Mybark, deep laden with oblivion, ridesO'er boisterous waves, through winter's midnight gloom,'Twixt Scylla and Charybdis, while, in roomOf pilot, Love, mine enemy, presides;At every oar a guilty fancy bides,Holding at nought the tempest and the tomb;A moist eternal wind the sails consume,Of sighs, of hopes, and of desire besides.A shower of tears, a fog of chill disdainBathes and relaxes the o'er-wearied cords,With error and with ignorance entwined;My two loved lights their wonted aid restrain;Reason or Art, storm-quell'd, no help affords,Nor hope remains the wish'd-for port to find.Charlemont.
Mybark, deep laden with oblivion, ridesO'er boisterous waves, through winter's midnight gloom,'Twixt Scylla and Charybdis, while, in roomOf pilot, Love, mine enemy, presides;At every oar a guilty fancy bides,Holding at nought the tempest and the tomb;A moist eternal wind the sails consume,Of sighs, of hopes, and of desire besides.A shower of tears, a fog of chill disdainBathes and relaxes the o'er-wearied cords,With error and with ignorance entwined;My two loved lights their wonted aid restrain;Reason or Art, storm-quell'd, no help affords,Nor hope remains the wish'd-for port to find.
Charlemont.
Mylethe-freighted bark with reckless proreCleaves the rough sea 'neath wintry midnight skies,My old foe at the helm our compass eyes,With Scylla and Charybdis on each shore,A prompt and daring thought at every oar,Which equally the storm and death defies,While a perpetual humid wind of sighs,Of hopes, and of desires, its light sail tore.Bathe and relax its worn and weary shrouds(Which ignorance with error intertwines),Torrents of tears, of scorn and anger clouds;Hidden the twin dear lights which were my signs;Reason and Art amid the waves lie dead,And hope of gaining port is almost fled.Macgregor.
Mylethe-freighted bark with reckless proreCleaves the rough sea 'neath wintry midnight skies,My old foe at the helm our compass eyes,With Scylla and Charybdis on each shore,A prompt and daring thought at every oar,Which equally the storm and death defies,While a perpetual humid wind of sighs,Of hopes, and of desires, its light sail tore.Bathe and relax its worn and weary shrouds(Which ignorance with error intertwines),Torrents of tears, of scorn and anger clouds;Hidden the twin dear lights which were my signs;Reason and Art amid the waves lie dead,And hope of gaining port is almost fled.
Macgregor.
Beneatha laurel, two fair streams between,At early sunrise of the opening year,A milk-white fawn upon the meadow green,Of gold its either horn, I saw appear;So mild, yet so majestic, was its mien,I left, to follow, all my labours here,As miners after treasure, in the keenDesire of new, forget the old to fear."Let none impede"—so, round its fair neck, runThe words in diamond and topaz writ—"My lord to give me liberty sees fit."And now the sun his noontide height had wonWhen I, with weary though unsated view,Fell in the stream—and so my vision flew.Macgregor.
Beneatha laurel, two fair streams between,At early sunrise of the opening year,A milk-white fawn upon the meadow green,Of gold its either horn, I saw appear;So mild, yet so majestic, was its mien,I left, to follow, all my labours here,As miners after treasure, in the keenDesire of new, forget the old to fear."Let none impede"—so, round its fair neck, runThe words in diamond and topaz writ—"My lord to give me liberty sees fit."And now the sun his noontide height had wonWhen I, with weary though unsated view,Fell in the stream—and so my vision flew.
Macgregor.
A form Isaw with secret awe, nor ken I what it warns;Pure as the snow, a gentle doe it seem'd, with silver horns:Erect she stood, close by a wood, between two running streams;And brightly shone the morning sun upon that land of dreams!The pictured hind fancy design'd glowing with love and hope;Graceful she stepp'd, but distant kept, like the timid antelope;Playful, yet coy, with secret joy her image fill'd my soul;And o'er the sense soft influence of sweet oblivion stole.Gold I beheld and emerald on the collar that she wore;Words, too—but theirs were characters of legendary lore."Cæsar's decree hath made me free; and through his solemn charge,Untouch'd by men o'er hill and glen I wander here at large."The sun had now, with radiant brow, climb'd his meridian throne,Yet still mine eye untiringly gazed on that lovely one.A voice was heard—quick disappear'd my dream—the spell was broken.Then came distress: to the consciousness of life I had awoken.Father Prout.
A form Isaw with secret awe, nor ken I what it warns;Pure as the snow, a gentle doe it seem'd, with silver horns:Erect she stood, close by a wood, between two running streams;And brightly shone the morning sun upon that land of dreams!The pictured hind fancy design'd glowing with love and hope;Graceful she stepp'd, but distant kept, like the timid antelope;Playful, yet coy, with secret joy her image fill'd my soul;And o'er the sense soft influence of sweet oblivion stole.Gold I beheld and emerald on the collar that she wore;Words, too—but theirs were characters of legendary lore."Cæsar's decree hath made me free; and through his solemn charge,Untouch'd by men o'er hill and glen I wander here at large."The sun had now, with radiant brow, climb'd his meridian throne,Yet still mine eye untiringly gazed on that lovely one.A voice was heard—quick disappear'd my dream—the spell was broken.Then came distress: to the consciousness of life I had awoken.
Father Prout.
Aslife eternal is with God to be,No void left craving, there of all possess'd,So, lady mine, to be with you makes blest,This brief frail span of mortal life to me.So fair as now ne'er yet was mine to see—If truth from eyes to heart be well express'd—Lovely and blessèd spirit of my breast,Which levels all high hopes and wishes free.Nor would I more demand if less of hasteShe show'd to part; for if, as legends tellAnd credence find, are some who live by smell,On water some, or fire who touch and taste,All, things which neither strength nor sweetness give,Why should not I upon your dear sight live?Macgregor.
Aslife eternal is with God to be,No void left craving, there of all possess'd,So, lady mine, to be with you makes blest,This brief frail span of mortal life to me.So fair as now ne'er yet was mine to see—If truth from eyes to heart be well express'd—Lovely and blessèd spirit of my breast,Which levels all high hopes and wishes free.Nor would I more demand if less of hasteShe show'd to part; for if, as legends tellAnd credence find, are some who live by smell,On water some, or fire who touch and taste,All, things which neither strength nor sweetness give,Why should not I upon your dear sight live?
Macgregor.
Herestand we, Love, our glory to behold—How, passing Nature, lovely, high, and rare!Behold! what showers of sweetness falling there!What floods of light by heaven to earth unroll'd!How shine her robes, in purple, pearls, and gold,So richly wrought, with skill beyond compare!How glance her feet!—her beaming eyes how fairThrough the dark cloister which these hills enfold!The verdant turf, and flowers of thousand huesBeneath yon oak's old canopy of state,Spring round her feet to pay their amorous duty.The heavens, in joyful reverence, cannot chooseBut light up all their fires, to celebrateHer praise, whose presence charms their awful beauty.Merivale.
Herestand we, Love, our glory to behold—How, passing Nature, lovely, high, and rare!Behold! what showers of sweetness falling there!What floods of light by heaven to earth unroll'd!How shine her robes, in purple, pearls, and gold,So richly wrought, with skill beyond compare!How glance her feet!—her beaming eyes how fairThrough the dark cloister which these hills enfold!The verdant turf, and flowers of thousand huesBeneath yon oak's old canopy of state,Spring round her feet to pay their amorous duty.The heavens, in joyful reverence, cannot chooseBut light up all their fires, to celebrateHer praise, whose presence charms their awful beauty.
Merivale.
Heretarry, Love, our glory to behold;Nought in creation so sublime we trace;Ah! see what sweetness showers upon that face,Heaven's brightness to this earth those eyes unfold!See, with what magic art, pearls, purple, gold,That form transcendant, unexampled, grace:Beneath the shadowing hills observe her pace,Her glance replete with elegance untold!The verdant turf, and flowers of every hue,Clustering beneath yon aged holm-oak's gloom,For the sweet pressure of her fair feet sue;The orbs of fire that stud yon beauteous sky,Cheer'd by her presence and her smiles, assumeSuperior lustre and serenity.Nott.
Heretarry, Love, our glory to behold;Nought in creation so sublime we trace;Ah! see what sweetness showers upon that face,Heaven's brightness to this earth those eyes unfold!See, with what magic art, pearls, purple, gold,That form transcendant, unexampled, grace:Beneath the shadowing hills observe her pace,Her glance replete with elegance untold!The verdant turf, and flowers of every hue,Clustering beneath yon aged holm-oak's gloom,For the sweet pressure of her fair feet sue;The orbs of fire that stud yon beauteous sky,Cheer'd by her presence and her smiles, assumeSuperior lustre and serenity.
Nott.
I feedmy fancy on such noble food,That Jove I envy not his godlike meal;I see her—joy invades me like a flood,And lethe of all other bliss I feel;I hear her—instantly that music rareBids from my captive heart the fond sigh flow;Borne by the hand of Love I know not where,A double pleasure in one draught I know.Even in heaven that dear voice pleaseth well,So winning are its words, its sound so sweet,None can conceive, save who had heard, their spell;Thus, in the same small space, visibly, meetAll charms of eye and ear wherewith our raceArt, Genius, Nature, Heaven have join'd to grace.Macgregor.
I feedmy fancy on such noble food,That Jove I envy not his godlike meal;I see her—joy invades me like a flood,And lethe of all other bliss I feel;I hear her—instantly that music rareBids from my captive heart the fond sigh flow;Borne by the hand of Love I know not where,A double pleasure in one draught I know.Even in heaven that dear voice pleaseth well,So winning are its words, its sound so sweet,None can conceive, save who had heard, their spell;Thus, in the same small space, visibly, meetAll charms of eye and ear wherewith our raceArt, Genius, Nature, Heaven have join'd to grace.
Macgregor.
Suchnoble aliment sustains my soul,That Jove I envy not his godlike food;I gaze on her—and feel each other goodEngulph'd in that blest draught at Lethe's bowl:Her every word I in my heart enrol,That on its grief it still may constant brood;Prostrate by Love—my doom not understoodFrom that one form, I feel a twin control.My spirit drinks the music of her voice,Whose speaking harmony (to heaven so dear)They only feel who in its tone partake:Again within her face my eyes rejoice,For in its gentle lineaments appearWhat Genius, Nature, Art, and Heaven can wake.Wollaston.
Suchnoble aliment sustains my soul,That Jove I envy not his godlike food;I gaze on her—and feel each other goodEngulph'd in that blest draught at Lethe's bowl:Her every word I in my heart enrol,That on its grief it still may constant brood;Prostrate by Love—my doom not understoodFrom that one form, I feel a twin control.My spirit drinks the music of her voice,Whose speaking harmony (to heaven so dear)They only feel who in its tone partake:Again within her face my eyes rejoice,For in its gentle lineaments appearWhat Genius, Nature, Art, and Heaven can wake.
Wollaston.
Thegale, that o'er yon hills flings softer blue,And wakes to life each bud that gems the glade,I know; its breathings such impression made,Wafting me fame, but wafting sorrow too:My wearied soul to soothe, I bid adieuTo those dear Tuscan haunts I first survey'd;And, to dispel the gloom around me spread,I seek this day my cheering sun to view,Whose sweet attraction is so strong, so great,That Love again compels me to its light;Then he so dazzles me, that vain were flight.Not arms to brave, 'tis wings to 'scape, my fateI ask; but by those beams I'm doom'd to die,When distant which consume, and which enflame when nigh.Nott.
Thegale, that o'er yon hills flings softer blue,And wakes to life each bud that gems the glade,I know; its breathings such impression made,Wafting me fame, but wafting sorrow too:My wearied soul to soothe, I bid adieuTo those dear Tuscan haunts I first survey'd;And, to dispel the gloom around me spread,I seek this day my cheering sun to view,Whose sweet attraction is so strong, so great,That Love again compels me to its light;Then he so dazzles me, that vain were flight.Not arms to brave, 'tis wings to 'scape, my fateI ask; but by those beams I'm doom'd to die,When distant which consume, and which enflame when nigh.
Nott.
Thegentle air, which brightens each green hill,Wakening the flowers that paint this bowery glade,I recognise it by its soft breath still,My sorrow and renown which long has made:Again where erst my sick heart shelter sought,From my dear native Tuscan air I flee:That light may cheer my dark and troubled thought,I seek my sun, and hope to-day to see.That sun so great and genial sweetness brings,That Love compels me to his beams again,Which then so dazzle me that flight is vain:I ask for my escape not arms, but wings:Heaven by this light condemns me sure to die,Which from afar consumes, and burns when nigh.Macgregor.
Thegentle air, which brightens each green hill,Wakening the flowers that paint this bowery glade,I recognise it by its soft breath still,My sorrow and renown which long has made:Again where erst my sick heart shelter sought,From my dear native Tuscan air I flee:That light may cheer my dark and troubled thought,I seek my sun, and hope to-day to see.That sun so great and genial sweetness brings,That Love compels me to his beams again,Which then so dazzle me that flight is vain:I ask for my escape not arms, but wings:Heaven by this light condemns me sure to die,Which from afar consumes, and burns when nigh.
Macgregor.
I alterday by day in hair and mien,Yet shun not the old dangerous baits and dear,Nor sever from the laurel, limed and green,Which nor the scorching sun, nor fierce cold sear.Dry shall the sea, the sky be starless seen,Ere I shall cease to covet and to fearHer lovely shadow, and—which ill I screen—To like, yet loathe, the deep wound cherish'd here:For never hope I respite from my pain,From bones and nerves and flesh till I am free,Unless mine enemy some pity deign,Till things impossible accomplish'd be,None but herself or death the blow can healWhich Love from her bright eyes has left my heart to feel.Macgregor.
I alterday by day in hair and mien,Yet shun not the old dangerous baits and dear,Nor sever from the laurel, limed and green,Which nor the scorching sun, nor fierce cold sear.Dry shall the sea, the sky be starless seen,Ere I shall cease to covet and to fearHer lovely shadow, and—which ill I screen—To like, yet loathe, the deep wound cherish'd here:For never hope I respite from my pain,From bones and nerves and flesh till I am free,Unless mine enemy some pity deign,Till things impossible accomplish'd be,None but herself or death the blow can healWhich Love from her bright eyes has left my heart to feel.
Macgregor.
Thegentle gale, that plays my face around,Murmuring sweet mischief through the verdant grove,To fond remembrance brings the time, when LoveFirst gave his deep, although delightful wound;Gave me to view that beauteous face, ne'er foundVeil'd, as disdain or jealousy might move;To view her locks that shone bright gold above,Then loose, but now with pearls and jewels bound:Those locks she sweetly scatter'd to the wind,And then coil'd up again so gracefully,That but to think on it still thrills the sense.These Time has in more sober braids confined;And bound my heart with such a powerful tie,That death alone can disengage it thence.Nott.
Thegentle gale, that plays my face around,Murmuring sweet mischief through the verdant grove,To fond remembrance brings the time, when LoveFirst gave his deep, although delightful wound;Gave me to view that beauteous face, ne'er foundVeil'd, as disdain or jealousy might move;To view her locks that shone bright gold above,Then loose, but now with pearls and jewels bound:Those locks she sweetly scatter'd to the wind,And then coil'd up again so gracefully,That but to think on it still thrills the sense.These Time has in more sober braids confined;And bound my heart with such a powerful tie,That death alone can disengage it thence.
Nott.
Thebalmy airs that from yon leafy sprayMy fever'd brow with playful murmurs greet,Recall to my fond heart the fatal dayWhen Love his first wound dealt, so deep yet sweet,And gave me the fair face—in scorn awaySince turn'd, or hid by jealousy—to meet;The locks, which pearls and gems now oft array,Whose shining tints with finest gold compete,So sweetly on the wind were then display'd,Or gather'd in with such a graceful art,Their very thought with passion thrills my mind.Time since has twined them in more sober braid,And with a snare so powerful bound my heart,Death from its fetters only can unbind.Macgregor.
Thebalmy airs that from yon leafy sprayMy fever'd brow with playful murmurs greet,Recall to my fond heart the fatal dayWhen Love his first wound dealt, so deep yet sweet,And gave me the fair face—in scorn awaySince turn'd, or hid by jealousy—to meet;The locks, which pearls and gems now oft array,Whose shining tints with finest gold compete,So sweetly on the wind were then display'd,Or gather'd in with such a graceful art,Their very thought with passion thrills my mind.Time since has twined them in more sober braid,And with a snare so powerful bound my heart,Death from its fetters only can unbind.
Macgregor.
Theheavenly airs from yon green laurel roll'd,Where Love to Phœbus whilom dealt his stroke,Where on my neck was placed so sweet a yoke,That freedom thence I hope not to behold,O'er me prevail, as o'er that Arab oldMedusa, when she changed him to an oak;Nor ever can the fairy knot be brokeWhose light outshines the sun, not merely gold;I mean of those bright locks the curlèd snareWhich folds and fastens with so sweet a graceMy soul, whose humbleness defends alone.Her mere shade freezes with a cold despairMy heart, and tinges with pale fear my face;And oh! her eyes have power to make me stone.Macgregor.
Theheavenly airs from yon green laurel roll'd,Where Love to Phœbus whilom dealt his stroke,Where on my neck was placed so sweet a yoke,That freedom thence I hope not to behold,O'er me prevail, as o'er that Arab oldMedusa, when she changed him to an oak;Nor ever can the fairy knot be brokeWhose light outshines the sun, not merely gold;I mean of those bright locks the curlèd snareWhich folds and fastens with so sweet a graceMy soul, whose humbleness defends alone.Her mere shade freezes with a cold despairMy heart, and tinges with pale fear my face;And oh! her eyes have power to make me stone.
Macgregor.
Thepleasant gale, that to the sun unplaitsAnd spreads the gold Love's fingers weave, and braidO'er her fine eyes, and all around her head,Fetters my heart, the wishful sigh creates:No nerve but thrills, no artery but beats,Approaching my fair arbiter with dread,Who in her doubtful scale hath ofttimes weigh'dWhether or death or life on me awaits;Beholding, too, those eyes their fires display,And on those shoulders shine such wreaths of hair,Whose witching tangles my poor heart ensnare.But how this magic's wrought I cannot say;For twofold radiance doth my reason blind,And sweetness to excess palls and o'erpowers my mind.Nott.
Thepleasant gale, that to the sun unplaitsAnd spreads the gold Love's fingers weave, and braidO'er her fine eyes, and all around her head,Fetters my heart, the wishful sigh creates:No nerve but thrills, no artery but beats,Approaching my fair arbiter with dread,Who in her doubtful scale hath ofttimes weigh'dWhether or death or life on me awaits;Beholding, too, those eyes their fires display,And on those shoulders shine such wreaths of hair,Whose witching tangles my poor heart ensnare.But how this magic's wrought I cannot say;For twofold radiance doth my reason blind,And sweetness to excess palls and o'erpowers my mind.
Nott.
Thesoft gale to the sun which shakes and spreadsThe gold which Love's own hand has spun and wrought.There, with her bright eyes and those fairy threads,Binds my poor heart and sifts each idle thought.My veins of blood, my bones of marrow fail,Thrills all my frame when I, to hear or gaze,Draw near to her, who oft, in balance frail,My life and death together holds and weighs,And see those love-fires shine wherein I burn,And, as its snow each sweetest shoulder heaves,Flash the fair tresses right and left by turn;Verse fails to paint what fancy scarce conceives.From two such lights is intellect distress'd,And by such sweetness weary and oppress'd.Macgregor.
Thesoft gale to the sun which shakes and spreadsThe gold which Love's own hand has spun and wrought.There, with her bright eyes and those fairy threads,Binds my poor heart and sifts each idle thought.My veins of blood, my bones of marrow fail,Thrills all my frame when I, to hear or gaze,Draw near to her, who oft, in balance frail,My life and death together holds and weighs,And see those love-fires shine wherein I burn,And, as its snow each sweetest shoulder heaves,Flash the fair tresses right and left by turn;Verse fails to paint what fancy scarce conceives.From two such lights is intellect distress'd,And by such sweetness weary and oppress'd.
Macgregor.
O beauteoushand! that dost my heart subdue,And in a little space my life confine;Hand where their skill and utmost efforts joinNature and Heaven, their plastic powers to show!Sweet fingers, seeming pearls of orient hue,To my wounds only cruel, fingers fine!Love, who towards me kindness doth design,For once permits ye naked to our view.Thou glove most dear, most elegant and white,Encasing ivory tinted with the rose;More precious covering ne'er met mortal sight.Would I such portion of thy veil had gain'd!O fleeting gifts which fortune's hand bestows!'Tis justice to restore what theft alone obtain'd.Nott.
O beauteoushand! that dost my heart subdue,And in a little space my life confine;Hand where their skill and utmost efforts joinNature and Heaven, their plastic powers to show!Sweet fingers, seeming pearls of orient hue,To my wounds only cruel, fingers fine!Love, who towards me kindness doth design,For once permits ye naked to our view.Thou glove most dear, most elegant and white,Encasing ivory tinted with the rose;More precious covering ne'er met mortal sight.Would I such portion of thy veil had gain'd!O fleeting gifts which fortune's hand bestows!'Tis justice to restore what theft alone obtain'd.
Nott.
O beauteoushand! which robb'st me of my heart,And holdest all my life in little space;Hand! which their utmost effort and best artNature and Heaven alike have join'd to grace;O sister pearls of orient hue, ye fineAnd fairy fingers! to my wounds aloneCruel and cold, does Love awhile inclineIn my behalf, that naked ye are shown?O glove! most snowy, delicate, and dear,Which spotless ivory and fresh roses set,Where can on earth a sweeter spoil be met,Unless her fair veil thus reward us here?Inconstancy of human things! the theftLate won and dearly prized too soon from me is reft!Macgregor.
O beauteoushand! which robb'st me of my heart,And holdest all my life in little space;Hand! which their utmost effort and best artNature and Heaven alike have join'd to grace;O sister pearls of orient hue, ye fineAnd fairy fingers! to my wounds aloneCruel and cold, does Love awhile inclineIn my behalf, that naked ye are shown?O glove! most snowy, delicate, and dear,Which spotless ivory and fresh roses set,Where can on earth a sweeter spoil be met,Unless her fair veil thus reward us here?Inconstancy of human things! the theftLate won and dearly prized too soon from me is reft!
Macgregor.
Notof one dear hand only I complain,Which hides it, to my loss, again from view,But its fair fellow and her soft arms tooAre prompt my meek and passive heart to pain.Love spreads a thousand toils, nor one in vain,Amid the many charms, bright, pure, and new,That so her high and heavenly part endue,No style can equal it, no mind attain.That starry forehead and those tranquil eyes,The fair angelic mouth, where pearl and roseContrast each other, whence rich music flows,These fill the gazer with a fond surprise,The fine head, the bright tresses which defiedThe sun to match them in his noonday pride.Macgregor.
Notof one dear hand only I complain,Which hides it, to my loss, again from view,But its fair fellow and her soft arms tooAre prompt my meek and passive heart to pain.Love spreads a thousand toils, nor one in vain,Amid the many charms, bright, pure, and new,That so her high and heavenly part endue,No style can equal it, no mind attain.That starry forehead and those tranquil eyes,The fair angelic mouth, where pearl and roseContrast each other, whence rich music flows,These fill the gazer with a fond surprise,The fine head, the bright tresses which defiedThe sun to match them in his noonday pride.
Macgregor.
MeLove and Fortune then supremely bless'd!Her glove which gold and silken broidery bore!I seem'd to reach of utmost bliss the crest,Musing within myself on her who wore.Ne'er on that day I think, of days the best,Which made me rich, then beggar'd as before,But rage and sorrow fill mine aching breast.With slighted love and self-shame boiling o'er;That on my precious prize in time of needI kept not hold, nor made a firmer stand'Gainst what at best was merely angel force,That my feet were not wings their flight to speed,And so at last take vengeance on the hand,Make my poor eyes of tears the too oft source.Macgregor.
MeLove and Fortune then supremely bless'd!Her glove which gold and silken broidery bore!I seem'd to reach of utmost bliss the crest,Musing within myself on her who wore.Ne'er on that day I think, of days the best,Which made me rich, then beggar'd as before,But rage and sorrow fill mine aching breast.With slighted love and self-shame boiling o'er;That on my precious prize in time of needI kept not hold, nor made a firmer stand'Gainst what at best was merely angel force,That my feet were not wings their flight to speed,And so at last take vengeance on the hand,Make my poor eyes of tears the too oft source.
Macgregor.
Theflames that ever on my bosom preyFrom living ice or cold fair marble pour,And so exhaust my veins and waste my core,Almost insensibly I melt away.Death, his stern arm already rear'd to slay,As thunders angry heaven or lions roar,Pursues my life that vainly flies before,While I with terror shake, and mute obey.And yet, were Love and Pity friends, they mightA double column for my succour throwBetween my worn soul and the mortal blow:It may not be; such feelings in the sightOf my loved foe and mistress never stir;The fault is in my fortune, not in her.Macgregor.
Theflames that ever on my bosom preyFrom living ice or cold fair marble pour,And so exhaust my veins and waste my core,Almost insensibly I melt away.Death, his stern arm already rear'd to slay,As thunders angry heaven or lions roar,Pursues my life that vainly flies before,While I with terror shake, and mute obey.And yet, were Love and Pity friends, they mightA double column for my succour throwBetween my worn soul and the mortal blow:It may not be; such feelings in the sightOf my loved foe and mistress never stir;The fault is in my fortune, not in her.
Macgregor.
Alas, with ardour past belief I glow!None doubt this truth, except one only fair,Who all excels, for whom alone I care;She plainly sees, yet disbelieves my woe.O rich in charms, but poor in faith! canst thouLook in these eyes, nor read my whole heart there?Were I not fated by my baleful star,For me from pity's fount might favour flow.My flame, of which thou tak'st so little heed,And thy high praises pour'd through all my song,O'er many a breast may future influence spread:These, my sweet fair, so warns prophetic thought,Closed thy bright eye, and mute thy poet's tongue,E'en after death shall still with sparks be fraught.Nott.
Alas, with ardour past belief I glow!None doubt this truth, except one only fair,Who all excels, for whom alone I care;She plainly sees, yet disbelieves my woe.O rich in charms, but poor in faith! canst thouLook in these eyes, nor read my whole heart there?Were I not fated by my baleful star,For me from pity's fount might favour flow.My flame, of which thou tak'st so little heed,And thy high praises pour'd through all my song,O'er many a breast may future influence spread:These, my sweet fair, so warns prophetic thought,Closed thy bright eye, and mute thy poet's tongue,E'en after death shall still with sparks be fraught.
Nott.
Alas! I burn, yet credence fail to gainAll others credit it save only sheAll others who excels, alone for me;She seems to doubt it still, yet sees it plainInfinite beauty, little faith and slow,Perceive ye not my whole heart in mine eyes?Well might I hope, save for my hostile skies,From mercy's fount some pitying balm to flow.Yet this my flame which scarcely moves your care,And your warm praises sung in these fond rhymes,May thousands yet inflame in after times;These I foresee in fancy, my sweet fair,Though your bright eyes be closed and cold my breath,Shall lighten other loves and live in death.Macgregor.
Alas! I burn, yet credence fail to gainAll others credit it save only sheAll others who excels, alone for me;She seems to doubt it still, yet sees it plainInfinite beauty, little faith and slow,Perceive ye not my whole heart in mine eyes?Well might I hope, save for my hostile skies,From mercy's fount some pitying balm to flow.Yet this my flame which scarcely moves your care,And your warm praises sung in these fond rhymes,May thousands yet inflame in after times;These I foresee in fancy, my sweet fair,Though your bright eyes be closed and cold my breath,Shall lighten other loves and live in death.
Macgregor.
Soul! with such various faculties enduedTo think, write, speak, to read, to see, to hear;My doting eyes! and thou, my faithful ear!Where drinks my heart her counsels wise and good;Your fortune smiles; if after or before,The path were won so badly follow'd yet,Ye had not then her bright eyes' lustre met,Nor traced her light feet earth's green carpet o'er.Now with so clear a light, so sure a sign,'Twere shame to err or halt on the brief wayWhich makes thee worthy of a home divine.That better course, my weary will, essay!To pierce the cloud of her sweet scorn be thine,Pursuing her pure steps and heavenly ray.Macgregor.
Soul! with such various faculties enduedTo think, write, speak, to read, to see, to hear;My doting eyes! and thou, my faithful ear!Where drinks my heart her counsels wise and good;Your fortune smiles; if after or before,The path were won so badly follow'd yet,Ye had not then her bright eyes' lustre met,Nor traced her light feet earth's green carpet o'er.Now with so clear a light, so sure a sign,'Twere shame to err or halt on the brief wayWhich makes thee worthy of a home divine.That better course, my weary will, essay!To pierce the cloud of her sweet scorn be thine,Pursuing her pure steps and heavenly ray.
Macgregor.
Sweetscorn, sweet anger, and sweet misery,Forgiveness sweet, sweet burden, and sweet ill;Sweet accents that mine ear so sweetly thrill,That sweetly bland, now sweetly fierce can be.Mourn not, my soul, but suffer silently;And those embitter'd sweets thy cup that fillWith the sweet honour blend of loving stillHer whom I told: "Thou only pleasest me."Hereafter, moved with envy, some may say:"For that high-boasted beauty of his dayEnough the bard has borne!" then heave a sigh.Others: "Oh! why, most hostile Fortune, whyCould not these eyes that lovely form survey?Why was she early born, or wherefore late was I?"Nott.
Sweetscorn, sweet anger, and sweet misery,Forgiveness sweet, sweet burden, and sweet ill;Sweet accents that mine ear so sweetly thrill,That sweetly bland, now sweetly fierce can be.Mourn not, my soul, but suffer silently;And those embitter'd sweets thy cup that fillWith the sweet honour blend of loving stillHer whom I told: "Thou only pleasest me."Hereafter, moved with envy, some may say:"For that high-boasted beauty of his dayEnough the bard has borne!" then heave a sigh.Others: "Oh! why, most hostile Fortune, whyCould not these eyes that lovely form survey?Why was she early born, or wherefore late was I?"
Nott.
Sweetanger, sweet disdain, and peace as sweet,Sweet ill, sweet pain, sweet burthen that I bear,Sweet speech as sweetly heard; sweet speech, my fair!That now enflames my soul, now cools its heat.Patient, my soul! endure the wrongs you meet;And all th' embitter'd sweets you're doomed to shareBlend with that sweetest bliss, the maid to greetIn these soft words, "Thou only art my care!"Haply some youth shall sighing envious say,"Enough has borne the bard so fond, so true,For that bright beauty, brightest of his day!"While others cry, "Sad eyes! how hard your fate,Why could I ne'er this matchless beauty view?Why was she born so soon, or I so late?"Anon. 1777.
Sweetanger, sweet disdain, and peace as sweet,Sweet ill, sweet pain, sweet burthen that I bear,Sweet speech as sweetly heard; sweet speech, my fair!That now enflames my soul, now cools its heat.Patient, my soul! endure the wrongs you meet;And all th' embitter'd sweets you're doomed to shareBlend with that sweetest bliss, the maid to greetIn these soft words, "Thou only art my care!"Haply some youth shall sighing envious say,"Enough has borne the bard so fond, so true,For that bright beauty, brightest of his day!"While others cry, "Sad eyes! how hard your fate,Why could I ne'er this matchless beauty view?Why was she born so soon, or I so late?"
Anon. 1777.
Perdie! I said it not,Nor never thought to do:As well as I, ye wotI have no power thereto.And if I did, the lotThat first did me enchainMay never slake the knot,But strait it to my pain.And if I did, each thingThat may do harm or woe,Continually may wringMy heart, where so I go!Report may always ringOf shame on me for aye,If in my heart did springThe words that you do say.And if I did, each starThat is in heaven above,May frown on me, to marThe hope I have in love!And if I did, such warAs they brought unto Troy,Bring all my life afarFrom all his lust and joy!And if I did so say,The beauty that me boundIncrease from day to day,More cruel to my wound!With all the moan that mayTo plaint may turn my song;My life may soon decay,Without redress, by wrong!If I be clear from thought,Why do you then complain?Then is this thing but soughtTo turn my heart to pain.Then this that you have wrought,You must it now redress;Of right, therefore, you oughtSuch rigour to repress.And as I have deserved,So grant me now my hire;You know I never swerved,You never found me liar.For Rachel have I served,For Leah cared I never;And her I have reservedWithin my heart for ever.Wyatt.
Perdie! I said it not,Nor never thought to do:As well as I, ye wotI have no power thereto.And if I did, the lotThat first did me enchainMay never slake the knot,But strait it to my pain.
And if I did, each thingThat may do harm or woe,Continually may wringMy heart, where so I go!Report may always ringOf shame on me for aye,If in my heart did springThe words that you do say.
And if I did, each starThat is in heaven above,May frown on me, to marThe hope I have in love!And if I did, such warAs they brought unto Troy,Bring all my life afarFrom all his lust and joy!
And if I did so say,The beauty that me boundIncrease from day to day,More cruel to my wound!With all the moan that mayTo plaint may turn my song;My life may soon decay,Without redress, by wrong!
If I be clear from thought,Why do you then complain?Then is this thing but soughtTo turn my heart to pain.Then this that you have wrought,You must it now redress;Of right, therefore, you oughtSuch rigour to repress.
And as I have deserved,So grant me now my hire;You know I never swerved,You never found me liar.For Rachel have I served,For Leah cared I never;And her I have reservedWithin my heart for ever.
Wyatt.
IfI said so, may I be hated byHer on whose love I live, without which I should die—If I said so, my days be sad and short,May my false soul some vile dominion court.If I said so, may every star to meBe hostile; round me growPale fear and jealousy;And she, my foe,As cruel still and cold as fair she aye must be.If I said so, may Love upon my heartExpend his golden shafts, on her the leaden dart;Be heaven and earth, and God and man my foe,And she still more severe if I said so:If I said so, may he whose blind lights leadMe straightway to my grave,Trample yet worse his slave,Nor she behaveGentle and kind to me in look, or word, or deed.If I said so, then through my brief life mayAll that is hateful block my worthless weary way:If I said so, may the proud frost in theeGrow prouder as more fierce the fire in me:If I said so, no more then may the warmSun or bright moon be view'd,Nor maid, nor matron's form,But one dread stormSuch as proud Pharaoh saw when Israel he pursued.If I said so, despite each contrite sigh,Let courtesy for me and kindly feeling die:If I said so, that voice to anger swell,Which was so sweet when first her slave I fell:If I said so, I should offend whom I,E'en from my earliest breathUntil my day of death,Would gladly take,Alone in cloister'd cell my single saint to make.But if I said not so, may she who first,In life's green youth, my heart to hope so sweetly nursed,Deign yet once more my weary bark to guideWith native kindness o'er the troublous tide;And graceful, grateful, as her wont before,When, for I could no more,My all, myself I gave,To be her slave,Forget not the deep faith with which I still adore.I did not, could not, never would say so,For all that gold can give, cities or courts bestow:Let truth, then, take her old proud seat on high,And low on earth let baffled falsehood lie.Thou know'st me, Love! if aught my state withinBelief or care may win,Tell her that I would callHim blest o'er allWho, doom'd like me to pine, dies ere his strife begin.Rachel I sought, not Leah, to secure,Nor could I this vain life with other fair endure,And, should from earth Heaven summon her again,Myself would gladly dieFor her, or with her, whenElijah's fiery car her pure soul wafts on high.Macgregor.
IfI said so, may I be hated byHer on whose love I live, without which I should die—If I said so, my days be sad and short,May my false soul some vile dominion court.If I said so, may every star to meBe hostile; round me growPale fear and jealousy;And she, my foe,As cruel still and cold as fair she aye must be.
If I said so, may Love upon my heartExpend his golden shafts, on her the leaden dart;Be heaven and earth, and God and man my foe,And she still more severe if I said so:If I said so, may he whose blind lights leadMe straightway to my grave,Trample yet worse his slave,Nor she behaveGentle and kind to me in look, or word, or deed.
If I said so, then through my brief life mayAll that is hateful block my worthless weary way:If I said so, may the proud frost in theeGrow prouder as more fierce the fire in me:If I said so, no more then may the warmSun or bright moon be view'd,Nor maid, nor matron's form,But one dread stormSuch as proud Pharaoh saw when Israel he pursued.
If I said so, despite each contrite sigh,Let courtesy for me and kindly feeling die:If I said so, that voice to anger swell,Which was so sweet when first her slave I fell:If I said so, I should offend whom I,E'en from my earliest breathUntil my day of death,Would gladly take,Alone in cloister'd cell my single saint to make.
But if I said not so, may she who first,In life's green youth, my heart to hope so sweetly nursed,Deign yet once more my weary bark to guideWith native kindness o'er the troublous tide;And graceful, grateful, as her wont before,When, for I could no more,My all, myself I gave,To be her slave,Forget not the deep faith with which I still adore.
I did not, could not, never would say so,For all that gold can give, cities or courts bestow:Let truth, then, take her old proud seat on high,And low on earth let baffled falsehood lie.Thou know'st me, Love! if aught my state withinBelief or care may win,Tell her that I would callHim blest o'er allWho, doom'd like me to pine, dies ere his strife begin.
Rachel I sought, not Leah, to secure,Nor could I this vain life with other fair endure,And, should from earth Heaven summon her again,Myself would gladly dieFor her, or with her, whenElijah's fiery car her pure soul wafts on high.
Macgregor.
Aspass'd the years which I have left behind,To pass my future years I fondly thought,Amid old studies, with desires the same;But, from my lady since I fail to findThe accustom'd aid, the work himself has wroughtLet Love regard my tempter who became;Yet scarce I feel the shameThat, at my age, he makes me thus a thiefOf that bewitching lightFor which my life is steep'd in cureless grief;In youth I better mightHave ta'en the part which now I needs must take,For less dishonour boyish errors make.Those sweet eyes whence alone my life had healthWere ever of their high and heavenly charmsSo kind to me when first my thrall begun,That, as a man whom not his proper wealth,But some extern yet secret succour arms,I lived, with them at ease, offending none:Me now their glances shunAs one injurious and importunate,Who, poor and hungry, didMyself the very act, in better stateWhich I, in others, chid.From mercy thus if envy bar me, beMy amorous thirst and helplessness my plea.In divers ways how often have I triedIf, reft of these, aught mortal could retainE'en for a single day in life my frame:But, ah! my soul, which has no rest beside,Speeds back to those angelic lights again;And I, though but of wax, turn to their flame,Planting my mind's best aimWhere less the watch o'er what I love is sure:As birds i' th' wild wood green,Where less they fear, will sooner take the lure,So on her lovely mien,Now one and now another look I turn,Wherewith at once I nourish me and burn.Strange sustenance! upon my death I feed,And live in flames, a salamander rare!And yet no marvel, as from love it flows.A blithe lamb 'mid the harass'd fleecy breed.Whilom I lay, whom now to worst despairFortune and Love, as is their wont, expose.Winter with cold and snows,With violets and roses spring is rife,And thus if I obtainSome few poor aliments of else weak life,Who can of theft complain?So rich a fair should be content with this,Though others live on hers, if nought she miss.Who knows not what I am and still have been,From the first day I saw those beauteous eyes,Which alter'd of my life the natural mood?Traverse all lands, explore each sea between,Who can acquire all human qualities?There some on odours live by Ind's vast flood;Here light and fire are foodMy frail and famish'd spirit to appease!Love! more or nought bestow;With lordly state low thrift but ill agrees;Thou hast thy darts and bow,Take with thy hands my not unwilling breath,Life were well closed with honourable death.Pent flames are strongest, and, if left to swell,Not long by any means can rest unknown,This own I, Love, and at your hands was taught.When I thus silent burn'd, you knew it well;Now e'en to me my cries are weary grown,Annoy to far and near so long that wrought.O false world! O vain thought!O my hard fate! where now to follow thee?Ah! from what meteor lightSprung in my heart the constant hope which she,Who, armour'd with your might,Drags me to death, binds o'er it as a chain?Yours is the fault, though mine the loss and pain.Thus bear I of true love the pains along,Asking forgiveness of another's debt,And for mine own; whose eyes should rather shunThat too great light, and to the siren's songMy ears be closed: though scarce can I regretThat so sweet poison should my heart o'errun.Yet would that all were done,That who the first wound gave my last would deal;For, if I right divine,It were best mercy soon my fate to seal;Since not a chance is mineThat he may treat me better than before,'Tis well to die if death shut sorrow's door.My song! with fearless feetThe field I keep, for death in flight were shame.Myself I needs must blameFor these laments; tears, sighs, and death to meet,Such fate for her is sweet.Own, slave of Love, whose eyes these rhymes may catch,Earth has no good that with my grief can match.Macgregor.
Aspass'd the years which I have left behind,To pass my future years I fondly thought,Amid old studies, with desires the same;But, from my lady since I fail to findThe accustom'd aid, the work himself has wroughtLet Love regard my tempter who became;Yet scarce I feel the shameThat, at my age, he makes me thus a thiefOf that bewitching lightFor which my life is steep'd in cureless grief;In youth I better mightHave ta'en the part which now I needs must take,For less dishonour boyish errors make.
Those sweet eyes whence alone my life had healthWere ever of their high and heavenly charmsSo kind to me when first my thrall begun,That, as a man whom not his proper wealth,But some extern yet secret succour arms,I lived, with them at ease, offending none:Me now their glances shunAs one injurious and importunate,Who, poor and hungry, didMyself the very act, in better stateWhich I, in others, chid.From mercy thus if envy bar me, beMy amorous thirst and helplessness my plea.
In divers ways how often have I triedIf, reft of these, aught mortal could retainE'en for a single day in life my frame:But, ah! my soul, which has no rest beside,Speeds back to those angelic lights again;And I, though but of wax, turn to their flame,Planting my mind's best aimWhere less the watch o'er what I love is sure:As birds i' th' wild wood green,Where less they fear, will sooner take the lure,So on her lovely mien,Now one and now another look I turn,Wherewith at once I nourish me and burn.
Strange sustenance! upon my death I feed,And live in flames, a salamander rare!And yet no marvel, as from love it flows.A blithe lamb 'mid the harass'd fleecy breed.Whilom I lay, whom now to worst despairFortune and Love, as is their wont, expose.Winter with cold and snows,With violets and roses spring is rife,And thus if I obtainSome few poor aliments of else weak life,Who can of theft complain?So rich a fair should be content with this,Though others live on hers, if nought she miss.
Who knows not what I am and still have been,From the first day I saw those beauteous eyes,Which alter'd of my life the natural mood?Traverse all lands, explore each sea between,Who can acquire all human qualities?There some on odours live by Ind's vast flood;Here light and fire are foodMy frail and famish'd spirit to appease!Love! more or nought bestow;With lordly state low thrift but ill agrees;Thou hast thy darts and bow,Take with thy hands my not unwilling breath,Life were well closed with honourable death.
Pent flames are strongest, and, if left to swell,Not long by any means can rest unknown,This own I, Love, and at your hands was taught.When I thus silent burn'd, you knew it well;Now e'en to me my cries are weary grown,Annoy to far and near so long that wrought.O false world! O vain thought!O my hard fate! where now to follow thee?Ah! from what meteor lightSprung in my heart the constant hope which she,Who, armour'd with your might,Drags me to death, binds o'er it as a chain?Yours is the fault, though mine the loss and pain.
Thus bear I of true love the pains along,Asking forgiveness of another's debt,And for mine own; whose eyes should rather shunThat too great light, and to the siren's songMy ears be closed: though scarce can I regretThat so sweet poison should my heart o'errun.Yet would that all were done,That who the first wound gave my last would deal;For, if I right divine,It were best mercy soon my fate to seal;Since not a chance is mineThat he may treat me better than before,'Tis well to die if death shut sorrow's door.
My song! with fearless feetThe field I keep, for death in flight were shame.Myself I needs must blameFor these laments; tears, sighs, and death to meet,Such fate for her is sweet.Own, slave of Love, whose eyes these rhymes may catch,Earth has no good that with my grief can match.
Macgregor.