Nowhast thou shown, fell Death! thine utmost might.Through Love's bright realm hast want and darkness spread,Hast now cropp'd beauty's flower, its heavenly lightQuench'd, and enclosed in the grave's narrow bed;Now hast thou life despoil'd of all delight,Its ornament and sovereign honour shed:But fame and worth it is not thine to blight;These mock thy power, and sleep not with the dead.Be thine the mortal part; heaven holds the best,And, glorying in its brightness, brighter glows,While memory still records the great and good.O thou, in thine high triumph, angel blest!Let thy heart yield to pity of my woes,E'en as thy beauty here my soul subdued.Dacre.
Nowhast thou shown, fell Death! thine utmost might.Through Love's bright realm hast want and darkness spread,Hast now cropp'd beauty's flower, its heavenly lightQuench'd, and enclosed in the grave's narrow bed;Now hast thou life despoil'd of all delight,Its ornament and sovereign honour shed:But fame and worth it is not thine to blight;These mock thy power, and sleep not with the dead.Be thine the mortal part; heaven holds the best,And, glorying in its brightness, brighter glows,While memory still records the great and good.O thou, in thine high triumph, angel blest!Let thy heart yield to pity of my woes,E'en as thy beauty here my soul subdued.
Dacre.
Nowhast thou shown the utmost of thy might,O cruel Death! Love's kingdom hast thou rent,And made it poor; in narrow grave hast pentThe blooming flower of beauty and its light!Our wretched life thou hast despoil'd outrightOf every honour, every ornament!But then her fame, her worth, by thee unblent,Shall still survive!—her dust is all thy right;The rest heaven holds, proud of her charms divineAs of a brighter sun. Nor dies she here—Her memory lasts, to good men ever dear!O angel new, in thy celestial sphereLet pity now thy sainted heart incline,As here below thy beauty vanquish'd mine!Charlemont.
Nowhast thou shown the utmost of thy might,O cruel Death! Love's kingdom hast thou rent,And made it poor; in narrow grave hast pentThe blooming flower of beauty and its light!Our wretched life thou hast despoil'd outrightOf every honour, every ornament!But then her fame, her worth, by thee unblent,Shall still survive!—her dust is all thy right;The rest heaven holds, proud of her charms divineAs of a brighter sun. Nor dies she here—Her memory lasts, to good men ever dear!O angel new, in thy celestial sphereLet pity now thy sainted heart incline,As here below thy beauty vanquish'd mine!
Charlemont.
Theair and scent, the comfort and the shadeOf my sweet laurel, and its flowery sight,That to my weary life gave rest and light,Death, spoiler of the world, has lowly laid.As when the moon our sun's eclipse has made,My lofty light has vanish'd so in night;For aid against himself I Death invite;With thoughts so dark does Love my breast invade.Thou didst but sleep, bright lady, a brief sleep,In bliss amid the chosen spirits to wake,Who gaze upon their God, distinct and near:And if my verse shall any value keep,Preserved and praised 'mid noble minds to makeThy name, its memory shall be deathless here.Macgregor.
Theair and scent, the comfort and the shadeOf my sweet laurel, and its flowery sight,That to my weary life gave rest and light,Death, spoiler of the world, has lowly laid.As when the moon our sun's eclipse has made,My lofty light has vanish'd so in night;For aid against himself I Death invite;With thoughts so dark does Love my breast invade.Thou didst but sleep, bright lady, a brief sleep,In bliss amid the chosen spirits to wake,Who gaze upon their God, distinct and near:And if my verse shall any value keep,Preserved and praised 'mid noble minds to makeThy name, its memory shall be deathless here.
Macgregor.
Thefragrant gale, and the refreshing shadeOf my sweet laurel, and its verdant form,That were my shelter in life's weary storm,Have felt the power that makes all nature fade:Now has my light been lost in gloomy shade,E'en as the sun behind his sister's form:I call for Death to free me from Death's storm,But Love descends and brings me better aid!He tells me, lady, that one moment's sleepAlone was thine, and then thou didst awakeAmong the elect, and in thy Maker's arms:And if my verse oblivion's power can keepAloof, thy name its place on earth-will takeWhere Genius still will dote upon thy charms!Morehead.
Thefragrant gale, and the refreshing shadeOf my sweet laurel, and its verdant form,That were my shelter in life's weary storm,Have felt the power that makes all nature fade:Now has my light been lost in gloomy shade,E'en as the sun behind his sister's form:I call for Death to free me from Death's storm,But Love descends and brings me better aid!He tells me, lady, that one moment's sleepAlone was thine, and then thou didst awakeAmong the elect, and in thy Maker's arms:And if my verse oblivion's power can keepAloof, thy name its place on earth-will takeWhere Genius still will dote upon thy charms!
Morehead.
Thelast, alas! of my bright days and glad—Few have been mine in this brief life below—Had come; I felt my heart as tepid snow,Presage, perchance, of days both dark and sad.As one in nerves, and pulse, and spirits bad,Who of some frequent fever waits the blow,E'en so I felt—for how could I foreknowSuch near end of the half-joys I have had?Her beauteous eyes, in heaven now bright and bless'dWith the pure light whence health and life descends,(Wretched and beggar'd leaving me behind,)With chaste and soul-lit beams our grief address'd:"Tarry ye here in peace, beloved friends,Though here no more, we yet shall there be join'd."Macgregor.
Thelast, alas! of my bright days and glad—Few have been mine in this brief life below—Had come; I felt my heart as tepid snow,Presage, perchance, of days both dark and sad.As one in nerves, and pulse, and spirits bad,Who of some frequent fever waits the blow,E'en so I felt—for how could I foreknowSuch near end of the half-joys I have had?Her beauteous eyes, in heaven now bright and bless'dWith the pure light whence health and life descends,(Wretched and beggar'd leaving me behind,)With chaste and soul-lit beams our grief address'd:"Tarry ye here in peace, beloved friends,Though here no more, we yet shall there be join'd."
Macgregor.
Ahme! the last of all my happy days(Not many happy days my years can show)Was come! I felt my heart as turn'd to snow,Presage, perhaps, that happiness decays!E'en as the man whose shivering frame betrays,And fluttering pulse, the ague's coming blow;'Twas thus I felt!—but could I therefore knowHow soon would end the bliss that never stays?Those eyes that now, in heaven's delicious light,Drink in pure beams which life and glory rain,Just as they left mine, blinded, sunk in night,Seem'd thus to say, sparkling unwonted bright,—"Awhile, beloved friends, in peace remain,Oh, we shall yet elsewhere exchange fond looks again!"Morehead.
Ahme! the last of all my happy days(Not many happy days my years can show)Was come! I felt my heart as turn'd to snow,Presage, perhaps, that happiness decays!E'en as the man whose shivering frame betrays,And fluttering pulse, the ague's coming blow;'Twas thus I felt!—but could I therefore knowHow soon would end the bliss that never stays?Those eyes that now, in heaven's delicious light,Drink in pure beams which life and glory rain,Just as they left mine, blinded, sunk in night,Seem'd thus to say, sparkling unwonted bright,—"Awhile, beloved friends, in peace remain,Oh, we shall yet elsewhere exchange fond looks again!"
Morehead.
O Day, O hour, O moment sweetest, last,O stars conspired to make me poor indeed!O look too true, in which I seem'd to read.At parting, that my happiness was past;Now my full loss I know, I feel at last:Then I believed (ah! weak and idle creed!)'Twas but a part alone I lost; instead,Was there a hope that flew not with the blast?For, even then, it was in heaven ordain'dThat the sweet light of all my life should die:'Twas written in her sadly-pensive eye!But mine unconscious of the truth remain'd;Or, what it would not see, to see refrain'd,That I might sink in sudden misery!Morehead.
O Day, O hour, O moment sweetest, last,O stars conspired to make me poor indeed!O look too true, in which I seem'd to read.At parting, that my happiness was past;Now my full loss I know, I feel at last:Then I believed (ah! weak and idle creed!)'Twas but a part alone I lost; instead,Was there a hope that flew not with the blast?For, even then, it was in heaven ordain'dThat the sweet light of all my life should die:'Twas written in her sadly-pensive eye!But mine unconscious of the truth remain'd;Or, what it would not see, to see refrain'd,That I might sink in sudden misery!
Morehead.
Darkhour, last moment of that fatal day!Stars which to beggar me of bliss combined!O faithful glance, too well which seem'dst to sayFarewell to me, farewell to peace of mind!Awaken'd now, my losses I survey:Alas! I fondly thought—thoughts weak and blind!—That absence would take part, not all, away;How many hopes it scatter'd to the wind.Heaven had already doom'd it otherwise,To quench for ever my life's genial light,And in her sad sweet face 'twas written so.Surely a veil was placed around mine eyes,That blinded me to all before my sight,And sank at once my life in deepest woe.Macgregor.
Darkhour, last moment of that fatal day!Stars which to beggar me of bliss combined!O faithful glance, too well which seem'dst to sayFarewell to me, farewell to peace of mind!Awaken'd now, my losses I survey:Alas! I fondly thought—thoughts weak and blind!—That absence would take part, not all, away;How many hopes it scatter'd to the wind.Heaven had already doom'd it otherwise,To quench for ever my life's genial light,And in her sad sweet face 'twas written so.Surely a veil was placed around mine eyes,That blinded me to all before my sight,And sank at once my life in deepest woe.
Macgregor.
Thatglance of hers, pure, tender, clear, and sweet,Methought it said, "Take what thou canst while nigh;For here no more thou'lt see me, till on highFrom earth have mounted thy slow-moving feet."O intellect than forest pard more fleet!Yet slow and dull thy sorrow to descry,How didst thou fail to see in her bright eyeWhat since befell, whence I my ruin meet.Silently shining with a fire sublime,They said, "O friendly lights, which long have beenMirrors to us where gladly we were seen,Heaven waits for you, as ye shall know in time;Who bound us to the earth dissolves our bond,But wills in your despite that you shall live beyond."Macgregor.
Thatglance of hers, pure, tender, clear, and sweet,Methought it said, "Take what thou canst while nigh;For here no more thou'lt see me, till on highFrom earth have mounted thy slow-moving feet."O intellect than forest pard more fleet!Yet slow and dull thy sorrow to descry,How didst thou fail to see in her bright eyeWhat since befell, whence I my ruin meet.Silently shining with a fire sublime,They said, "O friendly lights, which long have beenMirrors to us where gladly we were seen,Heaven waits for you, as ye shall know in time;Who bound us to the earth dissolves our bond,But wills in your despite that you shall live beyond."
Macgregor.
I whowas wont from life's best fountain farSo long to wander, searching land and sea,Pursuing not my pleasure, but my star,And alway, as Love knows who strengthen'd me,Ready in bitter exile to depart,For hope and memory both then fed my heart;Alas! now wring my hands, and to unkindAnd angry Fortune, which away has reftThat so sweet hope, my armour have resign'd;And, memory only left,I feed my great desire on that alone,Whence frail and famish'd is my spirit grown.As haply by the way, if want of foodCompel the traveller to relax his speed,Losing that strength which first his steps endued,So feeling, for my weary life, the needOf that dear nourishment Death rudely stole,Leaving the world all bare, and sad my soul,From time to time fair pleasures pall, my sweetTo bitter turns, fear rises, and hopes fail,My course, though brief, that I shall e'er complete:Cloudlike before the gale,To win some resting-place from rest I flee,—If such indeed my doom, so let it be.Never to mortal life could I incline,—Be witness, Love, with whom I parley oft—Except for her who was its light and mine.And since, below extinguish'd, shines aloftThe life in which I lived, if lawful 'twere,My chief desire would be to follow her:But mine is ample cause of grief, for ITo see my future fate was ill supplied;This Love reveal'd within her beauteous eyeElsewhere my hopes to guide:Too late he dies, disconsolate and sad,Whom death a little earlier had made glad.In those bright eyes, where wont my heart to dwell,Until by envy my hard fortune stirr'dRose from so rich a temple to expel,Love with his proper hand had character'dIn lines of pity what, ere long, I weenThe issue of my old desire had been.Dying alone, and not my life with me,Comely and sweet it then had been to die,Leaving my life's best part unscathed and free;But now my fond hopes lieDead in her silent dust: a secret chillShoots through me when I think that I live still.If my poor intellect had but the forceTo help my need, and if no other lureHad led it from the plain and proper course,Upon my lady's brow 'twere easy sureTo have read this truth, "Here all thy pleasure dies,And hence thy lifelong trial dates its rise."My spirit then had gently pass'd awayIn her dear presence from all mortal care;Freed from this troublesome and heavy clay,Mounting, before her, whereAngels and saints prepared on high her place,Whom I but follow now with slow sad pace.My song! if one there beWho in his love finds happiness and rest,Tell him this truth from me,"Die, while thou still art bless'd,For death betimes is comfort, not dismay,And who can rightly die needs no delay."Macgregor.
I whowas wont from life's best fountain farSo long to wander, searching land and sea,Pursuing not my pleasure, but my star,And alway, as Love knows who strengthen'd me,Ready in bitter exile to depart,For hope and memory both then fed my heart;Alas! now wring my hands, and to unkindAnd angry Fortune, which away has reftThat so sweet hope, my armour have resign'd;And, memory only left,I feed my great desire on that alone,Whence frail and famish'd is my spirit grown.
As haply by the way, if want of foodCompel the traveller to relax his speed,Losing that strength which first his steps endued,So feeling, for my weary life, the needOf that dear nourishment Death rudely stole,Leaving the world all bare, and sad my soul,From time to time fair pleasures pall, my sweetTo bitter turns, fear rises, and hopes fail,My course, though brief, that I shall e'er complete:Cloudlike before the gale,To win some resting-place from rest I flee,—If such indeed my doom, so let it be.
Never to mortal life could I incline,—Be witness, Love, with whom I parley oft—Except for her who was its light and mine.And since, below extinguish'd, shines aloftThe life in which I lived, if lawful 'twere,My chief desire would be to follow her:But mine is ample cause of grief, for ITo see my future fate was ill supplied;This Love reveal'd within her beauteous eyeElsewhere my hopes to guide:Too late he dies, disconsolate and sad,Whom death a little earlier had made glad.
In those bright eyes, where wont my heart to dwell,Until by envy my hard fortune stirr'dRose from so rich a temple to expel,Love with his proper hand had character'dIn lines of pity what, ere long, I weenThe issue of my old desire had been.Dying alone, and not my life with me,Comely and sweet it then had been to die,Leaving my life's best part unscathed and free;But now my fond hopes lieDead in her silent dust: a secret chillShoots through me when I think that I live still.
If my poor intellect had but the forceTo help my need, and if no other lureHad led it from the plain and proper course,Upon my lady's brow 'twere easy sureTo have read this truth, "Here all thy pleasure dies,And hence thy lifelong trial dates its rise."My spirit then had gently pass'd awayIn her dear presence from all mortal care;Freed from this troublesome and heavy clay,Mounting, before her, whereAngels and saints prepared on high her place,Whom I but follow now with slow sad pace.
My song! if one there beWho in his love finds happiness and rest,Tell him this truth from me,"Die, while thou still art bless'd,For death betimes is comfort, not dismay,And who can rightly die needs no delay."
Macgregor.
Myfavouring fortune and my life of joy,My days so cloudless, and my tranquil nights,The tender sigh, the pleasing power of song,Which gently wont to sound in verse and rhyme,Suddenly darken'd into grief and tears,Make me hate life and inly pray for death!O cruel, grim, inexorable Death!How hast thou dried my every source of joy,And left me to drag on a life of tears,Through darkling days and melancholy nights.My heavy sighs no longer meet in rhyme,And my hard martyrdom exceeds all song!Where now is vanish'd my once amorous song?To talk of anger and to treat with death;Where the fond verses, where the happy rhymeWelcomed by gentle hearts with pensive joy?Where now Love's communings that cheer'd my nights?My sole theme, my one thought, is now but tears!Erewhile to my desire so sweet were tearsTheir tenderness refined my else rude song,And made me wake and watch the livelong nights;But sorrow now to me is worse than death,Since lost for aye that look of modest joy,The lofty subject of my lowly rhyme!Love in those bright eyes to my ready rhymeGave a fair theme, now changed, alas! to tears;With grief remembering that time of joy,My changed thoughts issue find in other song,Evermore thee beseeching, pallid Death,To snatch and save me from these painful nights!Sleep has departed from my anguish'd nights,Music is absent from my rugged rhyme,Which knows not now to sound of aught but death;Its notes, so thrilling once, all turn'd to tears,Love knows not in his reign such varied song,As full of sadness now as then of joy!Man lived not then so crown'd as I with joy,Man lives not now such wretched days and nights;And my full festering grief but swells the songWhich from my bosom draws the mournful rhyme;I lived in hope, who now live but in tears,Nor against death have other hope save death!Me Death in her has kill'd; and only DeathCan to my sight restore that face of joy,Which pleasant made to me e'en sighs and tears,Balmy the air, and dewy soft the nights,Wherein my choicest thoughts I gave to rhymeWhile Love inspirited my feeble song!Would that such power as erst graced Orpheus' songWere mine to win my Laura back from death,As he Eurydice without a rhyme;Then would I live in best excess of joy;Or, that denied me, soon may some sad nightClose for me ever these twin founts of tears!Love! I have told with late and early tears,My grievous injuries in doleful song;Not that I hope from thee less cruel nights;And therefore am I urged to pray for death,Which hence would take me but to crown with joy,Where lives she whom I sing in this sad rhyme!If so high may aspire my weary rhyme,To her now shelter'd safe from rage and tears,Whose beauties fill e'en heaven with livelier joy,Well would she recognise my alter'd song,Which haply pleased her once, ere yet by deathHer days were cloudless made and dark my nights!O ye, who fondly sigh for better nights,Who listen to love's will, or sing in rhyme,Pray that for me be no delay in death,The port of misery, the goal of tears,But let him change for me his ancient song,Since what makes others sad fills me with joy!Ay! for such joy, in one or in few nights,I pray in rude song and in anguish'd rhyme,That soon my tears may ended be in death!Macgregor.
Myfavouring fortune and my life of joy,My days so cloudless, and my tranquil nights,The tender sigh, the pleasing power of song,Which gently wont to sound in verse and rhyme,Suddenly darken'd into grief and tears,Make me hate life and inly pray for death!
O cruel, grim, inexorable Death!How hast thou dried my every source of joy,And left me to drag on a life of tears,Through darkling days and melancholy nights.My heavy sighs no longer meet in rhyme,And my hard martyrdom exceeds all song!
Where now is vanish'd my once amorous song?To talk of anger and to treat with death;Where the fond verses, where the happy rhymeWelcomed by gentle hearts with pensive joy?Where now Love's communings that cheer'd my nights?My sole theme, my one thought, is now but tears!
Erewhile to my desire so sweet were tearsTheir tenderness refined my else rude song,And made me wake and watch the livelong nights;But sorrow now to me is worse than death,Since lost for aye that look of modest joy,The lofty subject of my lowly rhyme!
Love in those bright eyes to my ready rhymeGave a fair theme, now changed, alas! to tears;With grief remembering that time of joy,My changed thoughts issue find in other song,Evermore thee beseeching, pallid Death,To snatch and save me from these painful nights!
Sleep has departed from my anguish'd nights,Music is absent from my rugged rhyme,Which knows not now to sound of aught but death;Its notes, so thrilling once, all turn'd to tears,Love knows not in his reign such varied song,As full of sadness now as then of joy!
Man lived not then so crown'd as I with joy,Man lives not now such wretched days and nights;And my full festering grief but swells the songWhich from my bosom draws the mournful rhyme;I lived in hope, who now live but in tears,Nor against death have other hope save death!
Me Death in her has kill'd; and only DeathCan to my sight restore that face of joy,Which pleasant made to me e'en sighs and tears,Balmy the air, and dewy soft the nights,Wherein my choicest thoughts I gave to rhymeWhile Love inspirited my feeble song!
Would that such power as erst graced Orpheus' songWere mine to win my Laura back from death,As he Eurydice without a rhyme;Then would I live in best excess of joy;Or, that denied me, soon may some sad nightClose for me ever these twin founts of tears!
Love! I have told with late and early tears,My grievous injuries in doleful song;Not that I hope from thee less cruel nights;And therefore am I urged to pray for death,Which hence would take me but to crown with joy,Where lives she whom I sing in this sad rhyme!
If so high may aspire my weary rhyme,To her now shelter'd safe from rage and tears,Whose beauties fill e'en heaven with livelier joy,Well would she recognise my alter'd song,Which haply pleased her once, ere yet by deathHer days were cloudless made and dark my nights!
O ye, who fondly sigh for better nights,Who listen to love's will, or sing in rhyme,Pray that for me be no delay in death,The port of misery, the goal of tears,But let him change for me his ancient song,Since what makes others sad fills me with joy!
Ay! for such joy, in one or in few nights,I pray in rude song and in anguish'd rhyme,That soon my tears may ended be in death!
Macgregor.
Go, plaintive verse, to the cold marble go,Which hides in earth my treasure from these eyes;There call on her who answers from yon skies,Although the mortal part dwells dark and low.Of life how I am wearied make her know,Of stemming these dread waves that round me rise:But, copying all her virtues I so prize,Her track I follow, yet my steps are slow.I sing of her, living, or dead, alone;(Dead, did I say? She is immortal made!)That by the world she should be loved, and known.Oh! in my passage hence may she be near,To greet my coming that's not long delay'd;And may I hold in heaven the rank herself holds there!Nott.
Go, plaintive verse, to the cold marble go,Which hides in earth my treasure from these eyes;There call on her who answers from yon skies,Although the mortal part dwells dark and low.Of life how I am wearied make her know,Of stemming these dread waves that round me rise:But, copying all her virtues I so prize,Her track I follow, yet my steps are slow.I sing of her, living, or dead, alone;(Dead, did I say? She is immortal made!)That by the world she should be loved, and known.Oh! in my passage hence may she be near,To greet my coming that's not long delay'd;And may I hold in heaven the rank herself holds there!
Nott.
Go, melancholy rhymes! your tribute bringTo that cold stone, which holds the dear remainsOf all that earth held precious;—uttering,If heaven should deign to hear them, earthly strains.Tell her, that sport of tempests, fit no moreTo stem the troublous ocean,—here at lastHer votary treads the solitary shore;His only pleasure to recall the past.Tell her, that she who living ruled his fate,In death still holds her empire: all his care,So grant the Muse her aid,—to celebrateHer every word, and thought, and action fair.Be this my meed, that in the hour of deathHer kindred spirit may hail, and bless my parting breath!Woodhouselee.
Go, melancholy rhymes! your tribute bringTo that cold stone, which holds the dear remainsOf all that earth held precious;—uttering,If heaven should deign to hear them, earthly strains.Tell her, that sport of tempests, fit no moreTo stem the troublous ocean,—here at lastHer votary treads the solitary shore;His only pleasure to recall the past.Tell her, that she who living ruled his fate,In death still holds her empire: all his care,So grant the Muse her aid,—to celebrateHer every word, and thought, and action fair.Be this my meed, that in the hour of deathHer kindred spirit may hail, and bless my parting breath!
Woodhouselee.
IfMercy e'er rewardeth virtuous love,If Pity still can do, as she has done,I shall have rest, for clearer than the sunMy lady and the world my faith approve.Who fear'd me once, now knows, yet scarce believesI am the same who wont her love to seek,Who seek it still; where she but heard me speak,Or saw my face, she now my soul perceives.Wherefore I hope that e'en in heaven she mournsMy heavy anguish, and on me the whileHer sweet face eloquent of pity turns,And that when shuffled off this mortal coil,Her way to me with that fair band she'll wend,True follower of Christ and virtue's friend.Macgregor.
IfMercy e'er rewardeth virtuous love,If Pity still can do, as she has done,I shall have rest, for clearer than the sunMy lady and the world my faith approve.Who fear'd me once, now knows, yet scarce believesI am the same who wont her love to seek,Who seek it still; where she but heard me speak,Or saw my face, she now my soul perceives.Wherefore I hope that e'en in heaven she mournsMy heavy anguish, and on me the whileHer sweet face eloquent of pity turns,And that when shuffled off this mortal coil,Her way to me with that fair band she'll wend,True follower of Christ and virtue's friend.
Macgregor.
Ifvirtuous love doth merit recompense—If pity still maintain its wonted sway—I that reward shall win, for bright as dayTo earth and Laura breathes my faith's incense.She fear'd me once—now heavenly confidenceReveals my heart's first hope's unchanging stay;A word, a look, could this alone convey,My heart she reads now, stripp'd of earth's defence.And thus I hope, she for my heavy sighsTo heaven complains, to me she pity showsBy sympathetic visits in my dream:And when this mortal temple breathless lies,Oh! may she greet my soul, enclosed by thoseWhom heaven and virtue love—our friends supreme.Wollaston.
Ifvirtuous love doth merit recompense—If pity still maintain its wonted sway—I that reward shall win, for bright as dayTo earth and Laura breathes my faith's incense.She fear'd me once—now heavenly confidenceReveals my heart's first hope's unchanging stay;A word, a look, could this alone convey,My heart she reads now, stripp'd of earth's defence.And thus I hope, she for my heavy sighsTo heaven complains, to me she pity showsBy sympathetic visits in my dream:And when this mortal temple breathless lies,Oh! may she greet my soul, enclosed by thoseWhom heaven and virtue love—our friends supreme.
Wollaston.
'Midmany fair one such by me was seenThat amorous fears my heart did instant seize,Beholding her—nor false the images—Equal to angels in her heavenly mien.Nothing in her was mortal or terrene,As one whom nothing short of heaven can please;My soul well train'd for her to burn and freezeSought in her wake to mount the blue serene.But ah! too high for earthly wings to riseHer pitch, and soon she wholly pass'd from sight:The very thought still makes me cold and numb;O beautiful and high and lustrous eyes,Where Death, who fills the world with grief and fright,Found entrance in so fair a form to come.Macgregor.
'Midmany fair one such by me was seenThat amorous fears my heart did instant seize,Beholding her—nor false the images—Equal to angels in her heavenly mien.Nothing in her was mortal or terrene,As one whom nothing short of heaven can please;My soul well train'd for her to burn and freezeSought in her wake to mount the blue serene.But ah! too high for earthly wings to riseHer pitch, and soon she wholly pass'd from sight:The very thought still makes me cold and numb;O beautiful and high and lustrous eyes,Where Death, who fills the world with grief and fright,Found entrance in so fair a form to come.
Macgregor.
Oh!to my soul for ever she returns;Or rather Lethe could not blot her thence,Such as she was when first she struck my sense,In that bright blushing age when beauty burns:So still I see her, bashful as she turnsRetired into herself, as from offence:I cry—"'Tis she! she still has life and sense:Oh, speak to me, my love!"—Sometimes she spurnsMy call; sometimes she seems to answer straight:Then, starting from my waking dream, I say,—"Alas! poor wretch, thou art of mind bereft!Forget'st thou the first hour of the sixth dayOf April, the three hundred, forty eight,And thousandth year,—when she her earthly mansion left?"Morehead.
Oh!to my soul for ever she returns;Or rather Lethe could not blot her thence,Such as she was when first she struck my sense,In that bright blushing age when beauty burns:So still I see her, bashful as she turnsRetired into herself, as from offence:I cry—"'Tis she! she still has life and sense:Oh, speak to me, my love!"—Sometimes she spurnsMy call; sometimes she seems to answer straight:Then, starting from my waking dream, I say,—"Alas! poor wretch, thou art of mind bereft!Forget'st thou the first hour of the sixth dayOf April, the three hundred, forty eight,And thousandth year,—when she her earthly mansion left?"
Morehead.
Mymind recalls her; nay, her home is there,Nor can Lethean draught drive thence her form,I see that star's pure ray her spirit warm,Whose grace and spring-time beauty she doth wear.As thus my vision paints her charms so rare,That none to such perfection may conform,I cry, "'Tis she! death doth to life transform!"And then to hear that voice, I wake my prayer.She now replies, and now doth mute appear,Like one whose tottering mind regains its power;I speak my heart: "Thou must this cheat resign;The thirteen hundred, eight and fortieth year,The sixth of April's suns, his first bright hour,Thou know'st that soul celestial fled its shrine!"Wollaston.
Mymind recalls her; nay, her home is there,Nor can Lethean draught drive thence her form,I see that star's pure ray her spirit warm,Whose grace and spring-time beauty she doth wear.As thus my vision paints her charms so rare,That none to such perfection may conform,I cry, "'Tis she! death doth to life transform!"And then to hear that voice, I wake my prayer.She now replies, and now doth mute appear,Like one whose tottering mind regains its power;I speak my heart: "Thou must this cheat resign;The thirteen hundred, eight and fortieth year,The sixth of April's suns, his first bright hour,Thou know'st that soul celestial fled its shrine!"
Wollaston.
Thisgift of beauty which a good men name,Frail, fleeting, fancied, false, a wind, a shade,Ne'er yet with all its spells one fair array'd,Save in this age when for my cost it came.Not such is Nature's duty, nor her aim,One to enrich if others poor are made,But now on one is all her wealth display'd,—Ladies, your pardon let my boldness claim.Like loveliness ne'er lived, or old or new,Nor ever shall, I ween, but hid so strange,Scarce did our erring world its marvel view,So soon it fled; thus too my soul must changeThe little light vouchsafed me from the skiesOnly for pleasure of her sainted eyes.Macgregor.
Thisgift of beauty which a good men name,Frail, fleeting, fancied, false, a wind, a shade,Ne'er yet with all its spells one fair array'd,Save in this age when for my cost it came.Not such is Nature's duty, nor her aim,One to enrich if others poor are made,But now on one is all her wealth display'd,—Ladies, your pardon let my boldness claim.Like loveliness ne'er lived, or old or new,Nor ever shall, I ween, but hid so strange,Scarce did our erring world its marvel view,So soon it fled; thus too my soul must changeThe little light vouchsafed me from the skiesOnly for pleasure of her sainted eyes.
Macgregor.
O Time!O heavens! whose flying changes frameErrors and snares for mortals poor and blind;O days more swift than arrows or the wind,Experienced now, I know your treacherous aim.You I excuse, myself alone I blame,For Nature for your flight who wings design'dTo me gave eyes which still I have inclinedTo mine own ill, whence follow grief and shame.An hour will come, haply e'en now is pass'd,Their sight to turn on my diviner partAnd so this infinite anguish end at last.Rejects not your long yoke, O Love, my heart,But its own ill by study, sufferings vast:Virtue is not of chance, but painful art.Macgregor.
O Time!O heavens! whose flying changes frameErrors and snares for mortals poor and blind;O days more swift than arrows or the wind,Experienced now, I know your treacherous aim.You I excuse, myself alone I blame,For Nature for your flight who wings design'dTo me gave eyes which still I have inclinedTo mine own ill, whence follow grief and shame.An hour will come, haply e'en now is pass'd,Their sight to turn on my diviner partAnd so this infinite anguish end at last.Rejects not your long yoke, O Love, my heart,But its own ill by study, sufferings vast:Virtue is not of chance, but painful art.
Macgregor.
O Time!O circling heavens! in your flightUs mortals ye deceive—so poor and blind;O days! more fleeting than the shaft or wind,Experience brings your treachery to my sight!But mine the error—ye yourselves are right;Your flight fulfils but that your wings design'd:My eyes were Nature's gift, yet ne'er could findBut one blest light—and hence their present blight.It now is time (perchance the hour is pass'd)That they a safer dwelling should select,And thus repose might soothe my grief acute:Love's yoke the spirit may not from it cast,(With oh what pain!) it may its ill eject;But virtue is attain'd but by pursuit!Wollaston.
O Time!O circling heavens! in your flightUs mortals ye deceive—so poor and blind;O days! more fleeting than the shaft or wind,Experience brings your treachery to my sight!But mine the error—ye yourselves are right;Your flight fulfils but that your wings design'd:My eyes were Nature's gift, yet ne'er could findBut one blest light—and hence their present blight.It now is time (perchance the hour is pass'd)That they a safer dwelling should select,And thus repose might soothe my grief acute:Love's yoke the spirit may not from it cast,(With oh what pain!) it may its ill eject;But virtue is attain'd but by pursuit!
Wollaston.
Thatwhich in fragrance and in hue defiedThe odoriferous and lucid East,Fruits, flowers and herbs and leaves, and whence the WestOf all rare excellence obtain'd the prize,My laurel sweet, which every beauty graced,Where every glowing virtue loved to dwell,Beheld beneath its fair and friendly shadeMy Lord, and by his side my Goddess sit.Still have I placed in that beloved plantMy home of choicest thoughts: in fire, in frostShivering or burning, still I have been bless'd.The world was of her perfect honours fullWhen God, his own bright heaven therewith to grace,Reclaim'd her for Himself, for she was his.Macgregor.
Thatwhich in fragrance and in hue defiedThe odoriferous and lucid East,Fruits, flowers and herbs and leaves, and whence the WestOf all rare excellence obtain'd the prize,My laurel sweet, which every beauty graced,Where every glowing virtue loved to dwell,Beheld beneath its fair and friendly shadeMy Lord, and by his side my Goddess sit.Still have I placed in that beloved plantMy home of choicest thoughts: in fire, in frostShivering or burning, still I have been bless'd.The world was of her perfect honours fullWhen God, his own bright heaven therewith to grace,Reclaim'd her for Himself, for she was his.
Macgregor.
Death, thou the world, since that dire arrow sped,Sunless and cold hast left; Love weak and blind;Beauty and grace their brilliance have resign'd,And from my heavy heart all joy is fled;Honour is sunk, and softness banishèd.I weep alone the woes which all my kindShould weep—for virtue's fairest flower has pinedBeneath thy touch: what second blooms instead?Let earth, sea, air, with common wail bemoanMan's hapless race; which now, since Laura died,A flowerless mead, a gemless ring appears.The world possess'd, nor knew her worth, till flown!I knew it well, who here in grief abide;And heaven too knows, which decks its forehead with my tears.Wrangham.
Death, thou the world, since that dire arrow sped,Sunless and cold hast left; Love weak and blind;Beauty and grace their brilliance have resign'd,And from my heavy heart all joy is fled;Honour is sunk, and softness banishèd.I weep alone the woes which all my kindShould weep—for virtue's fairest flower has pinedBeneath thy touch: what second blooms instead?Let earth, sea, air, with common wail bemoanMan's hapless race; which now, since Laura died,A flowerless mead, a gemless ring appears.The world possess'd, nor knew her worth, till flown!I knew it well, who here in grief abide;And heaven too knows, which decks its forehead with my tears.
Wrangham.
Thou, Death, hast left this world's dark cheerless wayWithout a sun: Love blind and stripp'd of arms;Left mirth despoil'd; beauty bereaved of charms;And me self-wearied, to myself a prey;Left vanish'd, sunk, whate'er was courteous, gay:I only weep, yet all must feel alarms:If beauty's bud the hand of rapine harmsIt dies, and not a second views the day!Let air, earth, ocean weep for human kind;For human kind, deprived of Laura, seemsA flowerless mead, a ring whose gem is lost.None knew her worth while to this orb confined,Save me her bard, whose sorrow ceaseless streams,And heaven, that's made more beauteous at my cost.Nott.
Thou, Death, hast left this world's dark cheerless wayWithout a sun: Love blind and stripp'd of arms;Left mirth despoil'd; beauty bereaved of charms;And me self-wearied, to myself a prey;Left vanish'd, sunk, whate'er was courteous, gay:I only weep, yet all must feel alarms:If beauty's bud the hand of rapine harmsIt dies, and not a second views the day!Let air, earth, ocean weep for human kind;For human kind, deprived of Laura, seemsA flowerless mead, a ring whose gem is lost.None knew her worth while to this orb confined,Save me her bard, whose sorrow ceaseless streams,And heaven, that's made more beauteous at my cost.
Nott.
Sofar as to mine eyes its light heaven show'd,So far as love and study train'd my wings,Novel and beautiful but mortal thingsFrom every star I found on her bestow'd:So many forms in rare and varied modeOf heavenly beauty from immortal springsMy panting intellect before me brings,Sunk my weak sight before their dazzling load.Hence, whatsoe'er I spoke of her or wrote,Who, at God's right, returns me now her prayers,Is in that infinite abyss a mote:For style beyond the genius never dares;Thus, though upon the sun man fix his sight,He seeth less as fiercer burns its light.Macgregor.
Sofar as to mine eyes its light heaven show'd,So far as love and study train'd my wings,Novel and beautiful but mortal thingsFrom every star I found on her bestow'd:So many forms in rare and varied modeOf heavenly beauty from immortal springsMy panting intellect before me brings,Sunk my weak sight before their dazzling load.Hence, whatsoe'er I spoke of her or wrote,Who, at God's right, returns me now her prayers,Is in that infinite abyss a mote:For style beyond the genius never dares;Thus, though upon the sun man fix his sight,He seeth less as fiercer burns its light.
Macgregor.
Dearprecious pledge, by Nature snatch'd away,But yet reserved for me in realms undying;O thou on whom my life is aye relying,Why tarry thus, when for thine aid I pray?Time was, when sleep could to mine eyes conveySweet visions, worthy thee;—why is my sighingUnheeded now?—who keeps thee from replying?Surely contempt in heaven cannot stay:Often on earth the gentlest heart is fainTo feed and banquet on another's woe(Thus love is conquer'd in his own domain),But thou, who seest through me, and dost knowAll that I feel,—thou, who canst soothe my pain,Oh! let thy blessed shade its peace bestow.Wrottesley.
Dearprecious pledge, by Nature snatch'd away,But yet reserved for me in realms undying;O thou on whom my life is aye relying,Why tarry thus, when for thine aid I pray?Time was, when sleep could to mine eyes conveySweet visions, worthy thee;—why is my sighingUnheeded now?—who keeps thee from replying?Surely contempt in heaven cannot stay:Often on earth the gentlest heart is fainTo feed and banquet on another's woe(Thus love is conquer'd in his own domain),But thou, who seest through me, and dost knowAll that I feel,—thou, who canst soothe my pain,Oh! let thy blessed shade its peace bestow.
Wrottesley.
Whatangel of compassion, hovering near,Heard, and to heaven my heart grief instant bore,Whence now I feel descending as of yoreMy lady, in that bearing chaste and dear,My lone and melancholy heart to cheer,So free from pride, of humbleness such store,In fine, so perfect, though at death's own door,I live, and life no more is dull and drear.Blessèd is she who so can others blessWith her fair sight, or with that tender speechTo whose full meaning love alone can reach."Dear friend," she says, "thy pangs my soul distress;But for our good I did thy homage shun"—In sweetest tones which might arrest the sun.Macgregor.
Whatangel of compassion, hovering near,Heard, and to heaven my heart grief instant bore,Whence now I feel descending as of yoreMy lady, in that bearing chaste and dear,My lone and melancholy heart to cheer,So free from pride, of humbleness such store,In fine, so perfect, though at death's own door,I live, and life no more is dull and drear.Blessèd is she who so can others blessWith her fair sight, or with that tender speechTo whose full meaning love alone can reach."Dear friend," she says, "thy pangs my soul distress;But for our good I did thy homage shun"—In sweetest tones which might arrest the sun.
Macgregor.
Foodwherewithal my lord is well supplied,With tears and grief my weary heart I've fed;As fears within and paleness o'er me spread,Oft thinking on its fatal wound and wide:But in her time with whom no other vied,Equal or second, to my suffering bedComes she to look on whom I almost dread,And takes her seat in pity by my side.With that fair hand, so long desired in vain,She check'd my tears, while at her accents creptA sweetness to my soul, intense, divine."Is this thy wisdom, to parade thy pain?No longer weep! hast thou not amply wept?Would that such life were thine as death is mine!"Macgregor.
Foodwherewithal my lord is well supplied,With tears and grief my weary heart I've fed;As fears within and paleness o'er me spread,Oft thinking on its fatal wound and wide:But in her time with whom no other vied,Equal or second, to my suffering bedComes she to look on whom I almost dread,And takes her seat in pity by my side.With that fair hand, so long desired in vain,She check'd my tears, while at her accents creptA sweetness to my soul, intense, divine."Is this thy wisdom, to parade thy pain?No longer weep! hast thou not amply wept?Would that such life were thine as death is mine!"
Macgregor.