The Doubt Poem by Charlotte Dacre

HOW wild is the struggle, how deep is the anguish
That preys on my bosom, by fancy refin'd;
I feel in this torture I long cannot languish,
A torture that springs from a doubt in the mind.

I feel, and I feel it with deep melancholy,
Impure is the passion I cherish for thee;
My lover, oh! speak, is my flame not unholy?
O! speak, and thy voice shall be conscience to me.

O! speak thou, and calm me, thy words like the show'r
Arabia's scorch'd desarts descending to cheer,
Shall soon by their soft, their enliv'ning pow'r,
Refresh th' hot soul that exhales not a tear.

O! this right and this wrong , it can ne'er be ideal,
Nor fancy, nor priestcraft, as sceptics would say;
Yet whatever the case, sure the tortures are real,
Which harass the wretch who finds doubt on the way.

O! how my heart beats, how I start, how I tremble,
If lonely I wake in the stillness of night,
I see round my bed shadowy visions assemble,
Their air is forlorn, and their garments not bright.

Ah! these are the spirits of doubt that surround me,
Their voices, now moaning, now whisp'ring, I hear;
Their looks are unsettl'd, their gestures confound me,
Their figures that change in the mist are not clear.

Such, such is my soul, oh! my friend, oh! my brother,
Too great between virtue, and love is the strife,
Then I'll yield my best hopes at the feet of another,
And if I must love, it shall prey on my life.