THE RECANTATION. AN ODE. Samuel Whyte Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T124631 1073 K099398.000 Mendez, Moses. A collection of the most esteemed pieces of poetry: that have appeared for several years. With variety of originals, by the late Moses Mendez, Esq; and other contributors to Dodsley's collection. To which this is intended as a supplement. London printed for Richardson and Urquhart 1767 pp. 177-180. [8],320p. ; 8⁰.

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THE RECANTATION . AN ODE . BY love too long depriv'd of rest , ( Fell tyrant of the human breast ! ) His vassal long , and worn with pain , Indignant late I spurn'd the chain ; In verse , in prose , I sung and swore No charms should e'er enslave me more , Nor neck , nor hair , nor lip , nor eye , Again should force one tender sigh . As , taught by heaven's informing power , From every fruit and every flower , That nature opens to the view , The bee extracts the nectar-dew ; A vagrant thus , and free to change From fair to fair I vow'd to range , And part from each without regret As pleas'd and happy as I met . Then Freedom's praise inspir'd my tongue , With Freedom's praise the vallies rung , And every night and every day , My heart thus pour'd th' enraptur'd lay : " My cares are gone , my sorrows cease , " My breast regains its wonted peace , " And joy and hope returning prove , " That Reason is too strong for Love . " Such was my boast — but , ah ! how vain ! How short was Reason's vaunted reign ! The firm resolve I form'd ere-while How weak oppos'd to Clara's smile ! Chang'd is the strain — The vallies round With Freedom's praise no more resound , But every night and every day My full heart pours the alter'd lay . Offended deity , whose power My rebel tongue but now forswore , Accept my penitence sincere , My crime forgive , and grant my prayer ! Let not thy slave , condemn'd to mourn , With unrequited passion burn ; With Love's soft thoughts her breast inspire , And kindle there an equal fire ! It is not beauty's gaudy flower , ( The empty triumph of an hour ) Nor practis'd wiles of female art That now subdue my destin'd heart : O no ! — 'Tis heav'n , whose wondrous hand A transcript of itself hath plann'd , And to each outward grace hath join'd Each lovelier feature of the mind . These charms shall last , when others fly , When roses fade , and lillies die ; When that dear eye's declining beam Its living fire no more shall stream : Blest then , and happy in my chain , The song of Freedom flows in vain ; Nor Reason's harsh reproof I fear , For Reason's self is Passion here . O dearer far than wealth or fame , My daily thought , my nightly dream , If yet no youth's successful art ( Sweet hope ) hath touch'd thy gentle heart , If yet no swain hath bless'd thy choice ; Indulgent hear thy Damon's voice ; From doubts , from fears his bosom free , And bid him live — for love and thee !