Mylaurell'd hope! and thou, Colonna proud!Your broken strength can shelter me no more!Nor Boreas, Auster, Indus, Afric's shore,Can give me that, whose loss my soul hath bow'd:My step exulting, and my joy avow'd,Death now hath quench'd with ye, my heart's twin store;Nor earth's high rule, nor gems, nor gold's bright ore,Can e'er bring back what once my heart endow'dBut if this grief my destiny hath will'd,What else can I oppose but tearful eyes,A sorrowing bosom, and a spirit quell'd?O life! whose vista seems so brightly fill'd,A sunny breath, and that exhaling, diesThe hope, oft, many watchful years have swell'd.Wollaston.
Mylaurell'd hope! and thou, Colonna proud!Your broken strength can shelter me no more!Nor Boreas, Auster, Indus, Afric's shore,Can give me that, whose loss my soul hath bow'd:My step exulting, and my joy avow'd,Death now hath quench'd with ye, my heart's twin store;Nor earth's high rule, nor gems, nor gold's bright ore,Can e'er bring back what once my heart endow'dBut if this grief my destiny hath will'd,What else can I oppose but tearful eyes,A sorrowing bosom, and a spirit quell'd?O life! whose vista seems so brightly fill'd,A sunny breath, and that exhaling, diesThe hope, oft, many watchful years have swell'd.
Wollaston.
Ifthou wouldst have me, Love, thy slave again,One other proof, miraculous and new,Must yet be wrought by you,Ere, conquer'd, I resume my ancient chain—Lift my dear love from earth which hides her now,For whose sad loss thus beggar'd I remain;Once more with warmth endowThat wise chaste heart where wont my life to dwell;And if as some divine, thy influence so,From highest heaven unto the depths of hell,Prevail in sooth—for what its scope below,'Mid us of common race,Methinks each gentle breast may answer well—Rob Death of his late triumph, and replaceThy conquering ensign in her lovely face!Relume on that fair brow the living light,Which was my honour'd guide, and the sweet flame.Though spent, which still the sameKindles me now as when it burn'd most bright;For thirsty hind with such desire did ne'erLong for green pastures or the crystal brook,As I for the dear look,Whence I have borne so much, and—if arightI read myself and passion—more must bear:This makes me to one theme my thoughts thus bind,An aimless wanderer where is pathway none,With weak and wearied mindPursuing hopes which never can be won.Hence to thy summons answer I disdain,Thine is no power beyond thy proper reign.Give me again that gentle voice to hear,As in my heart are heard its echoes still,Which had in song the skillHate to disarm, rage soften, sorrow cheer,To tranquillize each tempest of the mind,And from dark lowering clouds to keep it clear;Which sweetly then refinedAnd raised my verse where now it may not soar.And, with desire that hope may equal vie,Since now my mind is waked in strength, restoreTheir proper business to my ear and eye,Awanting which life mustAll tasteless be and harder than to die.Vainly with me to your old power you trust,While my first love is shrouded still in dust.Give her dear glance again to bless my sight,Which, as the sun on snow, beam'd still for me;Open each window brightWhere pass'd my heart whence no return can be;Resume thy golden shafts, prepare thy bow,And let me once more drink with old delightOf that dear voice the sound,Whence what love is I first was taught to know.And, for the lures, which still I covet so,Were rifest, richest there my soul that bound,Waken to life her tongue, and on the breezeLet her light silken hair,Loosen'd by Love's own fingers, float at ease;Do this, and I thy willing yoke will bear,Else thy hope faileth my free will to snare.Oh! never my gone heart those links of gold,Artlessly negligent, or curl'd with grace,Nor her enchanting face,Sweetly severe, can captive cease to hold;These, night and day, the amorous wish in meKept, more than laurel or than myrtle, green,When, doff'd or donn'd, we seeOf fields the grass, of woods their leafy screen.And since that Death so haughty stands and sternThe bond now broken whence I fear'd to flee,Nor thine the art, howe'er the world may turn,To bind anew the chain,What boots it, Love, old arts to try again?Their day is pass'd: thy power, since lost the armsWhich were my terror once, no longer harms.Thy arms were then her eyes, unrivall'd, whenceLive darts were freely shot of viewless flame;No help from reason came,For against Heaven avails not man's defence;Thought, Silence, Feeling, Gaiety, Wit, Sense,Modest demeanour, affable discourse,In words of sweetest forceWhence every grosser nature gentle grew,That angel air, humble to all and kind,Whose praise, it needs not mine, from all we find;Stood she, or sat, a grace which often threwDoubt on the gazer's mindTo which the meed of highest praise was due—O'er hardest hearts thy victory was sure,With arms like these, which lost I am secure.The minds which Heaven abandons to thy reign,Haply are bound in many times and ways,But mine one only chain,Its wisdom shielding me from more, obeys;Yet freedom brings no joy, though that he burst.Rather I mournful ask, "Sweet pilgrim mine,Alas! what doom divineMe earliest bound to life yet frees thee first:God, who has snatch'd thee from the world so soon,Only to kindle our desires, the boonOf virtue, so complete and lofty, gaveNow, Love, I may derideThy future wounds, nor fear to be thy slave;In vain thy bow is bent, its bolts fall wide,When closed her brilliant eyes their virtue died."Death from thy every law my heart has freed;She who my lady was is pass'd on high,Leaving me free to count dull hours drag by,To solitude and sorrow still decreed."Macgregor.
Ifthou wouldst have me, Love, thy slave again,One other proof, miraculous and new,Must yet be wrought by you,Ere, conquer'd, I resume my ancient chain—Lift my dear love from earth which hides her now,For whose sad loss thus beggar'd I remain;Once more with warmth endowThat wise chaste heart where wont my life to dwell;And if as some divine, thy influence so,From highest heaven unto the depths of hell,Prevail in sooth—for what its scope below,'Mid us of common race,Methinks each gentle breast may answer well—Rob Death of his late triumph, and replaceThy conquering ensign in her lovely face!
Relume on that fair brow the living light,Which was my honour'd guide, and the sweet flame.Though spent, which still the sameKindles me now as when it burn'd most bright;For thirsty hind with such desire did ne'erLong for green pastures or the crystal brook,As I for the dear look,Whence I have borne so much, and—if arightI read myself and passion—more must bear:This makes me to one theme my thoughts thus bind,An aimless wanderer where is pathway none,With weak and wearied mindPursuing hopes which never can be won.Hence to thy summons answer I disdain,Thine is no power beyond thy proper reign.
Give me again that gentle voice to hear,As in my heart are heard its echoes still,Which had in song the skillHate to disarm, rage soften, sorrow cheer,To tranquillize each tempest of the mind,And from dark lowering clouds to keep it clear;Which sweetly then refinedAnd raised my verse where now it may not soar.And, with desire that hope may equal vie,Since now my mind is waked in strength, restoreTheir proper business to my ear and eye,Awanting which life mustAll tasteless be and harder than to die.Vainly with me to your old power you trust,While my first love is shrouded still in dust.
Give her dear glance again to bless my sight,Which, as the sun on snow, beam'd still for me;Open each window brightWhere pass'd my heart whence no return can be;Resume thy golden shafts, prepare thy bow,And let me once more drink with old delightOf that dear voice the sound,Whence what love is I first was taught to know.And, for the lures, which still I covet so,Were rifest, richest there my soul that bound,Waken to life her tongue, and on the breezeLet her light silken hair,Loosen'd by Love's own fingers, float at ease;Do this, and I thy willing yoke will bear,Else thy hope faileth my free will to snare.
Oh! never my gone heart those links of gold,Artlessly negligent, or curl'd with grace,Nor her enchanting face,Sweetly severe, can captive cease to hold;These, night and day, the amorous wish in meKept, more than laurel or than myrtle, green,When, doff'd or donn'd, we seeOf fields the grass, of woods their leafy screen.And since that Death so haughty stands and sternThe bond now broken whence I fear'd to flee,Nor thine the art, howe'er the world may turn,To bind anew the chain,What boots it, Love, old arts to try again?Their day is pass'd: thy power, since lost the armsWhich were my terror once, no longer harms.
Thy arms were then her eyes, unrivall'd, whenceLive darts were freely shot of viewless flame;No help from reason came,For against Heaven avails not man's defence;Thought, Silence, Feeling, Gaiety, Wit, Sense,Modest demeanour, affable discourse,In words of sweetest forceWhence every grosser nature gentle grew,That angel air, humble to all and kind,Whose praise, it needs not mine, from all we find;Stood she, or sat, a grace which often threwDoubt on the gazer's mindTo which the meed of highest praise was due—O'er hardest hearts thy victory was sure,With arms like these, which lost I am secure.
The minds which Heaven abandons to thy reign,Haply are bound in many times and ways,But mine one only chain,Its wisdom shielding me from more, obeys;Yet freedom brings no joy, though that he burst.Rather I mournful ask, "Sweet pilgrim mine,Alas! what doom divineMe earliest bound to life yet frees thee first:God, who has snatch'd thee from the world so soon,Only to kindle our desires, the boonOf virtue, so complete and lofty, gaveNow, Love, I may derideThy future wounds, nor fear to be thy slave;In vain thy bow is bent, its bolts fall wide,When closed her brilliant eyes their virtue died.
"Death from thy every law my heart has freed;She who my lady was is pass'd on high,Leaving me free to count dull hours drag by,To solitude and sorrow still decreed."
Macgregor.
Thatburning toil, in which I once was caught,While twice ten years and one I counted o'er,Death has unloosed: like burden I ne'er bore;That grief ne'er fatal proves I now am taught.But Love, who to entangle me still sought,Spread in the treacherous grass his net once more,So fed the fire with fuel as before,That my escape I hardly could have wrought.And, but that my first woes experience gave,Snarèd long since and kindled I had been,And all the more, as I'm become less green:My freedom death again has come to save,And break my bond; that flame now fades, and fails,'Gainst which nor force nor intellect prevails.Nott.
Thatburning toil, in which I once was caught,While twice ten years and one I counted o'er,Death has unloosed: like burden I ne'er bore;That grief ne'er fatal proves I now am taught.But Love, who to entangle me still sought,Spread in the treacherous grass his net once more,So fed the fire with fuel as before,That my escape I hardly could have wrought.And, but that my first woes experience gave,Snarèd long since and kindled I had been,And all the more, as I'm become less green:My freedom death again has come to save,And break my bond; that flame now fades, and fails,'Gainst which nor force nor intellect prevails.
Nott.
Lifepasses quick, nor will a moment stay,And death with hasty journeys still draws near;And all the present joins my soul to tear,With every past and every future day:And to look back or forward, so does preyOn this distracted breast, that sure I swear,Did I not to myself some pity bear,I were e'en now from all these thoughts away.Much do I muse on what of pleasures pastThis woe-worn heart has known; meanwhile, t' opposeMy passage, loud the winds around me roar.I see my bliss in port, and torn my mastAnd sails, my pilot faint with toil, and thoseFair lights, that wont to guide me, now no more.Anon., Ox., 1795.
Lifepasses quick, nor will a moment stay,And death with hasty journeys still draws near;And all the present joins my soul to tear,With every past and every future day:And to look back or forward, so does preyOn this distracted breast, that sure I swear,Did I not to myself some pity bear,I were e'en now from all these thoughts away.Much do I muse on what of pleasures pastThis woe-worn heart has known; meanwhile, t' opposeMy passage, loud the winds around me roar.I see my bliss in port, and torn my mastAnd sails, my pilot faint with toil, and thoseFair lights, that wont to guide me, now no more.
Anon., Ox., 1795.
Lifeever flies with course that nought may stay,Death follows after with gigantic stride;Ills past and present on my spirit prey,And future evils threat on every side:Whether I backward look or forward fare,A thousand ills my bosom's peace molest;And were it not that pity bids me spareMy nobler part, I from these thoughts would rest.If ever aught of sweet my heart has known,Remembrance wakes its charms, while, tempest tost,I mark the clouds that o'er my course still frown;E'en in the port I see the storm afar;Weary my pilot, mast and cable lost,And set for ever my fair polar star.Dacre.
Lifeever flies with course that nought may stay,Death follows after with gigantic stride;Ills past and present on my spirit prey,And future evils threat on every side:Whether I backward look or forward fare,A thousand ills my bosom's peace molest;And were it not that pity bids me spareMy nobler part, I from these thoughts would rest.If ever aught of sweet my heart has known,Remembrance wakes its charms, while, tempest tost,I mark the clouds that o'er my course still frown;E'en in the port I see the storm afar;Weary my pilot, mast and cable lost,And set for ever my fair polar star.
Dacre.
Whatdost thou? think'st thou? wherefore bend thine eyeBack on the time that never shall return?The raging fire, where once 'twas thine to burn,Why with fresh fuel, wretched soul, supply?Those thrilling tones, those glances of the sky,Which one by one thy fond verse strove to adorn,Are fled; and—well thou knowest, poor forlorn!—To seek them here were bootless industry.Then toil not bliss so fleeting to renew;To chase a thought so fair, so faithless, cease:Thou rather that unwavering good pursue,Which guides to heaven; since nought below can please.Fatal for us that beauty's torturing view,Living or dead alike which desolates our peace.Wrangham.
Whatdost thou? think'st thou? wherefore bend thine eyeBack on the time that never shall return?The raging fire, where once 'twas thine to burn,Why with fresh fuel, wretched soul, supply?Those thrilling tones, those glances of the sky,Which one by one thy fond verse strove to adorn,Are fled; and—well thou knowest, poor forlorn!—To seek them here were bootless industry.Then toil not bliss so fleeting to renew;To chase a thought so fair, so faithless, cease:Thou rather that unwavering good pursue,Which guides to heaven; since nought below can please.Fatal for us that beauty's torturing view,Living or dead alike which desolates our peace.
Wrangham.
O tyrantthoughts, vouchsafe me some repose!Sufficeth not that Love, and Death, and Fate,Make war all round me to my very gate,But I must in me armèd hosts enclose?And thou, my heart, to me alone that showsDisloyal still, what cruel guides of lateIn thee find shelter, now the chosen mateOf my most mischievous and bitter foes?Love his most secret embassies in thee,In thee her worst results hard Fate explains,And Death the memory of that blow, to meWhich shatters all that yet of hope remains;In thee vague thoughts themselves with error arm,And thee alone I blame for all my harm.Macgregor.
O tyrantthoughts, vouchsafe me some repose!Sufficeth not that Love, and Death, and Fate,Make war all round me to my very gate,But I must in me armèd hosts enclose?And thou, my heart, to me alone that showsDisloyal still, what cruel guides of lateIn thee find shelter, now the chosen mateOf my most mischievous and bitter foes?Love his most secret embassies in thee,In thee her worst results hard Fate explains,And Death the memory of that blow, to meWhich shatters all that yet of hope remains;In thee vague thoughts themselves with error arm,And thee alone I blame for all my harm.
Macgregor.
Mineeyes! our glorious sun is veil'd in night,Or set to us, to rise 'mid realms of love;There we may hail it still, and haply proveIt mourn'd that we delay'd our heavenward flight.Mine ears! the music of her tones delightThose, who its harmony can best approve;My feet! who in her track so joy'd to move.Ye cannot penetrate her regions bright!But wherefore should your wrath on me descend?No spell of mine hath hush'd for ye the joyOf seeing, hearing, feeling, she was near:Go, war with Death—yet, rather let us bendTo Him who can create—who can destroy—And bids the ready smile succeed the tear.Wollaston.
Mineeyes! our glorious sun is veil'd in night,Or set to us, to rise 'mid realms of love;There we may hail it still, and haply proveIt mourn'd that we delay'd our heavenward flight.Mine ears! the music of her tones delightThose, who its harmony can best approve;My feet! who in her track so joy'd to move.Ye cannot penetrate her regions bright!But wherefore should your wrath on me descend?No spell of mine hath hush'd for ye the joyOf seeing, hearing, feeling, she was near:Go, war with Death—yet, rather let us bendTo Him who can create—who can destroy—And bids the ready smile succeed the tear.
Wollaston.
O mysad eyes! our sun is overcast,—Nay, rather borne to heaven, and there is shining,Waiting our coming, and perchance repiningAt our delay; there shall we meet at last:And there, mine ears, her angel words float past,Those who best understand their sweet divining;Howe'er, my feet, unto the search inclining,Ye cannot reach her in those regions vast.Why, then, do ye torment me thus, for, oh!It is no fault of mine, that ye no moreBehold, and hear, and welcome her below;Blame Death,—or rather praise Him and adore,Who binds and frees, restrains and letteth go,And to the weeping one can joy restore.Wrottesley.
O mysad eyes! our sun is overcast,—Nay, rather borne to heaven, and there is shining,Waiting our coming, and perchance repiningAt our delay; there shall we meet at last:And there, mine ears, her angel words float past,Those who best understand their sweet divining;Howe'er, my feet, unto the search inclining,Ye cannot reach her in those regions vast.Why, then, do ye torment me thus, for, oh!It is no fault of mine, that ye no moreBehold, and hear, and welcome her below;Blame Death,—or rather praise Him and adore,Who binds and frees, restrains and letteth go,And to the weeping one can joy restore.
Wrottesley.
Sinceher calm angel face, long beauty's fane,My beggar'd soul by this brief parting throwsIn darkest horrors and in deepest woes,I seek by uttering to allay my pain.Certes, just sorrow leads me to complain:This she, who is its cause, and Love too shows;No other remedy my poor heart knowsAgainst the troubles that in life obtain.Death! thou hast snatch'd her hence with hand unkind,And thou, glad Earth! that fair and kindly faceNow hidest from me in thy close embrace;Why leave me here, disconsolate and blind,Since she who of mine eyes the light has been,Sweet, loving, bright, no more with me is seen?Macgregor.
Sinceher calm angel face, long beauty's fane,My beggar'd soul by this brief parting throwsIn darkest horrors and in deepest woes,I seek by uttering to allay my pain.Certes, just sorrow leads me to complain:This she, who is its cause, and Love too shows;No other remedy my poor heart knowsAgainst the troubles that in life obtain.Death! thou hast snatch'd her hence with hand unkind,And thou, glad Earth! that fair and kindly faceNow hidest from me in thy close embrace;Why leave me here, disconsolate and blind,Since she who of mine eyes the light has been,Sweet, loving, bright, no more with me is seen?
Macgregor.
IfLove to give new counsel still delay,My life must change to other scenes than these;My troubled spirit grief and terror freeze,Desire augments while all my hopes decay.Thus ever grows my life, by night and day,Despondent, and dismay'd, and ill at ease,Harass'd and helmless on tempestuous seas,With no sure escort on a doubtful way.Her path a sick imagination guides,Its true light underneath—ah, no! on high,Whence on my heart she beams more bright than eye,Not on mine eyes; from them a dark veil hidesThose lovely orbs, and makes me, ere life's spanIs measured half, an old and broken man.Macgregor.
IfLove to give new counsel still delay,My life must change to other scenes than these;My troubled spirit grief and terror freeze,Desire augments while all my hopes decay.Thus ever grows my life, by night and day,Despondent, and dismay'd, and ill at ease,Harass'd and helmless on tempestuous seas,With no sure escort on a doubtful way.Her path a sick imagination guides,Its true light underneath—ah, no! on high,Whence on my heart she beams more bright than eye,Not on mine eyes; from them a dark veil hidesThose lovely orbs, and makes me, ere life's spanIs measured half, an old and broken man.
Macgregor.
E'enin youth's fairest flower, when Love's dear swayIs wont with strongest power our hearts to bind,Leaving on earth her fleshly veil behind,My life, my Laura, pass'd from me away;Living, and fair, and free from our vile clay,From heaven she rules supreme my willing mind:Alas! why left me in this mortal rindThat first of peace, of sin that latest day?As my fond thoughts her heavenward path pursue,So may my soul glad, light, and ready beTo follow her, and thus from troubles flee.Whate'er delays me as worst loss I rue:Time makes me to myself but heavier grow:Death had been sweet to-day three years ago!Macgregor.
E'enin youth's fairest flower, when Love's dear swayIs wont with strongest power our hearts to bind,Leaving on earth her fleshly veil behind,My life, my Laura, pass'd from me away;Living, and fair, and free from our vile clay,From heaven she rules supreme my willing mind:Alas! why left me in this mortal rindThat first of peace, of sin that latest day?As my fond thoughts her heavenward path pursue,So may my soul glad, light, and ready beTo follow her, and thus from troubles flee.Whate'er delays me as worst loss I rue:Time makes me to myself but heavier grow:Death had been sweet to-day three years ago!
Macgregor.
Ifthe lorn bird complain, or rustling sweepSoft summer airs o'er foliage waving slow,Or the hoarse brook come murmuring down the steep,Where on the enamell'd bank I sit belowWith thoughts of love that bid my numbers flow;'Tis then I see her, though in earth she sleep!Her, form'd in heaven! I see, and hear, and know!Responsive sighing, weeping as I weep:"Alas," she pitying says, "ere yet the hour,Why hurry life away with swifter flight?Why from thy eyes this flood of sorrow pour?No longer mourn my fate! through death my daysBecome eternal! to eternal lightThese eyes, which seem'd in darkness closed, I raise!"Dacre.
Ifthe lorn bird complain, or rustling sweepSoft summer airs o'er foliage waving slow,Or the hoarse brook come murmuring down the steep,Where on the enamell'd bank I sit belowWith thoughts of love that bid my numbers flow;'Tis then I see her, though in earth she sleep!Her, form'd in heaven! I see, and hear, and know!Responsive sighing, weeping as I weep:"Alas," she pitying says, "ere yet the hour,Why hurry life away with swifter flight?Why from thy eyes this flood of sorrow pour?No longer mourn my fate! through death my daysBecome eternal! to eternal lightThese eyes, which seem'd in darkness closed, I raise!"
Dacre.
Wherethe green leaves exclude the summer beam,And softly bend as balmy breezes blow,And where with liquid lapse the lucid streamAcross the fretted rock is heard to flow,Pensive I lay: when she whom earth concealsAs if still living to my eye appears;And pitying Heaven her angel form revealsTo say, "Unhappy Petrarch, dry your tears.Ah! why, sad lover, thus before your timeIn grief and sadness should your life decay,And, like a blighted flower, your manly primeIn vain and hopeless sorrow fade away?Ah! yield not thus to culpable despair;But raise thine eyes to heaven and think I wait thee there!"Charlotte Smith.
Wherethe green leaves exclude the summer beam,And softly bend as balmy breezes blow,And where with liquid lapse the lucid streamAcross the fretted rock is heard to flow,Pensive I lay: when she whom earth concealsAs if still living to my eye appears;And pitying Heaven her angel form revealsTo say, "Unhappy Petrarch, dry your tears.Ah! why, sad lover, thus before your timeIn grief and sadness should your life decay,And, like a blighted flower, your manly primeIn vain and hopeless sorrow fade away?Ah! yield not thus to culpable despair;But raise thine eyes to heaven and think I wait thee there!"
Charlotte Smith.
Movedby the summer wind when all is still,The light leaves quiver on the yielding spray;Sighs from its flowery bank the lucid rill,While the birds answer in their sweetest lay.Vain to this sickening heart these scenes appear:No form but hers can meet my tearful eyes;In every passing gale her voice I hear;It seems to tell me, "I have heard thy sighs.But why," she cries, "in manhood's towering prime,In grief's dark mist thy days, inglorious, hide?Ah! dost thou murmur, that my span of timeHas join'd eternity's unchanging tide?Yes, though I seem'd to shut mine eyes in night,They only closed to wake in everlasting light!"Anne Bannerman.
Movedby the summer wind when all is still,The light leaves quiver on the yielding spray;Sighs from its flowery bank the lucid rill,While the birds answer in their sweetest lay.Vain to this sickening heart these scenes appear:No form but hers can meet my tearful eyes;In every passing gale her voice I hear;It seems to tell me, "I have heard thy sighs.But why," she cries, "in manhood's towering prime,In grief's dark mist thy days, inglorious, hide?Ah! dost thou murmur, that my span of timeHas join'd eternity's unchanging tide?Yes, though I seem'd to shut mine eyes in night,They only closed to wake in everlasting light!"
Anne Bannerman.
Nowherebefore could I so well have seenHer whom my soul most craves since lost to view;Nowhere in so great freedom could have beenBreathing my amorous lays 'neath skies so blue;Never with depths of shade so calm and greenA valley found for lover's sigh more true;Methinks a spot so lovely and sereneLove not in Cyprus nor in Gnidos knew.All breathes one spell, all prompts and prays that ILike them should love—the clear sky, the calm hour,Winds, waters, birds, the green bough, the gay flower—But thou, beloved, who call'st me from on high,By the sad memory of thine early fate,Pray that I hold the world and these sweet snares in hate.Macgregor.
Nowherebefore could I so well have seenHer whom my soul most craves since lost to view;Nowhere in so great freedom could have beenBreathing my amorous lays 'neath skies so blue;Never with depths of shade so calm and greenA valley found for lover's sigh more true;Methinks a spot so lovely and sereneLove not in Cyprus nor in Gnidos knew.All breathes one spell, all prompts and prays that ILike them should love—the clear sky, the calm hour,Winds, waters, birds, the green bough, the gay flower—But thou, beloved, who call'st me from on high,By the sad memory of thine early fate,Pray that I hold the world and these sweet snares in hate.
Macgregor.
Nevertill now so clearly have I seenHer whom my eyes desire, my soul still views;Never enjoy'd a freedom thus serene;Ne'er thus to heaven breathed my enamour'd muse,As in this vale sequester'd, darkly green;Where my soothed heart its pensive thought pursues,And nought intrusively may intervene,And all my sweetly-tender sighs renews.To Love and meditation, faithful shade,Receive the breathings of my grateful breast!Love not in Cyprus found so sweet a nestAs this, by pine and arching laurel made!The birds, breeze, water, branches, whisper love;Herb, flower, and verdant path the lay symphonious move.Capel Lofft.
Nevertill now so clearly have I seenHer whom my eyes desire, my soul still views;Never enjoy'd a freedom thus serene;Ne'er thus to heaven breathed my enamour'd muse,As in this vale sequester'd, darkly green;Where my soothed heart its pensive thought pursues,And nought intrusively may intervene,And all my sweetly-tender sighs renews.To Love and meditation, faithful shade,Receive the breathings of my grateful breast!Love not in Cyprus found so sweet a nestAs this, by pine and arching laurel made!The birds, breeze, water, branches, whisper love;Herb, flower, and verdant path the lay symphonious move.
Capel Lofft.
Howoft, all lonely, to my sweet retreatFrom man and from myself I strive to fly,Bathing with dewy eyes each much-loved seat,And swelling every blossom with a sigh!How oft, deep musing on my woes complete,Along the dark and silent glens I lie,In thought again that dearest form to meetBy death possess'd, and therefore wish to die!How oft I see her rising from the tideOf Sorga, like some goddess of the flood;Or pensive wander by the river's side;Or tread the flowery mazes of the wood;Bright as in life; while angel pity throwsO'er her fair face the impress of my woes.Merivale.
Howoft, all lonely, to my sweet retreatFrom man and from myself I strive to fly,Bathing with dewy eyes each much-loved seat,And swelling every blossom with a sigh!How oft, deep musing on my woes complete,Along the dark and silent glens I lie,In thought again that dearest form to meetBy death possess'd, and therefore wish to die!How oft I see her rising from the tideOf Sorga, like some goddess of the flood;Or pensive wander by the river's side;Or tread the flowery mazes of the wood;Bright as in life; while angel pity throwsO'er her fair face the impress of my woes.
Merivale.
O blessedspirit! who dost oft return,Ministering comfort to my nights of woe,From eyes which Death, relenting in his blow,Has lit with all the lustres of the morn:How am I gladden'd, that thou dost not scornO'er my dark days thy radiant beam to throw!Thus do I seem again to trace belowThy beauties, hovering o'er their loved sojourn.There now, thou seest, where long of thee had beenMy sprightlier strain, of thee my plaint I swell—Of thee!—oh, no! of mine own sorrows keen.One only solace cheers the wretched scene:By many a sign I know thy coming well—Thy step, thy voice and look, and robe of favour'd green.Wrangham.
O blessedspirit! who dost oft return,Ministering comfort to my nights of woe,From eyes which Death, relenting in his blow,Has lit with all the lustres of the morn:How am I gladden'd, that thou dost not scornO'er my dark days thy radiant beam to throw!Thus do I seem again to trace belowThy beauties, hovering o'er their loved sojourn.There now, thou seest, where long of thee had beenMy sprightlier strain, of thee my plaint I swell—Of thee!—oh, no! of mine own sorrows keen.One only solace cheers the wretched scene:By many a sign I know thy coming well—Thy step, thy voice and look, and robe of favour'd green.
Wrangham.
Whenwelcome slumber locks my torpid frame,I see thy spirit in the midnight dream;Thine eyes that still in living lustre beam:In all but frail mortality the same.Ah! then, from earth and all its sorrows free,Methinks I meet thee in each former scene:Once the sweet shelter of a heart serene;Now vocal only while I weep for thee.For thee!—ah, no! From human ills secure.Thy hallow'd soul exults in endless day;'Tis I who linger on the toilsome way:No balm relieves the anguish I endure;Save the fond feeble hope that thou art nearTo soothe my sufferings with an angel's tear.Anne Bannerman.
Whenwelcome slumber locks my torpid frame,I see thy spirit in the midnight dream;Thine eyes that still in living lustre beam:In all but frail mortality the same.Ah! then, from earth and all its sorrows free,Methinks I meet thee in each former scene:Once the sweet shelter of a heart serene;Now vocal only while I weep for thee.For thee!—ah, no! From human ills secure.Thy hallow'd soul exults in endless day;'Tis I who linger on the toilsome way:No balm relieves the anguish I endure;Save the fond feeble hope that thou art nearTo soothe my sufferings with an angel's tear.
Anne Bannerman.
Death, thou of fairest face hast 'reft the hue,And quench'd in deep thick night the brightest eyes,And loosed from all its tenderest, closest tiesA spirit to faith and ardent virtue true.In one short hour to all my bliss adieu!Hush'd are those accents worthy of the skies,Unearthly sounds, whose loss awakes my sighs;And all I hear is grief, and all I view.Yet oft, to soothe this lone and anguish'd heart,By pity led, she comes my couch to seek,Nor find I other solace here below:And if her thrilling tones my strain could speakAnd look divine, with Love's enkindling dartNot man's sad breast alone, but fiercest beasts should glow.Wrangham.
Death, thou of fairest face hast 'reft the hue,And quench'd in deep thick night the brightest eyes,And loosed from all its tenderest, closest tiesA spirit to faith and ardent virtue true.In one short hour to all my bliss adieu!Hush'd are those accents worthy of the skies,Unearthly sounds, whose loss awakes my sighs;And all I hear is grief, and all I view.Yet oft, to soothe this lone and anguish'd heart,By pity led, she comes my couch to seek,Nor find I other solace here below:And if her thrilling tones my strain could speakAnd look divine, with Love's enkindling dartNot man's sad breast alone, but fiercest beasts should glow.
Wrangham.
Thouhast despoil'd the fairest face e'er seen—Thou hast extinguish'd, Death, the brightest eyes,And snapp'd the cord in sunder of the tiesWhich bound that spirit brilliantly serene:In one short moment all I love has beenTorn from me, and dark silence now suppliesThose gentle tones; my heart, which bursts with sighs,Nor sight nor sound from weariness can screen:Yet doth my lady, by compassion led,Return to solace my unfailing woe;Earth yields no other balm:—oh! could I tellHow bright she seems, and how her accents flow,Not unto man alone Love's flames would spread,But even bears and tigers share the spell.Wrottesley.
Thouhast despoil'd the fairest face e'er seen—Thou hast extinguish'd, Death, the brightest eyes,And snapp'd the cord in sunder of the tiesWhich bound that spirit brilliantly serene:In one short moment all I love has beenTorn from me, and dark silence now suppliesThose gentle tones; my heart, which bursts with sighs,Nor sight nor sound from weariness can screen:Yet doth my lady, by compassion led,Return to solace my unfailing woe;Earth yields no other balm:—oh! could I tellHow bright she seems, and how her accents flow,Not unto man alone Love's flames would spread,But even bears and tigers share the spell.
Wrottesley.
Sobrief the time, so fugitive the thoughtWhich Laura yields to me, though dead, again,Small medicine give they to my giant pain;Still, as I look on her, afflicts me nought.Love, on the rack who holds me as he brought,Fears when he sees her thus my soul retain,Where still the seraph face and sweet voice reign,Which first his tyranny and triumph wrought.As rules a mistress in her home of right,From my dark heavy heart her placid browDispels each anxious thought and omen drear.My soul, which bears but ill such dazzling light,Says with a sigh: "O blessed day! when thouDidst ope with those dear eyes thy passage here!"Macgregor.
Sobrief the time, so fugitive the thoughtWhich Laura yields to me, though dead, again,Small medicine give they to my giant pain;Still, as I look on her, afflicts me nought.Love, on the rack who holds me as he brought,Fears when he sees her thus my soul retain,Where still the seraph face and sweet voice reign,Which first his tyranny and triumph wrought.As rules a mistress in her home of right,From my dark heavy heart her placid browDispels each anxious thought and omen drear.My soul, which bears but ill such dazzling light,Says with a sigh: "O blessed day! when thouDidst ope with those dear eyes thy passage here!"
Macgregor.
Ne'erdid fond mother to her darling son,Or zealous spouse to her belovèd mate,Sage counsel give, in perilous estate,With such kind caution, in such tender tone,As gives that fair one, who, oft looking downOn my hard exile from her heavenly seat,With wonted kindness bends upon my fateHer brow, as friend or parent would have done:Now chaste affection prompts her speech, now fear,Instructive speech, that points what several waysTo seek or shun, while journeying here below;Then all the ills of life she counts, and praysMy soul ere long may quit this terrene sphere:And by her words alone I'm soothed and freed from woe.Nott.
Ne'erdid fond mother to her darling son,Or zealous spouse to her belovèd mate,Sage counsel give, in perilous estate,With such kind caution, in such tender tone,As gives that fair one, who, oft looking downOn my hard exile from her heavenly seat,With wonted kindness bends upon my fateHer brow, as friend or parent would have done:Now chaste affection prompts her speech, now fear,Instructive speech, that points what several waysTo seek or shun, while journeying here below;Then all the ills of life she counts, and praysMy soul ere long may quit this terrene sphere:And by her words alone I'm soothed and freed from woe.
Nott.
Ne'erto the son, in whom her age is blest,The anxious mother—nor to her loved lordThe wedded dame, impending ill to ward,With careful sighs so faithful counsel press'd,As she, who, from her high eternal rest,Bending—as though my exile she deplored—With all her wonted tenderness restored,And softer pity on her brow impress'd!Now with a mother's fears, and now as oneWho loves with chaste affection, in her speechShe points what to pursue and what to shun!Our years retracing of long, various grief,Wooing my soul at higher good to reach,And while she speaks, my bosom finds relief!Dacre.
Ne'erto the son, in whom her age is blest,The anxious mother—nor to her loved lordThe wedded dame, impending ill to ward,With careful sighs so faithful counsel press'd,As she, who, from her high eternal rest,Bending—as though my exile she deplored—With all her wonted tenderness restored,And softer pity on her brow impress'd!Now with a mother's fears, and now as oneWho loves with chaste affection, in her speechShe points what to pursue and what to shun!Our years retracing of long, various grief,Wooing my soul at higher good to reach,And while she speaks, my bosom finds relief!
Dacre.
Ifthat soft breath of sighs, which, from above,I hear of her so long my lady here,Who, now in heaven, yet seems, as of our sphere,To breathe, and move, to feel, and live, and love,I could but paint, my passionate verse should moveWarmest desires; so jealous, yet so dearO'er me she bends and breathes, without a fear,That on the way I tire, or turn, or rove.She points the path on high: and I who knowHer chaste anxiety and earnest prayer,In whispers sweet, affectionate, and low,Train, at her will, my acts and wishes there:And find such sweetness in her words aloneAs with their power should melt the hardest stone.Macgregor.
Ifthat soft breath of sighs, which, from above,I hear of her so long my lady here,Who, now in heaven, yet seems, as of our sphere,To breathe, and move, to feel, and live, and love,I could but paint, my passionate verse should moveWarmest desires; so jealous, yet so dearO'er me she bends and breathes, without a fear,That on the way I tire, or turn, or rove.She points the path on high: and I who knowHer chaste anxiety and earnest prayer,In whispers sweet, affectionate, and low,Train, at her will, my acts and wishes there:And find such sweetness in her words aloneAs with their power should melt the hardest stone.
Macgregor.
O friend! though left a wretched pilgrim here,By thee though left in solitude to roam,Yet can I mourn that thou hast found thy home,On angel pinions borne, in bright career?Now thou behold'st the ever-turning sphere,And stars that journey round the concave dome;Now thou behold'st how short of truth we come,How blind our judgment, and thine own how clear!That thou art happy soothes my soul oppress'd.O friend! salute from me the laurell'd band,Guitton and Cino, Dante, and the rest:And tell my Laura, friend, that here I stand,Wasting in tears, scarce of myself possess'd,While her blest beauties all my thoughts command.Morehead.
O friend! though left a wretched pilgrim here,By thee though left in solitude to roam,Yet can I mourn that thou hast found thy home,On angel pinions borne, in bright career?Now thou behold'st the ever-turning sphere,And stars that journey round the concave dome;Now thou behold'st how short of truth we come,How blind our judgment, and thine own how clear!That thou art happy soothes my soul oppress'd.O friend! salute from me the laurell'd band,Guitton and Cino, Dante, and the rest:And tell my Laura, friend, that here I stand,Wasting in tears, scarce of myself possess'd,While her blest beauties all my thoughts command.
Morehead.
Sennucciomine! I yet myself console,Though thou hast left me, mournful and alone,For eagerly to heaven thy spirit has flown,Free from the flesh which did so late enrol;Thence, at one view, commands it either pole,The planets and their wondrous courses known,And human sight how brief and doubtful shown;Thus with thy bliss my sorrow I control.One favour—in the third of those bright spheres.Guido and Dante, Cino, too, salute,With Franceschin and all that tuneful train,And tell my lady how I live, in tears,(Savage and lonely as some forest brute)Her sweet face and fair works when memory brings again.Macgregor.
Sennucciomine! I yet myself console,Though thou hast left me, mournful and alone,For eagerly to heaven thy spirit has flown,Free from the flesh which did so late enrol;Thence, at one view, commands it either pole,The planets and their wondrous courses known,And human sight how brief and doubtful shown;Thus with thy bliss my sorrow I control.One favour—in the third of those bright spheres.Guido and Dante, Cino, too, salute,With Franceschin and all that tuneful train,And tell my lady how I live, in tears,(Savage and lonely as some forest brute)Her sweet face and fair works when memory brings again.
Macgregor.
Toevery sound, save sighs, this air is mute,When from rude rocks, I view the smiling landWhere she was born, who held my life in handFrom its first bud till blossoms turn'd to fruit:To heaven she's gone, and I'm left destituteTo mourn her loss, and cast around in painThese wearied eyes, which, seeking her in vainWhere'er they turn, o'erflow with grief acute;There's not a root or stone amongst these hills,Nor branch nor verdant leaf 'midst these soft glades,Nor in the valley flowery herbage grows,Nor liquid drop the sparkling fount distils,Nor savage beast that shelters in these shades,But knows how sharp my grief—how deep my woes.Wrottesley.
Toevery sound, save sighs, this air is mute,When from rude rocks, I view the smiling landWhere she was born, who held my life in handFrom its first bud till blossoms turn'd to fruit:To heaven she's gone, and I'm left destituteTo mourn her loss, and cast around in painThese wearied eyes, which, seeking her in vainWhere'er they turn, o'erflow with grief acute;There's not a root or stone amongst these hills,Nor branch nor verdant leaf 'midst these soft glades,Nor in the valley flowery herbage grows,Nor liquid drop the sparkling fount distils,Nor savage beast that shelters in these shades,But knows how sharp my grief—how deep my woes.
Wrottesley.