But go, deceiver! go,
The heart, whose hopes could make it
Trust one so false, so low,
Deserves that thou shouldst break it.
When every tongue thy follies named,
I fled the unwelcome story;
Or found, in even the faults they blamed,
Some gleams of future glory.
_I_ still was true, when nearer friends
Conspired to wrong, to slight thee;
The heart that now thy falsehood rends,
Would then have bled to right thee,
But go, deceiver! go,--
Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken
From pleasure's dream, to know
The grief of hearts forsaken.
Even now, tho' youth its bloom has shed,
No lights of age adorn thee:
The few, who loved thee once, have fled,
And they who flatter scorn thee.
Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves,
No genial ties enwreath it;
The smiling there, like light on graves,
Has rank cold hearts beneath it.
Go--go--tho' worlds were thine,
I would not now surrender
One taintless tear of mine
For all thy guilty splendor!
And days may come, thou false one! yet,
When even those ties shall sever;
When thou wilt call, with vain regret,
On her thou'st lost for ever;
On her who, in thy fortune's fall,
With smiles had still received thee,
And gladly died to prove thee all
Her fancy first believed thee.
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