The Power Of Love Poem by Charlotte Dacre

THE sweet enthusiast, on a rock reclin'd,
With transport listen'd to the dashing waves;
Her snowy garments swam upon the wind,
And Silence spread her wing amid the caves.

Now sportive Fancy did her eye-lids close,
And Memory brought the happy past to view;
A group of visionary friends arose,
And in a dance confus'd around her drew.

Borne on Imagination's ardent wing,
Again a child, she skimm'd the yellow mead,
Again threw pebbles in the cloud-pav'd spring--
Again in baby gambols took the lead.

And now, her childhood past, a busier scene
Floats on the bosom of the silent night;
Her lover's form, all deck'd in sea-weeds green,
Swam wet and shiv'ring in her startled sight.

Light on the trembling surge he seem'd to stand;
Pale was his face, loose hung his dripping hair,
His shroud he held within his clay-cold hand,
And, sighing deeply, threw his bosom bare.

Then pointed Melancholy to the wave;
'Say, wilt thou come, sweet love? behold my fate!
This element hath been thy lover's grave;
Say, dost thou love me still--or dost thou hate?'

In haste the beauteous dreamer op'd her eyes,
To lose the vision from her rocky pillow;
In vain, alas! whatever side she tries,
The sprite remains, still pointing to the billow!

And now a sterner look assum'd his face;
'Thou dost not love me, or thou wouldst not stay,
Come plunge, my love!--soon, soon shall we embrace!
Midnight has past:--haste, haste, I must away!'

The sweeet enthusiast heard her lover groan;
And sighing from the promontory's steep,
'See, dear-lov'd spirit!--I am thine alone!'
She said; and plunging sought him 'midst the deep.