

Soul! with such various faculties enduedTo think, write, speak, to read, to see, to hear;My doting eyes! and thou, my faithful ear!Where drinks my heart her counsels wise and good;Your fortune smiles; if after or before,The path were won so badly follow'd yet,Ye had not then her bright eyes' lustre met,Nor traced her light feet earth's green carpet o'er.Now with so clear a light, so sure a sign,'Twere shame to err or halt on the brief wayWhich makes thee worthy of a home divine.That better course, my weary will, essay!To pierce the cloud of her sweet scorn be thine,Pursuing her pure steps and heavenly ray.

Sweet scorn, sweet anger, and sweet misery,Forgiveness sweet, sweet burden, and sweet ill;Sweet accents that mine ear so sweetly thrill,That sweetly bland, now sweetly fierce can be.Mourn not, my soul, but suffer silently;And those embitter'd sweets thy cup that fillWith the sweet honour blend of loving stillHer whom I told: "Thou only pleasest me."Hereafter, moved with envy, some may say:"For that high-boasted beauty of his dayEnough the bard has borne!" then heave a sigh.Others: "Oh! why, most hostile Fortune, whyCould not these eyes that lovely form survey?Why was she early born, or wherefore late was I?"

Sweet anger, sweet disdain, and peace as sweet,Sweet ill, sweet pain, sweet burthen that I bear,Sweet speech as sweetly heard; sweet speech, my fair!That now enflames my soul, now cools its heat.Patient, my soul! endure the wrongs you meet;And all th' embitter'd sweets you're doomed to shareBlend with that sweetest bliss, the maid to greetIn these soft words, "Thou only art my care!"Haply some youth shall sighing envious say,"Enough has borne the bard so fond, so true,For that bright beauty, brightest of his day!"While others cry, "Sad eyes! how hard your fate,Why could I ne'er this matchless beauty view?Why was she born so soon, or I so late?"