AVIGNON.AVIGNON.
Impetuousflood, that from the Alps' rude head,Eating around thee, dost thy name obtain;[V]Anxious like me both night and day to gainWhere thee pure nature, and me love doth lead;Pour on: thy course nor sleep nor toils impede;Yet, ere thou pay'st thy tribute to the main,Oh, tarry where most verdant looks the plain,Where most serenity the skies doth spread!There beams my radiant sun of cheering ray,Which deck thy left banks, and gems o'er with flowers;E'en now, vain thought! perhaps she chides my stay:Kiss then her feet, her hand so beauteous fair;In place of language let thy kiss declareStrong is my will, though feeble are my powers.Nott.
Impetuousflood, that from the Alps' rude head,Eating around thee, dost thy name obtain;[V]Anxious like me both night and day to gainWhere thee pure nature, and me love doth lead;Pour on: thy course nor sleep nor toils impede;Yet, ere thou pay'st thy tribute to the main,Oh, tarry where most verdant looks the plain,Where most serenity the skies doth spread!There beams my radiant sun of cheering ray,Which deck thy left banks, and gems o'er with flowers;E'en now, vain thought! perhaps she chides my stay:Kiss then her feet, her hand so beauteous fair;In place of language let thy kiss declareStrong is my will, though feeble are my powers.
Nott.
O rapid flood! which from thy mountain bedGnawest thy shores, whence (in my tongue) thy name;[V]Thou art my partner, night and day the same,Where I by love, thou art by nature led:Precede me now; no weariness doth shedIts spell o'er thee, no sleep thy course can tame;Yet ere the ocean waves thy tribute claim,Pause, where the herb and air seem brighter fed.There beams our sun of life, whose genial rayWith brighter verdure thy left shore adorns;Perchance (vain hope!) e'en now my stay she mourns.Kiss then her foot, her lovely hand, and mayThy kiss to her in place of language speak,The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.Wollaston.
O rapid flood! which from thy mountain bedGnawest thy shores, whence (in my tongue) thy name;[V]Thou art my partner, night and day the same,Where I by love, thou art by nature led:Precede me now; no weariness doth shedIts spell o'er thee, no sleep thy course can tame;Yet ere the ocean waves thy tribute claim,Pause, where the herb and air seem brighter fed.There beams our sun of life, whose genial rayWith brighter verdure thy left shore adorns;Perchance (vain hope!) e'en now my stay she mourns.Kiss then her foot, her lovely hand, and mayThy kiss to her in place of language speak,The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.
Wollaston.
Theloved hills where I left myself behind,Whence ever 'twas so hard my steps to tear,Before me rise; at each remove I bearThe dear load to my lot by Love consign'd.Often I wonder inly in my mind,That still the fair yoke holds me, which despairWould vainly break, that yet I breathe this air;Though long the chain, its links but closer bind.And as a stag, sore struck by hunter's dart,Whose poison'd iron rankles in his breast,Flies and more grieves the more the chase is press'd,So I, with Love's keen arrow in my heart,Endure at once my death and my delight,Rack'd with long grief, and weary with vain flight.Macgregor.
Theloved hills where I left myself behind,Whence ever 'twas so hard my steps to tear,Before me rise; at each remove I bearThe dear load to my lot by Love consign'd.Often I wonder inly in my mind,That still the fair yoke holds me, which despairWould vainly break, that yet I breathe this air;Though long the chain, its links but closer bind.And as a stag, sore struck by hunter's dart,Whose poison'd iron rankles in his breast,Flies and more grieves the more the chase is press'd,So I, with Love's keen arrow in my heart,Endure at once my death and my delight,Rack'd with long grief, and weary with vain flight.
Macgregor.
Thosegentle hills which hold my spirit still(For though I fly, my heart there must remain),Are e'er before me, whilst my burthen's pain,By love bestow'd, I bear with patient will.I marvel oft that I can yet fulfilThat yoke's sweet duties, which my soul enchain,I seek release, but find the effort vain;The more I fly, the nearer seems my ill.So, like the stag, who, wounded by the dart,Its poison'd iron rankling in his side,Flies swifter at each quickening anguish'd throb,—I feel the fatal arrow at my heart;Yet with its poison, joy awakes its tide;My flight exhausts me—grief my life doth rob!Wollaston.
Thosegentle hills which hold my spirit still(For though I fly, my heart there must remain),Are e'er before me, whilst my burthen's pain,By love bestow'd, I bear with patient will.I marvel oft that I can yet fulfilThat yoke's sweet duties, which my soul enchain,I seek release, but find the effort vain;The more I fly, the nearer seems my ill.So, like the stag, who, wounded by the dart,Its poison'd iron rankling in his side,Flies swifter at each quickening anguish'd throb,—I feel the fatal arrow at my heart;Yet with its poison, joy awakes its tide;My flight exhausts me—grief my life doth rob!
Wollaston.
FromSpanish Ebro to Hydaspes old,Exploring ocean in its every nook,From the Red Sea to the cold Caspian shore,In earth, in heaven one only Phœnix dwells.What fortunate, or what disastrous birdOmen'd my fate? which Parca winds my yarn,That I alone find Pity deaf as asp,And wretched live who happy hoped to be?Let me not speak of her, but him her guide,Who all her heart with love and sweetness fills—Gifts which, from him o'erflowing, follow her,Who, that my sweets may sour and cruel be,Dissembleth, careth not, or will not seeThat silver'd, ere my time, these temples are.Macgregor.
FromSpanish Ebro to Hydaspes old,Exploring ocean in its every nook,From the Red Sea to the cold Caspian shore,In earth, in heaven one only Phœnix dwells.What fortunate, or what disastrous birdOmen'd my fate? which Parca winds my yarn,That I alone find Pity deaf as asp,And wretched live who happy hoped to be?Let me not speak of her, but him her guide,Who all her heart with love and sweetness fills—Gifts which, from him o'erflowing, follow her,Who, that my sweets may sour and cruel be,Dissembleth, careth not, or will not seeThat silver'd, ere my time, these temples are.
Macgregor.
Passionimpels me, Love escorts and leads,Pleasure attracts me, habits old enchain,Hope with its flatteries comforts me again,And, at my harass'd heart, with fond touch pleads.Poor wretch! it trusts her still, and little heedsThe blind and faithless leader of our train;Reason is dead, the senses only reign:One fond desire another still succeeds.Virtue and honour, beauty, courtesy,With winning words and many a graceful way,My heart entangled in that laurel sweet.In thirteen hundred seven and twenty, I—'Twas April, the first hour, on its sixth day—Enter'd Love's labyrinth, whence is no retreat.Macgregor.
Passionimpels me, Love escorts and leads,Pleasure attracts me, habits old enchain,Hope with its flatteries comforts me again,And, at my harass'd heart, with fond touch pleads.Poor wretch! it trusts her still, and little heedsThe blind and faithless leader of our train;Reason is dead, the senses only reign:One fond desire another still succeeds.Virtue and honour, beauty, courtesy,With winning words and many a graceful way,My heart entangled in that laurel sweet.In thirteen hundred seven and twenty, I—'Twas April, the first hour, on its sixth day—Enter'd Love's labyrinth, whence is no retreat.
Macgregor.
Bywill impell'd, Love o'er my path presides;By Pleasure led, o'ercome by Habit's reign,Sweet Hope deludes, and comforts me again;At her bright touch, my heart's despair subsides.It takes her proffer'd hand, and there confides.To doubt its blind disloyal guide were vain;Each sense usurps poor Reason's broken rein;On each desire, another wilder rides!Grace, virtue, honour, beauty, words so dear,Have twined me with that laurell'd bough, whose powerMy heart hath tangled in its lab'rinth sweet:The thirteen hundred twenty-seventh year,The sixth of April's suns—in that first hour,My entrance mark'd, whence I see no retreat.Wollaston.
Bywill impell'd, Love o'er my path presides;By Pleasure led, o'ercome by Habit's reign,Sweet Hope deludes, and comforts me again;At her bright touch, my heart's despair subsides.It takes her proffer'd hand, and there confides.To doubt its blind disloyal guide were vain;Each sense usurps poor Reason's broken rein;On each desire, another wilder rides!Grace, virtue, honour, beauty, words so dear,Have twined me with that laurell'd bough, whose powerMy heart hath tangled in its lab'rinth sweet:The thirteen hundred twenty-seventh year,The sixth of April's suns—in that first hour,My entrance mark'd, whence I see no retreat.
Wollaston.
Happyin visions, and content to pine,Shadows to clasp, to chase the summer gale,On shoreless and unfathom'd sea to sail,To build on sand, and in the air design,The sun to gaze on till these eyes of mineAbash'd before his noonday splendour fail,To chase adown some soft and sloping vale,The wingèd stag with maim'd and heavy kine;Weary and blind, save my own harm to all,Which day and night I seek with throbbing heart,On Love, on Laura, and on Death I call.Thus twenty years of long and cruel smart,In tears and sighs I've pass'd, because I tookUnder ill stars, alas! both bait and hook.Macgregor.
Happyin visions, and content to pine,Shadows to clasp, to chase the summer gale,On shoreless and unfathom'd sea to sail,To build on sand, and in the air design,The sun to gaze on till these eyes of mineAbash'd before his noonday splendour fail,To chase adown some soft and sloping vale,The wingèd stag with maim'd and heavy kine;Weary and blind, save my own harm to all,Which day and night I seek with throbbing heart,On Love, on Laura, and on Death I call.Thus twenty years of long and cruel smart,In tears and sighs I've pass'd, because I tookUnder ill stars, alas! both bait and hook.
Macgregor.
Graces, that liberal Heaven on few bestows;Rare excellence, scarce known to human kind;With youth's bright locks age's ripe judgment join'd;Celestial charms, which a meek mortal shows;An elegance unmatch'd; and lips, whence flowsMusic that can the sense in fetters bind;A goddess step; a lovely ardent mind,That breaks the stubborn, and the haughty bows;Eyes, whose refulgence petrifies the heart,To glooms, to shades that can a light impart,Lift high the lover's soul, or plunge it low;Speech link'd by tenderness and dignity;With many a sweetly-interrupted sigh;Such are the witcheries that transform me so.Nott.
Graces, that liberal Heaven on few bestows;Rare excellence, scarce known to human kind;With youth's bright locks age's ripe judgment join'd;Celestial charms, which a meek mortal shows;An elegance unmatch'd; and lips, whence flowsMusic that can the sense in fetters bind;A goddess step; a lovely ardent mind,That breaks the stubborn, and the haughty bows;Eyes, whose refulgence petrifies the heart,To glooms, to shades that can a light impart,Lift high the lover's soul, or plunge it low;Speech link'd by tenderness and dignity;With many a sweetly-interrupted sigh;Such are the witcheries that transform me so.
Nott.
Graceswhich liberal Heaven grants few to share:Rare virtue seldom witness'd by mankind;Experienced judgment with fair hair combined;High heavenly beauty in a humble fair;A gracefulness most excellent and rare;A voice whose music sinks into the mind;An angel gait; wit glowing and refined,The hard to break, the high and haughty tear,And brilliant eyes which turn the heart to stone,Strong to enlighten hell and night, and takeSouls from our bodies and their own to make;A speech where genius high yet gentle shone,Evermore broken by the balmiest sighs—Such magic spells transform'd me in this wise.Macgregor.
Graceswhich liberal Heaven grants few to share:Rare virtue seldom witness'd by mankind;Experienced judgment with fair hair combined;High heavenly beauty in a humble fair;A gracefulness most excellent and rare;A voice whose music sinks into the mind;An angel gait; wit glowing and refined,The hard to break, the high and haughty tear,And brilliant eyes which turn the heart to stone,Strong to enlighten hell and night, and takeSouls from our bodies and their own to make;A speech where genius high yet gentle shone,Evermore broken by the balmiest sighs—Such magic spells transform'd me in this wise.
Macgregor.
Life'sthree first stages train'd my soul in partTo place its care on objects high and new,And to disparage what men often prize,But, left alone, and of her fatal courseAs yet uncertain, frolicsome, and free,She enter'd at spring-time a lovely wood.A tender flower there was, born in that woodThe day before, whose root was in a partHigh and impervious e'en to spirit free;For many snares were there of forms so new,And such desire impell'd my sanguine course,That to lose freedom were to gain a prize.Dear, sweet, yet perilous and painful prize!Which quickly drew me to that verdant wood,Doom'd to mislead me midway in life's course;The world I since have ransack'd part by part,For rhymes, or stones, or sap of simples new,Which yet might give me back the spirit, free.But ah! I feel my body must be freeFrom that hard knot which is its richest prize,Ere medicine old or incantations newCan heal the wounds which pierced me in that wood,Thorny and troublous, where I play'd such part,Leaving it halt who enter'd with hot course.Yes! full of snares and sticks, a difficult courseHave I to run, where easy foot and sureWere rather needed, healthy in each part;Thou, Lord, who still of pity hast the prize,Stretch to me thy right hand in this wild wood,And let thy sun dispel my darkness new.Look on my state, amid temptations new,Which, interrupting my life's tranquil course,Have made me denizen of darkling wood;If good, restore me, fetterless and free,My wand'ring consort, and be thine the prizeIf yet with thee I find her in blest part.Lo! thus in part I put my questions new,If mine be any prize, or run its course,Be my soul free, or captived in close wood.Macgregor.
Life'sthree first stages train'd my soul in partTo place its care on objects high and new,And to disparage what men often prize,But, left alone, and of her fatal courseAs yet uncertain, frolicsome, and free,She enter'd at spring-time a lovely wood.
A tender flower there was, born in that woodThe day before, whose root was in a partHigh and impervious e'en to spirit free;For many snares were there of forms so new,And such desire impell'd my sanguine course,That to lose freedom were to gain a prize.
Dear, sweet, yet perilous and painful prize!Which quickly drew me to that verdant wood,Doom'd to mislead me midway in life's course;The world I since have ransack'd part by part,For rhymes, or stones, or sap of simples new,Which yet might give me back the spirit, free.
But ah! I feel my body must be freeFrom that hard knot which is its richest prize,Ere medicine old or incantations newCan heal the wounds which pierced me in that wood,Thorny and troublous, where I play'd such part,Leaving it halt who enter'd with hot course.
Yes! full of snares and sticks, a difficult courseHave I to run, where easy foot and sureWere rather needed, healthy in each part;Thou, Lord, who still of pity hast the prize,Stretch to me thy right hand in this wild wood,And let thy sun dispel my darkness new.
Look on my state, amid temptations new,Which, interrupting my life's tranquil course,Have made me denizen of darkling wood;If good, restore me, fetterless and free,My wand'ring consort, and be thine the prizeIf yet with thee I find her in blest part.
Lo! thus in part I put my questions new,If mine be any prize, or run its course,Be my soul free, or captived in close wood.
Macgregor.
Highbirth in humble life, reserved yet kind,On youth's gay flower ripe fruits of age and rare,A virtuous heart, therewith a lofty mind,A happy spirit in a pensive air;Her planet, nay, heaven's king, has fitly shrinedAll gifts and graces in this lady fair,True honour, purest praises, worth refined,Above what rapt dreams of best poets are.Virtue and Love so rich in her unite,With natural beauty dignified address,Gestures that still a silent grace express,And in her eyes I know not what strange light,That makes the noonday dark, the dusk night clear,Bitter the sweet, and e'en sad absence dear.Macgregor.
Highbirth in humble life, reserved yet kind,On youth's gay flower ripe fruits of age and rare,A virtuous heart, therewith a lofty mind,A happy spirit in a pensive air;Her planet, nay, heaven's king, has fitly shrinedAll gifts and graces in this lady fair,True honour, purest praises, worth refined,Above what rapt dreams of best poets are.Virtue and Love so rich in her unite,With natural beauty dignified address,Gestures that still a silent grace express,And in her eyes I know not what strange light,That makes the noonday dark, the dusk night clear,Bitter the sweet, and e'en sad absence dear.
Macgregor.
Thoughnobly born, so humbly calm she dwells,So bright her intellect—so pure her mind—The blossom and its bloom in her we find;With pensive look, her heart with mirth rebels:Thus by her planets' union she excels,(Nay—His, the stars' proud sov'reign, who enshrinedThere honour, worth, and fortitude combined!)Which to the bard inspired, his hope dispels.Love blooms in her, but 'tis his home most pure;Her daily virtues blend with native grace;Her noiseless movements speak, though she is mute:Such power her eyes, they can the day obscure,Illume the night,—the honey's sweetness chase,And wake its stream, where gall doth oft pollute.Wollaston.
Thoughnobly born, so humbly calm she dwells,So bright her intellect—so pure her mind—The blossom and its bloom in her we find;With pensive look, her heart with mirth rebels:Thus by her planets' union she excels,(Nay—His, the stars' proud sov'reign, who enshrinedThere honour, worth, and fortitude combined!)Which to the bard inspired, his hope dispels.Love blooms in her, but 'tis his home most pure;Her daily virtues blend with native grace;Her noiseless movements speak, though she is mute:Such power her eyes, they can the day obscure,Illume the night,—the honey's sweetness chase,And wake its stream, where gall doth oft pollute.
Wollaston.
Throughthe long lingering day, estranged from rest,My sorrows flow unceasing; doubly flow,Painful prerogative of lover's woe!In that still hour, when slumber soothes th' unblest.With such deep anguish is my heart opprest,So stream mine eyes with tears! Of things belowMost miserable I; for Cupid's bowHas banish'd quiet from this heaving breast.Ah me! while thus in suffering, morn to mornAnd eve to eve succeeds, of death I view(So should this life be named) one-half gone by—Yet this I weep not, but another's scorn;That she, my friend, so tender and so true,Should see me hopeless burn, and yet her aid deny.Wrangham.
Throughthe long lingering day, estranged from rest,My sorrows flow unceasing; doubly flow,Painful prerogative of lover's woe!In that still hour, when slumber soothes th' unblest.With such deep anguish is my heart opprest,So stream mine eyes with tears! Of things belowMost miserable I; for Cupid's bowHas banish'd quiet from this heaving breast.Ah me! while thus in suffering, morn to mornAnd eve to eve succeeds, of death I view(So should this life be named) one-half gone by—Yet this I weep not, but another's scorn;That she, my friend, so tender and so true,Should see me hopeless burn, and yet her aid deny.
Wrangham.
ErewhileI labour'd with complaint so true,And in such fervid rhymes to make me heard,Seem'd as at last some spark of pity stirr'dIn the hard heart which frost in summer knew.Th' unfriendly cloud, whose cold veil o'er it grew,Broke at the first breath of mine ardent wordOr low'ring still she others' blame incurr'dHer bright and killing eyes who thus withdrewNo ruth for self I crave, for her no hate;I wish not this—thatpasses power of mine:Such was mine evil star and cruel fate.But I shall ever sing her charms divine,That, when I have resign'd this mortal breath,The world may know how sweet to me was death.Macgregor.
ErewhileI labour'd with complaint so true,And in such fervid rhymes to make me heard,Seem'd as at last some spark of pity stirr'dIn the hard heart which frost in summer knew.Th' unfriendly cloud, whose cold veil o'er it grew,Broke at the first breath of mine ardent wordOr low'ring still she others' blame incurr'dHer bright and killing eyes who thus withdrewNo ruth for self I crave, for her no hate;I wish not this—thatpasses power of mine:Such was mine evil star and cruel fate.But I shall ever sing her charms divine,That, when I have resign'd this mortal breath,The world may know how sweet to me was death.
Macgregor.
Where'ershe moves, whatever dames among,Beauteous or graceful, matchless she below.With her fair face she makes all others showDim, as the day's bright orb night's starry throng.And Love still whispers, with prophetic tongue,—"Long as on earth is seen that glittering brow,Shall life have charms: but she shall cease to glowAnd with her all my power shall fleet along,Should Nature from the skies their twin-lights wrest;Hush every breeze, each herb and flower destroy;Strip man of reason—speech; from Ocean's breastHis tides, his tenants chase—such, earth's annoy;Yea, still more darken'd were it and unblest,Had she, thy Laura, closed her eyes to love and joy."Wrangham.
Where'ershe moves, whatever dames among,Beauteous or graceful, matchless she below.With her fair face she makes all others showDim, as the day's bright orb night's starry throng.And Love still whispers, with prophetic tongue,—"Long as on earth is seen that glittering brow,Shall life have charms: but she shall cease to glowAnd with her all my power shall fleet along,Should Nature from the skies their twin-lights wrest;Hush every breeze, each herb and flower destroy;Strip man of reason—speech; from Ocean's breastHis tides, his tenants chase—such, earth's annoy;Yea, still more darken'd were it and unblest,Had she, thy Laura, closed her eyes to love and joy."
Wrangham.
Whene'eramidst the damsels, blooming bright,She shows herself, whose like was never made,At her approach all other beauties fade,As at morn's orient glow the gems of night.Love seems to whisper,—"While to mortal sightHer graces shall on earth be yet display'd,Life shall be blest; 'till soon with her decay'd,The virtues, and my reign shall sink outright."Of moon and sun, should nature rob the sky,The air of winds, the earth of herbs and leaves,Mankind of speech and intellectual eye,The ocean's bed of fish, and dancing waves;Even so shall all things dark and lonely lye,When of her beauty Death the world bereaves!Charlemont.
Whene'eramidst the damsels, blooming bright,She shows herself, whose like was never made,At her approach all other beauties fade,As at morn's orient glow the gems of night.Love seems to whisper,—"While to mortal sightHer graces shall on earth be yet display'd,Life shall be blest; 'till soon with her decay'd,The virtues, and my reign shall sink outright."Of moon and sun, should nature rob the sky,The air of winds, the earth of herbs and leaves,Mankind of speech and intellectual eye,The ocean's bed of fish, and dancing waves;Even so shall all things dark and lonely lye,When of her beauty Death the world bereaves!
Charlemont.
Thebirds' sweet wail, their renovated song,At break of morn, make all the vales resound;With lapse of crystal waters pouring round,In clear, swift runnels, the fresh shores among.She, whose pure passion knows nor guile nor wrong,With front of snow, with golden tresses crown'd,Combing her aged husband's hoar locks found,Wakes me when sportful wakes the warbling throng.Thus, roused from sleep, I greet the dawning day,And its succeeding sun, with one more bright,Still dazzling, as in early youth, my sight:Both suns I've seen at once uplift their ray;This drives the radiance of the stars away,But that which gilds my life eclipses e'en his light.Nott.
Thebirds' sweet wail, their renovated song,At break of morn, make all the vales resound;With lapse of crystal waters pouring round,In clear, swift runnels, the fresh shores among.She, whose pure passion knows nor guile nor wrong,With front of snow, with golden tresses crown'd,Combing her aged husband's hoar locks found,Wakes me when sportful wakes the warbling throng.Thus, roused from sleep, I greet the dawning day,And its succeeding sun, with one more bright,Still dazzling, as in early youth, my sight:Both suns I've seen at once uplift their ray;This drives the radiance of the stars away,But that which gilds my life eclipses e'en his light.
Nott.
Soonas gay morn ascends her purple car,The plaintive warblings of the new-waked grove,The murmuring streams, through flowery meads that rove,Fill with sweet melody the valleys fair.Aurora, famed for constancy in love,Whose face with snow, whose locks with gold compare.Smoothing her aged husband's silvery hair,Bids me the joys of rural music prove.Then, waking, I salute the sun of day;But chief that beauteous sun, whose cheering rayOnce gilt, nay gilds e'en now, life's scene so bright.Dear suns! which oft I've seen together rise;This dims each meaner lustre of the skies,And that sweet sun I love dims every light.Anon. 1777.
Soonas gay morn ascends her purple car,The plaintive warblings of the new-waked grove,The murmuring streams, through flowery meads that rove,Fill with sweet melody the valleys fair.Aurora, famed for constancy in love,Whose face with snow, whose locks with gold compare.Smoothing her aged husband's silvery hair,Bids me the joys of rural music prove.Then, waking, I salute the sun of day;But chief that beauteous sun, whose cheering rayOnce gilt, nay gilds e'en now, life's scene so bright.Dear suns! which oft I've seen together rise;This dims each meaner lustre of the skies,And that sweet sun I love dims every light.
Anon. 1777.
Whencecould Love take the gold, and from what vein,To form those bright twin locks? What thorn could growThose roses? And what mead that white bestowOf the fresh dews, which pulse and breath obtain?Whence came those pearls that modestly restrainAccents which courteous, sweet, and rare can flow?And whence those charms that so divinely show,Spread o'er a face serene as heaven's blue plain?Taught by what angel, or what tuneful sphere,Was that celestial song, which doth dispenseSuch potent magic to the ravish'd ear?What sun illumed those bright commanding eyes,Which now look peaceful, now in hostile guise;Now torture me with hope, and now with fear?Nott.
Whencecould Love take the gold, and from what vein,To form those bright twin locks? What thorn could growThose roses? And what mead that white bestowOf the fresh dews, which pulse and breath obtain?Whence came those pearls that modestly restrainAccents which courteous, sweet, and rare can flow?And whence those charms that so divinely show,Spread o'er a face serene as heaven's blue plain?Taught by what angel, or what tuneful sphere,Was that celestial song, which doth dispenseSuch potent magic to the ravish'd ear?What sun illumed those bright commanding eyes,Which now look peaceful, now in hostile guise;Now torture me with hope, and now with fear?
Nott.
Say, from what vein did Love procure the goldTo make those sunny tresses? From what thornStole he the rose, and whence the dew of morn,Bidding them breathe and live in Beauty's mould?What depth of ocean gave the pearls that toldThose gentle accents sweet, though rarely born?Whence came so many graces to adornThat brow more fair than summer skies unfold?Oh! say what angels lead, what spheres controlThe song divine which wastes my life away?(Who can with trifles now my senses move?)What sun gave birth unto the lofty soulOf those enchanting eyes, whose glances strayTo burn and freeze my heart—the sport of Love?Wrottesley.
Say, from what vein did Love procure the goldTo make those sunny tresses? From what thornStole he the rose, and whence the dew of morn,Bidding them breathe and live in Beauty's mould?What depth of ocean gave the pearls that toldThose gentle accents sweet, though rarely born?Whence came so many graces to adornThat brow more fair than summer skies unfold?Oh! say what angels lead, what spheres controlThe song divine which wastes my life away?(Who can with trifles now my senses move?)What sun gave birth unto the lofty soulOf those enchanting eyes, whose glances strayTo burn and freeze my heart—the sport of Love?
Wrottesley.
Whatdestiny of mine, what fraud or force,Unarm'd again conducts me to the field,Where never came I but with shame to yield'Scape I or fall, which better is or worse?—Not worse, but better; from so sweet a sourceShine in my heart those lights, so bright reveal'dThe fatal fire, e'en now as then, which seal'dMy doom, though twenty years have roll'd their courseI feel death's messengers when those dear eyes,Dazzling me from afar, I see appear,And if on me they turn as she draw near,Love with such sweetness tempts me then and tries,Tell it I cannot, nor recall in sooth,For wit and language fail to reach the truth!Macgregor.
Whatdestiny of mine, what fraud or force,Unarm'd again conducts me to the field,Where never came I but with shame to yield'Scape I or fall, which better is or worse?—Not worse, but better; from so sweet a sourceShine in my heart those lights, so bright reveal'dThe fatal fire, e'en now as then, which seal'dMy doom, though twenty years have roll'd their courseI feel death's messengers when those dear eyes,Dazzling me from afar, I see appear,And if on me they turn as she draw near,Love with such sweetness tempts me then and tries,Tell it I cannot, nor recall in sooth,For wit and language fail to reach the truth!
Macgregor.
P.Pensiveand glad, accompanied, alone,Ladies who cheat the time with converse gay,Where does my life, where does my death delay?Why not with you her form, as usual, shown?L.Glad are we her rare lustre to have known,And sad from her dear company to stay,Which jealousy and envy keep awayO'er other's bliss, as their own ill who moan.P.Who lovers can restrain, or give them law?L.No one the soul, harshness and rage the frame;As erst in us, this now in her appears.As oft the face, betrays the heart, we sawClouds that, obscuring her high beauty, came,And in her eyes the dewy trace of tears.Macgregor.
P.Pensiveand glad, accompanied, alone,Ladies who cheat the time with converse gay,Where does my life, where does my death delay?Why not with you her form, as usual, shown?L.Glad are we her rare lustre to have known,And sad from her dear company to stay,Which jealousy and envy keep awayO'er other's bliss, as their own ill who moan.P.Who lovers can restrain, or give them law?L.No one the soul, harshness and rage the frame;As erst in us, this now in her appears.As oft the face, betrays the heart, we sawClouds that, obscuring her high beauty, came,And in her eyes the dewy trace of tears.
Macgregor.
Whenin the sea sinks the sun's golden light,And on my mind and nature darkness lies,With the pale moon, faint stars and clouded skiesI pass a weary and a painful night:To her who hears me not I then rehearseMy sad life's fruitless toils, early and late;And with the world and with my gloomy fate,With Love, with Laura and myself, converse.Sleep is forbid me: I have no repose,But sighs and groans instead, till morn returns,And tears, with which mine eyes a sad heart feeds;Then comes the dawn, the thick air clearer grows,But not my soul; the sun which in it burnsAlone can cure the grief his fierce warmth breeds.Nott.
Whenin the sea sinks the sun's golden light,And on my mind and nature darkness lies,With the pale moon, faint stars and clouded skiesI pass a weary and a painful night:To her who hears me not I then rehearseMy sad life's fruitless toils, early and late;And with the world and with my gloomy fate,With Love, with Laura and myself, converse.Sleep is forbid me: I have no repose,But sighs and groans instead, till morn returns,And tears, with which mine eyes a sad heart feeds;Then comes the dawn, the thick air clearer grows,But not my soul; the sun which in it burnsAlone can cure the grief his fierce warmth breeds.
Nott.
WhenPhœbus lashes to the western mainHis fiery steeds, and shades the lurid air;Grief shades my soul, my night is spent in care;Yon moon, yon stars, yon heaven begin my pain.Wretch that I am! full oft I urge in vainTo heedless beings all those pangs I bear;Of the false world, of an unpitying fair,Of Love, and fickle fortune I complain!From eve's last glance, till morning's earliest ray,Sleep shuns my couch; rest quits my tearful eye;And my rack'd breast heaves many a plaintive sigh.Then bright Aurora cheers the rising day,But cheers not me—for to my sorrowing heartOne sun alone can cheering light impart!Anon. 1777.
WhenPhœbus lashes to the western mainHis fiery steeds, and shades the lurid air;Grief shades my soul, my night is spent in care;Yon moon, yon stars, yon heaven begin my pain.Wretch that I am! full oft I urge in vainTo heedless beings all those pangs I bear;Of the false world, of an unpitying fair,Of Love, and fickle fortune I complain!From eve's last glance, till morning's earliest ray,Sleep shuns my couch; rest quits my tearful eye;And my rack'd breast heaves many a plaintive sigh.Then bright Aurora cheers the rising day,But cheers not me—for to my sorrowing heartOne sun alone can cheering light impart!
Anon. 1777.
Iffaith most true, a heart that cannot feign,If Love's sweet languishment and chasten'd thought,And wishes pure by nobler feelings taught,If in a labyrinth wanderings long and vain,If on the brow each pang pourtray'd to bear,Or from the heart low broken sounds to draw,Withheld by shame, or check'd by pious awe,If on the faded cheek Love's hue to wear,If than myself to hold one far more dear,If sighs that cease not, tears that ever flow,Wrung from the heart by all Love's various woe,In absence if consumed, and chill'd when near,—If these be ills in which I waste my prime,Though I the sufferer be, yours, lady, is the crime.Dacre.
Iffaith most true, a heart that cannot feign,If Love's sweet languishment and chasten'd thought,And wishes pure by nobler feelings taught,If in a labyrinth wanderings long and vain,If on the brow each pang pourtray'd to bear,Or from the heart low broken sounds to draw,Withheld by shame, or check'd by pious awe,If on the faded cheek Love's hue to wear,If than myself to hold one far more dear,If sighs that cease not, tears that ever flow,Wrung from the heart by all Love's various woe,In absence if consumed, and chill'd when near,—If these be ills in which I waste my prime,Though I the sufferer be, yours, lady, is the crime.
Dacre.
Iffondest faith, a heart to guile unknown,By melting languors the soft wish betray'd;If chaste desires, with temper'd warmth display'd;If weary wanderings, comfortless and lone;If every thought in every feature shown,Or in faint tones and broken sounds convey'd,As fear or shame my pallid cheek array'dIn violet hues, with Love's thick blushes strown;If more than self another to hold dear;If still to weep and heave incessant sighs,To feed on passion, or in grief to pine,To glow when distant, and to freeze when near,—If hence my bosom's anguish takes its rise,Thine, lady, is the crime, the punishment is mine.Wrangham.
Iffondest faith, a heart to guile unknown,By melting languors the soft wish betray'd;If chaste desires, with temper'd warmth display'd;If weary wanderings, comfortless and lone;If every thought in every feature shown,Or in faint tones and broken sounds convey'd,As fear or shame my pallid cheek array'dIn violet hues, with Love's thick blushes strown;If more than self another to hold dear;If still to weep and heave incessant sighs,To feed on passion, or in grief to pine,To glow when distant, and to freeze when near,—If hence my bosom's anguish takes its rise,Thine, lady, is the crime, the punishment is mine.
Wrangham.
Twelveladies, their rare toil who lightly bore,Rather twelve stars encircling a bright sun,I saw, gay-seated a small bark upon,Whose like the waters never cleaved before:Not such took Jason to the fleece of yore,Whose fatal gold has ev'ry heart now won,Nor such the shepherd boy's, by whom undoneTroy mourns, whose fame has pass'd the wide world o'er.I saw them next on a triumphal car,Where, known by her chaste cherub ways, asideMy Laura sate and to them sweetly sung.Things not of earth to man such visions are!Blest Tiphys! blest Automedon! to guideThe bark, or car of band so bright and young.Macgregor.
Twelveladies, their rare toil who lightly bore,Rather twelve stars encircling a bright sun,I saw, gay-seated a small bark upon,Whose like the waters never cleaved before:Not such took Jason to the fleece of yore,Whose fatal gold has ev'ry heart now won,Nor such the shepherd boy's, by whom undoneTroy mourns, whose fame has pass'd the wide world o'er.I saw them next on a triumphal car,Where, known by her chaste cherub ways, asideMy Laura sate and to them sweetly sung.Things not of earth to man such visions are!Blest Tiphys! blest Automedon! to guideThe bark, or car of band so bright and young.
Macgregor.
Neverwas bird, spoil'd of its young, more sad,Or wild beast in his lair more lone than me,Now that no more that lovely face I see,The only sun my fond eyes ever had.In ceaseless sorrow is my chief delight:My food to poison turns, to grief my joy;The night is torture, dark the clearest sky,And my lone pillow a hard field of fight.Sleep is indeed, as has been well express'd.Akin to death, for it the heart removesFrom the dear thought in which alone I live.Land above all with plenty, beauty bless'd!Ye flowery plains, green banks and shady groves!Ye hold the treasure for whose loss I grieve!Macgregor.
Neverwas bird, spoil'd of its young, more sad,Or wild beast in his lair more lone than me,Now that no more that lovely face I see,The only sun my fond eyes ever had.In ceaseless sorrow is my chief delight:My food to poison turns, to grief my joy;The night is torture, dark the clearest sky,And my lone pillow a hard field of fight.Sleep is indeed, as has been well express'd.Akin to death, for it the heart removesFrom the dear thought in which alone I live.Land above all with plenty, beauty bless'd!Ye flowery plains, green banks and shady groves!Ye hold the treasure for whose loss I grieve!
Macgregor.
Yelaughing gales, that sporting with my fair,The silky tangles of her locks unbraid;And down her breast their golden treasures spread;Then in fresh mazes weave her curling hair,You kiss those bright destructive eyes, that bearThe flaming darts by which my heart has bled;My trembling heart! that oft has fondly stray'dTo seek the nymph, whose eyes such terrors wear.Methinks she's found—but oh! 'tis fancy's cheat!Methinks she's seen—but oh! 'tis love's deceit!Methinks she's near—but truth cries "'tis not so!"Go happy gale, and with my Laura dwell!Go happy stream, and to my Laura tellWhat envied joys in thy clear crystal flow!Anon. 1777.
Yelaughing gales, that sporting with my fair,The silky tangles of her locks unbraid;And down her breast their golden treasures spread;Then in fresh mazes weave her curling hair,You kiss those bright destructive eyes, that bearThe flaming darts by which my heart has bled;My trembling heart! that oft has fondly stray'dTo seek the nymph, whose eyes such terrors wear.Methinks she's found—but oh! 'tis fancy's cheat!Methinks she's seen—but oh! 'tis love's deceit!Methinks she's near—but truth cries "'tis not so!"Go happy gale, and with my Laura dwell!Go happy stream, and to my Laura tellWhat envied joys in thy clear crystal flow!
Anon. 1777.
Thougale, that movest, and disportest roundThose bright crisp'd locks, by them moved sweetly too,That all their fine gold scatter'st to the view,Then coil'st them up in beauteous braids fresh wound;About those eyes thou playest, where aboundThe am'rous swarms, whose stings my tears renew!And I my treasure tremblingly pursue,Like some scared thing that stumbles o'er the ground.Methinks I find her now, and now perceiveShe's distant; now I soar, and now descend;Now what I wish, now what is true believe.Stay and enjoy, blest air, the living beam;And thou, O rapid, and translucent stream,Why can't I change my course, and thine attend?Nott.
Thougale, that movest, and disportest roundThose bright crisp'd locks, by them moved sweetly too,That all their fine gold scatter'st to the view,Then coil'st them up in beauteous braids fresh wound;About those eyes thou playest, where aboundThe am'rous swarms, whose stings my tears renew!And I my treasure tremblingly pursue,Like some scared thing that stumbles o'er the ground.Methinks I find her now, and now perceiveShe's distant; now I soar, and now descend;Now what I wish, now what is true believe.Stay and enjoy, blest air, the living beam;And thou, O rapid, and translucent stream,Why can't I change my course, and thine attend?
Nott.
Mypoor heart op'ning with his puissant hand,Love planted there, as in its home, to dwellA Laurel, green and bright, whose hues might wellIn rivalry with proudest emeralds stand:Plough'd by my pen and by my heart-sighs fann'd,Cool'd by the soft rain from mine eyes that fell,It grew in grace, upbreathing a sweet smell,Unparallel'd in any age or land.Fair fame, bright honour, virtue firm, rare grace,The chastest beauty in celestial frame,—These be the roots whence birth so noble came.Such ever in my mind her form I trace,A happy burden and a holy thing,To which on rev'rent knee with loving prayer I cling.Macgregor.
Mypoor heart op'ning with his puissant hand,Love planted there, as in its home, to dwellA Laurel, green and bright, whose hues might wellIn rivalry with proudest emeralds stand:Plough'd by my pen and by my heart-sighs fann'd,Cool'd by the soft rain from mine eyes that fell,It grew in grace, upbreathing a sweet smell,Unparallel'd in any age or land.Fair fame, bright honour, virtue firm, rare grace,The chastest beauty in celestial frame,—These be the roots whence birth so noble came.Such ever in my mind her form I trace,A happy burden and a holy thing,To which on rev'rent knee with loving prayer I cling.
Macgregor.