The Complaint. An Elegy Poem by Henry Baker

Ah! luckless Love! must I for ever bear
This Load of Woe, nor know an End of Care?
Must this fond Heart, in spight of her Disdain,
Still sigh for One regardless of Its Pain?

While down these Cheeks the trickling Sorrow glides,
And in this Breast nought but Despair abides,
Secure of Conquest, with a scornful Joy,
She, cruel Fair! takes Pride in being coy:
No Pity does she show, but hard as Stone
Is her relentless Heart, unheedful of my Moan.

Tho', as to Heav'n, I for her Mercy sue,
While Tears in Show'rs the thirsty Earth bedew,
Deaf as the Northern Wind, from Me she flys,
And glories in the Mischiefs of her Eyes.
Sooner might Tears an hungry Tyger move
To leave its Prey untouch'd, than her to love.

Ah! fatal Beauty! charming past compare!
But much, alas, inhuman more than fair!

The lonely Groves with my Laments resound,
And pitying Beasts, attentive stand, around;
Sad Philomela wonders at my Moan,
And flags her Wings, forgetful of her own.
Both Birds and Beasts my Plaints to Pity move,
But cruel She with Scorn returns my Love.
My Bloom of Youth by Grief is worn away,
(For Grief, like Age, brings on a sure Decay.)
Ah! why? alas! was I, unhappy! born!
To perish by the Rigour of her Scorn?
Hard--hearted Maid! thy Cruelty forbear,
'Tis Life I beg, a prostrate Captive spare.

O could my Pains thy Breast to Pity move!
O could my Flame but warm thy Heart with Love!
In Pray'rs for Thee the Life thou gav'st I'd spend,
Nor, but with that, my Gratitude should end.

Vain thoughts of Life! kind Death alone remains,
To ease me of her Scorn, and terminate my Pains.