Caroline Lamb

* * *

This heart has never stoop'd its pride
To slavish love, or woman's wile;
But, steel'd by war, has oft defy'd
Her craftiest art and brightest smile.

This mind has trac'd its own career,
Nor follow'd blind, where others trod;
Nor, mov'd by love, or hope or fear,
E'er bent to man, or worshipp'd God.

Then hope not now to touch with love,
Or in its chains a heart to draw,
All earthly spells have fail'd to move;
And heav'n's whole terrors cannot awe:

A heart, that like some mountain vast,
And cold with never-melting snow,
Sees nought above, nor deigns to cast
A look away on aught below.