The Conflict.

No! I this conflict longer will not wage,      The conflict duty claims the giant task;      Thy spells, O virtue, never can assuage      The heart's wild fire this offering do not ask      True, I have sworn a solemn vow have sworn,      That I myself will curb the self within;      Yet take thy wreath, no more it shall be worn      Take back thy wreath, and leave me free to sin.      Rent be the contract I with thee once made;      She loves me, loves me forfeit be the crown!      Blessed he who, lulled in rapture's dreamy shade,      Glides, as I glide, the deep fall gladly down.      She sees the worm that my youth's bloom decays,      She sees my spring-time wasted as it flees;      And, marvelling at the rigor that gainsays      The heart's sweet impulse, my reward decrees.      Distrust this angel purity, fair soul!      It is to guilt thy pity armeth me;      Could being lavish its unmeasured whole,      It ne'er could give a gift to rival thee!      Thee the dear guilt I ever seek to shun,      O tyranny of fate, O wild desires!      My virtue's only crown can but be won      In that last breath when virtue's self expires!