Alas! fair Liberty, thus left by thee,Well hast thou taught my discontented heartTo mourn the peace it felt, ere yet Love's dartDealt me the wound which heal'd can never be;Mine eyes so charm'd with their own weakness growThat my dull mind of reason spurns the chain;All worldly occupation they disdain,Ah! that I should myself have train'd them so.Naught, save of her who is my death, mine earConsents to learn; and from my tongue there flowsNo accent save the name to me so dear;Love to no other chase my spirit spurs,No other path my feet pursue; nor knowsMy hand to write in other praise but hers.Macgregor.
Alas! fair Liberty, thus left by thee,Well hast thou taught my discontented heartTo mourn the peace it felt, ere yet Love's dartDealt me the wound which heal'd can never be;Mine eyes so charm'd with their own weakness growThat my dull mind of reason spurns the chain;All worldly occupation they disdain,Ah! that I should myself have train'd them so.Naught, save of her who is my death, mine earConsents to learn; and from my tongue there flowsNo accent save the name to me so dear;Love to no other chase my spirit spurs,No other path my feet pursue; nor knowsMy hand to write in other praise but hers.
Macgregor.
Alas, sweet Liberty! in speeding hence,Too well didst thou reveal unto my heartIts careless joy, ere Love ensheathed his dart,Of whose dread wound I ne'er can lose the senseMy eyes, enamour'd of their grief intense,Did in that hour from Reason's bridle start,Thus used to woe, they have no wish to part;Each other mortal work is an offence.No other theme will now my soul contentThan she who plants my death, with whose blest nameI make the air resound in echoes sweet:Love spurs me to her as his only bent,My hand can trace nought other but her fame,No other spot attracts my willing feet.Wollaston.
Alas, sweet Liberty! in speeding hence,Too well didst thou reveal unto my heartIts careless joy, ere Love ensheathed his dart,Of whose dread wound I ne'er can lose the senseMy eyes, enamour'd of their grief intense,Did in that hour from Reason's bridle start,Thus used to woe, they have no wish to part;Each other mortal work is an offence.No other theme will now my soul contentThan she who plants my death, with whose blest nameI make the air resound in echoes sweet:Love spurs me to her as his only bent,My hand can trace nought other but her fame,No other spot attracts my willing feet.
Wollaston.
Orso, a curb upon thy gallant horseWell may we place to turn him from his course,But who thy heart may bind against its willWhich honour courts and shuns dishonour still?Sigh not! for nought its praise away can take,Though Fate this journey hinder you to make.For, as already voiced by general fame,Now is it there, and none before it came.Amid the camp, upon the day design'd,Enough itself beneath those arms to findWhich youth, love, valour, and near blood concern,Crying aloud: With noble fire I burn,As my good lord unwillingly at home,Who pines and languishes in vain to come.Macgregor.
Orso, a curb upon thy gallant horseWell may we place to turn him from his course,But who thy heart may bind against its willWhich honour courts and shuns dishonour still?Sigh not! for nought its praise away can take,Though Fate this journey hinder you to make.For, as already voiced by general fame,Now is it there, and none before it came.Amid the camp, upon the day design'd,Enough itself beneath those arms to findWhich youth, love, valour, and near blood concern,Crying aloud: With noble fire I burn,As my good lord unwillingly at home,Who pines and languishes in vain to come.
Macgregor.
Stillhas it been our bitter lot to proveHow hope, or e'er it reach fruition, flies!Up then to that high good, which never dies,Lift we the heart—to heaven's pure bliss above.On earth, as in a tempting mead, we rove,Where coil'd 'mid flowers the traitor serpent lies;And, if some casual glimpse delight our eyes,'Tis but to grieve the soul enthrall'd by Love.Oh! then, as thou wouldst wish ere life's last dayTo taste the sweets of calm unbroken rest,Tread firm the narrow, shun the beaten way—Ah! to thy friend too well may be address'd:"Thou show'st a path, thyself most apt to stray,Which late thy truant feet, fond youth, have never press'd."Wrangham.
Stillhas it been our bitter lot to proveHow hope, or e'er it reach fruition, flies!Up then to that high good, which never dies,Lift we the heart—to heaven's pure bliss above.On earth, as in a tempting mead, we rove,Where coil'd 'mid flowers the traitor serpent lies;And, if some casual glimpse delight our eyes,'Tis but to grieve the soul enthrall'd by Love.Oh! then, as thou wouldst wish ere life's last dayTo taste the sweets of calm unbroken rest,Tread firm the narrow, shun the beaten way—Ah! to thy friend too well may be address'd:"Thou show'st a path, thyself most apt to stray,Which late thy truant feet, fond youth, have never press'd."
Wrangham.
Friend, as we both in confidence complainTo see our ill-placed hopes return in vain,Let that chief good which must for ever pleaseExalt our thought and fix our happiness.This world as some gay flowery field is spread,Which hides a serpent in its painted bed,And most it wounds when most it charms our eyes,At once the tempter and the paradise.And would you, then, sweet peace of mind restore,And in fair calm expect your parting hour,Leave the mad train, and court the happy few.Well may it be replied, "O friend, you showOthers the path, from which so often youHave stray'd, and now stray farther than before."Basil Kennet.
Friend, as we both in confidence complainTo see our ill-placed hopes return in vain,Let that chief good which must for ever pleaseExalt our thought and fix our happiness.This world as some gay flowery field is spread,Which hides a serpent in its painted bed,And most it wounds when most it charms our eyes,At once the tempter and the paradise.And would you, then, sweet peace of mind restore,And in fair calm expect your parting hour,Leave the mad train, and court the happy few.Well may it be replied, "O friend, you showOthers the path, from which so often youHave stray'd, and now stray farther than before."
Basil Kennet.
Thatwindow where my sun is often seenRefulgent, and the world's at morning's hours;And that, where Boreas blows, when winter lowers,And the short days reveal a clouded scene;That bench of stone where, with a pensive mien,My Laura sits, forgetting beauty's powers;Haunts where her shadow strikes the walls or flowers,And her feet press the paths or herbage green:The place where Love assail'd me with success;And spring, the fatal time that, first observed,Revives the keen remembrance every year;With looks and words, that o'er me have preservedA power no length of time can render less,Call to my eyes the sadly-soothing tear.Penn.
Thatwindow where my sun is often seenRefulgent, and the world's at morning's hours;And that, where Boreas blows, when winter lowers,And the short days reveal a clouded scene;That bench of stone where, with a pensive mien,My Laura sits, forgetting beauty's powers;Haunts where her shadow strikes the walls or flowers,And her feet press the paths or herbage green:The place where Love assail'd me with success;And spring, the fatal time that, first observed,Revives the keen remembrance every year;With looks and words, that o'er me have preservedA power no length of time can render less,Call to my eyes the sadly-soothing tear.
Penn.
Thatwindow where my sun is ever seen,Dazzling and bright, and Nature's at the none;And that where still, when Boreas rude has blownIn the short days, the air thrills cold and keen:The stone where, at high noon, her seat has been,Pensive and parleying with herself alone:Haunts where her bright form has its shadow thrown,Or trod her fairy foot the carpet green:The cruel spot where first Love spoil'd my rest,And the new season which, from year to year,Opes, on this day, the old wound in my breast:The seraph face, the sweet words, chaste and dear,Which in my suffering heart are deep impress'd,All melt my fond eyes to the frequent tear.Macgregor.
Thatwindow where my sun is ever seen,Dazzling and bright, and Nature's at the none;And that where still, when Boreas rude has blownIn the short days, the air thrills cold and keen:The stone where, at high noon, her seat has been,Pensive and parleying with herself alone:Haunts where her bright form has its shadow thrown,Or trod her fairy foot the carpet green:The cruel spot where first Love spoil'd my rest,And the new season which, from year to year,Opes, on this day, the old wound in my breast:The seraph face, the sweet words, chaste and dear,Which in my suffering heart are deep impress'd,All melt my fond eyes to the frequent tear.
Macgregor.
Alas! well know I what sad havoc makesDeath of our kind, how Fate no mortal spares!How soon the world whom once it loved forsakes,How short the faith it to the friendless bears!Much languishment, I see, small mercy wakes;For the last day though now my heart prepares,Love not a whit my cruel prison breaks,And still my cheek grief's wonted tribute wears.I mark the days, the moments, and the hoursBear the full years along, nor find deceit,Bow'd 'neath a greater force than magic spell.For fourteen years have fought with varying powersDesire and Reason: and the best shall beat;If mortal spirits here can good foretell.Macgregor.
Alas! well know I what sad havoc makesDeath of our kind, how Fate no mortal spares!How soon the world whom once it loved forsakes,How short the faith it to the friendless bears!Much languishment, I see, small mercy wakes;For the last day though now my heart prepares,Love not a whit my cruel prison breaks,And still my cheek grief's wonted tribute wears.I mark the days, the moments, and the hoursBear the full years along, nor find deceit,Bow'd 'neath a greater force than magic spell.For fourteen years have fought with varying powersDesire and Reason: and the best shall beat;If mortal spirits here can good foretell.
Macgregor.
Alas! I know death makes us all his prey,Nor aught of mercy shows to destined man;How swift the world completes its circling span,And faithless Time soon speeds him on his way.My heart repeats the blast of earth's last day,Yet for its grief no recompense can scan,Love holds me still beneath its cruel ban,And still my eyes their usual tribute pay.My watchful senses mark how on their wingThe circling years transport their fleeter kin,And still I bow enslaved as by a spell:For fourteen years did reason proudly flingDefiance at my tameless will, to winA triumph blest, if Man can good foretell.Wollaston.
Alas! I know death makes us all his prey,Nor aught of mercy shows to destined man;How swift the world completes its circling span,And faithless Time soon speeds him on his way.My heart repeats the blast of earth's last day,Yet for its grief no recompense can scan,Love holds me still beneath its cruel ban,And still my eyes their usual tribute pay.My watchful senses mark how on their wingThe circling years transport their fleeter kin,And still I bow enslaved as by a spell:For fourteen years did reason proudly flingDefiance at my tameless will, to winA triumph blest, if Man can good foretell.
Wollaston.
WhenEgypt's traitor Pompey's honour'd headTo Cæsar sent; then, records so relate,To shroud a gladness manifestly great,Some feigned tears the specious monarch shed:And, when misfortune her dark mantle spreadO'er Hannibal, and his afflicted state,He laugh'd 'midst those who wept their adverse fate,That rank despite to wreak defeat had bred.Thus doth the mind oft variously concealIts several passions by a different veil;Now with a countenance that's sad, now gay:So mirth and song if sometimes I employ,'Tis but to hide those sorrows that annoy,'Tis but to chase my amorous cares away.Nott.
WhenEgypt's traitor Pompey's honour'd headTo Cæsar sent; then, records so relate,To shroud a gladness manifestly great,Some feigned tears the specious monarch shed:And, when misfortune her dark mantle spreadO'er Hannibal, and his afflicted state,He laugh'd 'midst those who wept their adverse fate,That rank despite to wreak defeat had bred.Thus doth the mind oft variously concealIts several passions by a different veil;Now with a countenance that's sad, now gay:So mirth and song if sometimes I employ,'Tis but to hide those sorrows that annoy,'Tis but to chase my amorous cares away.
Nott.
Cæsar, when Egypt's cringing traitor broughtThe gory gift of Pompey's honour'd head,Check'd the full gladness of his instant thought,And specious tears of well-feign'd pity shed:And Hannibal, when adverse Fortune wroughtOn his afflicted empire evils dread,'Mid shamed and sorrowing friends, by laughter, soughtTo ease the anger at his heart that fed.Thus, as the mind its every feeling hides,Beneath an aspect contrary, the mien,Bright'ning with hope or charged with gloom, is seen.Thus ever if I sing, or smile betides,The outward joy serves only to concealThe inner ail and anguish that I feel.Macgregor.
Cæsar, when Egypt's cringing traitor broughtThe gory gift of Pompey's honour'd head,Check'd the full gladness of his instant thought,And specious tears of well-feign'd pity shed:And Hannibal, when adverse Fortune wroughtOn his afflicted empire evils dread,'Mid shamed and sorrowing friends, by laughter, soughtTo ease the anger at his heart that fed.Thus, as the mind its every feeling hides,Beneath an aspect contrary, the mien,Bright'ning with hope or charged with gloom, is seen.Thus ever if I sing, or smile betides,The outward joy serves only to concealThe inner ail and anguish that I feel.
Macgregor.
Hannibalconquer'd oft, but never knewThe fruits and gain of victory to get,Wherefore, dear lord, be wise, take care that yetA like misfortune happen not to you.Still in their lair the cubs and she-bear,[Q]whoRough pasturage and sour in May have met,With mad rage gnash their teeth and talons whet,And vengeance of past loss on us pursue:While this new grief disheartens and appalls,Replace not in its sheath your honour'd sword,But, boldly following where your fortune calls,E'en to its goal be glory's path explored,Which fame and honour to the world may giveThat e'en for centuries after death will live.Macgregor.
Hannibalconquer'd oft, but never knewThe fruits and gain of victory to get,Wherefore, dear lord, be wise, take care that yetA like misfortune happen not to you.Still in their lair the cubs and she-bear,[Q]whoRough pasturage and sour in May have met,With mad rage gnash their teeth and talons whet,And vengeance of past loss on us pursue:While this new grief disheartens and appalls,Replace not in its sheath your honour'd sword,But, boldly following where your fortune calls,E'en to its goal be glory's path explored,Which fame and honour to the world may giveThat e'en for centuries after death will live.
Macgregor.
Sweetvirtue's blossom had its promise shedWithin thy breast (when Love became thy foe);Fair as the flower, now its fruit doth glow,And not by visions hath my hope been fed.To hail thee thus, I by my heart am led,That by my pen thy name renown should know;No marble can the lasting fame bestowLike that by poets' characters is spread.Dost think Marcellus' or proud Cæsar's name,Or Africanus, Paulus—still resound,That sculptors proud have effigied their deed?No, Pandolph, frail the statuary's fame,For immortality alone is foundWithin the records of a poet's meed.Wollaston.
Sweetvirtue's blossom had its promise shedWithin thy breast (when Love became thy foe);Fair as the flower, now its fruit doth glow,And not by visions hath my hope been fed.To hail thee thus, I by my heart am led,That by my pen thy name renown should know;No marble can the lasting fame bestowLike that by poets' characters is spread.Dost think Marcellus' or proud Cæsar's name,Or Africanus, Paulus—still resound,That sculptors proud have effigied their deed?No, Pandolph, frail the statuary's fame,For immortality alone is foundWithin the records of a poet's meed.
Wollaston.
Theflower, in youth which virtue's promise bore,When Love in your pure heart first sought to dwell,Now beareth fruit that flower which matches well,And my long hopes are richly come ashore,Prompting my spirit some glad verse to pourWhere to due honour your high name may swell,For what can finest marble truly tellOf living mortal than the form he wore?Think you great Cæsar's or Marcellus' name,That Paulus, Africanus to our days,By anvil or by hammer ever came?No! frail the sculptor's power for lasting praise:Our study, my Pandolfo, only canGive immortality of fame to man.Macgregor.
Theflower, in youth which virtue's promise bore,When Love in your pure heart first sought to dwell,Now beareth fruit that flower which matches well,And my long hopes are richly come ashore,Prompting my spirit some glad verse to pourWhere to due honour your high name may swell,For what can finest marble truly tellOf living mortal than the form he wore?Think you great Cæsar's or Marcellus' name,That Paulus, Africanus to our days,By anvil or by hammer ever came?No! frail the sculptor's power for lasting praise:Our study, my Pandolfo, only canGive immortality of fame to man.
Macgregor.
Nevermore shall I sing, as I have sung:For still she heeded not; and I was scorn'd:So e'en in loveliest spots is trouble found.Unceasingly to sigh is no relief.Already on the Alp snow gathers round:Already day is near; and I awake.An affable and modest air is sweet;And in a lovely lady that she beNoble and dignified, not proud and cold,Well pleases it to find.Love o'er his empire rules without a sword.He who has miss'd his way let him turn back:Who has no home the heath must be his bed:Who lost or has not gold,Will sate his thirst at the clear crystal spring.I trusted in Saint Peter, not so now;Let him who can my meaning understand.A harsh rule is a heavy weight to bear.I melt but where I must, and stand alone.I think of him who falling died in Po;Already thence the thrush has pass'd the brookCome, see if I say sooth! No more for me.A rock amid the waters is no joke,Nor birdlime on the twig. Enough my griefWhen a superfluous prideIn a fair lady many virtues hides.There is who answereth without a call;There is who, though entreated, fails and flies:There is who melts 'neath ice:There is who day and night desires his death.Love who loves you, is an old proverb now.Well know I what I say. But let it pass;'Tis meet, at their own cost, that men should learn.A modest lady wearies her best friend.Good figs are little known. To me it seemsWise to eschew things hazardous and high;In any country one may be at ease.Infinite hope below kills hope above;And I at times e'en thus have been the talk.My brief life that remainsThere is who'll spurn not if to Him devote.I place my trust in Him who rules the world,And who his followers shelters in the wood,That with his pitying crookMe will He guide with his own flock to feed.Haply not every one who reads discerns;Some set the snare at times who take no spoil;Who strains too much may break the bow in twain.Let not the law be lame when suitors watch.To be at ease we many a mile descend.To-day's great marvel is to-morrow's scorn.A veil'd and virgin loveliness is best.Blessed the key which pass'd within my heart,And, quickening my dull spirit, set it freeFrom its old heavy chain,And from my bosom banish'd many a sigh.Where most I suffer'd once she suffers now;Her equal sorrows mitigate my grief;Thanks, then, to Love that IFeel it no more, though he is still the same!In silence words that wary are and wise;The voice which drives from me all other care;And the dark prison which that fair light hides:As midnight on our hills the violets;And the wild beasts within the walls who dwell;The kind demeanour and the dear reserve;And from two founts one stream which flow'd in peaceWhere I desire, collected where I would.Love and sore jealousy have seized my heart,And the fair face whose guidesConduct me by a plainer, shorter wayTo my one hope, where all my torments end.O treasured bliss, and all from thee which flowsOf peace, of war, or truce,Never abandon me while life is left!At my past loss I weep by turns and smile,Because my faith is fix'd in what I hear.The present I enjoy and better wait;Silent, I count the years, yet crave their end,And in a lovely bough I nestle soThat e'en her stern repulse I thank and praise,Which has at length o'ercome my firm desire,And inly shown me, I had been the talk,And pointed at by hand: all this it quench'd.So much am I urged on,Needs must I own, thou wert not bold enough.Who pierced me in my side she heals the wound,For whom in heart more than in ink I write;Who quickens me or kills,And in one instant freezes me or fires.Anon.
Nevermore shall I sing, as I have sung:For still she heeded not; and I was scorn'd:So e'en in loveliest spots is trouble found.Unceasingly to sigh is no relief.Already on the Alp snow gathers round:Already day is near; and I awake.An affable and modest air is sweet;And in a lovely lady that she beNoble and dignified, not proud and cold,Well pleases it to find.Love o'er his empire rules without a sword.He who has miss'd his way let him turn back:Who has no home the heath must be his bed:Who lost or has not gold,Will sate his thirst at the clear crystal spring.
I trusted in Saint Peter, not so now;Let him who can my meaning understand.A harsh rule is a heavy weight to bear.I melt but where I must, and stand alone.I think of him who falling died in Po;Already thence the thrush has pass'd the brookCome, see if I say sooth! No more for me.A rock amid the waters is no joke,Nor birdlime on the twig. Enough my griefWhen a superfluous prideIn a fair lady many virtues hides.There is who answereth without a call;There is who, though entreated, fails and flies:There is who melts 'neath ice:There is who day and night desires his death.
Love who loves you, is an old proverb now.Well know I what I say. But let it pass;'Tis meet, at their own cost, that men should learn.A modest lady wearies her best friend.Good figs are little known. To me it seemsWise to eschew things hazardous and high;In any country one may be at ease.Infinite hope below kills hope above;And I at times e'en thus have been the talk.My brief life that remainsThere is who'll spurn not if to Him devote.I place my trust in Him who rules the world,And who his followers shelters in the wood,That with his pitying crookMe will He guide with his own flock to feed.
Haply not every one who reads discerns;Some set the snare at times who take no spoil;Who strains too much may break the bow in twain.Let not the law be lame when suitors watch.To be at ease we many a mile descend.To-day's great marvel is to-morrow's scorn.A veil'd and virgin loveliness is best.Blessed the key which pass'd within my heart,And, quickening my dull spirit, set it freeFrom its old heavy chain,And from my bosom banish'd many a sigh.Where most I suffer'd once she suffers now;Her equal sorrows mitigate my grief;Thanks, then, to Love that IFeel it no more, though he is still the same!
In silence words that wary are and wise;The voice which drives from me all other care;And the dark prison which that fair light hides:As midnight on our hills the violets;And the wild beasts within the walls who dwell;The kind demeanour and the dear reserve;And from two founts one stream which flow'd in peaceWhere I desire, collected where I would.Love and sore jealousy have seized my heart,And the fair face whose guidesConduct me by a plainer, shorter wayTo my one hope, where all my torments end.O treasured bliss, and all from thee which flowsOf peace, of war, or truce,Never abandon me while life is left!
At my past loss I weep by turns and smile,Because my faith is fix'd in what I hear.The present I enjoy and better wait;Silent, I count the years, yet crave their end,And in a lovely bough I nestle soThat e'en her stern repulse I thank and praise,Which has at length o'ercome my firm desire,And inly shown me, I had been the talk,And pointed at by hand: all this it quench'd.So much am I urged on,Needs must I own, thou wert not bold enough.Who pierced me in my side she heals the wound,For whom in heart more than in ink I write;Who quickens me or kills,And in one instant freezes me or fires.
Anon.
Fromheaven an angel upon radiant wings,New lighted on that shore so fresh and fair,To which, so doom'd, my faithful footstep clings:Alone and friendless, when she found me there,Of gold and silk a finely-woven net,Where lay my path, 'mid seeming flowers she set:Thus was I caught, and, for such sweet light shoneFrom out her eyes, I soon forgot to moan.Macgregor.
Fromheaven an angel upon radiant wings,New lighted on that shore so fresh and fair,To which, so doom'd, my faithful footstep clings:Alone and friendless, when she found me there,Of gold and silk a finely-woven net,Where lay my path, 'mid seeming flowers she set:Thus was I caught, and, for such sweet light shoneFrom out her eyes, I soon forgot to moan.
Macgregor.
Nohope of respite, of escape no way,Her bright eyes wage such constant havoc here;Alas! excess of tyranny, I fear,My doting heart, which ne'er has truce, will slay:Fain would I flee, but ah! their amorous ray,Which day and night on memory rises clear,Shines with such power, in this the fifteenth year,They dazzle more than in love's early day.So wide and far their images are spreadThat wheresoe'er I turn I alway seeHer, or some sister-light on hers that fed.Springs such a wood from one fair laurel tree,That my old foe, with admirable skill,Amid its boughs misleads me at his will.Macgregor.
Nohope of respite, of escape no way,Her bright eyes wage such constant havoc here;Alas! excess of tyranny, I fear,My doting heart, which ne'er has truce, will slay:Fain would I flee, but ah! their amorous ray,Which day and night on memory rises clear,Shines with such power, in this the fifteenth year,They dazzle more than in love's early day.So wide and far their images are spreadThat wheresoe'er I turn I alway seeHer, or some sister-light on hers that fed.Springs such a wood from one fair laurel tree,That my old foe, with admirable skill,Amid its boughs misleads me at his will.
Macgregor.
Ah, happiest spot of earth! in this sweet placeLove first beheld my condescending fairRetard her steps, to smile with courteous graceOn me, and smiling glad the ambient air.The deep-cut image, wrought with skilful care,Time shall from hardest adamant efface,Ere from my mind that smile it shall erase,Dear to my soul! which memory planted there.Oft as I view thee, heart-enchanting soil!With amorous awe I'll seek—delightful toil!Where yet some traces of her footsteps lie.And if fond Love still warms her generous breast,Whene'er you see her, gentle friend! requestThe tender tribute of a tear—a sigh.Anon. 1777.
Ah, happiest spot of earth! in this sweet placeLove first beheld my condescending fairRetard her steps, to smile with courteous graceOn me, and smiling glad the ambient air.The deep-cut image, wrought with skilful care,Time shall from hardest adamant efface,Ere from my mind that smile it shall erase,Dear to my soul! which memory planted there.Oft as I view thee, heart-enchanting soil!With amorous awe I'll seek—delightful toil!Where yet some traces of her footsteps lie.And if fond Love still warms her generous breast,Whene'er you see her, gentle friend! requestThe tender tribute of a tear—a sigh.
Anon. 1777.
Mostfortunate and fair of spots terrene!Where Love I saw her forward footstep stay,And turn on me her bright eyes' heavenly ray,Which round them make the atmosphere serene.A solid form of adamant, I ween,Would sooner shrink in lapse of time away,Than from my mind that sweet salute decay,Dear to my heart, in memory ever green.And oft as I return to view this spot,In its fair scenes I'll fondly stoop to seekWhere yet the traces of her light foot lie.But if in valorous heart Love sleepeth not,Whene'er you meet her, friend, for me bespeakSome passing tears, perchance one pitying sigh.Macgregor.
Mostfortunate and fair of spots terrene!Where Love I saw her forward footstep stay,And turn on me her bright eyes' heavenly ray,Which round them make the atmosphere serene.A solid form of adamant, I ween,Would sooner shrink in lapse of time away,Than from my mind that sweet salute decay,Dear to my heart, in memory ever green.And oft as I return to view this spot,In its fair scenes I'll fondly stoop to seekWhere yet the traces of her light foot lie.But if in valorous heart Love sleepeth not,Whene'er you meet her, friend, for me bespeakSome passing tears, perchance one pitying sigh.
Macgregor.
Alas! how ceaselessly is urged Love's claim,By day, by night, a thousand times I turnWhere best I may behold the dear lights burnWhich have immortalized my bosom's flame.Thus grow I calm, and to such state am brought,At noon, at break of day, at vesper-bell,I find them in my mind so tranquil dwell,I neither think nor care beside for aught.The balmy air, which, from her angel mien,Moves ever with her winning words and wise,Makes wheresoe'er she breathes a sweet sereneAs 'twere a gentle spirit from the skies,Still in these scenes some comfort brings to me,Nor elsewhere breathes my harass'd heart so free.Macgregor.
Alas! how ceaselessly is urged Love's claim,By day, by night, a thousand times I turnWhere best I may behold the dear lights burnWhich have immortalized my bosom's flame.Thus grow I calm, and to such state am brought,At noon, at break of day, at vesper-bell,I find them in my mind so tranquil dwell,I neither think nor care beside for aught.The balmy air, which, from her angel mien,Moves ever with her winning words and wise,Makes wheresoe'er she breathes a sweet sereneAs 'twere a gentle spirit from the skies,Still in these scenes some comfort brings to me,Nor elsewhere breathes my harass'd heart so free.
Macgregor.
AsLove his arts in haunts familiar tried,Watchful as one expecting war is found,Who all foresees and guards the passes round,I in the armour of old thoughts relied:Turning, I saw a shadow at my sideCast by the sun, whose outline on the groundI knew for hers, who—be my judgment sound—Deserves in bliss immortal to abide.I whisper'd to my heart, Nay, wherefore fear?But scarcely did the thought arise withinThan the bright rays in which I burn were here.As thunders with the lightning-flash begin,So was I struck at once both blind and mute,By her dear dazzling eyes and sweet salute.Macgregor.
AsLove his arts in haunts familiar tried,Watchful as one expecting war is found,Who all foresees and guards the passes round,I in the armour of old thoughts relied:Turning, I saw a shadow at my sideCast by the sun, whose outline on the groundI knew for hers, who—be my judgment sound—Deserves in bliss immortal to abide.I whisper'd to my heart, Nay, wherefore fear?But scarcely did the thought arise withinThan the bright rays in which I burn were here.As thunders with the lightning-flash begin,So was I struck at once both blind and mute,By her dear dazzling eyes and sweet salute.
Macgregor.
She, in her face who doth my gone heart wear,As lone I sate 'mid love-thoughts dear and true,Appear'd before me: to show honour due,I rose, with pallid brow and reverent air.Soon as of such my state she was aware,She turn'd on me with look so soft and newAs, in Jove's greatest fury, might subdueHis rage, and from his hand the thunders tear.I started: on her further way she pass'dGraceful, and speaking words I could not brook,Nor of her lustrous eyes the loving look.When on that dear salute my thoughts are cast,So rich and varied do my pleasures flow,No pain I feel, nor evil fear below.Macgregor.
She, in her face who doth my gone heart wear,As lone I sate 'mid love-thoughts dear and true,Appear'd before me: to show honour due,I rose, with pallid brow and reverent air.Soon as of such my state she was aware,She turn'd on me with look so soft and newAs, in Jove's greatest fury, might subdueHis rage, and from his hand the thunders tear.I started: on her further way she pass'dGraceful, and speaking words I could not brook,Nor of her lustrous eyes the loving look.When on that dear salute my thoughts are cast,So rich and varied do my pleasures flow,No pain I feel, nor evil fear below.
Macgregor.
SOLITUDES OF VAUCLUSE.SOLITUDES OF VAUCLUSE.
Tothee, Sennuccio, fain would I declare,To sadden life, what wrongs, what woes I find:Still glow my wonted flames; and, though resign'dTo Laura's fickle will, no change I bear.All humble now, then haughty is my fair;Now meek, then proud; now pitying, then unkind:Softness and tenderness now sway her mind;Then do her looks disdain and anger wear.Here would she sweetly sing, there sit awhile,Here bend her step, and there her step retard;Here her bright eyes my easy heart ensnared;There would she speak fond words, here lovely smile;There frown contempt;—such wayward cares I proveBy night, by day; so wills our tyrant Love!Anon. 1777.
Tothee, Sennuccio, fain would I declare,To sadden life, what wrongs, what woes I find:Still glow my wonted flames; and, though resign'dTo Laura's fickle will, no change I bear.All humble now, then haughty is my fair;Now meek, then proud; now pitying, then unkind:Softness and tenderness now sway her mind;Then do her looks disdain and anger wear.Here would she sweetly sing, there sit awhile,Here bend her step, and there her step retard;Here her bright eyes my easy heart ensnared;There would she speak fond words, here lovely smile;There frown contempt;—such wayward cares I proveBy night, by day; so wills our tyrant Love!
Anon. 1777.
Alas, Sennuccio! would thy mind could frameWhat now I suffer! what my life's drear reign;Consumed beneath my heart's continued pain,At will she guides me—yet am I the same.Now humble—then doth pride her soul inflame;Now harsh—then gentle; cruel—kind again;Now all reserve—then borne on frolic's vein;Disdain alternates with a milder claim.Here once she sat, and there so sweetly sang;Here turn'd to look on me, and lingering stood;There first her beauteous eyes my spirit stole:And here she smiled, and there her accents rang,Her speaking face here told another mood.Thus Love, our sovereign, holds me in control.Wollaston.
Alas, Sennuccio! would thy mind could frameWhat now I suffer! what my life's drear reign;Consumed beneath my heart's continued pain,At will she guides me—yet am I the same.Now humble—then doth pride her soul inflame;Now harsh—then gentle; cruel—kind again;Now all reserve—then borne on frolic's vein;Disdain alternates with a milder claim.Here once she sat, and there so sweetly sang;Here turn'd to look on me, and lingering stood;There first her beauteous eyes my spirit stole:And here she smiled, and there her accents rang,Her speaking face here told another mood.Thus Love, our sovereign, holds me in control.
Wollaston.
Friend, on this spot, I life but half endure(Would I were wholly here and you content),Where from the storm and wind my course I bent,Which suddenly had left the skies obscure.Fain would I tell—for here I feel me sure—Why lightnings now no fear to me present;And why unmitigated, much less spent,E'en as before my fierce desires allure.Soon as I reach'd these realms of love, and sawWhere, sweet and pure, to life my Laura came,Who calms the air, at rest the thunder lays;Love in my soul, where she alone gives law,Quench'd the cold fear and kindled the fast flame;What were it then on her bright eyes to gaze!Macgregor.
Friend, on this spot, I life but half endure(Would I were wholly here and you content),Where from the storm and wind my course I bent,Which suddenly had left the skies obscure.Fain would I tell—for here I feel me sure—Why lightnings now no fear to me present;And why unmitigated, much less spent,E'en as before my fierce desires allure.Soon as I reach'd these realms of love, and sawWhere, sweet and pure, to life my Laura came,Who calms the air, at rest the thunder lays;Love in my soul, where she alone gives law,Quench'd the cold fear and kindled the fast flame;What were it then on her bright eyes to gaze!
Macgregor.
Yes, out of impious Babylon I'm flown,Whence flown all shame, whence banish'd is all good,That nurse of error, and of guilt th' abode,To lengthen out a life which else were gone:There as Love prompts, while wandering alone,I now a garland weave, and now an ode;With him I commune, and in pensive moodHope better times; this only checks my moan.Nor for the throng, nor fortune do I care,Nor for myself, nor sublunary things,No ardour outwardly, or inly springs:I ask two persons only: let my fairFor me a kind and tender heart maintain;And be my friend secure in his high post again.Nott.
Yes, out of impious Babylon I'm flown,Whence flown all shame, whence banish'd is all good,That nurse of error, and of guilt th' abode,To lengthen out a life which else were gone:There as Love prompts, while wandering alone,I now a garland weave, and now an ode;With him I commune, and in pensive moodHope better times; this only checks my moan.Nor for the throng, nor fortune do I care,Nor for myself, nor sublunary things,No ardour outwardly, or inly springs:I ask two persons only: let my fairFor me a kind and tender heart maintain;And be my friend secure in his high post again.
Nott.
Fromimpious Babylon, where all shame is dead,And every good is banish'd to far climes,Nurse of rank errors, centre of worst crimes,Haply to lengthen life, I too am fled:Alone, at last alone, and here, as ledAt Love's sweet will, I posies weave or rhymes,Self-parleying, and still on better timesWrapt in fond thoughts whence only hope is fed.Cares for the world or fortune I have none,Nor much for self, nor any common theme:Nor feel I in me, nor without, great heat.Two friends alone I ask, and that the oneMore merciful and meek to me may seem,The other well as erst, and firm of feet.Macgregor.
Fromimpious Babylon, where all shame is dead,And every good is banish'd to far climes,Nurse of rank errors, centre of worst crimes,Haply to lengthen life, I too am fled:Alone, at last alone, and here, as ledAt Love's sweet will, I posies weave or rhymes,Self-parleying, and still on better timesWrapt in fond thoughts whence only hope is fed.Cares for the world or fortune I have none,Nor much for self, nor any common theme:Nor feel I in me, nor without, great heat.Two friends alone I ask, and that the oneMore merciful and meek to me may seem,The other well as erst, and firm of feet.
Macgregor.
'Tweentwo fond lovers I a lady spied,Virtuous but haughty, and with her that lord,By gods above and men below adored—The sun on this, myself upon that side—Soon as she found herself the sphere deniedOf her bright friend, on my fond eyes she pour'dA flood of life and joy, which hope restoredLess cold to me will be her future pride.Suddenly changed itself to cordial mirthThe jealous fear to which at his first sightSo high a rival in my heart gave birth;As suddenly his sad and rueful plightFrom further scrutiny a small cloud veil'd,So much it ruffled him that then he fail'd.Macgregor.
'Tweentwo fond lovers I a lady spied,Virtuous but haughty, and with her that lord,By gods above and men below adored—The sun on this, myself upon that side—Soon as she found herself the sphere deniedOf her bright friend, on my fond eyes she pour'dA flood of life and joy, which hope restoredLess cold to me will be her future pride.Suddenly changed itself to cordial mirthThe jealous fear to which at his first sightSo high a rival in my heart gave birth;As suddenly his sad and rueful plightFrom further scrutiny a small cloud veil'd,So much it ruffled him that then he fail'd.
Macgregor.
O'erflowingwith the sweets ineffable,Which from that lovely face my fond eyes drew,What time they seal'd, for very rapture, grew.On meaner beauty never more to dwell,Whom most I love I left: my mind so wellIts part, to muse on her, is train'd to do,None else it sees; what is not hers to view,As of old wont, with loathing I repel.In a low valley shut from all around,Sole consolation of my heart-deep sighs,Pensive and slow, with Love I walk alone:Not ladies here, but rocks and founts are found,And of that day blest images arise,Which my thought shapes where'er I turn mine eyes.Macgregor.
O'erflowingwith the sweets ineffable,Which from that lovely face my fond eyes drew,What time they seal'd, for very rapture, grew.On meaner beauty never more to dwell,Whom most I love I left: my mind so wellIts part, to muse on her, is train'd to do,None else it sees; what is not hers to view,As of old wont, with loathing I repel.In a low valley shut from all around,Sole consolation of my heart-deep sighs,Pensive and slow, with Love I walk alone:Not ladies here, but rocks and founts are found,And of that day blest images arise,Which my thought shapes where'er I turn mine eyes.
Macgregor.
If, which our valley bars, this wall of stone,From which its present name we closely trace,Were by disdainful nature rased, and thrownIts back to Babel and to Rome its face;Then had my sighs a better pathway knownTo where their hope is yet in life and grace:They now go singly, yet my voice all own;And, where I send, not one but finds its place.There too, as I perceive, such welcome sweetThey ever find, that none returns again,But still delightedly with her remain.My grief is from the eyes, each morn to meet—Not the fair scenes my soul so long'd to see—Toil for my weary limbs and tears for me.Macgregor.
If, which our valley bars, this wall of stone,From which its present name we closely trace,Were by disdainful nature rased, and thrownIts back to Babel and to Rome its face;Then had my sighs a better pathway knownTo where their hope is yet in life and grace:They now go singly, yet my voice all own;And, where I send, not one but finds its place.There too, as I perceive, such welcome sweetThey ever find, that none returns again,But still delightedly with her remain.My grief is from the eyes, each morn to meet—Not the fair scenes my soul so long'd to see—Toil for my weary limbs and tears for me.
Macgregor.