O misery! horror! can it, then, be true,That the sweet light before its time is spent,'Mid all its pains which could my life content,And ever with fresh hopes of good renew?If so, why sounds not other channels through,Nor only from herself, the great event?No! God and Nature could not thus consent,And my dark fears are groundless and undue.Still it delights my heart to hope once moreThe welcome sight of that enchanting face,The glory of our age, and life to me.But if, to her eternal home to soar,That heavenly spirit have left her earthly place,Oh! then not distant may my last day be!Macgregor.
O misery! horror! can it, then, be true,That the sweet light before its time is spent,'Mid all its pains which could my life content,And ever with fresh hopes of good renew?If so, why sounds not other channels through,Nor only from herself, the great event?No! God and Nature could not thus consent,And my dark fears are groundless and undue.Still it delights my heart to hope once moreThe welcome sight of that enchanting face,The glory of our age, and life to me.But if, to her eternal home to soar,That heavenly spirit have left her earthly place,Oh! then not distant may my last day be!
Macgregor.
Uncertainof my state, I weep and sing,I hope and tremble, and with rhymes and sighsI ease my load, while Love his utmost triesHow worse my sore afflicted heart to sting.Will her sweet seraph face again e'er bringTheir former light to these despairing eyes.(What to expect, alas! or how advise)Or must eternal grief my bosom wring?For heaven, which justly it deserves to win,It cares not what on earth may be their fate,Whose sun it was, where centred their sole gaze.Such terror, so perpetual warfare in,Changed from my former self, I live of lateAs one who midway doubts, and fears and strays.Macgregor.
Uncertainof my state, I weep and sing,I hope and tremble, and with rhymes and sighsI ease my load, while Love his utmost triesHow worse my sore afflicted heart to sting.Will her sweet seraph face again e'er bringTheir former light to these despairing eyes.(What to expect, alas! or how advise)Or must eternal grief my bosom wring?For heaven, which justly it deserves to win,It cares not what on earth may be their fate,Whose sun it was, where centred their sole gaze.Such terror, so perpetual warfare in,Changed from my former self, I live of lateAs one who midway doubts, and fears and strays.
Macgregor.
O angellooks! O accents of the skies!Shall I or see or hear you once again?O golden tresses, which my heart enchain,And lead it forth, Love's willing sacrifice!O face of beauty given in anger's guise,Which still I not enjoy, and still complain!O dear delusion! O bewitching pain!Transports, at once my punishment and prize!If haply those soft eyes some kindly beam(Eyes, where my soul and all my thoughts reside)Vouchsafe, in tender pity to bestow;Sudden, of all my joys the murtheress tried,Fortune with steed or ship dispels the gleam;Fortune, with stern behest still prompt to work my woe.Wrangham.
O angellooks! O accents of the skies!Shall I or see or hear you once again?O golden tresses, which my heart enchain,And lead it forth, Love's willing sacrifice!O face of beauty given in anger's guise,Which still I not enjoy, and still complain!O dear delusion! O bewitching pain!Transports, at once my punishment and prize!If haply those soft eyes some kindly beam(Eyes, where my soul and all my thoughts reside)Vouchsafe, in tender pity to bestow;Sudden, of all my joys the murtheress tried,Fortune with steed or ship dispels the gleam;Fortune, with stern behest still prompt to work my woe.
Wrangham.
O gentlelooks! O words of heavenly sound!Shall I behold you, hear you once again?O waving locks, that Love has made the chain,In which this wretched ruin'd heart is bound!O face divine! whose magic spells surroundMy soul, distemper'd with unceasing pain:O dear deceit! O loving errors vain!To hug the dart and doat upon the wound!Did those soft eyes, in whose angelic lightMy life, my thoughts, a constant mansion find,Ever impart a pure unmixed delight?Or if they have one moment, then unkindFortune steps in, and sends me from their sight,And gives my opening pleasures to the wind.Morehead.
O gentlelooks! O words of heavenly sound!Shall I behold you, hear you once again?O waving locks, that Love has made the chain,In which this wretched ruin'd heart is bound!O face divine! whose magic spells surroundMy soul, distemper'd with unceasing pain:O dear deceit! O loving errors vain!To hug the dart and doat upon the wound!Did those soft eyes, in whose angelic lightMy life, my thoughts, a constant mansion find,Ever impart a pure unmixed delight?Or if they have one moment, then unkindFortune steps in, and sends me from their sight,And gives my opening pleasures to the wind.
Morehead.
Stilldo I wait to hear, in vain still wait,Of that sweet enemy I love so well:What now to think or say I cannot tell,'Twixt hope and fear my feelings fluctuate:The beautiful are still the marks of fate;And sure her worth and beauty most excel:What if her God have call'd her hence, to dwellWhere virtue finds a more congenial state?If so, she will illuminate that sphereEven as a sun: but I—'tis done with me!I then am nothing, have no business here!O cruel absence! why not let me seeThe worst? my little tale is told, I fear,My scene is closed ere it accomplish'd be.Morehead.
Stilldo I wait to hear, in vain still wait,Of that sweet enemy I love so well:What now to think or say I cannot tell,'Twixt hope and fear my feelings fluctuate:The beautiful are still the marks of fate;And sure her worth and beauty most excel:What if her God have call'd her hence, to dwellWhere virtue finds a more congenial state?If so, she will illuminate that sphereEven as a sun: but I—'tis done with me!I then am nothing, have no business here!O cruel absence! why not let me seeThe worst? my little tale is told, I fear,My scene is closed ere it accomplish'd be.
Morehead.
Notidings yet—I listen, but in vain;Of her, my beautiful belovèd foe,What or to think or say I nothing know,So thrills my heart, my fond hopes so sustain,Danger to some has in their beauty lain;Fairer and chaster she than others show;God haply seeks to snatch from earth belowVirtue's best friend, that heaven a star may gain,Or rather sun. If what I dread be nigh,My life, its trials long, its brief reposeAre ended all. O cruel absence! whyDidst thou remove me from the menaced woes?My short sad story is already done,And midway in its course my vain race run.Macgregor.
Notidings yet—I listen, but in vain;Of her, my beautiful belovèd foe,What or to think or say I nothing know,So thrills my heart, my fond hopes so sustain,Danger to some has in their beauty lain;Fairer and chaster she than others show;God haply seeks to snatch from earth belowVirtue's best friend, that heaven a star may gain,Or rather sun. If what I dread be nigh,My life, its trials long, its brief reposeAre ended all. O cruel absence! whyDidst thou remove me from the menaced woes?My short sad story is already done,And midway in its course my vain race run.
Macgregor.
Tranquiland happy loves in this agree,The evening to desire and morning hate:On me at eve redoubled sorrows wait—Morning is still the happier hour for me.For then my sun and Nature's oft I seeOpening at once the orient's rosy gate,So match'd in beauty and in lustre great,Heaven seems enamour'd of our earth to be!As when in verdant leaf the dear boughs burstWhose roots have since so centred in my core,Another than myself is cherish'd more.Thus the two hours contrast, day's last and first:Reason it is who calms me to desire,And fear and hate who fiercer feed my fire.Macgregor.
Tranquiland happy loves in this agree,The evening to desire and morning hate:On me at eve redoubled sorrows wait—Morning is still the happier hour for me.For then my sun and Nature's oft I seeOpening at once the orient's rosy gate,So match'd in beauty and in lustre great,Heaven seems enamour'd of our earth to be!As when in verdant leaf the dear boughs burstWhose roots have since so centred in my core,Another than myself is cherish'd more.Thus the two hours contrast, day's last and first:Reason it is who calms me to desire,And fear and hate who fiercer feed my fire.
Macgregor.
Oh! that from her some vengeance I could wrestWith words and glances who my peace destroys,And then abash'd, for my worse sorrow, flies,Veiling her eyes so cruel, yet so blest;Thus mine afflicted spirits and oppress'dBy sure degrees she sorely drains and dries,And in my heart, as savage lion, criesEven at night, when most I should have rest.My soul, which sleep expels from his abode,The body leaves, and, from its trammels free,Seeks her whose mien so often menace show'd.I marvel much, if heard its advent be,That while to her it spake, and o'er her wept,And round her clung, asleep she alway kept.Macgregor.
Oh! that from her some vengeance I could wrestWith words and glances who my peace destroys,And then abash'd, for my worse sorrow, flies,Veiling her eyes so cruel, yet so blest;Thus mine afflicted spirits and oppress'dBy sure degrees she sorely drains and dries,And in my heart, as savage lion, criesEven at night, when most I should have rest.My soul, which sleep expels from his abode,The body leaves, and, from its trammels free,Seeks her whose mien so often menace show'd.I marvel much, if heard its advent be,That while to her it spake, and o'er her wept,And round her clung, asleep she alway kept.
Macgregor.
Onthe fair face for which I long and sighMine eyes were fasten'd with desire intense.When, to my fond thoughts, Love, in best reply,Her honour'd hand uplifting, shut me thence.My heart there caught—as fish a fair hook by,Or as a young bird on a limèd fence—For good deeds follow from example high,To truth directed not its busied sense.But of its one desire my vision reft,As dreamingly, soon oped itself a way,Which closed, its bliss imperfect had been left:My soul between those rival glories lay,Fill'd with a heavenly and new delight,Whose strange surpassing sweets engross'd it quite.Macgregor.
Onthe fair face for which I long and sighMine eyes were fasten'd with desire intense.When, to my fond thoughts, Love, in best reply,Her honour'd hand uplifting, shut me thence.My heart there caught—as fish a fair hook by,Or as a young bird on a limèd fence—For good deeds follow from example high,To truth directed not its busied sense.But of its one desire my vision reft,As dreamingly, soon oped itself a way,Which closed, its bliss imperfect had been left:My soul between those rival glories lay,Fill'd with a heavenly and new delight,Whose strange surpassing sweets engross'd it quite.
Macgregor.
Livesparks were glistening from her twin bright eyes,So sweet on me whose lightning flashes beam'd,And softly from a feeling heart and wise,Of lofty eloquence a rich flood stream'd:Even the memory serves to wake my sighsWhen I recall that day so glad esteem'd,And in my heart its sinking spirit diesAs some late grace her colder wont redeem'd.My soul in pain and grief that most has been(How great the power of constant habit is!)Seems weakly 'neath its double joy to lean:For at the sole taste of unusual bliss,Trembling with fear, or thrill'd by idle hope,Oft on the point I've been life's door to ope.Macgregor.
Livesparks were glistening from her twin bright eyes,So sweet on me whose lightning flashes beam'd,And softly from a feeling heart and wise,Of lofty eloquence a rich flood stream'd:Even the memory serves to wake my sighsWhen I recall that day so glad esteem'd,And in my heart its sinking spirit diesAs some late grace her colder wont redeem'd.My soul in pain and grief that most has been(How great the power of constant habit is!)Seems weakly 'neath its double joy to lean:For at the sole taste of unusual bliss,Trembling with fear, or thrill'd by idle hope,Oft on the point I've been life's door to ope.
Macgregor.
Stillhave I sought a life of solitude;The streams, the fields, the forests know my mind;That I might 'scape the sordid and the blind,Who paths forsake trod by the wise and good:Fain would I leave, were mine own will pursued,These Tuscan haunts, and these soft skies behind,Sorga's thick-wooded hills again to find;And sing and weep in concert with its flood.But Fortune, ever my sore enemy,Compels my steps, where I with sorrow seeCast my fair treasure in a worthless soil:Yet less a foe she justly deigns to prove,For once, to me, to Laura, and to love;Favouring my song, my passion, with her smile.Nott.
Stillhave I sought a life of solitude;The streams, the fields, the forests know my mind;That I might 'scape the sordid and the blind,Who paths forsake trod by the wise and good:Fain would I leave, were mine own will pursued,These Tuscan haunts, and these soft skies behind,Sorga's thick-wooded hills again to find;And sing and weep in concert with its flood.But Fortune, ever my sore enemy,Compels my steps, where I with sorrow seeCast my fair treasure in a worthless soil:Yet less a foe she justly deigns to prove,For once, to me, to Laura, and to love;Favouring my song, my passion, with her smile.
Nott.
Stillhave I sought a life of solitude—This know the rivers, and each wood and plain—That I might 'scape the blind and sordid trainWho from the path have flown of peace and good:Could I my wish obtain, how vainly wouldThis cloudless climate woo me to remain;Sorga's embowering woods I'd seek again,And sing, weep, wander, by its friendly flood.But, ah! my fortune, hostile still to me,Compels me where I must, indignant, findAmid the mire my fairest treasure thrown:Yet to my hand, not all unworthy, sheNow proves herself, at least for once, more kind,Since—but alone to Love and Laura be it known.Macgregor.
Stillhave I sought a life of solitude—This know the rivers, and each wood and plain—That I might 'scape the blind and sordid trainWho from the path have flown of peace and good:Could I my wish obtain, how vainly wouldThis cloudless climate woo me to remain;Sorga's embowering woods I'd seek again,And sing, weep, wander, by its friendly flood.But, ah! my fortune, hostile still to me,Compels me where I must, indignant, findAmid the mire my fairest treasure thrown:Yet to my hand, not all unworthy, sheNow proves herself, at least for once, more kind,Since—but alone to Love and Laura be it known.
Macgregor.
Inone fair star I saw two brilliant eyes,With sweetness, modesty, so glistening o'er,That soon those graceful nests of Love beforeMy worn heart learnt all others to despise:Equall'd not her whoever won the prizeIn ages gone on any foreign shore;Not she to Greece whose wondrous beauty boreUnnumber'd ills, to Troy death's anguish'd cries:Not the fair Roman, who, with ruthless bladePiercing her chaste and outraged bosom, fledDishonour worse than death, like charms display'd;Such excellence should brightest glory shedOn Nature, as on me supreme delight,But, ah! too lately come, too soon it takes its flight.Macgregor.
Inone fair star I saw two brilliant eyes,With sweetness, modesty, so glistening o'er,That soon those graceful nests of Love beforeMy worn heart learnt all others to despise:Equall'd not her whoever won the prizeIn ages gone on any foreign shore;Not she to Greece whose wondrous beauty boreUnnumber'd ills, to Troy death's anguish'd cries:Not the fair Roman, who, with ruthless bladePiercing her chaste and outraged bosom, fledDishonour worse than death, like charms display'd;Such excellence should brightest glory shedOn Nature, as on me supreme delight,But, ah! too lately come, too soon it takes its flight.
Macgregor.
Feelsany fair the glorious wish to gainOf sense, of worth, of courtesy, the praise?On those bright eyes attentive let her gazeOf her miscall'd my love, but sure my foe.Honour to gain, with love of God to glow,Virtue more bright how native grace displays,May there be learn'd; and by what surest waysTo heaven, that for her coming pants, to go.The converse sweet, beyond what poets write,Is there; the winning silence, and the meekAnd saint-like manners man would paint in vain.The matchless beauty, dazzling to the sight,Can ne'er be learn'd; for bootless 'twere to seekBy art, what by kind chance alone we gain.Anon., Ox., 1795.
Feelsany fair the glorious wish to gainOf sense, of worth, of courtesy, the praise?On those bright eyes attentive let her gazeOf her miscall'd my love, but sure my foe.Honour to gain, with love of God to glow,Virtue more bright how native grace displays,May there be learn'd; and by what surest waysTo heaven, that for her coming pants, to go.The converse sweet, beyond what poets write,Is there; the winning silence, and the meekAnd saint-like manners man would paint in vain.The matchless beauty, dazzling to the sight,Can ne'er be learn'd; for bootless 'twere to seekBy art, what by kind chance alone we gain.
Anon., Ox., 1795.
Methinksthat life in lovely woman first,And after life true honour should be dear;Nay, wanting honour—of all wants the worst—Friend! nought remains of loved or lovely here.And who, alas! has honour's barrier burst,Unsex'd and dead, though fair she yet appear,Leads a vile life, in shame and torment curst,A lingering death, where all is dark and drear.To me no marvel was Lucretia's end,Save that she needed, when that last disgraceAlone sufficed to kill, a sword to die.Sophists in vain the contrary defend:Their arguments are feeble all and base,And truth alone triumphant mounts on high!Macgregor.
Methinksthat life in lovely woman first,And after life true honour should be dear;Nay, wanting honour—of all wants the worst—Friend! nought remains of loved or lovely here.And who, alas! has honour's barrier burst,Unsex'd and dead, though fair she yet appear,Leads a vile life, in shame and torment curst,A lingering death, where all is dark and drear.To me no marvel was Lucretia's end,Save that she needed, when that last disgraceAlone sufficed to kill, a sword to die.Sophists in vain the contrary defend:Their arguments are feeble all and base,And truth alone triumphant mounts on high!
Macgregor.
Tree, victory's bright guerdon, wont to crownHeroes and bards with thy triumphal leaf,How many days of mingled joy and griefHave I from thee through life's short passage known.Lady, who, reckless of the world's renown,Reapest in virtue's field fair honour's sheaf;Nor fear'st Love's limed snares, "that subtle thief,"While calm discretion on his wiles looks down.The pride of birth, with all that here we deemMost precious, gems and gold's resplendent grace.Abject alike in thy regard appear:Nay, even thine own unrivall'd beauties beamNo charm to thee—save as their circling blazeClasps fitly that chaste soul, which still thou hold'st most dear.Wrangham.
Tree, victory's bright guerdon, wont to crownHeroes and bards with thy triumphal leaf,How many days of mingled joy and griefHave I from thee through life's short passage known.Lady, who, reckless of the world's renown,Reapest in virtue's field fair honour's sheaf;Nor fear'st Love's limed snares, "that subtle thief,"While calm discretion on his wiles looks down.The pride of birth, with all that here we deemMost precious, gems and gold's resplendent grace.Abject alike in thy regard appear:Nay, even thine own unrivall'd beauties beamNo charm to thee—save as their circling blazeClasps fitly that chaste soul, which still thou hold'st most dear.
Wrangham.
Blestlaurel! fadeless and triumphant tree!Of kings and poets thou the fondest pride!How much of joy and sorrow's changing tideIn my short breath hath been awaked by thee!Lady, the will's sweet sovereign! thou canst seeNo bliss but virtue, where thou dost preside;Love's chain, his snare, thou dost alike deride;From man's deceit thy wisdom sets thee free.Birth's native pride, and treasure's precious store,(Whose bright possession we so fondly hail)To thee as burthens valueless appear:Thy beauty's excellence—(none viewed before)Thy soul had wearied—but thou lov'st the veil,That shrine of purity adorneth here.Wollaston.
Blestlaurel! fadeless and triumphant tree!Of kings and poets thou the fondest pride!How much of joy and sorrow's changing tideIn my short breath hath been awaked by thee!Lady, the will's sweet sovereign! thou canst seeNo bliss but virtue, where thou dost preside;Love's chain, his snare, thou dost alike deride;From man's deceit thy wisdom sets thee free.Birth's native pride, and treasure's precious store,(Whose bright possession we so fondly hail)To thee as burthens valueless appear:Thy beauty's excellence—(none viewed before)Thy soul had wearied—but thou lov'st the veil,That shrine of purity adorneth here.
Wollaston.
CeaselessI think, and in each wasting thoughtSo strong a pity for myself appears,That often it has broughtMy harass'd heart to new yet natural tears;Seeing each day my end of life draw nigh,Instant in prayer, I ask of God the wingsWith which the spirit springs,Freed from its mortal coil, to bliss on high;But nothing, to this hour, prayer, tear, or sigh,Whatever man could do, my hopes sustain:And so indeed in justice should it be;Able to stay, who went and fell, that heShould prostrate, in his own despite, remain.But, lo! the tender armsIn which I trust are open to me still,Though fears my bosom fillOf others' fate, and my own heart alarms,Which worldly feelings spur, haply, to utmost ill.One thought thus parleys with my troubled mind—"What still do you desire, whence succour wait?Ah! wherefore to this great,This guilty loss of time so madly blind?Take up at length, wisely take up your part:Tear every root of pleasure from your heart,Which ne'er can make it blest,Nor lets it freely play, nor calmly rest.If long ago with tedium and disgustYou view'd the false and fugitive delightsWith which its tools a treacherous world requites,Why longer then repose in it your trust,Whence peace and firmness are in exile thrust?While life and vigour stay,The bridle of your thoughts is in your power:Grasp, guide it while you may:So clogg'd with doubt, so dangerous is delay,The best for wise reform is still the present hour."Well known to you what rapture still has beenShed on your eyes by the dear sight of herWhom, for your peace it wereBetter if she the light had never seen;And you remember well (as well you ought)Her image, when, as with one conquering bound,Your heart in prey she caught,Where flame from other light no entrance found.She fired it, and if that fallacious heatLasted long years, expecting still one day,Which for our safety came not, to repay,It lifts you now to hope more blest and sweet,Uplooking to that heaven around your headImmortal, glorious spread;If but a glance, a brief word, an old song,Had here such power to charmYour eager passion, glad of its own harm,How far 'twill then exceed if now the joy so strong."Another thought the while, severe and sweet,Laborious, yet delectable in scope,Takes in my heart its seat,Filling with glory, feeding it with hope;Till, bent alone on bright and deathless fame,It feels not when I freeze, or burn in flame,When I am pale or ill,And if I crush it rises stronger still.This, from my helpless cradle, day by day,Has strengthen'd with my strength, grown with my growth,Till haply now one tomb must cover both:When from the flesh the soul has pass'd away,No more this passion comrades it as here;For fame—if, after death,Learning speak aught of me—is but a breath:Wherefore, because I fearHopes to indulge which the next hour may chase,I would old error leave, and the one truth embrace.But the third wish which fills and fires my heartO'ershadows all the rest which near it spring:Time, too, dispels a part,While, but for her, self-reckless grown, I sing.And then the rare light of those beauteous eyes,Sweetly before whose gentle heat I melt,As a fine curb is felt,To combat which avails not wit or force;What boots it, trammell'd by such adverse ties,If still between the rocks must lie her course,To trim my little bark to new emprize?Ah! wilt Thou never, Lord, who yet dost keepMe safe and free from common chains, which bind,In different modes, mankind,Deign also from my brow this shame to sweep?For, as one sunk in sleep,Methinks death ever present to my sight,Yet when I would resist I have no arms to fight.Full well I see my state, in nought deceivedBy truth ill known, but rather forced by Love,Who leaves not him to moveIn honour, who too much his grace believed:For o'er my heart from time to time I feelA subtle scorn, a lively anguish, steal,Whence every hidden thought,Where all may see, upon my brow is writ.For with such faith on mortal things to dote,As unto God alone is just and fit,Disgraces worst the prize who covets most:Should reason, amid things of sense, be lost.This loudly calls her to the proper track:But, when she would obeyAnd home return, ill habits keep her back,And to my view portrayHer who was only born my death to be,Too lovely in herself, too loved, alas! by me.I neither know, to me what term of lifeHeaven destined when on earth I came at firstTo suffer this sharp strife,'Gainst my own peace which I myself have nursed,Nor can I, for the veil my body throws,Yet see the time when my sad life may close.I feel my frame beginTo fail, and vary each desire within:And now that I believe my parting dayIs near at hand, or else not distant lies,Like one whom losses wary make and wise,I travel back in thought, where first the way,The right-hand way, I left, to peace which led.While through me shame and grief,Recalling the vain past on this side spread,On that brings no relief,Passion, whose strength I now from habit, feel,So great that it would dare with death itself to deal.Song! I am here, my heart the while more coldWith fear than frozen snow,Feels in its certain core death's coming blow;For thus, in weak self-communing, has roll'dOf my vain life the better portion by:Worse burden surely ne'erTried mortal man than that which now I bear;Though death be seated nigh,For future life still seeking councils new,I know and love the good, yet, ah! the worse pursue.Macgregor.
CeaselessI think, and in each wasting thoughtSo strong a pity for myself appears,That often it has broughtMy harass'd heart to new yet natural tears;Seeing each day my end of life draw nigh,Instant in prayer, I ask of God the wingsWith which the spirit springs,Freed from its mortal coil, to bliss on high;But nothing, to this hour, prayer, tear, or sigh,Whatever man could do, my hopes sustain:And so indeed in justice should it be;Able to stay, who went and fell, that heShould prostrate, in his own despite, remain.But, lo! the tender armsIn which I trust are open to me still,Though fears my bosom fillOf others' fate, and my own heart alarms,Which worldly feelings spur, haply, to utmost ill.
One thought thus parleys with my troubled mind—"What still do you desire, whence succour wait?Ah! wherefore to this great,This guilty loss of time so madly blind?Take up at length, wisely take up your part:Tear every root of pleasure from your heart,Which ne'er can make it blest,Nor lets it freely play, nor calmly rest.If long ago with tedium and disgustYou view'd the false and fugitive delightsWith which its tools a treacherous world requites,Why longer then repose in it your trust,Whence peace and firmness are in exile thrust?While life and vigour stay,The bridle of your thoughts is in your power:Grasp, guide it while you may:So clogg'd with doubt, so dangerous is delay,The best for wise reform is still the present hour.
"Well known to you what rapture still has beenShed on your eyes by the dear sight of herWhom, for your peace it wereBetter if she the light had never seen;And you remember well (as well you ought)Her image, when, as with one conquering bound,Your heart in prey she caught,Where flame from other light no entrance found.She fired it, and if that fallacious heatLasted long years, expecting still one day,Which for our safety came not, to repay,It lifts you now to hope more blest and sweet,Uplooking to that heaven around your headImmortal, glorious spread;If but a glance, a brief word, an old song,Had here such power to charmYour eager passion, glad of its own harm,How far 'twill then exceed if now the joy so strong."
Another thought the while, severe and sweet,Laborious, yet delectable in scope,Takes in my heart its seat,Filling with glory, feeding it with hope;Till, bent alone on bright and deathless fame,It feels not when I freeze, or burn in flame,When I am pale or ill,And if I crush it rises stronger still.This, from my helpless cradle, day by day,Has strengthen'd with my strength, grown with my growth,Till haply now one tomb must cover both:When from the flesh the soul has pass'd away,No more this passion comrades it as here;For fame—if, after death,Learning speak aught of me—is but a breath:Wherefore, because I fearHopes to indulge which the next hour may chase,I would old error leave, and the one truth embrace.
But the third wish which fills and fires my heartO'ershadows all the rest which near it spring:Time, too, dispels a part,While, but for her, self-reckless grown, I sing.And then the rare light of those beauteous eyes,Sweetly before whose gentle heat I melt,As a fine curb is felt,To combat which avails not wit or force;What boots it, trammell'd by such adverse ties,If still between the rocks must lie her course,To trim my little bark to new emprize?Ah! wilt Thou never, Lord, who yet dost keepMe safe and free from common chains, which bind,In different modes, mankind,Deign also from my brow this shame to sweep?For, as one sunk in sleep,Methinks death ever present to my sight,Yet when I would resist I have no arms to fight.
Full well I see my state, in nought deceivedBy truth ill known, but rather forced by Love,Who leaves not him to moveIn honour, who too much his grace believed:For o'er my heart from time to time I feelA subtle scorn, a lively anguish, steal,Whence every hidden thought,Where all may see, upon my brow is writ.For with such faith on mortal things to dote,As unto God alone is just and fit,Disgraces worst the prize who covets most:Should reason, amid things of sense, be lost.This loudly calls her to the proper track:But, when she would obeyAnd home return, ill habits keep her back,And to my view portrayHer who was only born my death to be,Too lovely in herself, too loved, alas! by me.
I neither know, to me what term of lifeHeaven destined when on earth I came at firstTo suffer this sharp strife,'Gainst my own peace which I myself have nursed,Nor can I, for the veil my body throws,Yet see the time when my sad life may close.I feel my frame beginTo fail, and vary each desire within:And now that I believe my parting dayIs near at hand, or else not distant lies,Like one whom losses wary make and wise,I travel back in thought, where first the way,The right-hand way, I left, to peace which led.While through me shame and grief,Recalling the vain past on this side spread,On that brings no relief,Passion, whose strength I now from habit, feel,So great that it would dare with death itself to deal.
Song! I am here, my heart the while more coldWith fear than frozen snow,Feels in its certain core death's coming blow;For thus, in weak self-communing, has roll'dOf my vain life the better portion by:Worse burden surely ne'erTried mortal man than that which now I bear;Though death be seated nigh,For future life still seeking councils new,I know and love the good, yet, ah! the worse pursue.
Macgregor.
Hardheart and cold, a stern will past belief,In angel form of gentle sweet allure;If thus her practised rigour long endure,O'er me her triumph will be poor and brief.For when or spring, or die, flower, herb, and leaf.When day is brightest, night when most obscure,Alway I weep. Great cause from Fortune sure,From Love and Laura have I for my grief.I live in hope alone, remembering stillHow by long fall of small drops I have seenMarble and solid stone that worn have been.No heart there is so hard, so cold no will,By true tears, fervent prayers, and faithful loveThat will not deign at length to melt and move.Macgregor.
Hardheart and cold, a stern will past belief,In angel form of gentle sweet allure;If thus her practised rigour long endure,O'er me her triumph will be poor and brief.For when or spring, or die, flower, herb, and leaf.When day is brightest, night when most obscure,Alway I weep. Great cause from Fortune sure,From Love and Laura have I for my grief.I live in hope alone, remembering stillHow by long fall of small drops I have seenMarble and solid stone that worn have been.No heart there is so hard, so cold no will,By true tears, fervent prayers, and faithful loveThat will not deign at length to melt and move.
Macgregor.
Mylord and friend! thoughts, wishes, all inclinedMy heart to visit one so dear to me,But Fortune—can she ever worse decree?—Held me in hand, misled, or kept behind.Since then the dear desire Love taught my mindBut leads me to a death I did not see,And while my twin lights, wheresoe'er I be,Are still denied, by day and night I've pined.Affection for my lord, my lady's love,The bonds have been wherewith in torments longI have been bound, which round myself I wove.A Laurel green, a Column fair and strong,This for three lustres, that for three years moreIn my fond breast, nor wish'd it free, I bore.Macgregor.
Mylord and friend! thoughts, wishes, all inclinedMy heart to visit one so dear to me,But Fortune—can she ever worse decree?—Held me in hand, misled, or kept behind.Since then the dear desire Love taught my mindBut leads me to a death I did not see,And while my twin lights, wheresoe'er I be,Are still denied, by day and night I've pined.Affection for my lord, my lady's love,The bonds have been wherewith in torments longI have been bound, which round myself I wove.A Laurel green, a Column fair and strong,This for three lustres, that for three years moreIn my fond breast, nor wish'd it free, I bore.
Macgregor.
SELVA PIANA, NEAR PARMA.SELVA PIANA, NEAR PARMA.
Woefor the 'witching look of that fair face!The port where ease with dignity combined!Woe for those accents, that each savage mindTo softness tuned, to noblest thoughts the base!And the sweet smile, from whence the dart I trace,Which now leaves death my only hope behind!Exalted soul, most fit on thrones to 've shined,But that too late she came this earth to grace!For you I still must burn, and breathe in you;For I was ever yours; of you bereft,Full little now I reck all other care.With hope and with desire you thrill'd me through,When last my only joy on earth I left:—But caught by winds each word was lost in air.Anon., Ox., 1795.
Woefor the 'witching look of that fair face!The port where ease with dignity combined!Woe for those accents, that each savage mindTo softness tuned, to noblest thoughts the base!And the sweet smile, from whence the dart I trace,Which now leaves death my only hope behind!Exalted soul, most fit on thrones to 've shined,But that too late she came this earth to grace!For you I still must burn, and breathe in you;For I was ever yours; of you bereft,Full little now I reck all other care.With hope and with desire you thrill'd me through,When last my only joy on earth I left:—But caught by winds each word was lost in air.
Anon., Ox., 1795.
Alas! that touching glance, that beauteous face!Alas! that dignity with sweetness fraught!Alas! that speech which tamed the wildest thought!That roused the coward, glory to embrace!Alas! that smile which in me did encaseThat fatal dart, whence here I hope for nought—Oh! hadst thou earlier our regions sought,The world had then confess'd thy sovereign grace!In thee I breathed, life's flame was nursed by thee,For I was thine; and since of thee bereaved,Each other woe hath lost its venom'd sting:My soul's blest joy! when last thy voice on meIn music fell, my heart sweet hope conceived;Alas! thy words have sped on zephyrs' wings!Wollaston.
Alas! that touching glance, that beauteous face!Alas! that dignity with sweetness fraught!Alas! that speech which tamed the wildest thought!That roused the coward, glory to embrace!Alas! that smile which in me did encaseThat fatal dart, whence here I hope for nought—Oh! hadst thou earlier our regions sought,The world had then confess'd thy sovereign grace!In thee I breathed, life's flame was nursed by thee,For I was thine; and since of thee bereaved,Each other woe hath lost its venom'd sting:My soul's blest joy! when last thy voice on meIn music fell, my heart sweet hope conceived;Alas! thy words have sped on zephyrs' wings!
Wollaston.
Whatshould I do? what, Love, dost thou advise?Full time it is to die:And longer than I wish have I delay'd.My mistress is no more, and with her gone my heart;To follow her, I must needBreak short the course of my afflictive years:To view her here belowI ne'er can hope; and irksome 'tis to wait.Since that my every joyBy her departure unto tears is turn'd,Of all its sweets my life has been deprived.Thou, Love, dost feel, therefore to thee I plain,How grievous is my loss;I know my sorrows grieve and weigh thee down,E'en as our common cause: for on one rockWe both have wreck'd our bark;And in one instant was its sun obscured.What genius can with wordsRightly describe my lamentable state?Ah, blind, ungrateful world!Thou hast indeed just cause with me to mourn;That beauty thou didst hold with her is fled!Fall'n is thy glory, and thou seest it not;Unworthy thou with her,While here she dwelt, acquaintance to maintain.Or to be trodden by her saintly feet;For that, which is so fair,Should with its presence decorate the skiesBut I, a wretch who, reftOf her, prize nor myself nor mortal life,Recall her with my tears:This only of my hope's vast sum remains;And this alone doth still support me here.Ah, me! her charming face is earth become,Which wont unto our thoughtTo picture heaven and happiness above!Her viewless form inhabits paradise,Divested of that veil,Which shadow'd while below her bloom of life,Once more to put it on,And never then to cast it off again;When so much more divine,And glorious render'd, 'twill by us be view'd,As mortal beauty to eternal yields.More bright than ever, and a lovelier fair,Before me she appears,Where most she's conscious that her sight will pleaseThis is one pillar that sustains my life;The other her dear name,That to my heart sounds so delightfully.But tracing in my mind,That she who form'd my choicest hope is deadE'en in her blossom'd prime;Thou knowest, Love, full well what I become:She I trust sees it too, who dwells with truth.Ye sweet associates, who admired her charms,Her life angelical,And her demeanour heavenly upon earthFor me lament, and be by pity wroughtNo wise for her, who, risenTo so much peace, me has in warfare left;Such, that should any shutThe road to follow her, for some length of time,What Love declares to meAlone would check my cutting through the tie;But in this guise he reasons from within:"The mighty grief transporting thee restrain;For passions uncontroll'dForfeit that heaven, to which thy soul aspires,Where she is living whom some fancy dead;While at her fair remainsShe smiles herself, sighing for thee alone;And that her fame, which livesIn many a clime hymn'd by thy tongue, may ne'erBecome extinct, she prays;But that her name should harmonize thy voice;If e'er her eyes were lovely held, and dear."Fly the calm, green retreat;And ne'er approach where song and laughter dwell,O strain; but wail be thine!It suits thee ill with the glad throng to stay,Thou sorrowing widow wrapp'd in garb of woe.Nott.
Whatshould I do? what, Love, dost thou advise?Full time it is to die:And longer than I wish have I delay'd.My mistress is no more, and with her gone my heart;To follow her, I must needBreak short the course of my afflictive years:To view her here belowI ne'er can hope; and irksome 'tis to wait.Since that my every joyBy her departure unto tears is turn'd,Of all its sweets my life has been deprived.
Thou, Love, dost feel, therefore to thee I plain,How grievous is my loss;I know my sorrows grieve and weigh thee down,E'en as our common cause: for on one rockWe both have wreck'd our bark;And in one instant was its sun obscured.What genius can with wordsRightly describe my lamentable state?Ah, blind, ungrateful world!Thou hast indeed just cause with me to mourn;That beauty thou didst hold with her is fled!
Fall'n is thy glory, and thou seest it not;Unworthy thou with her,While here she dwelt, acquaintance to maintain.Or to be trodden by her saintly feet;For that, which is so fair,Should with its presence decorate the skiesBut I, a wretch who, reftOf her, prize nor myself nor mortal life,Recall her with my tears:This only of my hope's vast sum remains;And this alone doth still support me here.
Ah, me! her charming face is earth become,Which wont unto our thoughtTo picture heaven and happiness above!Her viewless form inhabits paradise,Divested of that veil,Which shadow'd while below her bloom of life,Once more to put it on,And never then to cast it off again;When so much more divine,And glorious render'd, 'twill by us be view'd,As mortal beauty to eternal yields.
More bright than ever, and a lovelier fair,Before me she appears,Where most she's conscious that her sight will pleaseThis is one pillar that sustains my life;The other her dear name,That to my heart sounds so delightfully.But tracing in my mind,That she who form'd my choicest hope is deadE'en in her blossom'd prime;Thou knowest, Love, full well what I become:She I trust sees it too, who dwells with truth.
Ye sweet associates, who admired her charms,Her life angelical,And her demeanour heavenly upon earthFor me lament, and be by pity wroughtNo wise for her, who, risenTo so much peace, me has in warfare left;Such, that should any shutThe road to follow her, for some length of time,What Love declares to meAlone would check my cutting through the tie;But in this guise he reasons from within:
"The mighty grief transporting thee restrain;For passions uncontroll'dForfeit that heaven, to which thy soul aspires,Where she is living whom some fancy dead;While at her fair remainsShe smiles herself, sighing for thee alone;And that her fame, which livesIn many a clime hymn'd by thy tongue, may ne'erBecome extinct, she prays;But that her name should harmonize thy voice;If e'er her eyes were lovely held, and dear."Fly the calm, green retreat;And ne'er approach where song and laughter dwell,O strain; but wail be thine!It suits thee ill with the glad throng to stay,Thou sorrowing widow wrapp'd in garb of woe.
Nott.
Fall'nthat proud Column, fall'n that Laurel tree,Whose shelter once relieved my wearied mind;I'm reft of what I ne'er again shall find,Though ransack'd every shore and every sea:Double the treasure death has torn from me,In which life's pride was with its pleasure join'd;Not eastern gems, nor the world's wealth combined,Can give it back, nor land, nor royalty.But, if so fate decrees, what can I more,Than with unceasing tears these eyes bedew,Abase my visage, and my lot deplore?Ah, what is life, so lovely to the view!How quickly in one little morn is lostWhat years have won with labour and with cost!Nott.
Fall'nthat proud Column, fall'n that Laurel tree,Whose shelter once relieved my wearied mind;I'm reft of what I ne'er again shall find,Though ransack'd every shore and every sea:Double the treasure death has torn from me,In which life's pride was with its pleasure join'd;Not eastern gems, nor the world's wealth combined,Can give it back, nor land, nor royalty.But, if so fate decrees, what can I more,Than with unceasing tears these eyes bedew,Abase my visage, and my lot deplore?Ah, what is life, so lovely to the view!How quickly in one little morn is lostWhat years have won with labour and with cost!
Nott.