I ne’er have seen race-horses, or a race.
I crave your pardon; in your gentle face I read reproof.
If you force reply, I can Speak but the truth. The cruel, panting race, For gamblers’ prizes, seems not worthy place For women--nor for men, indeed, if they Were purer grown. Of kindred ill the play, The dinner loud with wine, the midnight dance, The deadly poison of all games of chance-- All these are sinful.
Ah! poor sins, how stern The judge! I knew ye not for sins--I learn For the first time that ye are evil. Go, Avaunt ye! So my races are a woe-- Alas! And David Garrick!--Where’s the harm In David?
Nay, he’s a play; a comedy so warm, So pitiful, that, let those laugh who can, _I_ weep. And must I yield my crystal glass, Dewy with ice, and fragrant with rare wine, That makes a dreary dinner-party pass In rosy light, where after-fancies shine-- Things that one might have said?--And then the dance, The _valse à deux temps_, if your partner chance To be a lover--
Madam, pray excuse My seeming rudeness; but I must refuse To dwell on themes like these.
Upon the good. Did I not well? I gave you good for evil, mademoiselle.
Forgive me, lady, but I cannot jest, I bear too anxious heart within my breast; One dear to me lies wounded, and I go To find him, help him home with tender care-- To home and health, God willing.
Is it so? Strange--but ah! no. The wounded are not rare, Nor yet the grief, in this heart-rending war.-- But he will yet recover; I feel sure That one beloved by heart so good, so pure As yours, will not be taken. Sweet, your star Is fortunate.
Not in the stars, I trust. We are but wretched creatures of the dust, Sinful, and desperately wicked; still, It is in mercy our Creator’s will To hear our prayers.
And do you then believe He grants all heart-felt prayers? One might conceive A case: Suppose a loving mother prays For her son’s life; he, worn with life’s hard ways, Entreats his God for death with equal power And fervor.
I grant it not. But, say in self-same hour A farmer prays for rain; with ’bated breath A mother, hastening to a dying child, Prays for fair weather?--But you do not deign To listen. Ah! I saw you when you smiled That little, silver smile! I might explain My meaning further; but why should I shake Your happy faith?