She, for whose sake fair Arno I resign,And for free poverty court-affluence spurn,Has known to sour the precious sweets to turnOn which I lived, for which I burn and pine.Though since, the vain attempt has oft been mineThat future ages from my song should learnHer heavenly beauties, and like me should burn,My poor verse fails her sweet face to define.The gifts, though all her own, which others share,Which were but stars her bright sky scatter'd o'er,Haply of these to sing e'en I might dare;But when to the diviner part I soar,To the dull world a brief and brilliant light,Courage and wit and art are baffled quite.Macgregor.
She, for whose sake fair Arno I resign,And for free poverty court-affluence spurn,Has known to sour the precious sweets to turnOn which I lived, for which I burn and pine.Though since, the vain attempt has oft been mineThat future ages from my song should learnHer heavenly beauties, and like me should burn,My poor verse fails her sweet face to define.The gifts, though all her own, which others share,Which were but stars her bright sky scatter'd o'er,Haply of these to sing e'en I might dare;But when to the diviner part I soar,To the dull world a brief and brilliant light,Courage and wit and art are baffled quite.
Macgregor.
Thewonder, high and new, that, in our days,Dawn'd on the world, yet would not there remain,Which heaven but show'd to us to snatch againBetter to blazon its own starry ways;That to far times I her should paint and praiseLove wills, who prompted first my passionate strain;But now wit, leisure, pen, page, ink in vainTo the fond task a thousand times he sways.My slow rhymes struggle not to life the while;I feel it, and whoe'er to-day below,Or speak or write of love will prove it so.Who justly deems the truth beyond all style,Here silent let him muse, and sighing say,Blessèd the eyes who saw her living day!Macgregor.
Thewonder, high and new, that, in our days,Dawn'd on the world, yet would not there remain,Which heaven but show'd to us to snatch againBetter to blazon its own starry ways;That to far times I her should paint and praiseLove wills, who prompted first my passionate strain;But now wit, leisure, pen, page, ink in vainTo the fond task a thousand times he sways.My slow rhymes struggle not to life the while;I feel it, and whoe'er to-day below,Or speak or write of love will prove it so.Who justly deems the truth beyond all style,Here silent let him muse, and sighing say,Blessèd the eyes who saw her living day!
Macgregor.
Zephyrreturns; and in his jocund trainBrings verdure, flowers, and days serenely clear;Brings Progne's twitter, Philomel's lorn strain,With every bloom that paints the vernal year;Cloudless the skies, and smiling every plain;With joyance flush'd, Jove views his daughter dear;Love's genial power pervades earth, air, and main;All beings join'd in fond accord appear.But nought to me returns save sorrowing sighs,Forced from my inmost heart by her who boreThose keys which govern'd it unto the skies:The blossom'd meads, the choristers of air,Sweet courteous damsels can delight no more;Each face looks savage, and each prospect drear.Nott.
Zephyrreturns; and in his jocund trainBrings verdure, flowers, and days serenely clear;Brings Progne's twitter, Philomel's lorn strain,With every bloom that paints the vernal year;Cloudless the skies, and smiling every plain;With joyance flush'd, Jove views his daughter dear;Love's genial power pervades earth, air, and main;All beings join'd in fond accord appear.But nought to me returns save sorrowing sighs,Forced from my inmost heart by her who boreThose keys which govern'd it unto the skies:The blossom'd meads, the choristers of air,Sweet courteous damsels can delight no more;Each face looks savage, and each prospect drear.
Nott.
Thespring returns, with all her smiling train;The wanton Zephyrs breathe along the bowers,The glistening dew-drops hang on bending flowers,And tender green light-shadows o'er the plain:And thou, sweet Philomel, renew'st thy strain,Breathing thy wild notes to the midnight grove:All nature feels the kindling fire of love,The vital force of spring's returning reign.But not to me returns the cheerful spring!O heart! that know'st no period to thy grief,Nor Nature's smiles to thee impart relief,Nor change of mind the varying seasons bring:She, she is gone! All that e'er pleased before,Adieu! ye birds ye flowers, ye fields, that charm no more!Woodhouselee.
Thespring returns, with all her smiling train;The wanton Zephyrs breathe along the bowers,The glistening dew-drops hang on bending flowers,And tender green light-shadows o'er the plain:And thou, sweet Philomel, renew'st thy strain,Breathing thy wild notes to the midnight grove:All nature feels the kindling fire of love,The vital force of spring's returning reign.But not to me returns the cheerful spring!O heart! that know'st no period to thy grief,Nor Nature's smiles to thee impart relief,Nor change of mind the varying seasons bring:She, she is gone! All that e'er pleased before,Adieu! ye birds ye flowers, ye fields, that charm no more!
Woodhouselee.
ReturningZephyr the sweet season brings,With flowers and herbs his breathing train among,And Progne twitters, Philomela sings,Leading the many-colour'd spring along;Serene the sky, and fair the laughing field,Jove views his daughter with complacent brow;Earth, sea, and air, to Love's sweet influence yield,And creatures all his magic power avow:But nought, alas! for me the season brings,Save heavier sighs, from my sad bosom drawnBy her who can from heaven unlock its springs;And warbling birds and flower-bespangled lawn,And fairest acts of ladies fair and mild,A desert seem, and its brute tenants wild.Dacre.
ReturningZephyr the sweet season brings,With flowers and herbs his breathing train among,And Progne twitters, Philomela sings,Leading the many-colour'd spring along;Serene the sky, and fair the laughing field,Jove views his daughter with complacent brow;Earth, sea, and air, to Love's sweet influence yield,And creatures all his magic power avow:But nought, alas! for me the season brings,Save heavier sighs, from my sad bosom drawnBy her who can from heaven unlock its springs;And warbling birds and flower-bespangled lawn,And fairest acts of ladies fair and mild,A desert seem, and its brute tenants wild.
Dacre.
Zephyrreturns and winter's rage restrains,With herbs, with flowers, his blooming progeny!Now Progne prattles, Philomel complains,And spring assumes her robe of various dye;The meadows smile, heaven glows, nor Jove disdainsTo view his daughter with delighted eye;While Love through universal nature reigns,And life is fill'd with amorous sympathy!But grief, not joy, returns to me forlorn,And sighs, which from my inmost heart proceedFor her, by whom to heaven its keys were borne.The song of birds, the flower-enamell'd mead,And graceful acts, which most the fair adorn,A desert seem, and beasts of savage prey!Charlemont.
Zephyrreturns and winter's rage restrains,With herbs, with flowers, his blooming progeny!Now Progne prattles, Philomel complains,And spring assumes her robe of various dye;The meadows smile, heaven glows, nor Jove disdainsTo view his daughter with delighted eye;While Love through universal nature reigns,And life is fill'd with amorous sympathy!But grief, not joy, returns to me forlorn,And sighs, which from my inmost heart proceedFor her, by whom to heaven its keys were borne.The song of birds, the flower-enamell'd mead,And graceful acts, which most the fair adorn,A desert seem, and beasts of savage prey!
Charlemont.
Yonnightingale, whose bursts of thrilling tone,Pour'd in soft sorrow from her tuneful throat,Haply her mate or infant brood bemoan,Filling the fields and skies with pity's note;Here lingering till the long long night is gone,Awakes the memory of my cruel lot—But I my wretched self must wail alone:Fool, who secure from death an angel thought!O easy duped, who thus on hope relies!Who would have deem'd the darkness, which appears,From orbs more brilliant than the sun should rise?Now know I, made by sad experience wise,That Fate would teach me by a life of tears,On wings how fleeting fast all earthly rapture flies!Wrangham.
Yonnightingale, whose bursts of thrilling tone,Pour'd in soft sorrow from her tuneful throat,Haply her mate or infant brood bemoan,Filling the fields and skies with pity's note;Here lingering till the long long night is gone,Awakes the memory of my cruel lot—But I my wretched self must wail alone:Fool, who secure from death an angel thought!O easy duped, who thus on hope relies!Who would have deem'd the darkness, which appears,From orbs more brilliant than the sun should rise?Now know I, made by sad experience wise,That Fate would teach me by a life of tears,On wings how fleeting fast all earthly rapture flies!
Wrangham.
Yonnightingale, whose strain so sweetly flows,Mourning her ravish'd young or much-loved mate,A soothing charm o'er all the valleys throwsAnd skies, with notes well tuned to her sad state:And all the night she seems my kindred woesWith me to weep and on my sorrows wait;Sorrows that from my own fond fancy rose,Who deem'd a goddess could not yield to fate.How easy to deceive who sleeps secure!Who could have thought that to dull earth would turnThose eyes that as the sun shone bright and pure?Ah! now what Fortune wills I see full sure:That loathing life, yet living I should seeHow few its joys, how little they endure!Anon., Ox., 1795.
Yonnightingale, whose strain so sweetly flows,Mourning her ravish'd young or much-loved mate,A soothing charm o'er all the valleys throwsAnd skies, with notes well tuned to her sad state:And all the night she seems my kindred woesWith me to weep and on my sorrows wait;Sorrows that from my own fond fancy rose,Who deem'd a goddess could not yield to fate.How easy to deceive who sleeps secure!Who could have thought that to dull earth would turnThose eyes that as the sun shone bright and pure?Ah! now what Fortune wills I see full sure:That loathing life, yet living I should seeHow few its joys, how little they endure!
Anon., Ox., 1795.
Thatnightingale, who now melodious mournsPerhaps his children or his consort dear,The heavens with sweetness fills; the distant bournsResound his notes, so piteous and so clear;With me all night he weeps, and seems by turnsTo upbraid me with my fault and fortune drear,Whose fond and foolish heart, where grief sojourns,A goddess deem'd exempt from mortal fear.Security, how easy to betray!The radiance of those eyes who could have thoughtShould e'er become a senseless clod of clay?Living, and weeping, late I've learn'd to sayThat here below—Oh, knowledge dearly bought!—Whate'er delights will scarcely last a day!Charlemont.
Thatnightingale, who now melodious mournsPerhaps his children or his consort dear,The heavens with sweetness fills; the distant bournsResound his notes, so piteous and so clear;With me all night he weeps, and seems by turnsTo upbraid me with my fault and fortune drear,Whose fond and foolish heart, where grief sojourns,A goddess deem'd exempt from mortal fear.Security, how easy to betray!The radiance of those eyes who could have thoughtShould e'er become a senseless clod of clay?Living, and weeping, late I've learn'd to sayThat here below—Oh, knowledge dearly bought!—Whate'er delights will scarcely last a day!
Charlemont.
Notskies serene, with glittering stars inlaid,Nor gallant ships o'er tranquil ocean dancing,Nor gay careering knights in arms advancing,Nor wild herds bounding through the forest glade,Nor tidings new of happiness delay'd,Nor poesie, Love's witchery enhancing,Nor lady's song beside clear fountain glancing,In beauty's pride, with chastity array'd;Nor aught of lovely, aught of gay in show,Shall touch my heart, now cold within her tombWho was erewhile my life and light below!So heavy—tedious—sad—my days unblest,That I, with strong desire, invoke Death's gloom,Her to behold, whom ne'er to have seen were best!Dacre.
Notskies serene, with glittering stars inlaid,Nor gallant ships o'er tranquil ocean dancing,Nor gay careering knights in arms advancing,Nor wild herds bounding through the forest glade,Nor tidings new of happiness delay'd,Nor poesie, Love's witchery enhancing,Nor lady's song beside clear fountain glancing,In beauty's pride, with chastity array'd;Nor aught of lovely, aught of gay in show,Shall touch my heart, now cold within her tombWho was erewhile my life and light below!So heavy—tedious—sad—my days unblest,That I, with strong desire, invoke Death's gloom,Her to behold, whom ne'er to have seen were best!
Dacre.
Norstars bright glittering through the cool still air,Nor proud ships riding on the tranquil main,Nor armed knights light pricking o'er the plain,Nor deer in glades disporting void of care,Nor tidings hoped by recent messenger,Nor tales of love in high and gorgeous strain,Nor by clear stream, green mead, or shady laneSweet-chaunted roundelay of lady fair;Nor aught beside my heart shall e'er engage—Sepulchred, as 'tis henceforth doom'd to be,With her, my eyes' sole mirror, beam, and bliss.Oh! how I long this weary pilgrimageTo close; that I again that form may see,Which never to have seen had been my happiness!Wrangham.
Norstars bright glittering through the cool still air,Nor proud ships riding on the tranquil main,Nor armed knights light pricking o'er the plain,Nor deer in glades disporting void of care,Nor tidings hoped by recent messenger,Nor tales of love in high and gorgeous strain,Nor by clear stream, green mead, or shady laneSweet-chaunted roundelay of lady fair;Nor aught beside my heart shall e'er engage—Sepulchred, as 'tis henceforth doom'd to be,With her, my eyes' sole mirror, beam, and bliss.Oh! how I long this weary pilgrimageTo close; that I again that form may see,Which never to have seen had been my happiness!
Wrangham.
Fled—fled, alas! for ever—is the day,Which to my flame some soothing whilom brought;And fled is she of whom I wept and wrote:Yet still the pang, the tear, prolong their stay!And fled that angel vision far away;But flying, with soft glance my heart it smote('Twas then my own) which straight, divided, soughtHer, who had wrapp'd it in her robe of clay.Part shares her tomb, part to her heaven is sped;Where now, with laurel wreathed, in triumph's carShe reaps the meed of matchless holiness:So might I, of this flesh discumberèd,Which holds me prisoner here, from sorrow farWith her expatiate free 'midst realms of endless bliss!Wrangham.
Fled—fled, alas! for ever—is the day,Which to my flame some soothing whilom brought;And fled is she of whom I wept and wrote:Yet still the pang, the tear, prolong their stay!And fled that angel vision far away;But flying, with soft glance my heart it smote('Twas then my own) which straight, divided, soughtHer, who had wrapp'd it in her robe of clay.Part shares her tomb, part to her heaven is sped;Where now, with laurel wreathed, in triumph's carShe reaps the meed of matchless holiness:So might I, of this flesh discumberèd,Which holds me prisoner here, from sorrow farWith her expatiate free 'midst realms of endless bliss!
Wrangham.
Ah! gone for ever are the happy yearsThat soothed my soul amid Love's fiercest fire,And she for whom I wept and tuned my lyreHas gone, alas!—But left my lyre, my tears:Gone is that face, whose holy look endears;But in my heart, ere yet it did retire,Left the sweet radiance of its eyes, entire;—My heart? Ah; no! not mine! for to the spheresOf light she bore it captive, soaring high,In angel robe triumphant, and now standsCrown'd with the laurel wreath of chastity:Oh! could I throw aside these earthly bandsThat tie me down where wretched mortals sigh,—To join blest spirits in celestial lands!Morehead.
Ah! gone for ever are the happy yearsThat soothed my soul amid Love's fiercest fire,And she for whom I wept and tuned my lyreHas gone, alas!—But left my lyre, my tears:Gone is that face, whose holy look endears;But in my heart, ere yet it did retire,Left the sweet radiance of its eyes, entire;—My heart? Ah; no! not mine! for to the spheresOf light she bore it captive, soaring high,In angel robe triumphant, and now standsCrown'd with the laurel wreath of chastity:Oh! could I throw aside these earthly bandsThat tie me down where wretched mortals sigh,—To join blest spirits in celestial lands!
Morehead.
Mymind! prophetic of my coming fate,Pensive and gloomy while yet joy was lent,On the loved lineaments still fix'd, intentTo seek dark bodings, ere thy sorrow's date!From her sweet acts, her words, her looks, her gait,From her unwonted pity with sadness blent,Thou might'st have said, hadst thou been prescient,"I taste my last of bliss in this low state!"My wretched soul! the poison, oh, how sweet!That through my eyes instill'd the burning smart,Gazing on hers, no more on earth to meet!To them—my bosom's wealth! condemn'd to partOn a far journey—as to friends discreet,All my fond thoughts I left, and lingering heart.Dacre.
Mymind! prophetic of my coming fate,Pensive and gloomy while yet joy was lent,On the loved lineaments still fix'd, intentTo seek dark bodings, ere thy sorrow's date!From her sweet acts, her words, her looks, her gait,From her unwonted pity with sadness blent,Thou might'st have said, hadst thou been prescient,"I taste my last of bliss in this low state!"My wretched soul! the poison, oh, how sweet!That through my eyes instill'd the burning smart,Gazing on hers, no more on earth to meet!To them—my bosom's wealth! condemn'd to partOn a far journey—as to friends discreet,All my fond thoughts I left, and lingering heart.
Dacre.
Allmy green years and golden prime of manHad pass'd away, and with attemper'd sighsMy bosom heaved—ere yet the days ariseWhen life declines, contracting its brief span.Already my loved enemy beganTo lull suspicion, and in sportive guise,With timid confidence, though playful, wise,In gentle mockery my long pains to scan:The hour was near when Love, at length, may mateWith Chastity; and, by the dear one's side,The lover's thoughts and words may freely flow:Death saw, with envy, my too happy state,E'en its fair promise—and, with fatal pride,Strode in the midway forth, an armèd foe!Dacre.
Allmy green years and golden prime of manHad pass'd away, and with attemper'd sighsMy bosom heaved—ere yet the days ariseWhen life declines, contracting its brief span.Already my loved enemy beganTo lull suspicion, and in sportive guise,With timid confidence, though playful, wise,In gentle mockery my long pains to scan:The hour was near when Love, at length, may mateWith Chastity; and, by the dear one's side,The lover's thoughts and words may freely flow:Death saw, with envy, my too happy state,E'en its fair promise—and, with fatal pride,Strode in the midway forth, an armèd foe!
Dacre.
Nowof my life each gay and greener yearPass'd by, and cooler grew each hour the flameWith which I burn'd: and to that point we cameWhence life descends, as to its end more near;Now 'gan my lovely foe each virtuous fearGently to lay aside, as safe from blame;And though with saint-like virtue still the same,Mock'd my sweet pains indeed, but deign'd to hearNigh drew the time when Love delights to dwellWith Chastity; and lovers with their mateCan fearless sit, and all they muse of tell.Death envied me the joys of such a state;Nay, e'en the hopes I form'd: and on them fellE'en in midway, like some arm'd foe in wait.Anon., Ox., 1795.
Nowof my life each gay and greener yearPass'd by, and cooler grew each hour the flameWith which I burn'd: and to that point we cameWhence life descends, as to its end more near;Now 'gan my lovely foe each virtuous fearGently to lay aside, as safe from blame;And though with saint-like virtue still the same,Mock'd my sweet pains indeed, but deign'd to hearNigh drew the time when Love delights to dwellWith Chastity; and lovers with their mateCan fearless sit, and all they muse of tell.Death envied me the joys of such a state;Nay, e'en the hopes I form'd: and on them fellE'en in midway, like some arm'd foe in wait.
Anon., Ox., 1795.
'Twastime at last from so long war to findSome peace or truce, and, haply, both were nigh,But Death their welcome feet has turn'd behind,Who levels all distinctions, low as high;And as a cloud dissolves before the wind,So she, who led me with her lustrous eye,Whom ever I pursue with faithful mind,Her fair life briefly ending, sought the sky.Had she but stay'd, as I grew changed and oldHer tone had changed, and no distrust had beenTo parley with me on my cherish'd ill:With what frank sighs and fond I then had toldMy lifelong toils, which now from heaven, I ween,She sees, and with me sympathises still.Macgregor.
'Twastime at last from so long war to findSome peace or truce, and, haply, both were nigh,But Death their welcome feet has turn'd behind,Who levels all distinctions, low as high;And as a cloud dissolves before the wind,So she, who led me with her lustrous eye,Whom ever I pursue with faithful mind,Her fair life briefly ending, sought the sky.Had she but stay'd, as I grew changed and oldHer tone had changed, and no distrust had beenTo parley with me on my cherish'd ill:With what frank sighs and fond I then had toldMy lifelong toils, which now from heaven, I ween,She sees, and with me sympathises still.
Macgregor.
Mylife's long warfare seem'd about to cease,Peace had my spirit's contest well nigh freed;But levelling Death, who doth to all concedeAn equal doom, clipp'd Time's blest wings of peace:As zephyrs chase the clouds of gathering fleece,So did her life from this world's breath recede,Their vision'd light could once my footsteps lead,But now my all, save thought, she doth release.Oh! would that she her flight awhile had stay'd,For Time had stamp'd on me his warning hand,And calmer I had told my storied love:To her in virtue's tone I had convey'dMy heart's long grief—now, she doth understand,And sympathises with that grief above.Wollaston.
Mylife's long warfare seem'd about to cease,Peace had my spirit's contest well nigh freed;But levelling Death, who doth to all concedeAn equal doom, clipp'd Time's blest wings of peace:As zephyrs chase the clouds of gathering fleece,So did her life from this world's breath recede,Their vision'd light could once my footsteps lead,But now my all, save thought, she doth release.Oh! would that she her flight awhile had stay'd,For Time had stamp'd on me his warning hand,And calmer I had told my storied love:To her in virtue's tone I had convey'dMy heart's long grief—now, she doth understand,And sympathises with that grief above.
Wollaston.
Fromlife's long storm of trouble and of tearsLove show'd a tranquil haven and fair end'Mid better thoughts which riper age attend,That vice lays bare and virtue clothes and cheers.She saw my true heart, free from doubts and fears,And its high faith which could no more offend;Ah, cruel Death! how quick wert thou to rendIn so few hours the fruit of many years!A longer life the time had surely broughtWhen in her chaste ear my full heart had laidThe ancient burthen of its dearest thought;And she, perchance, might then have answer made,Forth-sighing some blest words, whilst white and fewOur locks became, and wan our cheeks in hue.Macgregor.
Fromlife's long storm of trouble and of tearsLove show'd a tranquil haven and fair end'Mid better thoughts which riper age attend,That vice lays bare and virtue clothes and cheers.She saw my true heart, free from doubts and fears,And its high faith which could no more offend;Ah, cruel Death! how quick wert thou to rendIn so few hours the fruit of many years!A longer life the time had surely broughtWhen in her chaste ear my full heart had laidThe ancient burthen of its dearest thought;And she, perchance, might then have answer made,Forth-sighing some blest words, whilst white and fewOur locks became, and wan our cheeks in hue.
Macgregor.
Asa fair plant, uprooted by oft blowsOf trenchant spade, or which the blast upheaves,Scatters on earth its green and lofty leaves,And its bare roots to the broad sunlight shows;Love such another for my object chose,Of whom for me the Muse a subject weaves,Who in my captured heart her home achieves,As on some wall or tree the ivy growsThat living laurel—where their chosen nestMy high thoughts made, where sigh'd mine ardent grief,Yet never stirr'd of its fair boughs a leaf—To heaven translated, in my heart, her rest,Left deep its roots, whence ever with sad cryI call on her, who ne'er vouchsafes reply.Macgregor.
Asa fair plant, uprooted by oft blowsOf trenchant spade, or which the blast upheaves,Scatters on earth its green and lofty leaves,And its bare roots to the broad sunlight shows;Love such another for my object chose,Of whom for me the Muse a subject weaves,Who in my captured heart her home achieves,As on some wall or tree the ivy growsThat living laurel—where their chosen nestMy high thoughts made, where sigh'd mine ardent grief,Yet never stirr'd of its fair boughs a leaf—To heaven translated, in my heart, her rest,Left deep its roots, whence ever with sad cryI call on her, who ne'er vouchsafes reply.
Macgregor.
Mydays more swiftly than the forest hindHave fled like shadows, and no pleasure seenSave for a moment, and few hours serene,Whose bitter-sweet I treasure in true mind.O wretched world, unstable, wayward! BlindWhose hopes in thee alone have centred been;In thee my heart was captived by her mienWho bore it with her when she earth rejoin'd:Her better spirit, now a deathless flower,And in the highest heaven that still shall be,Each day inflames me with its beauties more.Alone, though frailer, fonder every hour,I muse on her—Now what, and where is she,And what the lovely veil which here she wore?Macgregor.
Mydays more swiftly than the forest hindHave fled like shadows, and no pleasure seenSave for a moment, and few hours serene,Whose bitter-sweet I treasure in true mind.O wretched world, unstable, wayward! BlindWhose hopes in thee alone have centred been;In thee my heart was captived by her mienWho bore it with her when she earth rejoin'd:Her better spirit, now a deathless flower,And in the highest heaven that still shall be,Each day inflames me with its beauties more.Alone, though frailer, fonder every hour,I muse on her—Now what, and where is she,And what the lovely veil which here she wore?
Macgregor.
Oh! swifter than the hart my life hath fled,A shadow'd dream; one winged glance hath seenIts only good; its hours (how few serene!)The sweet and bitter tide of thought have fed:Ephemeral world! in pride and sorrow bred,Who hope in thee, are blind as I have been;I hoped in thee, and thus my heart's loved queenHath borne it mid her nerveless, kindred dead.Her form decay'd—its beauty still survives,For in high heaven that soul will ever bloom,With which each day I more enamour'd grow:Thus though my locks are blanch'd, my hope revivesIn thinking on her home—her soul's high doom:Alas! how changed the shrine she left below!Wollaston.
Oh! swifter than the hart my life hath fled,A shadow'd dream; one winged glance hath seenIts only good; its hours (how few serene!)The sweet and bitter tide of thought have fed:Ephemeral world! in pride and sorrow bred,Who hope in thee, are blind as I have been;I hoped in thee, and thus my heart's loved queenHath borne it mid her nerveless, kindred dead.Her form decay'd—its beauty still survives,For in high heaven that soul will ever bloom,With which each day I more enamour'd grow:Thus though my locks are blanch'd, my hope revivesIn thinking on her home—her soul's high doom:Alas! how changed the shrine she left below!
Wollaston.
I feelthe well-known gale; the hills I spySo pleasant, whence my fair her being drew,Which made these eyes, while Heaven was willing, shewWishful, and gay; now sad, and never dry.O feeble hopes! O thoughts of vanity!Wither'd the grass, the rills of turbid hue;And void and cheerless is that dwelling too,In which I live, in which I wish'd to die;Hoping its mistress might at length affordSome respite to my woes by plaintive sighs,And sorrows pour'd from her once-burning eyes.I've served a cruel and ungrateful lord:While lived my beauteous flame, my heart be fired;And o'er its ashes now I weep expired.Nott.
I feelthe well-known gale; the hills I spySo pleasant, whence my fair her being drew,Which made these eyes, while Heaven was willing, shewWishful, and gay; now sad, and never dry.O feeble hopes! O thoughts of vanity!Wither'd the grass, the rills of turbid hue;And void and cheerless is that dwelling too,In which I live, in which I wish'd to die;Hoping its mistress might at length affordSome respite to my woes by plaintive sighs,And sorrows pour'd from her once-burning eyes.I've served a cruel and ungrateful lord:While lived my beauteous flame, my heart be fired;And o'er its ashes now I weep expired.
Nott.
Oncemore, ye balmy gales, I feel you blow;Again, sweet hills, I mark the morning beamsGild your green summits; while your silver streamsThrough vales of fragrance undulating flow.But you, ye dreams of bliss, no longer hereGive life and beauty to the glowing scene:For stern remembrance stands where you have been,And blasts the verdure of the blooming year.O Laura! Laura! in the dust with thee,Would I could find a refuge from despair!Is this thy boasted triumph. Love, to tearA heart thy coward malice dares not free;And bid it live, while every hope is fled,To weep, among the ashes of the dead?Anne Bannerman.
Oncemore, ye balmy gales, I feel you blow;Again, sweet hills, I mark the morning beamsGild your green summits; while your silver streamsThrough vales of fragrance undulating flow.But you, ye dreams of bliss, no longer hereGive life and beauty to the glowing scene:For stern remembrance stands where you have been,And blasts the verdure of the blooming year.O Laura! Laura! in the dust with thee,Would I could find a refuge from despair!Is this thy boasted triumph. Love, to tearA heart thy coward malice dares not free;And bid it live, while every hope is fled,To weep, among the ashes of the dead?
Anne Bannerman.
Isthis the nest in which my phœnix firstHer plumage donn'd of purple and of gold,Beneath her wings who knew my heart to hold,For whom e'en yet its sighs and wishes burst?Prime root in which my cherish'd ill had birth,Where is the fair face whence that bright light came.Alive and glad which kept me in my flame?Now bless'd in heaven as then alone on earth;Wretched and lonely thou hast left me here,Fond lingering by the scenes, with sorrows drown'd,To thee which consecrate I still revere.Watching the hills as dark night gathers round,Whence its last flight to heaven thy soul did take,And where my day those bright eyes wont to make.Macgregor.
Isthis the nest in which my phœnix firstHer plumage donn'd of purple and of gold,Beneath her wings who knew my heart to hold,For whom e'en yet its sighs and wishes burst?Prime root in which my cherish'd ill had birth,Where is the fair face whence that bright light came.Alive and glad which kept me in my flame?Now bless'd in heaven as then alone on earth;Wretched and lonely thou hast left me here,Fond lingering by the scenes, with sorrows drown'd,To thee which consecrate I still revere.Watching the hills as dark night gathers round,Whence its last flight to heaven thy soul did take,And where my day those bright eyes wont to make.
Macgregor.
Isthis the nest in which her wings of gold,Of gold and purple plume, my phœnix laid?How flutter'd my fond heart beneath their shade!But now its sighs proclaim that dwelling cold:Sweet source! from which my bliss, my bane, have roll'd,Where is that face, in living light array'd,That burn'd me, yet my sole enjoyment made?Unparallel'd on earth, the heavens now holdThee bless'd!—but I am left wretched, alone!Yet ever in my grief return to seeAnd honour this sweet place, though thou art gone.A black night veils the hills, whence rising freeThou took'st thy heavenward flight! Ah! when they shoneIn morning radiance, it was all from thee!Morehead.
Isthis the nest in which her wings of gold,Of gold and purple plume, my phœnix laid?How flutter'd my fond heart beneath their shade!But now its sighs proclaim that dwelling cold:Sweet source! from which my bliss, my bane, have roll'd,Where is that face, in living light array'd,That burn'd me, yet my sole enjoyment made?Unparallel'd on earth, the heavens now holdThee bless'd!—but I am left wretched, alone!Yet ever in my grief return to seeAnd honour this sweet place, though thou art gone.A black night veils the hills, whence rising freeThou took'st thy heavenward flight! Ah! when they shoneIn morning radiance, it was all from thee!
Morehead.
Ne'ershall I see again with eyes unwet,Or with the sure powers of a tranquil mind,Those characters where Love so brightly shined,And his own hand affection seem'd to set;Spirit! amid earth's strifes unconquer'd yet,Breathing such sweets from heaven which now has shrined,As once more to my wandering verse has join'dThe style which Death had led me to forget.Another work, than my young leaves more bright,I thought to show: what envying evil starSnatch'd thee, my noble treasure, thus from me?So soon who hides thee from my fond heart's sight,And from thy praise my loving tongue would bar?My soul has rest, sweet sigh! alone in thee.Macgregor.
Ne'ershall I see again with eyes unwet,Or with the sure powers of a tranquil mind,Those characters where Love so brightly shined,And his own hand affection seem'd to set;Spirit! amid earth's strifes unconquer'd yet,Breathing such sweets from heaven which now has shrined,As once more to my wandering verse has join'dThe style which Death had led me to forget.Another work, than my young leaves more bright,I thought to show: what envying evil starSnatch'd thee, my noble treasure, thus from me?So soon who hides thee from my fond heart's sight,And from thy praise my loving tongue would bar?My soul has rest, sweet sigh! alone in thee.
Macgregor.
Oh! ne'er shall I behold with tearless eyeOr tranquil soul those characters of thine,In which affection doth so brightly shine,And charity's own hand I can descry!Blest soul! that could this earthly strife defy,Thy sweets instilling from thy home divine,Thou wakest in me the tone which once was mine,To sing my rhymes Death's power did long deny.With these, my brow's young leaves, I fondly dream'dAnother work than this had greeted thee:What iron planet envied thus our love?My treasure! veil'd ere age had darkly gleam'd;Thou—whom my song records—my heart doth see;Thou wakest my sigh, and sighing, rest I prove.Wollaston.
Oh! ne'er shall I behold with tearless eyeOr tranquil soul those characters of thine,In which affection doth so brightly shine,And charity's own hand I can descry!Blest soul! that could this earthly strife defy,Thy sweets instilling from thy home divine,Thou wakest in me the tone which once was mine,To sing my rhymes Death's power did long deny.With these, my brow's young leaves, I fondly dream'dAnother work than this had greeted thee:What iron planet envied thus our love?My treasure! veil'd ere age had darkly gleam'd;Thou—whom my song records—my heart doth see;Thou wakest my sigh, and sighing, rest I prove.
Wollaston.
Whileat my window late I stood alone,So new and many things there cross'd my sight,To view them I had almost weary grown.A dappled hind appear'd upon the right,In aspect gentle, yet of stately stride,By two swift greyhounds chased, a black and white,Who tore in the poor sideOf that fair creature wounds so deep and wide,That soon they forced her where ravine and rockThe onward passage block:Then triumph'd Death her matchless beauties o'er,And left me lonely there her sad fate to deplore.Upon the summer wave a gay ship danced,Her cordage was of silk, of gold her sails,Her sides with ivory and ebon glanced,The sea was tranquil, favouring were the gales,And heaven as when no cloud its azure veils.A rich and goodly merchandise is hers;But soon the tempest wakes,And wind and wave to such mad fury stirs,That, driven on the rocks, in twain she breaks;My heart with pity aches,That a short hour should whelm, a small space hide,Riches for which the world no equal had beside.In a fair grove a bright young laurel made—Surely to Paradise the plant belongs!—Of sacred boughs a pleasant summer shade,From whose green depths there issued so sweet songsOf various birds, and many a rare delightOf eye and ear, what marvel from the worldThey stole my senses quite!While still I gazed, the heavens grew black around,The fatal lightning flash'd, and sudden hurl'd,Uprooted to the ground,That blessed birth. Alas! for it laid low,And its dear shade whose like we ne'er again shall know.A crystal fountain in that very groveGush'd from a rock, whose waters fresh and clearShed coolness round and softly murmur'd love;Never that leafy screen and mossy seatDrew browsing flock or whistling rustic nearBut nymphs and muses danced to music sweet.There as I sat and drankWith infinite delight their carols gay,And mark'd their sport, the earth before me sankAnd bore with it awayThe fountain and the scene, to my great grief,Who now in memory find a sole and scant relief.A lovely and rare bird within the wood,Whose crest with gold, whose wings with purple gleam'd,Alone, but proudly soaring, next I view'd,Of heavenly and immortal birth which seem'd,Flitting now here, now there, until it stoodWhere buried fount and broken laurel lay,And sadly seeing thereThe fallen trunk, the boughs all stripp'd and bare,The channel dried—for all things to decaySo tend—it turn'd awayAs if in angry scorn, and instant fled,While through me for her loss new love and pity spread.At length along the flowery sward I sawSo sweet and fair a lady pensive moveThat her mere thought inspires a tender awe;Meek in herself, but haughty against Love,Flow'd from her waist a robe so fair and fineSeem'd gold and snow together there to join:But, ah! each charm aboveWas veil'd from sight in an unfriendly cloud:Stung by a lurking snake, as flowers that pineHer head she gently bow'd,And joyful pass'd on high, perchance secure:Alas! that in the world grief only should endure.My song! in each sad change,These visions, as they rise, sweet, solemn, strange,But show how deeply in thy master's breastThe fond desire abides to die and be at rest.Macgregor.
Whileat my window late I stood alone,So new and many things there cross'd my sight,To view them I had almost weary grown.A dappled hind appear'd upon the right,In aspect gentle, yet of stately stride,By two swift greyhounds chased, a black and white,Who tore in the poor sideOf that fair creature wounds so deep and wide,That soon they forced her where ravine and rockThe onward passage block:Then triumph'd Death her matchless beauties o'er,And left me lonely there her sad fate to deplore.
Upon the summer wave a gay ship danced,Her cordage was of silk, of gold her sails,Her sides with ivory and ebon glanced,The sea was tranquil, favouring were the gales,And heaven as when no cloud its azure veils.A rich and goodly merchandise is hers;But soon the tempest wakes,And wind and wave to such mad fury stirs,That, driven on the rocks, in twain she breaks;My heart with pity aches,That a short hour should whelm, a small space hide,Riches for which the world no equal had beside.
In a fair grove a bright young laurel made—Surely to Paradise the plant belongs!—Of sacred boughs a pleasant summer shade,From whose green depths there issued so sweet songsOf various birds, and many a rare delightOf eye and ear, what marvel from the worldThey stole my senses quite!While still I gazed, the heavens grew black around,The fatal lightning flash'd, and sudden hurl'd,Uprooted to the ground,That blessed birth. Alas! for it laid low,And its dear shade whose like we ne'er again shall know.
A crystal fountain in that very groveGush'd from a rock, whose waters fresh and clearShed coolness round and softly murmur'd love;Never that leafy screen and mossy seatDrew browsing flock or whistling rustic nearBut nymphs and muses danced to music sweet.There as I sat and drankWith infinite delight their carols gay,And mark'd their sport, the earth before me sankAnd bore with it awayThe fountain and the scene, to my great grief,Who now in memory find a sole and scant relief.
A lovely and rare bird within the wood,Whose crest with gold, whose wings with purple gleam'd,Alone, but proudly soaring, next I view'd,Of heavenly and immortal birth which seem'd,Flitting now here, now there, until it stoodWhere buried fount and broken laurel lay,And sadly seeing thereThe fallen trunk, the boughs all stripp'd and bare,The channel dried—for all things to decaySo tend—it turn'd awayAs if in angry scorn, and instant fled,While through me for her loss new love and pity spread.
At length along the flowery sward I sawSo sweet and fair a lady pensive moveThat her mere thought inspires a tender awe;Meek in herself, but haughty against Love,Flow'd from her waist a robe so fair and fineSeem'd gold and snow together there to join:But, ah! each charm aboveWas veil'd from sight in an unfriendly cloud:Stung by a lurking snake, as flowers that pineHer head she gently bow'd,And joyful pass'd on high, perchance secure:Alas! that in the world grief only should endure.
My song! in each sad change,These visions, as they rise, sweet, solemn, strange,But show how deeply in thy master's breastThe fond desire abides to die and be at rest.
Macgregor.
Yes, Love, at that propitious timeWhen hope was in its bloomy prime,And when I vainly fancied nighThe meed of all my constancy;Then sudden she, of whom I soughtCompassion, from my sight was caught.O ruthless Death! O life severe!The one has sunk me deep in care,And darken'd cruelly my day,That shone with hope's enlivening ray:The other, adverse to my will,Doth here on earth detain me still;And interdicts me to pursueHer, who from all its scenes withdrew:Yet in my heart resides the fair,For ever, ever present there;Who well perceives the ills that waitUpon my wretched, mortal state.Nott.
Yes, Love, at that propitious timeWhen hope was in its bloomy prime,And when I vainly fancied nighThe meed of all my constancy;Then sudden she, of whom I soughtCompassion, from my sight was caught.O ruthless Death! O life severe!The one has sunk me deep in care,And darken'd cruelly my day,That shone with hope's enlivening ray:The other, adverse to my will,Doth here on earth detain me still;And interdicts me to pursueHer, who from all its scenes withdrew:Yet in my heart resides the fair,For ever, ever present there;Who well perceives the ills that waitUpon my wretched, mortal state.
Nott.
Yes, Love, while hope still bloom'd with me in pride,While seem'd of all my faith the guerdon nigh,She, upon whom for mercy I relied,Was ravish'd from my doting desolate eye.O ruthless Death! O life unwelcome! thisPlunged me in deepest woe,And rudely crush'd my every hope of bliss;Against my will that keeps me here below,Who else would yearn to go,And join the sainted fair who left us late;Yet present every hourIn my heart's core there wields she her old power,And knows, whate'er my life, its every state!Macgregor.
Yes, Love, while hope still bloom'd with me in pride,While seem'd of all my faith the guerdon nigh,She, upon whom for mercy I relied,Was ravish'd from my doting desolate eye.O ruthless Death! O life unwelcome! thisPlunged me in deepest woe,And rudely crush'd my every hope of bliss;Against my will that keeps me here below,Who else would yearn to go,And join the sainted fair who left us late;Yet present every hourIn my heart's core there wields she her old power,And knows, whate'er my life, its every state!
Macgregor.
Fainwould I speak—too long has silence seal'dLips that would gladly with my full heart moveWith one consent, and yieldHomage to her who listens from above;Yet how can I, without thy prompting, Love,With mortal words e'er equal things divine,And picture faithfullyThe high humility whose chosen shrineWas that fair prison whence she now is free?Which held, erewhile, her gentle spirit, whenSo in my conscious heart her power began.That, instantly, I ran,—Alike o' th' year and me 'twas April then—From these gay meadows round sweet flowers to bind,Hoping rich pleasure at her eyes to find.The walls were alabaster, the roof gold,Ivory the doors, the sapphire windows lentWhence on my heart of oldIts earliest sigh, as shall my last, was sent;In arrowy jets of fire thence came and wentArm'd messengers of love, whereof to thinkAs then they were, with awe—Though now for them with laurel crown'd—I shrinkOf one rare diamond, square, without a flaw,High in the midst a stately throne was placedWhere sat the lovely lady all alone:In front a column shoneOf crystal, and thereon each thought was tracedIn characters so clear, and quick, and true,By turns it gladden'd me and grieved to view.To weapons such as these, sharp, burning, bright,To the green glorious banner waved above,—'Gainst which would fail in fightMars, Polypheme, Apollo, mighty Jove—While still my sorrow fresh and verdant throve,I stood defenceless, doom'd; her easy preyShe led me as she choseWhence to escape I knew nor art nor way;But, as a friend, who, haply, grieves yet goes,Sees something still to lure his eyes and heart,Just so on her, for whom I am in thrall,Sole perfect work of allThat graced her age, unable to depart,With such desire my rapt regards I set,As soon myself and misery to forget.On earth myself, my heart in Eden dwelt,Lost in sweet Lethe every other care,As my live frame I feltTo marble turn, watching that wonder rare;When old in years, but youthful still in air,A lady briefly, quietly drew nigh,And thus beholding me,With reverent aspect and admiring eye,Kind offer made my counsellor to be:"My power," she said, "is more than mortals know—Lighter than air, I, in an instant, makeTheir hearts exult or ache,I loose and bind whate'er is seen below;Thine eyes, upon that sun, as eagles', bend,But to my words with willing ears attend."The day when she was born, the stars that winProsperity for man shone bright above;Their high glad homes withinEach on the other smiled with gratulant love;Fair Venus, and, with gentle aspect, JoveThe beautiful and lordly mansions held:Seem'd as each adverse lightThroughout all heaven was darken'd and dispell'd,The sun ne'er look'd upon a day so bright;The air and earth rejoiced; the waves had restBy lake and river, and o'er ocean green:'Mid the enchanting sceneOne distant cloud alone my thought distress'd,Lest sometime it might be of tears the sourceUnless kind Heaven should elsewhere turn its course."When first she enter'd on this life below,Which, to say sooth, not worthy was to hold,'Twas strange to see her soAngelical and dear in baby mould;A snowy pearl she seem'd in finest gold;Next as she crawl'd, or totter'd with short pace,Wood, water, earth, and stoneGrew green, and clear, and soft; with livelier graceThe sward beneath her feet and fingers shone;With flowers the champain to her bright eyes smiled;At her sweet voice, babbling through lips that yetFrom Love's own fount were wet,The hoarse wind silent grew, the tempest mild:Thus clearly showing to the dull blind worldHow much in her was heaven's own light unfurl'd."At length, her life's third flowery epoch won,She, year by year, so grew in charms and worth,That ne'er, methinks, the sunSuch gracefulness and beauty saw on earth;Her eyes so full of modesty and mirth,Music and welcome on her words so hung,That mute in her high praise,Which thine alone may sound, is every tongue:So bright her countenance with heavenly rays,Not long thy dazzled vision there may rest;From this her fair and fleshly tenementSuch fire through thine is sent(Though gentler never kindled human breast),That yet I fear her sudden flight may beToo soon the cause of bitter grief to thee."This said, she turn'd her to the rapid wheelWhereon she winds of mortal life the thread;Too true did she revealThe doom of woe which darken'd o'er my head!A few brief years flew by,When she, for whom I so desire to die,By black and pitiless Death, who could not slayA fairer form than hers, was snatch'd away!Macgregor.
Fainwould I speak—too long has silence seal'dLips that would gladly with my full heart moveWith one consent, and yieldHomage to her who listens from above;Yet how can I, without thy prompting, Love,With mortal words e'er equal things divine,And picture faithfullyThe high humility whose chosen shrineWas that fair prison whence she now is free?Which held, erewhile, her gentle spirit, whenSo in my conscious heart her power began.That, instantly, I ran,—Alike o' th' year and me 'twas April then—From these gay meadows round sweet flowers to bind,Hoping rich pleasure at her eyes to find.
The walls were alabaster, the roof gold,Ivory the doors, the sapphire windows lentWhence on my heart of oldIts earliest sigh, as shall my last, was sent;In arrowy jets of fire thence came and wentArm'd messengers of love, whereof to thinkAs then they were, with awe—Though now for them with laurel crown'd—I shrinkOf one rare diamond, square, without a flaw,High in the midst a stately throne was placedWhere sat the lovely lady all alone:In front a column shoneOf crystal, and thereon each thought was tracedIn characters so clear, and quick, and true,By turns it gladden'd me and grieved to view.
To weapons such as these, sharp, burning, bright,To the green glorious banner waved above,—'Gainst which would fail in fightMars, Polypheme, Apollo, mighty Jove—While still my sorrow fresh and verdant throve,I stood defenceless, doom'd; her easy preyShe led me as she choseWhence to escape I knew nor art nor way;But, as a friend, who, haply, grieves yet goes,Sees something still to lure his eyes and heart,Just so on her, for whom I am in thrall,Sole perfect work of allThat graced her age, unable to depart,With such desire my rapt regards I set,As soon myself and misery to forget.
On earth myself, my heart in Eden dwelt,Lost in sweet Lethe every other care,As my live frame I feltTo marble turn, watching that wonder rare;When old in years, but youthful still in air,A lady briefly, quietly drew nigh,And thus beholding me,With reverent aspect and admiring eye,Kind offer made my counsellor to be:"My power," she said, "is more than mortals know—Lighter than air, I, in an instant, makeTheir hearts exult or ache,I loose and bind whate'er is seen below;Thine eyes, upon that sun, as eagles', bend,But to my words with willing ears attend.
"The day when she was born, the stars that winProsperity for man shone bright above;Their high glad homes withinEach on the other smiled with gratulant love;Fair Venus, and, with gentle aspect, JoveThe beautiful and lordly mansions held:Seem'd as each adverse lightThroughout all heaven was darken'd and dispell'd,The sun ne'er look'd upon a day so bright;The air and earth rejoiced; the waves had restBy lake and river, and o'er ocean green:'Mid the enchanting sceneOne distant cloud alone my thought distress'd,Lest sometime it might be of tears the sourceUnless kind Heaven should elsewhere turn its course.
"When first she enter'd on this life below,Which, to say sooth, not worthy was to hold,'Twas strange to see her soAngelical and dear in baby mould;A snowy pearl she seem'd in finest gold;Next as she crawl'd, or totter'd with short pace,Wood, water, earth, and stoneGrew green, and clear, and soft; with livelier graceThe sward beneath her feet and fingers shone;With flowers the champain to her bright eyes smiled;At her sweet voice, babbling through lips that yetFrom Love's own fount were wet,The hoarse wind silent grew, the tempest mild:Thus clearly showing to the dull blind worldHow much in her was heaven's own light unfurl'd.
"At length, her life's third flowery epoch won,She, year by year, so grew in charms and worth,That ne'er, methinks, the sunSuch gracefulness and beauty saw on earth;Her eyes so full of modesty and mirth,Music and welcome on her words so hung,That mute in her high praise,Which thine alone may sound, is every tongue:So bright her countenance with heavenly rays,Not long thy dazzled vision there may rest;From this her fair and fleshly tenementSuch fire through thine is sent(Though gentler never kindled human breast),That yet I fear her sudden flight may beToo soon the cause of bitter grief to thee."
This said, she turn'd her to the rapid wheelWhereon she winds of mortal life the thread;Too true did she revealThe doom of woe which darken'd o'er my head!A few brief years flew by,When she, for whom I so desire to die,By black and pitiless Death, who could not slayA fairer form than hers, was snatch'd away!
Macgregor.