I sang, who now lament; nor less delightThan in my song I found, in tears I find;For on the cause and not effect inclined,My senses still desire to scale that height:Whence, mildly if she smile or hardly smite,Cruel and cold her acts, or meek and kind,All I endure, nor care what weights they bind,E'en though her rage would break my armour quite.Let Love and Laura, world and fortune join,And still pursue their usual course for me,I care not, if unblest, in life to be.Let me or burn to death or living pine,No gentler state than mine beneath the sun,Since from a source so sweet my bitters run.Macgregor.
I sang, who now lament; nor less delightThan in my song I found, in tears I find;For on the cause and not effect inclined,My senses still desire to scale that height:Whence, mildly if she smile or hardly smite,Cruel and cold her acts, or meek and kind,All I endure, nor care what weights they bind,E'en though her rage would break my armour quite.Let Love and Laura, world and fortune join,And still pursue their usual course for me,I care not, if unblest, in life to be.Let me or burn to death or living pine,No gentler state than mine beneath the sun,Since from a source so sweet my bitters run.
Macgregor.
I wept, but now I sing; its heavenly lightThat living sun conceals not from my view,But virtuous love therein revealeth trueHis holy purposes and precious might;Whence, as his wont, such flood of sorrow springsTo shorten of my life the friendless course,Nor bridge, nor ford, nor oar, nor sails have forceTo forward mine escape, nor even wings.But so profound and of so full a veinMy suff'ring is, so far its shore appears,Scarcely to reach it can e'en thought contrive:Nor palm, nor laurel pity prompts to gain,But tranquil olive, and the dark sky clears,And checks my grief and wills me to survive.Macgregor.
I wept, but now I sing; its heavenly lightThat living sun conceals not from my view,But virtuous love therein revealeth trueHis holy purposes and precious might;Whence, as his wont, such flood of sorrow springsTo shorten of my life the friendless course,Nor bridge, nor ford, nor oar, nor sails have forceTo forward mine escape, nor even wings.But so profound and of so full a veinMy suff'ring is, so far its shore appears,Scarcely to reach it can e'en thought contrive:Nor palm, nor laurel pity prompts to gain,But tranquil olive, and the dark sky clears,And checks my grief and wills me to survive.
Macgregor.
I livedso tranquil, with my lot content,No sorrow visited, nor envy pined,To other loves if fortune were more kindOne pang of mine their thousand joys outwent;But those bright eyes, whence never I repentThe pains I feel, nor wish them less to find,So dark a cloud and heavy now does blind,Seems as my sun of life in them were spent.O Nature! mother pitiful yet stern,Whence is the power which prompts thy wayward deeds,Such lovely things to make and mar in turn?True, from one living fount all power proceeds:But how couldst Thou consent, great God of Heaven,That aught should rob the world of what thy love had given?Macgregor.
I livedso tranquil, with my lot content,No sorrow visited, nor envy pined,To other loves if fortune were more kindOne pang of mine their thousand joys outwent;But those bright eyes, whence never I repentThe pains I feel, nor wish them less to find,So dark a cloud and heavy now does blind,Seems as my sun of life in them were spent.O Nature! mother pitiful yet stern,Whence is the power which prompts thy wayward deeds,Such lovely things to make and mar in turn?True, from one living fount all power proceeds:But how couldst Thou consent, great God of Heaven,That aught should rob the world of what thy love had given?
Macgregor.
Whatthough the ablest artists of old timeLeft us the sculptured bust, the imaged formOf conq'ring Alexander, wrath o'ercameAnd made him for the while than Philip less?Wrath to such fury valiant Tydeus droveThat dying he devour'd his slaughter'd foe;Wrath made not Sylla merely blear of eye,But blind to all, and kill'd him in the end.Well Valentinian knew that to such painWrath leads, and Ajax, he whose death it wrought.Strong against many, 'gainst himself at last.Wrath is brief madness, and, when unrestrain'd,Long madness, which its master often leadsTo shame and crime, and haply e'en to death.Anon.
Whatthough the ablest artists of old timeLeft us the sculptured bust, the imaged formOf conq'ring Alexander, wrath o'ercameAnd made him for the while than Philip less?Wrath to such fury valiant Tydeus droveThat dying he devour'd his slaughter'd foe;Wrath made not Sylla merely blear of eye,But blind to all, and kill'd him in the end.Well Valentinian knew that to such painWrath leads, and Ajax, he whose death it wrought.Strong against many, 'gainst himself at last.Wrath is brief madness, and, when unrestrain'd,Long madness, which its master often leadsTo shame and crime, and haply e'en to death.
Anon.
Strange, passing strange adventure! when from oneOf the two brightest eyes which ever were,Beholding it with pain dis urb'd and dim,Moved influence which my own made dull and weak.I had return'd, to break the weary fastOf seeing her, my sole care in this world,Kinder to me were Heaven and Love than e'enIf all their other gifts together join'd,When from the right eye—rather the right sun—Of my dear Lady to my right eye cameThe ill which less my pain than pleasure makes;As if it intellect possess'd and wingsIt pass'd, as stars that shoot along the sky:Nature and pity then pursued their course.Anon.
Strange, passing strange adventure! when from oneOf the two brightest eyes which ever were,Beholding it with pain dis urb'd and dim,Moved influence which my own made dull and weak.I had return'd, to break the weary fastOf seeing her, my sole care in this world,Kinder to me were Heaven and Love than e'enIf all their other gifts together join'd,When from the right eye—rather the right sun—Of my dear Lady to my right eye cameThe ill which less my pain than pleasure makes;As if it intellect possess'd and wingsIt pass'd, as stars that shoot along the sky:Nature and pity then pursued their course.
Anon.
Thoulittle chamber'd haven to the woesWhose daily tempest overwhelms my soul!From shame, I in Heaven's light my grief control;Thou art its fountain, which each night o'erflows.My couch! that oft hath woo'd me to repose,'Mid sorrows vast—Love's iv'ried hand hath stoleGriefs turgid stream, which o'er thee it doth roll,That hand which good on all but me bestows.Not only quiet and sweet rest I fly,But from myself and thought, whose vain pursuitOn pinion'd fancy doth my soul transport:The multitude I did so long defy,Now as my hope and refuge I salute,So much I tremble solitude to court.Wollaston.
Thoulittle chamber'd haven to the woesWhose daily tempest overwhelms my soul!From shame, I in Heaven's light my grief control;Thou art its fountain, which each night o'erflows.My couch! that oft hath woo'd me to repose,'Mid sorrows vast—Love's iv'ried hand hath stoleGriefs turgid stream, which o'er thee it doth roll,That hand which good on all but me bestows.Not only quiet and sweet rest I fly,But from myself and thought, whose vain pursuitOn pinion'd fancy doth my soul transport:The multitude I did so long defy,Now as my hope and refuge I salute,So much I tremble solitude to court.
Wollaston.
Room! which to me hast been a port and shieldFrom life's rude daily tempests for long years,Now the full fountain of my nightly tearsWhich in the day I bear for shame conceal'd:Bed! which, in woes so great, wert wont to yieldComfort and rest, an urn of doubts and fearsLove o'er thee now from those fair hands uprears,Cruel and cold to me alone reveal'd.But e'en than solitude and rest, I fleeMore from myself and melancholy thought,In whose vain quest my soul has heavenward flown.The crowd long hateful, hostile e'en to me,Strange though it sound, for refuge have I sought,Such fear have I to find myself alone!Macgregor.
Room! which to me hast been a port and shieldFrom life's rude daily tempests for long years,Now the full fountain of my nightly tearsWhich in the day I bear for shame conceal'd:Bed! which, in woes so great, wert wont to yieldComfort and rest, an urn of doubts and fearsLove o'er thee now from those fair hands uprears,Cruel and cold to me alone reveal'd.But e'en than solitude and rest, I fleeMore from myself and melancholy thought,In whose vain quest my soul has heavenward flown.The crowd long hateful, hostile e'en to me,Strange though it sound, for refuge have I sought,Such fear have I to find myself alone!
Macgregor.
Alas! Love bears me where I would not go,And well I see how duty is transgress'd,And how to her who, queen-like, rules my breast,More than my wont importunate I grow.Never from rocks wise sailor guarded soHis ship of richest merchandise possess'd,As evermore I shield my bark distress'dFrom shocks of her hard pride that would o'erthrowTorrents of tears, fierce winds of infinite sighs—For, in my sea, nights horrible and darkAnd pitiless winter reign—have driven my bark,Sail-less and helm-less where it shatter'd lies,Or, drifting at the mercy of the main,Trouble to others bears, distress to me and pain.Macgregor.
Alas! Love bears me where I would not go,And well I see how duty is transgress'd,And how to her who, queen-like, rules my breast,More than my wont importunate I grow.Never from rocks wise sailor guarded soHis ship of richest merchandise possess'd,As evermore I shield my bark distress'dFrom shocks of her hard pride that would o'erthrowTorrents of tears, fierce winds of infinite sighs—For, in my sea, nights horrible and darkAnd pitiless winter reign—have driven my bark,Sail-less and helm-less where it shatter'd lies,Or, drifting at the mercy of the main,Trouble to others bears, distress to me and pain.
Macgregor.
O Love, I err, and I mine error own,As one who burns, whose fire within him liesAnd aggravates his grief, while reason dies,With its own martyrdom almost o'erthrown.I strove mine ardent longing to restrain,Her fair calm face that I might ne'er disturb:I can no more; falls from my hand the curb,And my despairing soul is bold again;Wherefore if higher than her wont she aim,The act is thine, who firest and spur'st her so,No way too rough or steep for her to go:But the rare heavenly gifts are most to blameShrined in herself: let her at least feel this,Lest of my faults her pardon I should miss.Macgregor.
O Love, I err, and I mine error own,As one who burns, whose fire within him liesAnd aggravates his grief, while reason dies,With its own martyrdom almost o'erthrown.I strove mine ardent longing to restrain,Her fair calm face that I might ne'er disturb:I can no more; falls from my hand the curb,And my despairing soul is bold again;Wherefore if higher than her wont she aim,The act is thine, who firest and spur'st her so,No way too rough or steep for her to go:But the rare heavenly gifts are most to blameShrined in herself: let her at least feel this,Lest of my faults her pardon I should miss.
Macgregor.
NorOcean holds such swarms amid his waves,Not overhead, where circles the pale moon,Were stars so numerous ever seen by night,Nor dwell so many birds among the woods,Nor plants so many clothe the field or hill,As holds my tost heart busy thoughts each eve.Each day I hope that this my latest eveShall part from my quick clay the sad salt waves,And leave me in last sleep on some cold hill;So many torments man beneath the moonNe'er bore as I have borne; this know the woodsThrough which I wander lonely day and night.For never have I had a tranquil night,But ceaseless sighs instead from morn till eve,Since love first made me tenant of the woods:The sea, ere I can rest, shall lose his waves,The sun his light shall borrow from the moon,And April flowers be blasted o'er each hill.Thus, to myself a prey, from hill to hill,Pensive by day I roam, and weep at night,No one state mine, but changeful as the moon;And when I see approaching the brown eve,Sighs from my bosom, from my eyes fall waves,The herbs to moisten and to move the woods.Hostile the cities, friendly are the woodsTo thoughts like mine, which, on this lofty hill,Mingle their murmur with the moaning waves,Through the sweet silence of the spangled night,So that the livelong day I wait the eve,When the sun sets and rises the fair moon.Would, like Endymion, 'neath the enamour'd moon,That slumbering I were laid in leafy woods,And that ere vesper she who makes my eve,With Love and Luna on that favour'd hill,Alone, would come, and stay but one sweet night,While stood the sun nor sought his western waves.Upon the hard waves, 'neath the beaming moon,Song, that art born of night amid the woods,Thou shalt a rich hill see to-morrow eve!Macgregor.
NorOcean holds such swarms amid his waves,Not overhead, where circles the pale moon,Were stars so numerous ever seen by night,Nor dwell so many birds among the woods,Nor plants so many clothe the field or hill,As holds my tost heart busy thoughts each eve.
Each day I hope that this my latest eveShall part from my quick clay the sad salt waves,And leave me in last sleep on some cold hill;So many torments man beneath the moonNe'er bore as I have borne; this know the woodsThrough which I wander lonely day and night.
For never have I had a tranquil night,But ceaseless sighs instead from morn till eve,Since love first made me tenant of the woods:The sea, ere I can rest, shall lose his waves,The sun his light shall borrow from the moon,And April flowers be blasted o'er each hill.
Thus, to myself a prey, from hill to hill,Pensive by day I roam, and weep at night,No one state mine, but changeful as the moon;And when I see approaching the brown eve,Sighs from my bosom, from my eyes fall waves,The herbs to moisten and to move the woods.
Hostile the cities, friendly are the woodsTo thoughts like mine, which, on this lofty hill,Mingle their murmur with the moaning waves,Through the sweet silence of the spangled night,So that the livelong day I wait the eve,When the sun sets and rises the fair moon.
Would, like Endymion, 'neath the enamour'd moon,That slumbering I were laid in leafy woods,And that ere vesper she who makes my eve,With Love and Luna on that favour'd hill,Alone, would come, and stay but one sweet night,While stood the sun nor sought his western waves.
Upon the hard waves, 'neath the beaming moon,Song, that art born of night amid the woods,Thou shalt a rich hill see to-morrow eve!
Macgregor.
Countthe ocean's finny droves;Count the twinkling host of stars.Round the night's pale orb that moves;Count the groves' wing'd choristers;Count each verdant blade that grows;Counted then will be my woes.When shall these eyes cease to weep;When shall this world-wearied frame,Cover'd by the cold sod, sleep?—Sure, beneath yon planet's beam,None like me have made such moan;This to every bower is known.Sad my nights; from morn till eve,Tenanting the woods, I sigh:But, ere I shall cease to grieve,Ocean's vast bed shall be dry,Suns their light from moons shall gain.And spring wither on each plain.Pensive, weeping, night and day,From this shore to that I fly,Changeful as the lunar ray;And, when evening veils the sky,Then my tears might swell the floods,Then my sighs might bow the woods!Towns I hate, the shades I love;For relief to yon green height,Where the rill resounds, I roveAt the grateful calm of night;There I wait the day's decline,For the welcome moon to shine.Oh, that in some lone retreat,Like Endymion I were lain;And that she, who rules my fate,There one night to stay would deign;Never from his billowy bedMore might Phœbus lift his head!Song, that on the wood-hung streamIn the silent hour wert born,Witness'd but by Cynthia's beam.Soon as breaks to-morrow's morn,Thou shalt seek a glorious plain,There with Laura to remain!Dacre.
Countthe ocean's finny droves;Count the twinkling host of stars.Round the night's pale orb that moves;Count the groves' wing'd choristers;Count each verdant blade that grows;Counted then will be my woes.
When shall these eyes cease to weep;When shall this world-wearied frame,Cover'd by the cold sod, sleep?—Sure, beneath yon planet's beam,None like me have made such moan;This to every bower is known.
Sad my nights; from morn till eve,Tenanting the woods, I sigh:But, ere I shall cease to grieve,Ocean's vast bed shall be dry,Suns their light from moons shall gain.And spring wither on each plain.
Pensive, weeping, night and day,From this shore to that I fly,Changeful as the lunar ray;And, when evening veils the sky,Then my tears might swell the floods,Then my sighs might bow the woods!
Towns I hate, the shades I love;For relief to yon green height,Where the rill resounds, I roveAt the grateful calm of night;There I wait the day's decline,For the welcome moon to shine.
Oh, that in some lone retreat,Like Endymion I were lain;And that she, who rules my fate,There one night to stay would deign;Never from his billowy bedMore might Phœbus lift his head!
Song, that on the wood-hung streamIn the silent hour wert born,Witness'd but by Cynthia's beam.Soon as breaks to-morrow's morn,Thou shalt seek a glorious plain,There with Laura to remain!
Dacre.
Whenmusic warbles from each thorn,And Zephyr's dewy wingsSweep the young flowers; what time the mornHer crimson radiance flings:Then, as the smiling year renews,I feel renew'd Love's tender pain;Renew'd is Laura's cold disdain;And I for comfort court the weeping muse.Oh! could my sighs in accents flowSo musically lorn,That thou might'st catch my am'rous woe,And cease, proud Maid! thy scorn:Yet, ere within thy icy breastThe smallest spark of passion's found,Winter's cold temples shall be boundWith all the blooms that paint spring's glowing vest.The drops that bathe the grief-dew'd eye,The love-impassion'd strainTo move thy flinty bosom tryFull oft;—but, ah! in vainWould tears, and melting song avail;As vainly might the silken breeze,That bends the flowers, that fans the trees,Some rugged rock's tremendous brow assail.Both gods and men alike are sway'dBy Love, as poets tell;—And I, when flowers in every shadeTheir bursting gems reveal,First felt his all-subduing power:While Laura knows not yet the smart;Nor heeds the tortures of my heart,My prayers, my plaints, and sorrow's pearly shower!Thy wrongs, my soul! with patience bear,While life shall warm this clay;And soothing sounds to Laura's earMy numbers shall convey;Numbers with forceful magic charmAll nature o'er the frost-bound earth,Wake summer's fragrant buds to birth,And the fierce serpent of its rage disarm.The blossom'd shrubs in smiles are drest,Now laughs his purple plain;And shall the nymph a foe profestTo tenderness remain?But oh! what solace shall I find,If fortune dooms me yet to bearThe frowns of my relentless Fair,Save with soft moan to vex the pitying wind?In baffling nets the light-wing'd galeI'd fetter as it blows,The vernal rose that scents the valeI'd cull on wintery snows;Still I'd ne'er hope that mind to moveWhich dares defy the wiles of verse, and Love.Anon. 1777.
Whenmusic warbles from each thorn,And Zephyr's dewy wingsSweep the young flowers; what time the mornHer crimson radiance flings:Then, as the smiling year renews,I feel renew'd Love's tender pain;Renew'd is Laura's cold disdain;And I for comfort court the weeping muse.
Oh! could my sighs in accents flowSo musically lorn,That thou might'st catch my am'rous woe,And cease, proud Maid! thy scorn:Yet, ere within thy icy breastThe smallest spark of passion's found,Winter's cold temples shall be boundWith all the blooms that paint spring's glowing vest.
The drops that bathe the grief-dew'd eye,The love-impassion'd strainTo move thy flinty bosom tryFull oft;—but, ah! in vainWould tears, and melting song avail;As vainly might the silken breeze,That bends the flowers, that fans the trees,Some rugged rock's tremendous brow assail.
Both gods and men alike are sway'dBy Love, as poets tell;—And I, when flowers in every shadeTheir bursting gems reveal,First felt his all-subduing power:While Laura knows not yet the smart;Nor heeds the tortures of my heart,My prayers, my plaints, and sorrow's pearly shower!
Thy wrongs, my soul! with patience bear,While life shall warm this clay;And soothing sounds to Laura's earMy numbers shall convey;Numbers with forceful magic charmAll nature o'er the frost-bound earth,Wake summer's fragrant buds to birth,And the fierce serpent of its rage disarm.
The blossom'd shrubs in smiles are drest,Now laughs his purple plain;And shall the nymph a foe profestTo tenderness remain?But oh! what solace shall I find,If fortune dooms me yet to bearThe frowns of my relentless Fair,Save with soft moan to vex the pitying wind?In baffling nets the light-wing'd galeI'd fetter as it blows,The vernal rose that scents the valeI'd cull on wintery snows;Still I'd ne'er hope that mind to moveWhich dares defy the wiles of verse, and Love.
Anon. 1777.
A kinglynature, an angelic mind,A spotless soul, prompt aspect and keen eye,Quick penetration, contemplation highAnd truly worthy of the breast which shrined:In bright assembly lovely ladies join'dTo grace that festival with gratulant joy,Amid so many and fair faces nighSoon his good judgment did the fairest find.Of riper age and higher rank the restGently he beckon'd with his hand aside,And lovingly drew near the perfectone:So courteously her eyes and brow he press'd,All at his choice in fond approval vied—Envy through my sole veins at that sweet freedom run.Macgregor.
A kinglynature, an angelic mind,A spotless soul, prompt aspect and keen eye,Quick penetration, contemplation highAnd truly worthy of the breast which shrined:In bright assembly lovely ladies join'dTo grace that festival with gratulant joy,Amid so many and fair faces nighSoon his good judgment did the fairest find.Of riper age and higher rank the restGently he beckon'd with his hand aside,And lovingly drew near the perfectone:So courteously her eyes and brow he press'd,All at his choice in fond approval vied—Envy through my sole veins at that sweet freedom run.
Macgregor.
A sovereignnature,—an exalted mind,—A soul proud—sleepless—with a lynx's eye,—An instant foresight,—thought as towering high,E'en as the heart in which they are enshrined:A bright assembly on that day combinedEach other in his honour to outvie,When 'mid the fair his judgment did descryThat sweet perfection all to her resign'd.Unmindful of her rival sisterhood,He motion'd silently his preference,And fondly welcomed her, that humblest one:So pure a kiss he gave, that all who stood,Though fair, rejoiced in beauty's recompense:By that strange act nay heart was quite undone!Wollaston.
A sovereignnature,—an exalted mind,—A soul proud—sleepless—with a lynx's eye,—An instant foresight,—thought as towering high,E'en as the heart in which they are enshrined:A bright assembly on that day combinedEach other in his honour to outvie,When 'mid the fair his judgment did descryThat sweet perfection all to her resign'd.Unmindful of her rival sisterhood,He motion'd silently his preference,And fondly welcomed her, that humblest one:So pure a kiss he gave, that all who stood,Though fair, rejoiced in beauty's recompense:By that strange act nay heart was quite undone!
Wollaston.
Ofthave I pray'd to Love, and still I pray,My charming agony, my bitter joy!That he would crave your grace, if consciouslyFrom the right path my guilty footsteps stray.That Reason, which o'er happier minds holds sway,Is quell'd of Appetite, I not deny;And hence, through tracks my better thoughts would fly,The victor hurries me perforce away,You, in whose bosom Genius, Virtue reignWith mingled blaze lit by auspicious skies—Ne'er shower'd kind star its beams on aught so rare!You, you should say with pity, not disdain;"How could he 'scape, lost wretch! these lightning eyes—So passionate he, and I so direly fair?"Wrangham.
Ofthave I pray'd to Love, and still I pray,My charming agony, my bitter joy!That he would crave your grace, if consciouslyFrom the right path my guilty footsteps stray.That Reason, which o'er happier minds holds sway,Is quell'd of Appetite, I not deny;And hence, through tracks my better thoughts would fly,The victor hurries me perforce away,You, in whose bosom Genius, Virtue reignWith mingled blaze lit by auspicious skies—Ne'er shower'd kind star its beams on aught so rare!You, you should say with pity, not disdain;"How could he 'scape, lost wretch! these lightning eyes—So passionate he, and I so direly fair?"
Wrangham.
Thesovereign Lord, 'gainst whom of no availConcealment, or resistance is, or flight,My mind had kindled to a new delightBy his own amorous and ardent ail:Though his first blow, transfixing my best mailWere mortal sure, to push his triumph quiteHe took a shaft of sorrow in his right,So my soft heart on both sides to assail.A burning wound the one shed fire and flame,The other tears, which ever grief distils,Through eyes for your weak health that are as rills.But no relief from either fountain cameMy bosom's conflagration to abate,Nay, passion grew by very pity great.Macgregor.
Thesovereign Lord, 'gainst whom of no availConcealment, or resistance is, or flight,My mind had kindled to a new delightBy his own amorous and ardent ail:Though his first blow, transfixing my best mailWere mortal sure, to push his triumph quiteHe took a shaft of sorrow in his right,So my soft heart on both sides to assail.A burning wound the one shed fire and flame,The other tears, which ever grief distils,Through eyes for your weak health that are as rills.But no relief from either fountain cameMy bosom's conflagration to abate,Nay, passion grew by very pity great.
Macgregor.
P.Lookon that hill, my fond but harass'd heart!Yestreen we left her there, who 'gan to takeSome care of us and friendlier looks to dart;Now from our eyes she draws a very lake:Return alone—I love to be apart—Try, if perchance the day will ever breakTo mitigate our still increasing smart,Partner and prophet of my lifelong ache.H.O wretch! in whom vain thoughts and idle swell,Thou, who thyself hast tutor'd to forget,Speak'st to thy heart as if 'twere with thee yet?When to thy greatest bliss thou saidst farewell,Thou didst depart alone: it stay'd with her,Nor cares from those bright eyes, its home, to stir.Macgregor.
P.Lookon that hill, my fond but harass'd heart!Yestreen we left her there, who 'gan to takeSome care of us and friendlier looks to dart;Now from our eyes she draws a very lake:Return alone—I love to be apart—Try, if perchance the day will ever breakTo mitigate our still increasing smart,Partner and prophet of my lifelong ache.H.O wretch! in whom vain thoughts and idle swell,Thou, who thyself hast tutor'd to forget,Speak'st to thy heart as if 'twere with thee yet?When to thy greatest bliss thou saidst farewell,Thou didst depart alone: it stay'd with her,Nor cares from those bright eyes, its home, to stir.
Macgregor.
O hillwith green o'erspread, with groves o'erhung!Where musing now, now trilling her sweet lay,Most like what bards of heavenly spirits say,Sits she by fame through every region sung:My heart, which wisely unto her has clung—More wise, if there, in absence blest, it stay!Notes now the turf o'er which her soft steps stray,Now where her angel-eyes' mild beam is flung;Then throbs and murmurs, as they onward rove,"Ah! were he here, that man of wretched lot,Doom'd but to taste the bitterness of love!"She, conscious, smiles: our feelings tally not:Heartless am I, mere stone; heaven is thy grove—O dear delightful shade, O consecrated spot!Wrangham.
O hillwith green o'erspread, with groves o'erhung!Where musing now, now trilling her sweet lay,Most like what bards of heavenly spirits say,Sits she by fame through every region sung:My heart, which wisely unto her has clung—More wise, if there, in absence blest, it stay!Notes now the turf o'er which her soft steps stray,Now where her angel-eyes' mild beam is flung;Then throbs and murmurs, as they onward rove,"Ah! were he here, that man of wretched lot,Doom'd but to taste the bitterness of love!"She, conscious, smiles: our feelings tally not:Heartless am I, mere stone; heaven is thy grove—O dear delightful shade, O consecrated spot!
Wrangham.
Fresh, shaded hill! with flowers and verdure crown'd,Where, in fond musings, or with music sweet,To earth a heaven-sent spirit takes her seat!She who from all the world has honour found.Forsaking me, to her my fond heart bound—Divorce for aye were welcome as discreet—Notes where the turf is mark'd by her fair feet,Or from these eyes for her in sorrow drown'd,Then inly whispers as her steps advance,"Would for awhile that wreteh were here aloneWho pines already o'er his bitter lot."She conscious smiles. Not equal is the chance;An Eden thou, while I a heartless stone.O holy, happy, and beloved spot!Macgregor.
Fresh, shaded hill! with flowers and verdure crown'd,Where, in fond musings, or with music sweet,To earth a heaven-sent spirit takes her seat!She who from all the world has honour found.Forsaking me, to her my fond heart bound—Divorce for aye were welcome as discreet—Notes where the turf is mark'd by her fair feet,Or from these eyes for her in sorrow drown'd,Then inly whispers as her steps advance,"Would for awhile that wreteh were here aloneWho pines already o'er his bitter lot."She conscious smiles. Not equal is the chance;An Eden thou, while I a heartless stone.O holy, happy, and beloved spot!
Macgregor.
Eviloppresses me and worse dismay,To which a plain and ample way I find;Driven like thee by frantic passion, blind,Urged by harsh thoughts I bend like thee my way.Nor know I if for war or peace to pray:To war is ruin, shame to peace, assign'd.But wherefore languish thus?—Rather, resign'd,Whate'er the Will Supreme ordains, obey.However ill that honour me beseemBy thee conferr'd, whom that affection cheatsWhich many a perfect eye to error sways,To raise thy spirit to that realm supremeMy counsel is, and win those blissful seats:For short the time, and few the allotted days.Capel Lofft.
Eviloppresses me and worse dismay,To which a plain and ample way I find;Driven like thee by frantic passion, blind,Urged by harsh thoughts I bend like thee my way.Nor know I if for war or peace to pray:To war is ruin, shame to peace, assign'd.But wherefore languish thus?—Rather, resign'd,Whate'er the Will Supreme ordains, obey.However ill that honour me beseemBy thee conferr'd, whom that affection cheatsWhich many a perfect eye to error sways,To raise thy spirit to that realm supremeMy counsel is, and win those blissful seats:For short the time, and few the allotted days.
Capel Lofft.
Thebad oppresses me, the worse dismays,To which so broad and plain a path I see;My spirit, to like frenzy led with thee,Tried by the same hard thoughts, in dotage strays,Nor knows if peace or war of God it prays,Though great the loss and deep the shame to me.But why pine longer? Best our lot will be,What Heaven's high will ordains when man obeys.Though I of that great honour worthless proveOffer'd by thee—herein Love leads to errWho often makes the sound eye to see wrong—My counsel this, instant on Heaven aboveThy soul to elevate, thy heart to spur,For though the time be short, the way is long.Macgregor.
Thebad oppresses me, the worse dismays,To which so broad and plain a path I see;My spirit, to like frenzy led with thee,Tried by the same hard thoughts, in dotage strays,Nor knows if peace or war of God it prays,Though great the loss and deep the shame to me.But why pine longer? Best our lot will be,What Heaven's high will ordains when man obeys.Though I of that great honour worthless proveOffer'd by thee—herein Love leads to errWho often makes the sound eye to see wrong—My counsel this, instant on Heaven aboveThy soul to elevate, thy heart to spur,For though the time be short, the way is long.
Macgregor.
Twobrilliant roses, fresh from Paradise,Which there, on May-day morn, in beauty sprungFair gift, and by a lover old and wiseEqually offer'd to two lovers young:At speech so tender and such winning guise,As transports from a savage might have wrung,A living lustre lit their mutual eyes,And instant on their cheeks a soft blush hung.The sun ne'er look'd upon a lovelier pair,With a sweet smile and gentle sigh he said,Pressing the hands of both and turn'd away.Of words and roses each alike had share.E'en now my worn heart thrill with joy and dread,O happy eloquence! O blessed day!Macgregor.
Twobrilliant roses, fresh from Paradise,Which there, on May-day morn, in beauty sprungFair gift, and by a lover old and wiseEqually offer'd to two lovers young:At speech so tender and such winning guise,As transports from a savage might have wrung,A living lustre lit their mutual eyes,And instant on their cheeks a soft blush hung.The sun ne'er look'd upon a lovelier pair,With a sweet smile and gentle sigh he said,Pressing the hands of both and turn'd away.Of words and roses each alike had share.E'en now my worn heart thrill with joy and dread,O happy eloquence! O blessed day!
Macgregor.
Thebalmy gale, that, with its tender sigh,Moves the green laurel and the golden hair,Makes with its graceful visitings and rareThe gazer's spirit from his body fly.A sweet and snow-white rose in hard thorns set!Where in the world her fellow shall we find?The glory of our age! Creator kind!Grant that ere hers my death shall first be met.So the great public loss I may not see,The world without its sun, in darkness left,And from my desolate eyes their sole light reft,My mind with which no other thoughts agree,Mine ears which by no other sound are stirr'dExcept her ever pure and gentle word.Macgregor.
Thebalmy gale, that, with its tender sigh,Moves the green laurel and the golden hair,Makes with its graceful visitings and rareThe gazer's spirit from his body fly.A sweet and snow-white rose in hard thorns set!Where in the world her fellow shall we find?The glory of our age! Creator kind!Grant that ere hers my death shall first be met.So the great public loss I may not see,The world without its sun, in darkness left,And from my desolate eyes their sole light reft,My mind with which no other thoughts agree,Mine ears which by no other sound are stirr'dExcept her ever pure and gentle word.
Macgregor.
Haplymy style to some may seem too freeIn praise of her who holds my being's chain,Queen of her sex describing her to reign,Wise, winning, good, fair, noble, chaste to be:To me it seems not so; I fear that sheMy lays as low and trifling may disdain,Worthy a higher and a better strain;—Who thinks not with me let him come and see.Then will he say, She whom his wishes seekIs one indeed whose grace and worth might tireThe muses of all lands and either lyre.But mortal tongue for state divine is weak,And may not soar; by flattery and force,As Fate not choice ordains, Love rules its course.Macgregor.
Haplymy style to some may seem too freeIn praise of her who holds my being's chain,Queen of her sex describing her to reign,Wise, winning, good, fair, noble, chaste to be:To me it seems not so; I fear that sheMy lays as low and trifling may disdain,Worthy a higher and a better strain;—Who thinks not with me let him come and see.Then will he say, She whom his wishes seekIs one indeed whose grace and worth might tireThe muses of all lands and either lyre.But mortal tongue for state divine is weak,And may not soar; by flattery and force,As Fate not choice ordains, Love rules its course.
Macgregor.
Whowishes to behold the utmost mightOf Heaven and Nature, on her let him gaze,Sole sun, not only in my partial lays,But to the dark world, blind to virtue's light!And let him haste to view; for death in spiteThe guilty leaves, and on the virtuous preys;For this loved angel heaven impatient stays;And mortal charms are transient as they're bright!Here shall he see, if timely he arrive,Virtue and beauty, royalty of mind,In one bless'd union join'd. Then shall he sayThat vainly my weak rhymes to praise her strive,Whose dazzling beams have struck my genius blind:—He must for ever weep if he delay!Charlemont.
Whowishes to behold the utmost mightOf Heaven and Nature, on her let him gaze,Sole sun, not only in my partial lays,But to the dark world, blind to virtue's light!And let him haste to view; for death in spiteThe guilty leaves, and on the virtuous preys;For this loved angel heaven impatient stays;And mortal charms are transient as they're bright!Here shall he see, if timely he arrive,Virtue and beauty, royalty of mind,In one bless'd union join'd. Then shall he sayThat vainly my weak rhymes to praise her strive,Whose dazzling beams have struck my genius blind:—He must for ever weep if he delay!
Charlemont.
Stranger, whose curious glance delights to traceWhat Heaven and Nature join'd to frame most rare;Here view mine eyes' bright sun—a sight so fair,That purblind worlds, like me, enamour'd gaze.But speed thy step; for Death with rapid pacePursues the best, nor makes the bad his care:Call'd to the skies through yon blue fields of air,On buoyant plume the mortal grace obeys.Then haste, and mark in one rich form combined(And, for that dazzling lustre dimm'd mine eye,Chide the weak efforts of my trembling lay)Each charm of person, and each power of mind—But, slowly if thy lingering foot comply,Grief and repentant shame shall mourn the brief delay.Wrangham.
Stranger, whose curious glance delights to traceWhat Heaven and Nature join'd to frame most rare;Here view mine eyes' bright sun—a sight so fair,That purblind worlds, like me, enamour'd gaze.But speed thy step; for Death with rapid pacePursues the best, nor makes the bad his care:Call'd to the skies through yon blue fields of air,On buoyant plume the mortal grace obeys.Then haste, and mark in one rich form combined(And, for that dazzling lustre dimm'd mine eye,Chide the weak efforts of my trembling lay)Each charm of person, and each power of mind—But, slowly if thy lingering foot comply,Grief and repentant shame shall mourn the brief delay.
Wrangham.
O Laura! when my tortured mindThe sad remembrance bearsOf that ill-omen'd day,When, victim to a thousand doubts and fears,I left my soul behind,That soul that could not from its partner stray;In nightly visions to my longing eyesThy form oft seems to rise,As ever thou wert seen,Fair like the rose, 'midst paling flowers the queen,But loosely in the wind,Unbraided wave the ringlets of thy hair,That late with studious care,I saw with pearls and flowery garlands twined:On thy wan lip, no cheerful smile appears;Thy beauteous face a tender sadness wears;Placid in pain thou seem'st, serene in grief,As conscious of thy fate, and hopeless of relief!Cease, cease, presaging heart! O angels, deignTo hear my fervent prayer, that all my fears be vain!Woodhouselee.
O Laura! when my tortured mindThe sad remembrance bearsOf that ill-omen'd day,When, victim to a thousand doubts and fears,I left my soul behind,That soul that could not from its partner stray;In nightly visions to my longing eyesThy form oft seems to rise,As ever thou wert seen,Fair like the rose, 'midst paling flowers the queen,But loosely in the wind,Unbraided wave the ringlets of thy hair,That late with studious care,I saw with pearls and flowery garlands twined:On thy wan lip, no cheerful smile appears;Thy beauteous face a tender sadness wears;Placid in pain thou seem'st, serene in grief,As conscious of thy fate, and hopeless of relief!Cease, cease, presaging heart! O angels, deignTo hear my fervent prayer, that all my fears be vain!
Woodhouselee.
Whatdread I feel when I revolve the dayI left my mistress, sad, without repose,My heart too with her: and my fond thought knowsNought on which gladlier, oft'ner it can stay.Again my fancy doth her form portrayMeek among beauty's train, like to some roseMidst meaner flowers; nor joy nor grief she shows;Not with misfortune prest but with dismay.Then were thrown by her custom'd cheerfulness,Her pearls, her chaplets, and her gay attire,Her song, her laughter, and her mild address;Thus doubtingly I quitted her I love:Now dark ideas, dreams, and bodings direRaise terrors, which Heaven grant may groundless prove!Nott.
Whatdread I feel when I revolve the dayI left my mistress, sad, without repose,My heart too with her: and my fond thought knowsNought on which gladlier, oft'ner it can stay.Again my fancy doth her form portrayMeek among beauty's train, like to some roseMidst meaner flowers; nor joy nor grief she shows;Not with misfortune prest but with dismay.Then were thrown by her custom'd cheerfulness,Her pearls, her chaplets, and her gay attire,Her song, her laughter, and her mild address;Thus doubtingly I quitted her I love:Now dark ideas, dreams, and bodings direRaise terrors, which Heaven grant may groundless prove!
Nott.
Tosoothe me distant far, in days gone by,With dreams of one whose glance all heaven combined,Was mine; now fears and sorrow haunt my mind,Nor can I from that grief, those terrors fly:For oft in sleep I mark within her eyeDeep pity with o'erwhelming sadness join'd;And oft I seem to hear on every windAccents, which from my breast chase peace and joy."That last dark eve," she cries, "remember'st thou,When to those doting eyes I bade farewell,Forced by the time's relentless tyranny?I had not then the power, nor heart to tell,What thou shalt find, alas! too surely true—Hope not again on earth thy Laura's face to see."Wrangham.
Tosoothe me distant far, in days gone by,With dreams of one whose glance all heaven combined,Was mine; now fears and sorrow haunt my mind,Nor can I from that grief, those terrors fly:For oft in sleep I mark within her eyeDeep pity with o'erwhelming sadness join'd;And oft I seem to hear on every windAccents, which from my breast chase peace and joy."That last dark eve," she cries, "remember'st thou,When to those doting eyes I bade farewell,Forced by the time's relentless tyranny?I had not then the power, nor heart to tell,What thou shalt find, alas! too surely true—Hope not again on earth thy Laura's face to see."
Wrangham.