Fare thee well!-thus disunited, Torn from every nearer tie, Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted— More than this I scarce can die. A SKETCH. "Honest-Honest Iago! "If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee." Shakspeare. BORN in the garret, in the kitchen bred, She taught the child to read, and taught so well, An adept next in penmanship she grows, None know-but that high Soul secured the heart, And panted for the truth it could not hear, Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind, Which Flattery fool'd not-Baseness could not blind, Nor Fortune change-Pride raise-nor Passion bow, Serenely purest of her sex that live, But wanting one sweet weakness—to forgive, But to the theme :-now laid aside too long If early habits-those false links, which bind And leave the venom there she did not find; To make a Pandemonium where she dwells, With all the kind mendacity of hints While mingling truth with falsehood-sneers with smiles— A thread of candour with a web of wiles; A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming, To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd scheming; A lip of lies-a face form'd to conceal ; And, without feeling, mock at all who feel: Cased like the centipede in saffron mail, Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale- Look on the picture! deem it not o'ercharged— Oh! wretch without a tear-without a thought, And turn thee howling in unpitied pain. May the strong curse of crush'd affections light Back on thy bosom with reflected blight! As loathsome to thyself as to mankind! |