Aso'er the fresh grass her fair form its sweetAnd graceful passage makes at evening hours,Seems as around the newly-wakening flowersFound virtue issue from her delicate feet.Love, which in true hearts only has his seat,Nor elsewhere deigns to prove his certain powers,So warm a pleasure from her bright eyes showers,No other bliss I ask, no better meat.And with her soft look and light step agreeHer mild and modest, never eager air,And sweetest words in constant union rare.From these four sparks—nor only these we see—Springs the great fire wherein I live and burn,Which makes me from the sun as night-birds turn.Macgregor.
Aso'er the fresh grass her fair form its sweetAnd graceful passage makes at evening hours,Seems as around the newly-wakening flowersFound virtue issue from her delicate feet.Love, which in true hearts only has his seat,Nor elsewhere deigns to prove his certain powers,So warm a pleasure from her bright eyes showers,No other bliss I ask, no better meat.And with her soft look and light step agreeHer mild and modest, never eager air,And sweetest words in constant union rare.From these four sparks—nor only these we see—Springs the great fire wherein I live and burn,Which makes me from the sun as night-birds turn.
Macgregor.
Stillhad I sojourn'd in that Delphic caveWhere young Apollo prophet first became,Verona, Mantua were not sole in fame,But Florence, too, her poet now might have:But since the waters of that spring no moreEnrich my land, needs must that I pursueSome other planet, and, with sickle new,Reap from my field of sticks and thorns its store.Dried is the olive: elsewhere turn'd the streamWhose source from famed Parnassus was derived.Whereby of yore it throve in best esteem.Me fortune thus, or fault perchance, deprivedOf all good fruit—unless eternal JoveShower on my head some favour from above.Macgregor.
Stillhad I sojourn'd in that Delphic caveWhere young Apollo prophet first became,Verona, Mantua were not sole in fame,But Florence, too, her poet now might have:But since the waters of that spring no moreEnrich my land, needs must that I pursueSome other planet, and, with sickle new,Reap from my field of sticks and thorns its store.Dried is the olive: elsewhere turn'd the streamWhose source from famed Parnassus was derived.Whereby of yore it throve in best esteem.Me fortune thus, or fault perchance, deprivedOf all good fruit—unless eternal JoveShower on my head some favour from above.
Macgregor.
IfLove her beauteous eyes to earth incline,And all her soul concentring in a sigh,Then breathe it in her voice of melody,Floating clear, soft, angelical, divine;My heart, forth-stolen so gently, I resign,And, all my hopes and wishes changed, I cry,—"Oh, may my last breath pass thus blissfully,If Heaven so sweet a death for me design!"But the rapt sense, by such enchantment bound,And the strong will, thus listening to possessHeaven's joys on earth, my spirit's flight delay.And thus I live; and thus drawn out and woundIs my life's thread, in dreamy blessedness,By this sole syren from the realms of day.Dacre.
IfLove her beauteous eyes to earth incline,And all her soul concentring in a sigh,Then breathe it in her voice of melody,Floating clear, soft, angelical, divine;My heart, forth-stolen so gently, I resign,And, all my hopes and wishes changed, I cry,—"Oh, may my last breath pass thus blissfully,If Heaven so sweet a death for me design!"But the rapt sense, by such enchantment bound,And the strong will, thus listening to possessHeaven's joys on earth, my spirit's flight delay.And thus I live; and thus drawn out and woundIs my life's thread, in dreamy blessedness,By this sole syren from the realms of day.
Dacre.
Herbright and love-lit eyes on earth she bends—Concentres her rich breath in one full sigh—A brief pause—a fond hush—her voice on high,Clear, soft, angelical, divine, ascends.Such rapine sweet through all my heart extends,New thoughts and wishes so within me vie,Perforce I say,—"Thus be it mine to die,If Heaven to me so fair a doom intends!"But, ah! those sounds whose sweetness laps my sense,The strong desire of more that in me yearns,Restrain my spirit in its parting hence.Thus at her will I live; thus winds and turnsThe yarn of life which to my lot is given,Earth's single siren, sent to us from heaven.Macgregor.
Herbright and love-lit eyes on earth she bends—Concentres her rich breath in one full sigh—A brief pause—a fond hush—her voice on high,Clear, soft, angelical, divine, ascends.Such rapine sweet through all my heart extends,New thoughts and wishes so within me vie,Perforce I say,—"Thus be it mine to die,If Heaven to me so fair a doom intends!"But, ah! those sounds whose sweetness laps my sense,The strong desire of more that in me yearns,Restrain my spirit in its parting hence.Thus at her will I live; thus winds and turnsThe yarn of life which to my lot is given,Earth's single siren, sent to us from heaven.
Macgregor.
Loveto my mind recalling that sweet thought,The ancient confidant our lives between,Well comforts me, and says I ne'er have beenSo near as now to what I hoped and sought.I, who at times with dangerous falsehood fraught,At times with partial truth, his words have seen,Live in suspense, still missing the just mean,'Twixt yea and nay a constant battle fought.Meanwhile the years pass on: and I beholdIn my true glass the adverse time draw nearHer promise and my hope which limits here.So let it be: alone I grow not old;Changes not e'en with age my loving troth;My fear is this—the short life left us both.Macgregor.
Loveto my mind recalling that sweet thought,The ancient confidant our lives between,Well comforts me, and says I ne'er have beenSo near as now to what I hoped and sought.I, who at times with dangerous falsehood fraught,At times with partial truth, his words have seen,Live in suspense, still missing the just mean,'Twixt yea and nay a constant battle fought.Meanwhile the years pass on: and I beholdIn my true glass the adverse time draw nearHer promise and my hope which limits here.So let it be: alone I grow not old;Changes not e'en with age my loving troth;My fear is this—the short life left us both.
Macgregor.
Suchvain thought as wonted to mislead meIn desert hope, by well-assurèd moan,Makes me from company to live alone,In following her whom reason bids me flee.She fleeth as fast by gentle cruelty;And after her my heart would fain be gone,But armèd sighs my way do stop anon,'Twixt hope and dread locking my liberty;Yet as I guess, under disdainful browOne beam of ruth is in her cloudy look:Which comforteth the mind, that erst for fear shook:And therewithal bolded I seek the way howTo utter the smart I suffer within;But such it is, I not how to begin.Wyatt.
Suchvain thought as wonted to mislead meIn desert hope, by well-assurèd moan,Makes me from company to live alone,In following her whom reason bids me flee.She fleeth as fast by gentle cruelty;And after her my heart would fain be gone,But armèd sighs my way do stop anon,'Twixt hope and dread locking my liberty;Yet as I guess, under disdainful browOne beam of ruth is in her cloudy look:Which comforteth the mind, that erst for fear shook:And therewithal bolded I seek the way howTo utter the smart I suffer within;But such it is, I not how to begin.
Wyatt.
Fullof a tender thought, which severs meFrom all my kind, a lonely musing thing,From my breast's solitude I sometimes spring,Still seeking her whom most I ought to flee;And see her pass though soft, so adverse she,That my soul spreads for flight a trembling wing:Of armèd sighs such legions does she bring,The fair antagonist of Love and me.Yet from beneath that dark disdainful brow,Or much I err, one beam of pity flows,Soothing with partial warmth my heart's distress:Again my bosom feels its wonted glow!But when my simple hope I would disclose,My o'er-fraught faltering tongue the crowded thoughts oppress.Wrangham.
Fullof a tender thought, which severs meFrom all my kind, a lonely musing thing,From my breast's solitude I sometimes spring,Still seeking her whom most I ought to flee;And see her pass though soft, so adverse she,That my soul spreads for flight a trembling wing:Of armèd sighs such legions does she bring,The fair antagonist of Love and me.Yet from beneath that dark disdainful brow,Or much I err, one beam of pity flows,Soothing with partial warmth my heart's distress:Again my bosom feels its wonted glow!But when my simple hope I would disclose,My o'er-fraught faltering tongue the crowded thoughts oppress.
Wrangham.
Oftas her angel face compassion wore,With tears whose eloquence scarce fails to move,With bland and courteous speech, I boldly stroveTo soothe my foe, and in meek guise implore:But soon her eyes inspire vain hopes no more;For all my fortune, all my fate in love,My life, my death, the good, the ills I prove,To her are trusted by one sovereign power.Hence 'tis, whene'er my lips would silence break,Scarce can I hear the accents which I vent,By passion render'd spiritless and weak.Ah! now I find that fondness to excessFetters the tongue, and overpowers intent:Faint is the flame that language can express!Nott.
Oftas her angel face compassion wore,With tears whose eloquence scarce fails to move,With bland and courteous speech, I boldly stroveTo soothe my foe, and in meek guise implore:But soon her eyes inspire vain hopes no more;For all my fortune, all my fate in love,My life, my death, the good, the ills I prove,To her are trusted by one sovereign power.Hence 'tis, whene'er my lips would silence break,Scarce can I hear the accents which I vent,By passion render'd spiritless and weak.Ah! now I find that fondness to excessFetters the tongue, and overpowers intent:Faint is the flame that language can express!
Nott.
Ofthave I meant my passion to declare,When fancy read compliance in her eyes;And oft with courteous speech, with love-lorn sighs,Have wish'd to soften my obdurate fair:But let that face one look of anger wear,The intention fades; for all that fate supplies,Or good, or ill, all, all that I can prize,My life, my death, Love trusts to her dear care.E'en I can scarcely hear my amorous moan,So much my voice by passion is confined;So faint, so timid are my accents grown!Ah! now the force of love I plainly see;What can the tongue, or what the impassion'd mind?He that could speak his love, ne'er loved like me.Anon. 1777.
Ofthave I meant my passion to declare,When fancy read compliance in her eyes;And oft with courteous speech, with love-lorn sighs,Have wish'd to soften my obdurate fair:But let that face one look of anger wear,The intention fades; for all that fate supplies,Or good, or ill, all, all that I can prize,My life, my death, Love trusts to her dear care.E'en I can scarcely hear my amorous moan,So much my voice by passion is confined;So faint, so timid are my accents grown!Ah! now the force of love I plainly see;What can the tongue, or what the impassion'd mind?He that could speak his love, ne'er loved like me.
Anon. 1777.
MeLove has left in fair cold arms to lie,Which kill me wrongfully: if I complain,My martyrdom is doubled, worse my pain:Better in silence love, and loving die!For she the frozen Rhine with burning eyeCan melt at will, the hard rock break in twain,So equal to her beauty her disdainThat others' pleasure wakes her angry sigh.A breathing moving marble all the rest,Of very adamant is made her heart,So hard, to move it baffles all my art.Despite her lowering brow and haughty breast,One thing she cannot, my fond heart deterFrom tender hopes and passionate sighs for her.Macgregor.
MeLove has left in fair cold arms to lie,Which kill me wrongfully: if I complain,My martyrdom is doubled, worse my pain:Better in silence love, and loving die!For she the frozen Rhine with burning eyeCan melt at will, the hard rock break in twain,So equal to her beauty her disdainThat others' pleasure wakes her angry sigh.A breathing moving marble all the rest,Of very adamant is made her heart,So hard, to move it baffles all my art.Despite her lowering brow and haughty breast,One thing she cannot, my fond heart deterFrom tender hopes and passionate sighs for her.
Macgregor.
O deadlyEnvy, virtue's constant foe,With good and lovely eager to contest!Stealthily, by what way, in that fair breastHast entrance found? by what arts changed it so?Thence by the roots my weal hast thou uptorn,Too blest in love hast shown me to that fairWho welcomed once my chaste and humble prayer,But seems to treat me now with hate and scorn.But though you may by acts severe and illSigh at my good and smile at my distress,You cannot change for me a single thought.Not though a thousand times each day she killCan I or hope in her or love her less.For though she scare, Love confidence has taught.Macgregor.
O deadlyEnvy, virtue's constant foe,With good and lovely eager to contest!Stealthily, by what way, in that fair breastHast entrance found? by what arts changed it so?Thence by the roots my weal hast thou uptorn,Too blest in love hast shown me to that fairWho welcomed once my chaste and humble prayer,But seems to treat me now with hate and scorn.But though you may by acts severe and illSigh at my good and smile at my distress,You cannot change for me a single thought.Not though a thousand times each day she killCan I or hope in her or love her less.For though she scare, Love confidence has taught.
Macgregor.
Markingof those bright eyes the sun sereneWhere reigneth Love, who mine obscures and grieves,My hopeless heart the weary spirit leavesOnce more to gain its paradise terrene;Then, finding full of bitter-sweet the scene,And in the world how vast the web it weaves.A secret sigh for baffled love it heaves,Whose spurs so sharp, whose curb so hard have been.By these two contrary and mix'd extremes,With frozen or with fiery wishes fraught,To stand 'tween misery and bliss she seems:Seldom in glad and oft in gloomy thought,But mostly contrite for its bold emprize,For of like seed like fruit must ever rise!Macgregor.
Markingof those bright eyes the sun sereneWhere reigneth Love, who mine obscures and grieves,My hopeless heart the weary spirit leavesOnce more to gain its paradise terrene;Then, finding full of bitter-sweet the scene,And in the world how vast the web it weaves.A secret sigh for baffled love it heaves,Whose spurs so sharp, whose curb so hard have been.By these two contrary and mix'd extremes,With frozen or with fiery wishes fraught,To stand 'tween misery and bliss she seems:Seldom in glad and oft in gloomy thought,But mostly contrite for its bold emprize,For of like seed like fruit must ever rise!
Macgregor.
Ill-omen'dwas that star's malignant gleamThat ruled my hapless birth; and dim the mornThat darted on my infant eyes the beam;And harsh the wail, that told a man was born;And hard the sterile earth, which first was wornBeneath my infant feet; but harder far,And harsher still, the tyrant maid, whose scorn,In league with savage Love, inflamed the warOf all my passions.—Love himself more tame,With pity soothes my ills; while that cold heart,Insensible to the devouring flameWhich wastes my vitals, triumphs in my smart.One thought is comfort—that her scorn to bear,Excels e'er prosperous love, with other earthly fair.Woodhouselee.
Ill-omen'dwas that star's malignant gleamThat ruled my hapless birth; and dim the mornThat darted on my infant eyes the beam;And harsh the wail, that told a man was born;And hard the sterile earth, which first was wornBeneath my infant feet; but harder far,And harsher still, the tyrant maid, whose scorn,In league with savage Love, inflamed the warOf all my passions.—Love himself more tame,With pity soothes my ills; while that cold heart,Insensible to the devouring flameWhich wastes my vitals, triumphs in my smart.One thought is comfort—that her scorn to bear,Excels e'er prosperous love, with other earthly fair.
Woodhouselee.
Anevil star usher'd my natal morn(If heaven have o'er us power, as some have said),Hard was the cradle where I lay when born,And hard the earth where first my young feet play'd;Cruel the lady who, with eyes of scornAnd fatal bow, whose mark I still was made,Dealt me the wound, O Love, which since I mournWhose cure thou only, with those arms, canst aid.But, ah! to thee my torments pleasure bring:She, too, severer would have wished the blow,A spear-head thrust, and not an arrow-sting.One comfort rests—better to suffer soFor her, than others to enjoy: and I,Sworn on thy golden dart, on this for death rely.Macgregor.
Anevil star usher'd my natal morn(If heaven have o'er us power, as some have said),Hard was the cradle where I lay when born,And hard the earth where first my young feet play'd;Cruel the lady who, with eyes of scornAnd fatal bow, whose mark I still was made,Dealt me the wound, O Love, which since I mournWhose cure thou only, with those arms, canst aid.But, ah! to thee my torments pleasure bring:She, too, severer would have wished the blow,A spear-head thrust, and not an arrow-sting.One comfort rests—better to suffer soFor her, than others to enjoy: and I,Sworn on thy golden dart, on this for death rely.
Macgregor.
Thetime and scene where I a slave becameWhen I remember, and the knot so dearWhich Love's own hand so firmly fasten'd here,Which made my bitter sweet, my grief a game;My heart, with fuel stored, is, as a flameOf those soft sighs familiar to mine ear,So lit within, its very sufferings cheer;On these I live, and other aid disclaim.That sun, alone which beameth for my sight,With his strong rays my ruin'd bosom burnsNow in the eve of life as in its prime,And from afar so gives me warmth and light,Fresh and entire, at every hour, returnsOn memory the knot, the scene, the time.Macgregor.
Thetime and scene where I a slave becameWhen I remember, and the knot so dearWhich Love's own hand so firmly fasten'd here,Which made my bitter sweet, my grief a game;My heart, with fuel stored, is, as a flameOf those soft sighs familiar to mine ear,So lit within, its very sufferings cheer;On these I live, and other aid disclaim.That sun, alone which beameth for my sight,With his strong rays my ruin'd bosom burnsNow in the eve of life as in its prime,And from afar so gives me warmth and light,Fresh and entire, at every hour, returnsOn memory the knot, the scene, the time.
Macgregor.
Throughwoods inhospitable, wild, I rove,Where armèd travellers bend their fearful way;Nor danger dread, save from that sun of love,Bright sun! which darts a soul-enflaming ray.Of her I sing, all-thoughtless as I stray,Whose sweet idea strong as heaven's shall prove:And oft methinks these pines, these beeches, moveLike nymphs; 'mid which fond fancy sees her playI seem to hear her, when the whispering galeSteals through some thick-wove branch, when sings a bird,When purls the stream along yon verdant vale.How grateful might this darksome wood appear,Where horror reigns, where scarce a sound is heard;But, ah! 'tis far from all my heart holds dear.Anon. 1777.
Throughwoods inhospitable, wild, I rove,Where armèd travellers bend their fearful way;Nor danger dread, save from that sun of love,Bright sun! which darts a soul-enflaming ray.Of her I sing, all-thoughtless as I stray,Whose sweet idea strong as heaven's shall prove:And oft methinks these pines, these beeches, moveLike nymphs; 'mid which fond fancy sees her playI seem to hear her, when the whispering galeSteals through some thick-wove branch, when sings a bird,When purls the stream along yon verdant vale.How grateful might this darksome wood appear,Where horror reigns, where scarce a sound is heard;But, ah! 'tis far from all my heart holds dear.
Anon. 1777.
Amidthe wild wood's lone and difficult ways,Where travel at great risk e'en men in arms,I pass secure—for only me alarmsThat sun, which darts of living love the rays—Singing fond thoughts in simple lays to herWhom time and space so little hide from me;E'en here her form, nor hers alone, I see,But maids and matrons in each beech and fir:Methinks I hear her when the bird's soft moan,The sighing leaves I hear, or through the dellWhere its bright lapse some murmuring rill pursues.Rarely of shadowing wood the silence lone,The solitary horror pleased so well,Except that of my sun too much I lose.Macgregor.
Amidthe wild wood's lone and difficult ways,Where travel at great risk e'en men in arms,I pass secure—for only me alarmsThat sun, which darts of living love the rays—Singing fond thoughts in simple lays to herWhom time and space so little hide from me;E'en here her form, nor hers alone, I see,But maids and matrons in each beech and fir:Methinks I hear her when the bird's soft moan,The sighing leaves I hear, or through the dellWhere its bright lapse some murmuring rill pursues.Rarely of shadowing wood the silence lone,The solitary horror pleased so well,Except that of my sun too much I lose.
Macgregor.
Love, who his votary wings in heart and feet,To the third heaven that lightly he may soar,In one short day has many a stream and shoreGiven to me, in famed Ardennes, to meet.Unarm'd and single to have pass'd is sweetWhere war in earnest strikes, nor tells before—A helmless, sail-less ship 'mid ocean's roar—My breast with dark and fearful thoughts replete;But reach'd my dangerous journey's far extreme,Remembering whence I came, and with whose wings,From too great courage conscious terror springs.But this fair country and belovèd streamWith smiling welcome reassures my heart,Where dwells its sole light ready to depart.Macgregor.
Love, who his votary wings in heart and feet,To the third heaven that lightly he may soar,In one short day has many a stream and shoreGiven to me, in famed Ardennes, to meet.Unarm'd and single to have pass'd is sweetWhere war in earnest strikes, nor tells before—A helmless, sail-less ship 'mid ocean's roar—My breast with dark and fearful thoughts replete;But reach'd my dangerous journey's far extreme,Remembering whence I came, and with whose wings,From too great courage conscious terror springs.But this fair country and belovèd streamWith smiling welcome reassures my heart,Where dwells its sole light ready to depart.
Macgregor.
Lovein one instant spurs me and restrains,Assures and frightens, freezes me and burns,Smiles now and scowls, now summons me and spurns,In hope now holds me, plunges now in pains:Now high, now low, my weary heart he hurls,Until fond passion loses quite the path,And highest pleasure seems to stir but wrath—My harass'd mind on such strange errors feeds!A friendly thought there points the proper track,Not of such grief as from the full eye breaks,To go where soon it hopes to be at ease,But, as if greater power thence turn'd it back,Despite itself, another way it takes,And to its own slow death and mine agrees.Macgregor.
Lovein one instant spurs me and restrains,Assures and frightens, freezes me and burns,Smiles now and scowls, now summons me and spurns,In hope now holds me, plunges now in pains:Now high, now low, my weary heart he hurls,Until fond passion loses quite the path,And highest pleasure seems to stir but wrath—My harass'd mind on such strange errors feeds!A friendly thought there points the proper track,Not of such grief as from the full eye breaks,To go where soon it hopes to be at ease,But, as if greater power thence turn'd it back,Despite itself, another way it takes,And to its own slow death and mine agrees.
Macgregor.
Whenmy sweet foe, so haughty oft and high,Moved my brief ire no more my sight can thole,One comfort is vouchsafed me lest I die,Through whose sole strength survives my harass'd soul;Where'er her eyes—all light which would denyTo my sad life—in scorn or anger roll,Mine with such true humility reply,Soon their meek glances all her rage control,Were it not so, methinks I less could brookTo gaze on hers than on Medusa's mien,Which turn'd to marble all who met her look.My friend, act thus with thine, for closed I weenAll other aid, and nothing flight availsAgainst the wings on which our master sails.Macgregor.
Whenmy sweet foe, so haughty oft and high,Moved my brief ire no more my sight can thole,One comfort is vouchsafed me lest I die,Through whose sole strength survives my harass'd soul;Where'er her eyes—all light which would denyTo my sad life—in scorn or anger roll,Mine with such true humility reply,Soon their meek glances all her rage control,Were it not so, methinks I less could brookTo gaze on hers than on Medusa's mien,Which turn'd to marble all who met her look.My friend, act thus with thine, for closed I weenAll other aid, and nothing flight availsAgainst the wings on which our master sails.
Macgregor.
Thou Poto distant realms this frame mayst bear,On thy all-powerful, thy impetuous tide;But the free spirit that within doth bideNor for thy might, nor any might doth care:Not varying here its course, nor shifting there,Upon the favouring gale it joys to glide;Plying its wings toward the laurel's pride,In spite of sails or oars, of sea or air.Monarch of floods, magnificent and strong,That meet'st the sun as he leads on the day,But in the west dost quit a fairer light;Thy curvèd course this body wafts along;My spirit on Love's pinions speeds its way,And to its darling home directs its flight!Nott.
Thou Poto distant realms this frame mayst bear,On thy all-powerful, thy impetuous tide;But the free spirit that within doth bideNor for thy might, nor any might doth care:Not varying here its course, nor shifting there,Upon the favouring gale it joys to glide;Plying its wings toward the laurel's pride,In spite of sails or oars, of sea or air.Monarch of floods, magnificent and strong,That meet'st the sun as he leads on the day,But in the west dost quit a fairer light;Thy curvèd course this body wafts along;My spirit on Love's pinions speeds its way,And to its darling home directs its flight!
Nott.
Po, thou upon thy strong and rapid tide,This frame corporeal mayst onward bear:But a free spirit is concealèd there,Which nor thy power nor any power can guide.That spirit, light on breeze auspicious buoy'd,With course unvarying backward cleaves the air—Nor wave, nor wind, nor sail, nor oar its care—And plies its wings, and seeks the laurel's pride.'Tis thine, proud king of rivers, eastward borneTo meet the sun, as he leads on the day;And from a brighter west 'tis thine to turn:Thy hornèd flood these passive limbs obey—But, uncontrollèd, to its sweet sojournOn Love's untiring plumes my spirit speeds its way.Wrangham.
Po, thou upon thy strong and rapid tide,This frame corporeal mayst onward bear:But a free spirit is concealèd there,Which nor thy power nor any power can guide.That spirit, light on breeze auspicious buoy'd,With course unvarying backward cleaves the air—Nor wave, nor wind, nor sail, nor oar its care—And plies its wings, and seeks the laurel's pride.'Tis thine, proud king of rivers, eastward borneTo meet the sun, as he leads on the day;And from a brighter west 'tis thine to turn:Thy hornèd flood these passive limbs obey—But, uncontrollèd, to its sweet sojournOn Love's untiring plumes my spirit speeds its way.
Wrangham.
Love'mid the grass beneath a laurel green—The plant divine which long my flame has fed,Whose shade for me less bright than sad is seen—A cunning net of gold and pearls had spread:Its bait the seed he sows and reaps, I weenBitter and sweet, which I desire, yet dread:Gentle and soft his call, as ne'er has beenSince first on Adam's eyes the day was shed:And the bright light which disenthrones the sunWas flashing round, and in her hand, more fairThan snow or ivory, was the master rope.So fell I in the snare; their slave so wonHer speech angelical and winning air,Pleasure, and fond desire, and sanguine hope.Macgregor.
Love'mid the grass beneath a laurel green—The plant divine which long my flame has fed,Whose shade for me less bright than sad is seen—A cunning net of gold and pearls had spread:Its bait the seed he sows and reaps, I weenBitter and sweet, which I desire, yet dread:Gentle and soft his call, as ne'er has beenSince first on Adam's eyes the day was shed:And the bright light which disenthrones the sunWas flashing round, and in her hand, more fairThan snow or ivory, was the master rope.So fell I in the snare; their slave so wonHer speech angelical and winning air,Pleasure, and fond desire, and sanguine hope.
Macgregor.
'TisLove's caprice to freeze the bosom nowWith bolts of ice, with shafts of flame now burn;And which his lighter pang, I scarce discern—Or hope or fear, or whelming fire or snow.In heat I shiver, and in cold I glow,Now thrill'd with love, with jealousy now torn:As if her thin robe by a rival worn,Or veil, had screen'd him from my vengeful blowBut more 'tis mine to burn by night, by day;And how I love the death by which I die,Nor thought can grasp, nor tongue of bard can sing:Not so my freezing fire—impartiallyShe shines to all; and who would speed his wayTo that high beam, in vain expands his fluttering wing.Wrangham.
'TisLove's caprice to freeze the bosom nowWith bolts of ice, with shafts of flame now burn;And which his lighter pang, I scarce discern—Or hope or fear, or whelming fire or snow.In heat I shiver, and in cold I glow,Now thrill'd with love, with jealousy now torn:As if her thin robe by a rival worn,Or veil, had screen'd him from my vengeful blowBut more 'tis mine to burn by night, by day;And how I love the death by which I die,Nor thought can grasp, nor tongue of bard can sing:Not so my freezing fire—impartiallyShe shines to all; and who would speed his wayTo that high beam, in vain expands his fluttering wing.
Wrangham.
Lovewith hot zeal now burns the heart within,Now holds it fetter'd with a frozen fear,Leaving it doubtful to our judgment hereIf hope or dread, if flame or frost, shall win.In June I shiver, burn December in,Full of desires, from jealousy ne'er clear;E'en as a lady who her loving feeHides 'neath a little veil of texture thin.Of the two ills the first is all mine own,By day, by night to burn; how sweet that painDwells not in thought, nor ever poet sings:Not so the other, my fair flame, is shown,She levels all: who hopes the crest to gainOf that proud light expands in vain his wings.Macgregor.
Lovewith hot zeal now burns the heart within,Now holds it fetter'd with a frozen fear,Leaving it doubtful to our judgment hereIf hope or dread, if flame or frost, shall win.In June I shiver, burn December in,Full of desires, from jealousy ne'er clear;E'en as a lady who her loving feeHides 'neath a little veil of texture thin.Of the two ills the first is all mine own,By day, by night to burn; how sweet that painDwells not in thought, nor ever poet sings:Not so the other, my fair flame, is shown,She levels all: who hopes the crest to gainOf that proud light expands in vain his wings.
Macgregor.
Ifthus the dear glance of my lady slay,On her sweet sprightly speech if dangers wait,If o'er me Love usurp a power so great,Oft as she speaks, or when her sun-smiles play;Alas! what were it if she put away,Or for my fault, or by my luckless fate,Her eyes from pity, and to death's full hate,Which now she keeps aloof, should then betray.Thus if at heart with terror I am cold,When o'er her fair face doubtful shadows spring,The feeling has its source in sufferings old.Woman by nature is a fickle thing,And female hearts—time makes the proverb sure—Can never long one state of love endure.Macgregor.
Ifthus the dear glance of my lady slay,On her sweet sprightly speech if dangers wait,If o'er me Love usurp a power so great,Oft as she speaks, or when her sun-smiles play;Alas! what were it if she put away,Or for my fault, or by my luckless fate,Her eyes from pity, and to death's full hate,Which now she keeps aloof, should then betray.Thus if at heart with terror I am cold,When o'er her fair face doubtful shadows spring,The feeling has its source in sufferings old.Woman by nature is a fickle thing,And female hearts—time makes the proverb sure—Can never long one state of love endure.
Macgregor.
Ifthe soft glance, the speech, both kind and wise,Of that beloved one can wound me so,And if, whene'er she lets her accents flow,Or even smiles, Love gains such victories;Alas! what should I do, were those dear eyes,Which now secure my life through weal and woe,From fault of mine, or evil fortune, slowTo shed on me their light in pity's guise?And if my trembling spirit groweth coldWhene'er I see change to her aspect spring,This fear is only born of trials old;(Woman by nature is a fickle thing,)And hence I know her heart hath power to holdBut a brief space Love's sweet imagining!Wrottesley.
Ifthe soft glance, the speech, both kind and wise,Of that beloved one can wound me so,And if, whene'er she lets her accents flow,Or even smiles, Love gains such victories;Alas! what should I do, were those dear eyes,Which now secure my life through weal and woe,From fault of mine, or evil fortune, slowTo shed on me their light in pity's guise?And if my trembling spirit groweth coldWhene'er I see change to her aspect spring,This fear is only born of trials old;(Woman by nature is a fickle thing,)And hence I know her heart hath power to holdBut a brief space Love's sweet imagining!
Wrottesley.
Love, Nature, Laura's gentle self combines,She where each lofty virtue dwells and reigns,Against my peace: To pierce with mortal painsLove toils—such ever are his stern designs.Nature by bonds so slight to earth confinesHer slender form, a breath may break its chains;And she, so much her heart the world disdains,Longer to tread life's wearying round repines.Hence still in her sweet frame we view decayAll that to earth can joy and radiance lend,Or serve as mirror to this laggard age;And Death's dread purpose should not Pity stay,Too well I see where all those hopes must end,With which I fondly soothed my lingering pilgrimage.Wrangham.
Love, Nature, Laura's gentle self combines,She where each lofty virtue dwells and reigns,Against my peace: To pierce with mortal painsLove toils—such ever are his stern designs.Nature by bonds so slight to earth confinesHer slender form, a breath may break its chains;And she, so much her heart the world disdains,Longer to tread life's wearying round repines.Hence still in her sweet frame we view decayAll that to earth can joy and radiance lend,Or serve as mirror to this laggard age;And Death's dread purpose should not Pity stay,Too well I see where all those hopes must end,With which I fondly soothed my lingering pilgrimage.
Wrangham.
Love, Nature, and that gentle soul as bright,Where every lofty virtue dwells and reigns,Are sworn against my peace. As wont, Love strainsHis every power that I may perish quite.Nature her delicate form by bonds so slightHolds in existence, that no help sustains;She is so modest that she now disdainsLonger to brook this vile life's painful fight.Thus fades and fails the spirit day by day,Which on those dear and lovely limbs should wait,Our mirror of true grace which wont to give:And soon, if Mercy turn not Death away,Alas! too well I see in what sad stateAre those vain hopes wherein I loved to live.Macgregor.
Love, Nature, and that gentle soul as bright,Where every lofty virtue dwells and reigns,Are sworn against my peace. As wont, Love strainsHis every power that I may perish quite.Nature her delicate form by bonds so slightHolds in existence, that no help sustains;She is so modest that she now disdainsLonger to brook this vile life's painful fight.Thus fades and fails the spirit day by day,Which on those dear and lovely limbs should wait,Our mirror of true grace which wont to give:And soon, if Mercy turn not Death away,Alas! too well I see in what sad stateAre those vain hopes wherein I loved to live.
Macgregor.
Thiswondrous Phœnix with the golden plumesForms without art so rare a ring to deckThat beautiful and soft and snowy neck,That every heart it melts, and mine consumes:Forms, too, a natural diadem which lightsThe air around, whence Love with silent steelDraws liquid subtle fire, which still I feelFierce burning me though sharpest winter bites;Border'd with azure, a rich purple vest,Sprinkled with roses, veils her shoulders fair:Rare garment hers, as grace unique, alone!Fame, in the opulent and odorous breastOf Arab mountains, buries her sole lair,Who in our heaven so high a pitch has flown.Macgregor.
Thiswondrous Phœnix with the golden plumesForms without art so rare a ring to deckThat beautiful and soft and snowy neck,That every heart it melts, and mine consumes:Forms, too, a natural diadem which lightsThe air around, whence Love with silent steelDraws liquid subtle fire, which still I feelFierce burning me though sharpest winter bites;Border'd with azure, a rich purple vest,Sprinkled with roses, veils her shoulders fair:Rare garment hers, as grace unique, alone!Fame, in the opulent and odorous breastOf Arab mountains, buries her sole lair,Who in our heaven so high a pitch has flown.
Macgregor.
Hadtuneful Maro seen, and Homer old,The living sun which here mine eyes behold,The best powers they had join'd of either lyre,Sweetness and strength, that fame she might acquire;Unsung had been, with vex'd Æneas, thenAchilles and Ulysses, godlike men,And for nigh sixty years who ruled so wellThe world; and who before Ægysthus fell;Nay, that old flower of virtues and of arms,As this new flower of chastity and charms,A rival star, had scarce such radiance flung.In rugged verse him honour'd Ennius sung,I her in mine. Grant, Heaven! on my poor laysShe frown not, nor disdain my humble praise.Anon.
Hadtuneful Maro seen, and Homer old,The living sun which here mine eyes behold,The best powers they had join'd of either lyre,Sweetness and strength, that fame she might acquire;Unsung had been, with vex'd Æneas, thenAchilles and Ulysses, godlike men,And for nigh sixty years who ruled so wellThe world; and who before Ægysthus fell;Nay, that old flower of virtues and of arms,As this new flower of chastity and charms,A rival star, had scarce such radiance flung.In rugged verse him honour'd Ennius sung,I her in mine. Grant, Heaven! on my poor laysShe frown not, nor disdain my humble praise.
Anon.
Theson of Philip, when he saw the tombOf fierce Achilles, with a sigh, thus said:"O happy, whose achievements erst found roomFrom that illustrious trumpet to be spreadO'er earth for ever!"—But, beyond the gloomOf deep Oblivion shall that loveliest maid,Whose like to view seems not of earthly doom,By my imperfect accents be convey'd?Her of the Homeric, the Orphèan Lyre,Most worthy, or that shepherd, Mantua's pride,To be the theme of their immortal lays;Her stars and unpropitious fate deniedThis palm:—and me bade to such height aspire,Who, haply, dim her glories by my praise.Capel Lofft.
Theson of Philip, when he saw the tombOf fierce Achilles, with a sigh, thus said:"O happy, whose achievements erst found roomFrom that illustrious trumpet to be spreadO'er earth for ever!"—But, beyond the gloomOf deep Oblivion shall that loveliest maid,Whose like to view seems not of earthly doom,By my imperfect accents be convey'd?Her of the Homeric, the Orphèan Lyre,Most worthy, or that shepherd, Mantua's pride,To be the theme of their immortal lays;Her stars and unpropitious fate deniedThis palm:—and me bade to such height aspire,Who, haply, dim her glories by my praise.
Capel Lofft.
WhenAlexander at the famous tombOf fierce Achilles stood, the ambitious sighBurst from his bosom—"Fortunate! on whomTh' eternal bard shower'd honours bright and high."But, ah! for so to each is fix'd his doom,This pure fair dove, whose like by mortal eyeWas never seen, what poor and scanty roomFor her great praise can my weak verse supply?Whom, worthiest Homer's line and Orpheus' song,Or his whom reverent Mantua still admires—Sole and sufficient she to wake such lyres!An adverse star, a fate here only wrong,Entrusts to one who worships her dear name,Yet haply injures by his praise her fame.Macgregor.
WhenAlexander at the famous tombOf fierce Achilles stood, the ambitious sighBurst from his bosom—"Fortunate! on whomTh' eternal bard shower'd honours bright and high."But, ah! for so to each is fix'd his doom,This pure fair dove, whose like by mortal eyeWas never seen, what poor and scanty roomFor her great praise can my weak verse supply?Whom, worthiest Homer's line and Orpheus' song,Or his whom reverent Mantua still admires—Sole and sufficient she to wake such lyres!An adverse star, a fate here only wrong,Entrusts to one who worships her dear name,Yet haply injures by his praise her fame.
Macgregor.
O blessedSun! that sole sweet leaf I love,First loved by thee, in its fair seat, alone,Bloometh without a peer, since from aboveTo Adam first our shining ill was shown.Pause we to look on her! Although to stayThy course I pray thee, yet thy beams retire;Their shades the mountains fling, and parting dayParts me from all I most on earth desire.The shadows from yon gentle heights that fall,Where sparkles my sweet fire, where brightly grewThat stately laurel from a sucker small,Increasing, as I speak, hide from my viewThe beauteous landscape and the blessèd scene,Where dwells my true heart with its only queen.Macgregor.
O blessedSun! that sole sweet leaf I love,First loved by thee, in its fair seat, alone,Bloometh without a peer, since from aboveTo Adam first our shining ill was shown.Pause we to look on her! Although to stayThy course I pray thee, yet thy beams retire;Their shades the mountains fling, and parting dayParts me from all I most on earth desire.The shadows from yon gentle heights that fall,Where sparkles my sweet fire, where brightly grewThat stately laurel from a sucker small,Increasing, as I speak, hide from my viewThe beauteous landscape and the blessèd scene,Where dwells my true heart with its only queen.
Macgregor.