The Confession Poem by Charlotte Dacre

ALAS! I fear I cannot longer steel
My heart against the magic of thy pow'r;
Unusual flutt'rings in my breast I feel,
And new emotions struggling ev'ry hour.

O! thou, most delicate, and most refin'd,
'Tis sacrilege to say I fear to love
A being, gifted thus with charms of mind,
So form'd that passion to inspire and prove.

But, traitor! wherefore teach my heart to burn,
Round which the stream of apathy did flow?
Ah! wherefore bid the freezing current turn,
And leave that heart with Etna's fires to glow?

Say, was it by the light'ning of thine eyes,
Which, mine encount'ring, so my soul inflam'd?
Or did thy glowing breath, with magic sighs,
Enkindle mischief more than may be nam'd?

Mischief indeed!--but ah! I would not change
Mischief so sweet for all the world could give;
So vile a slave I'm grown, I would not range
Beyond my chain, nor liberty receive.

Thou gazest on me, and thy gaze but serves
Thro' all my veins to send tumultuous sweets;
And at thy touch with transports thrill my nerves,
My bosom with increas'd emotion beats.

Yes, yes, I own what 'tis in vain to hide,
I love thee more than language can express;
Thou'st conquer'd apathy and giant pride;
And abject wretches, they the conqu'ror bless.