Thoughbarr'd from all which led me first to loveBy coldness or caprice,Not yet from its firm bent can passion cease!The snare was set amid those threads of gold,To which Love bound me fast;And from those bright eyes melted the long coldWithin my heart that pass'd;So sweet the spell their sudden splendour cast,Its single memory stillDeprives my soul of every other will.But now, alas! from me of that fine hairIs ravish'd the dear sight;The lost light of those twin stars, chaste as fair,Saddens me in her flight;But, since a glorious death wins honour bright,By death, and not through grief,Love from such chain shall give at last relief.Macgregor.
Thoughbarr'd from all which led me first to loveBy coldness or caprice,Not yet from its firm bent can passion cease!The snare was set amid those threads of gold,To which Love bound me fast;And from those bright eyes melted the long coldWithin my heart that pass'd;So sweet the spell their sudden splendour cast,Its single memory stillDeprives my soul of every other will.But now, alas! from me of that fine hairIs ravish'd the dear sight;The lost light of those twin stars, chaste as fair,Saddens me in her flight;But, since a glorious death wins honour bright,By death, and not through grief,Love from such chain shall give at last relief.
Macgregor.
Thegraceful tree I loved so long and well,Ere its fair boughs in scorn my flame declined,Beneath its shade encouraged my poor mindTo bud and bloom, and 'mid its sorrow swell.But now, my heart secure from such a spell,Alas, from friendly it has grown unkind!My thoughts entirely to one end confined,Their painful sufferings how I still may tell.What should he say, the sighing slave of love,To whom my later rhymes gave hope of bliss,Who for that laurel has lost all—but this?May poet never pluck thee more, nor JoveExempt; but may the sun still hold in hateOn each green leaf till blight and blackness wait.Macgregor.
Thegraceful tree I loved so long and well,Ere its fair boughs in scorn my flame declined,Beneath its shade encouraged my poor mindTo bud and bloom, and 'mid its sorrow swell.But now, my heart secure from such a spell,Alas, from friendly it has grown unkind!My thoughts entirely to one end confined,Their painful sufferings how I still may tell.What should he say, the sighing slave of love,To whom my later rhymes gave hope of bliss,Who for that laurel has lost all—but this?May poet never pluck thee more, nor JoveExempt; but may the sun still hold in hateOn each green leaf till blight and blackness wait.
Macgregor.
Blestbe the day, and blest the month, the year,The spring, the hour, the very moment blest,The lovely scene, the spot, where first oppress'dI sunk, of two bright eyes the prisoner:And blest the first soft pang, to me most dear,Which thrill'd my heart, when Love became its guest;And blest the bow, the shafts which pierced my breast,And even the wounds, which bosom'd thence I bear.Blest too the strains which, pour'd through glade and grove,Have made the woodlands echo with her name;The sighs, the tears, the languishment, the love:And blest those sonnets, sources of my fame;And blest that thought—Oh! never to remove!Which turns to her alone, from her alone which came.Wrangham.
Blestbe the day, and blest the month, the year,The spring, the hour, the very moment blest,The lovely scene, the spot, where first oppress'dI sunk, of two bright eyes the prisoner:And blest the first soft pang, to me most dear,Which thrill'd my heart, when Love became its guest;And blest the bow, the shafts which pierced my breast,And even the wounds, which bosom'd thence I bear.Blest too the strains which, pour'd through glade and grove,Have made the woodlands echo with her name;The sighs, the tears, the languishment, the love:And blest those sonnets, sources of my fame;And blest that thought—Oh! never to remove!Which turns to her alone, from her alone which came.
Wrangham.
Blestbe the year, the month, the hour, the day,The season and the time, and point of space,And blest the beauteous country and the placeWhere first of two bright eyes I felt the sway:Blest the sweet pain of which I was the prey,When newly doom'd Love's sovereign law to embrace,And blest the bow and shaft to which I trace,The wound that to my inmost heart found way:Blest be the ceaseless accents of my tongue,Unwearied breathing my loved lady's name:Blest my fond wishes, sighs, and tears, and pains:Blest be the lays in which her praise I sung,That on all sides acquired to her fair fame,And blest my thoughts! for o'er them all she reigns.Dacre.
Blestbe the year, the month, the hour, the day,The season and the time, and point of space,And blest the beauteous country and the placeWhere first of two bright eyes I felt the sway:Blest the sweet pain of which I was the prey,When newly doom'd Love's sovereign law to embrace,And blest the bow and shaft to which I trace,The wound that to my inmost heart found way:Blest be the ceaseless accents of my tongue,Unwearied breathing my loved lady's name:Blest my fond wishes, sighs, and tears, and pains:Blest be the lays in which her praise I sung,That on all sides acquired to her fair fame,And blest my thoughts! for o'er them all she reigns.
Dacre.
Fatherof heaven! after the days misspent,After the nights of wild tumultuous thought,In that fierce passion's strong entanglement,One, for my peace too lovely fair, had wrought;Vouchsafe that, by thy grace, my spirit bentOn nobler aims, to holier ways be brought;That so my foe, spreading with dark intentHis mortal snares, be foil'd, and held at nought.E'en now th' eleventh year its course fulfils,That I have bow'd me to the tyrannyRelentless most to fealty most tried.Have mercy, Lord! on my unworthy ills:Fix all my thoughts in contemplation high;How on the cross this day a Saviour died.Dacre.
Fatherof heaven! after the days misspent,After the nights of wild tumultuous thought,In that fierce passion's strong entanglement,One, for my peace too lovely fair, had wrought;Vouchsafe that, by thy grace, my spirit bentOn nobler aims, to holier ways be brought;That so my foe, spreading with dark intentHis mortal snares, be foil'd, and held at nought.E'en now th' eleventh year its course fulfils,That I have bow'd me to the tyrannyRelentless most to fealty most tried.Have mercy, Lord! on my unworthy ills:Fix all my thoughts in contemplation high;How on the cross this day a Saviour died.
Dacre.
Fatherof heaven! despite my days all lost,Despite my nights in doting folly spentWith that fierce passion which my bosom rentAt sight of her, too lovely for my cost;Vouchsafe at length that, by thy grace, I turnTo wiser life, and enterprise more fair,So that my cruel foe, in vain his snareSet for my soul, may his defeat discern.Already, Lord, the eleventh year circling wanesSince first beneath his tyrant yoke I fellWho still is fiercest where we least rebel:Pity my undeserved and lingering pains,To holier thoughts my wandering sense restore,How on this day his cross thy Son our Saviour bore.Macgregor.
Fatherof heaven! despite my days all lost,Despite my nights in doting folly spentWith that fierce passion which my bosom rentAt sight of her, too lovely for my cost;Vouchsafe at length that, by thy grace, I turnTo wiser life, and enterprise more fair,So that my cruel foe, in vain his snareSet for my soul, may his defeat discern.Already, Lord, the eleventh year circling wanesSince first beneath his tyrant yoke I fellWho still is fiercest where we least rebel:Pity my undeserved and lingering pains,To holier thoughts my wandering sense restore,How on this day his cross thy Son our Saviour bore.
Macgregor.
Lateas those eyes on my sunk cheek inclined,Whose paleness to the world seems of the grave,Compassion moved you to that greeting kind,Whose soft smile to my worn heart spirit gave.The poor frail life which yet to me is leftWas of your beauteous eyes the liberal gift,And of that voice angelical and mild;My present state derived from them I see;As the rod quickens the slow sullen child,So waken'd they the sleeping soul in me.Thus, Lady, of my true heart both the keysYou hold in hand, and yet your captive please:Ready to sail wherever winds may blow,By me most prized whate'er to you I owe.Macgregor.
Lateas those eyes on my sunk cheek inclined,Whose paleness to the world seems of the grave,Compassion moved you to that greeting kind,Whose soft smile to my worn heart spirit gave.The poor frail life which yet to me is leftWas of your beauteous eyes the liberal gift,And of that voice angelical and mild;My present state derived from them I see;As the rod quickens the slow sullen child,So waken'd they the sleeping soul in me.Thus, Lady, of my true heart both the keysYou hold in hand, and yet your captive please:Ready to sail wherever winds may blow,By me most prized whate'er to you I owe.
Macgregor.
If, but by angry and disdainful sign,By the averted head and downcast sight,By readiness beyond thy sex for flight,Deaf to all pure and worthy prayers of mine,Thou canst, by these or other arts of thine,'Scape from my breast—where Love on slip so slightGrafts every day new boughs—of such despiteA fitting cause I then might well divine:For gentle plant in arid soil to beSeems little suited: so it better were,And this e'en nature dictates, thence to stir.But since thy destiny prohibits theeElsewhere to dwell, be this at least thy careNot always to sojourn in hatred there.Macgregor.
If, but by angry and disdainful sign,By the averted head and downcast sight,By readiness beyond thy sex for flight,Deaf to all pure and worthy prayers of mine,Thou canst, by these or other arts of thine,'Scape from my breast—where Love on slip so slightGrafts every day new boughs—of such despiteA fitting cause I then might well divine:For gentle plant in arid soil to beSeems little suited: so it better were,And this e'en nature dictates, thence to stir.But since thy destiny prohibits theeElsewhere to dwell, be this at least thy careNot always to sojourn in hatred there.
Macgregor.
Alas! this heart by me was little knownIn those first days when Love its depths explored,Where by degrees he made himself the lordOf my whole life, and claim'd it as his own:I did not think that, through his power alone,A heart time-steel'd, and so with valour stored,Such proof of failing firmness could afford,And fell by wrong self-confidence o'erthrown.Henceforward all defence too late will come,Save this, to prove, enough or little, hereIf to these mortal prayers Love lend his ear.Not now my prayer—nor can such e'er have room—That with more mercy he consume my heart,But in the fire that she may bear her part.Macgregor.
Alas! this heart by me was little knownIn those first days when Love its depths explored,Where by degrees he made himself the lordOf my whole life, and claim'd it as his own:I did not think that, through his power alone,A heart time-steel'd, and so with valour stored,Such proof of failing firmness could afford,And fell by wrong self-confidence o'erthrown.Henceforward all defence too late will come,Save this, to prove, enough or little, hereIf to these mortal prayers Love lend his ear.Not now my prayer—nor can such e'er have room—That with more mercy he consume my heart,But in the fire that she may bear her part.
Macgregor.
Theovercharged air, the impending cloud,Compress'd together by impetuous winds,Must presently discharge themselves in rain;Already as of crystal are the streams,And, for the fine grass late that clothed the vales,Is nothing now but the hoar frost and ice.And I, within my heart, more cold than ice,Of heavy thoughts have such a hovering cloud,As sometimes rears itself in these our vales,Lowly, and landlock'd against amorous winds,Environ'd everywhere with stagnant streams,When falls from soft'ning heaven the smaller rain.Lasts but a brief while every heavy rain;And summer melts away the snows and ice,When proudly roll th' accumulated streams:Nor ever hid the heavens so thick a cloud,Which, overtaken by the furious winds,Fled not from the first hills and quiet vales.But ah! what profit me the flowering vales?Alike I mourn in sunshine and in rain,Suffering the same in warm and wintry winds;For only then my lady shall want iceAt heart, and on her brow th' accustom'd cloud,When dry shall be the seas, the lakes, and streams.While to the sea descend the mountain streams,As long as wild beasts love umbrageous vales,O'er those bright eyes shall hang th' unfriendly cloudMy own that moistens with continual rain;And in that lovely breast be harden'd iceWhich forces still from mine so dolorous winds.Yet well ought I to pardon all the windsBut for the love of one, that 'mid two streamsShut me among bright verdure and pure ice;So that I pictured then in thousand valesThe shade wherein I was, which heat or rainEsteemeth not, nor sound of broken cloud.But fled not ever cloud before the winds,As I that day: nor ever streams with rainNor ice, when April's sun opens the vales.Macgregor.
Theovercharged air, the impending cloud,Compress'd together by impetuous winds,Must presently discharge themselves in rain;Already as of crystal are the streams,And, for the fine grass late that clothed the vales,Is nothing now but the hoar frost and ice.
And I, within my heart, more cold than ice,Of heavy thoughts have such a hovering cloud,As sometimes rears itself in these our vales,Lowly, and landlock'd against amorous winds,Environ'd everywhere with stagnant streams,When falls from soft'ning heaven the smaller rain.
Lasts but a brief while every heavy rain;And summer melts away the snows and ice,When proudly roll th' accumulated streams:Nor ever hid the heavens so thick a cloud,Which, overtaken by the furious winds,Fled not from the first hills and quiet vales.
But ah! what profit me the flowering vales?Alike I mourn in sunshine and in rain,Suffering the same in warm and wintry winds;For only then my lady shall want iceAt heart, and on her brow th' accustom'd cloud,When dry shall be the seas, the lakes, and streams.
While to the sea descend the mountain streams,As long as wild beasts love umbrageous vales,O'er those bright eyes shall hang th' unfriendly cloudMy own that moistens with continual rain;And in that lovely breast be harden'd iceWhich forces still from mine so dolorous winds.
Yet well ought I to pardon all the windsBut for the love of one, that 'mid two streamsShut me among bright verdure and pure ice;So that I pictured then in thousand valesThe shade wherein I was, which heat or rainEsteemeth not, nor sound of broken cloud.
But fled not ever cloud before the winds,As I that day: nor ever streams with rainNor ice, when April's sun opens the vales.
Macgregor.
CASTLE OF ST. ANGELO & ST. PETERS.CASTLE OF ST. ANGELO & ST. PETERS.
Uponthe left shore of the Tyrrhene sea,Where, broken by the winds, the waves complain,Sudden I saw that honour'd green again,Written for whom so many a page must be:Love, ever in my soul his flame who fed,Drew me with memories of those tresses fair;Whence, in a rivulet, which silent thereThrough long grass stole, I fell, as one struck dead.Lone as I was, 'mid hills of oak and fir,I felt ashamed; to heart of gentle mouldBlushes suffice: nor needs it other spur.'Tis well at least, breaking bad customs old,To change from eyes to feet: from these so wetBy those if milder April should be met.Macgregor.
Uponthe left shore of the Tyrrhene sea,Where, broken by the winds, the waves complain,Sudden I saw that honour'd green again,Written for whom so many a page must be:Love, ever in my soul his flame who fed,Drew me with memories of those tresses fair;Whence, in a rivulet, which silent thereThrough long grass stole, I fell, as one struck dead.Lone as I was, 'mid hills of oak and fir,I felt ashamed; to heart of gentle mouldBlushes suffice: nor needs it other spur.'Tis well at least, breaking bad customs old,To change from eyes to feet: from these so wetBy those if milder April should be met.
Macgregor.
Thesolemn aspect of this sacred shoreWakes for the misspent past my bitter sighs;'Pause, wretched man! and turn,' as conscience cries,Pointing the heavenward way where I should soar.But soon another thought gets mastery o'erThe first, that so to palter were unwise;E'en now the time, if memory err not, flies,When we should wait our lady-love before.I, for his aim then well I apprehend,Within me freeze, as one who, sudden, hearsNews unexpected which his soul offend.Returns my first thought then, that disappears;Nor know I which shall conquer, but till nowWithin me they contend, nor hope of rest allow!Macgregor.
Thesolemn aspect of this sacred shoreWakes for the misspent past my bitter sighs;'Pause, wretched man! and turn,' as conscience cries,Pointing the heavenward way where I should soar.But soon another thought gets mastery o'erThe first, that so to palter were unwise;E'en now the time, if memory err not, flies,When we should wait our lady-love before.I, for his aim then well I apprehend,Within me freeze, as one who, sudden, hearsNews unexpected which his soul offend.Returns my first thought then, that disappears;Nor know I which shall conquer, but till nowWithin me they contend, nor hope of rest allow!
Macgregor.
Fullwell I know that natural wisdom nought,Love, 'gainst thy power, in any age prevail'd,For snares oft set, fond oaths that ever fail'd,Sore proofs of thy sharp talons long had taught;But lately, and in me it wonder wrought—With care this new experience be detail'd—'Tween Tuscany and Elba as I sail'dOn the salt sea, it first my notice caught.I fled from thy broad hands, and, by the way,An unknown wanderer, 'neath the violenceOf winds, and waves, and skies, I helpless lay,When, lo! thy ministers, I knew not whence,Who quickly made me by fresh stings to feelIll who resists his fate, or would conceal.Macgregor.
Fullwell I know that natural wisdom nought,Love, 'gainst thy power, in any age prevail'd,For snares oft set, fond oaths that ever fail'd,Sore proofs of thy sharp talons long had taught;But lately, and in me it wonder wrought—With care this new experience be detail'd—'Tween Tuscany and Elba as I sail'dOn the salt sea, it first my notice caught.I fled from thy broad hands, and, by the way,An unknown wanderer, 'neath the violenceOf winds, and waves, and skies, I helpless lay,When, lo! thy ministers, I knew not whence,Who quickly made me by fresh stings to feelIll who resists his fate, or would conceal.
Macgregor.
Mewretched! for I know not whither tendThe hopes which have so long my heart betray'd:If none there be who will compassion lend,Wherefore to Heaven these often prayers for aid?But if, belike, not yet denied to meThat, ere my own life end,These sad notes mute shall be,Let not my Lord conceive the wish too free,Yet once, amid sweet flowers, to touch the string,"Reason and right it is that love I sing."Reason indeed there were at last that IShould sing, since I have sigh'd so long and late,But that for me 'tis vain such art to try,Brief pleasures balancing with sorrows great;Could I, by some sweet verse, but cause to shineGlad wonder and new joyWithin those eyes divine,Bliss o'er all other lovers then were mine!But more, if frankly fondly I could say,"My lady asks, I therefore wake the lay."Delicious, dangerous thoughts! that, to beginA theme so high, have gently led me thus,You know I ne'er can hope to pass withinOur lady's heart, so strongly steel'd from us;She will not deign to look on thing so low,Nor may our language winAught of her care: since Heaven ordains it so,And vainly to oppose must irksome grow,Even as I my heart to stone would turn,"So in my verse would I be rude and stern."What do I say? where am I?—My own heartAnd its misplaced desires alone deceive!Though my view travel utmost heaven athwartNo planet there condemns me thus to grieve:Why, if the body's veil obscure my sight,Blame to the stars impart.Or other things as bright?Within me reigns my tyrant, day and night,Since, for his triumph, me a captive took"Her lovely face, and lustrous eyes' dear look."While all things else in Nature's boundless reignCame good from the Eternal Master's mould,I look for such desert in me in vain:Me the light wounds that I around behold;To the true splendour if I turn at last,My eye would shrink in pain,Whose own fault o'er it castSuch film, and not the fatal day long past,When first her angel beauty met my view,"In the sweet season when my life was new."Macgregor.
Mewretched! for I know not whither tendThe hopes which have so long my heart betray'd:If none there be who will compassion lend,Wherefore to Heaven these often prayers for aid?But if, belike, not yet denied to meThat, ere my own life end,These sad notes mute shall be,Let not my Lord conceive the wish too free,Yet once, amid sweet flowers, to touch the string,"Reason and right it is that love I sing."
Reason indeed there were at last that IShould sing, since I have sigh'd so long and late,But that for me 'tis vain such art to try,Brief pleasures balancing with sorrows great;Could I, by some sweet verse, but cause to shineGlad wonder and new joyWithin those eyes divine,Bliss o'er all other lovers then were mine!But more, if frankly fondly I could say,"My lady asks, I therefore wake the lay."
Delicious, dangerous thoughts! that, to beginA theme so high, have gently led me thus,You know I ne'er can hope to pass withinOur lady's heart, so strongly steel'd from us;She will not deign to look on thing so low,Nor may our language winAught of her care: since Heaven ordains it so,And vainly to oppose must irksome grow,Even as I my heart to stone would turn,"So in my verse would I be rude and stern."
What do I say? where am I?—My own heartAnd its misplaced desires alone deceive!Though my view travel utmost heaven athwartNo planet there condemns me thus to grieve:Why, if the body's veil obscure my sight,Blame to the stars impart.Or other things as bright?Within me reigns my tyrant, day and night,Since, for his triumph, me a captive took"Her lovely face, and lustrous eyes' dear look."
While all things else in Nature's boundless reignCame good from the Eternal Master's mould,I look for such desert in me in vain:Me the light wounds that I around behold;To the true splendour if I turn at last,My eye would shrink in pain,Whose own fault o'er it castSuch film, and not the fatal day long past,When first her angel beauty met my view,"In the sweet season when my life was new."
Macgregor.
Sincehuman life is frail,And genius trembles at the lofty theme,I little confidence in either place;But let my tender wailThere, where it ought, deserved attention claim,That wail which e'en in silence we may trace.O beauteous eyes, where Love doth nestling stay!To you I turn my insufficient lay,Unapt to flow; but passion's goad I feel:And he of you who singsSuch courteous habit by the strain is taught,That, borne on amorous wings,He soars above the reach of vulgar thought:Exalted thus, I venture to revealWhat long my cautious heart has labour'd to conceal.Yes, well do I perceiveTo you how wrongful is my scanty praise;Yet the strong impulse cannot be withstood,That urges, since I view'dWhat fancy to the sight before ne'er gave,What ne'er before graced mine, or higher lays.Bright authors of my sadly-pleasing state,That you alone conceive me well I know,When to your fierce beams I become as snow!Your elegant disdainHaply then kindles at my worthless strain.Did not this dread createSome mitigation of my bosom's heat,Death would be bliss: for greater joy 'twould giveWith them to suffer death, without them than to live.If not consumèd quite,I the weak object of a flame so strong:'Tis not that safety springs from native might,But that some fear restrains,Which chills the current circling through my veins;Strengthening this heart, that it may suffer long.O hills, O vales, O forests, floods, and fields,Ye who have witness'd how my sad life flows,Oft have ye heard me call on death for aid.Ah, state surcharged with woes!To stay destroys, and flight no succour yields.But had not higher dreadWithheld, some sudden effort I had madeTo end my sorrows and protracted pains,Of which the beauteous cause insensible remains.Why lead me, grief, astrayFrom my first theme to chant a different lay?Let me proceed where pleasure may invite.'Tis not of you I 'plain,O eyes, beyond compare serenely bright;Nor yet of him who binds me in his chain.Ye clearly can behold the hues that LoveScatters ofttime on my dejected face;And fancy may his inward workings traceThere where, whole nights and days,He rules with power derived from your bright rays:What rapture would ye prove,If you, dear lights, upon yourselves could gaze!But, frequent as you bend your beams on me,What influence you possess you in another see.Oh! if to you were knownThat beauty which I sing, immense, divine.As unto him on whom its glories shine!The heart had then o'erflownWith joy unbounded, such as is deniedUnto that nature which its acts doth guide.How happy is the soul for you that sighs,Celestial lights! which lend a charm to life,And make me bless what else I should not prize!Ah! why, so seldom whyAfford what ne'er can cause satiety?More often to your sightWhy not bring Love, who holds me constant strife?And why so soon of joys despoil me quite,Which ever and anon my tranced soul delight?Yes, 'debted to your grace,Frequent I feel throughout my inmost soulUnwonted floods of sweetest rapture roll;Relieving so the mind,That all oppressive thoughts are left behind,And of a thousand only one has place;For which alone this life is dear to me.Oh! might the blessing of duration prove,Not equall'd then could my condition be!But this would, haply, moveIn others envy, in myself vain pride.That pain should be alliedTo pleasure is, alas! decreed above;Then, stifling all the ardour of desire,Homeward I turn my thoughts, and in myself retire.So sweetly shines reveal'dThe amorous thought within your soul which dwells,That other joys it from my heart expels:Hence I aspire to frameLays whereon Hope may build a deathless name,When in the tomb my dust shall lie conceal'd.At your approach anguish and sorrow fly;These, as your beams retire, again draw nigh;Yet outward acts their influence ne'er betray,For doting memoryDwells on the past, and chases them away.Whatever, then, of worthMy genius ripens owes to you its birth.To you all honour and all praise is due—Myself a barren soil, and cultured but by you.Thy strains, O song! appease me not, but fire,Chanting a theme that wings my wild desire:Trust me, thou shalt ere long a sister-song acquire.Nott.
Sincehuman life is frail,And genius trembles at the lofty theme,I little confidence in either place;But let my tender wailThere, where it ought, deserved attention claim,That wail which e'en in silence we may trace.O beauteous eyes, where Love doth nestling stay!To you I turn my insufficient lay,Unapt to flow; but passion's goad I feel:And he of you who singsSuch courteous habit by the strain is taught,That, borne on amorous wings,He soars above the reach of vulgar thought:Exalted thus, I venture to revealWhat long my cautious heart has labour'd to conceal.
Yes, well do I perceiveTo you how wrongful is my scanty praise;Yet the strong impulse cannot be withstood,That urges, since I view'dWhat fancy to the sight before ne'er gave,What ne'er before graced mine, or higher lays.Bright authors of my sadly-pleasing state,That you alone conceive me well I know,When to your fierce beams I become as snow!Your elegant disdainHaply then kindles at my worthless strain.Did not this dread createSome mitigation of my bosom's heat,Death would be bliss: for greater joy 'twould giveWith them to suffer death, without them than to live.
If not consumèd quite,I the weak object of a flame so strong:'Tis not that safety springs from native might,But that some fear restrains,Which chills the current circling through my veins;Strengthening this heart, that it may suffer long.O hills, O vales, O forests, floods, and fields,Ye who have witness'd how my sad life flows,Oft have ye heard me call on death for aid.Ah, state surcharged with woes!To stay destroys, and flight no succour yields.But had not higher dreadWithheld, some sudden effort I had madeTo end my sorrows and protracted pains,Of which the beauteous cause insensible remains.
Why lead me, grief, astrayFrom my first theme to chant a different lay?Let me proceed where pleasure may invite.'Tis not of you I 'plain,O eyes, beyond compare serenely bright;Nor yet of him who binds me in his chain.Ye clearly can behold the hues that LoveScatters ofttime on my dejected face;And fancy may his inward workings traceThere where, whole nights and days,He rules with power derived from your bright rays:What rapture would ye prove,If you, dear lights, upon yourselves could gaze!But, frequent as you bend your beams on me,What influence you possess you in another see.
Oh! if to you were knownThat beauty which I sing, immense, divine.As unto him on whom its glories shine!The heart had then o'erflownWith joy unbounded, such as is deniedUnto that nature which its acts doth guide.How happy is the soul for you that sighs,Celestial lights! which lend a charm to life,And make me bless what else I should not prize!Ah! why, so seldom whyAfford what ne'er can cause satiety?More often to your sightWhy not bring Love, who holds me constant strife?And why so soon of joys despoil me quite,Which ever and anon my tranced soul delight?
Yes, 'debted to your grace,Frequent I feel throughout my inmost soulUnwonted floods of sweetest rapture roll;Relieving so the mind,That all oppressive thoughts are left behind,And of a thousand only one has place;For which alone this life is dear to me.Oh! might the blessing of duration prove,Not equall'd then could my condition be!But this would, haply, moveIn others envy, in myself vain pride.That pain should be alliedTo pleasure is, alas! decreed above;Then, stifling all the ardour of desire,Homeward I turn my thoughts, and in myself retire.
So sweetly shines reveal'dThe amorous thought within your soul which dwells,That other joys it from my heart expels:Hence I aspire to frameLays whereon Hope may build a deathless name,When in the tomb my dust shall lie conceal'd.At your approach anguish and sorrow fly;These, as your beams retire, again draw nigh;Yet outward acts their influence ne'er betray,For doting memoryDwells on the past, and chases them away.Whatever, then, of worthMy genius ripens owes to you its birth.To you all honour and all praise is due—Myself a barren soil, and cultured but by you.
Thy strains, O song! appease me not, but fire,Chanting a theme that wings my wild desire:Trust me, thou shalt ere long a sister-song acquire.
Nott.
Sincemortal life is frail,And my mind shrinks from lofty themes deterr'd,But small the trust which I in either feel:Yet hope I that my wail,Which vainly I in silence would conceal,Shall, where I wish, where most it ought, be heard.Beautiful eyes! wherein Love makes his nest,To you my song its feeble descant turns,Slow of itself, but now by passion spurr'd;Who sings of you is blest,And from his theme such courteous habit learnsThat, borne on wings of love,Proudly he soars each viler thought above;Encouraged thus, what long my harass'd heartHas kept conceal'd, I venture to impart.Yet do I know full wellHow much my praise must wrongful prove to you,But how the great desire can I oppose,Which ever in me grows,Since what surpasses thought 'twas mine to view,Though that nor others' wit nor mine can tell?Eyes! guilty authors of my cherish'd pain,That you alone can judge me, well I know,When from your burning beams I melt like snow,Haply your sweet disdainOffence in my unworthiness may see;Ah! were there not such fear,To calm the heat with which I kindle near,'Twere bliss to die: for better far to meWere death with them than life without could be.If yet not wasted quite—So frail a thing before so fierce a flame—'Tis not from my own strength that safety came,But that some fear gives might,Freezing the warm blood coursing through its veins,To my poor heart better to bear the strife.O valleys, hills, O forests, floods, and plains,Witnesses of my melancholy life!For death how often have ye heard me pray!Ah, miserable fate!Where flight avails not, though 'tis death to stay;But, if a dread more greatRestrain'd me not, despair would find a way,Speedy and short, my lingering pains to close,—Hers then the crime who still no mercy shows.Why thus astray, O grief,Lead me to speak what I would leave unsaid?Leave me, where pleasure me impels, to tread:Not now my song complainsOf you, sweet eyes, serene beyond belief,Nor yet of him who binds me in such chains:Right well may you observe the varying huesWhich o'er my visage oft the tyrant strews,And thence may guess what war within he makes,Where night and day he reigns,Strong in the power which from your light he takes:Blessèd ye were as bright,Save that from you is barr'd your own dear sight:Yet often as to me those orbs you turn,What they to others are you well may learn.If, as to us who gazeWere known to you the charms incredibleAnd heavenly, of which I sing the praise,No measured joy would swellYour heart, and haply, therefore, 'tis deniedUnto the power which doth their motions guide.Happy the soul for you which breathes the sigh,Best lights of heaven! for whom I grateful blessThis life, which has for me no other joy.Alas! so seldom whyGive me what I can ne'er too much possess?Why not more often seeThe ceaseless havoc which love makes of me?And why that bliss so quickly from me steal,From time to time which my rapt senses feel?Yes, thanks, great thanks to you!From time to time I feel through all my soulA sweetness so unusual and new,That every marring careAnd gloomy vision thence begins to roll,So that, from all, one only thought is there.That—that alone consoles me life to bear:And could but this my joy endure awhile,Nought earthly could, methinks, then match my state.Yet such great honour mightEnvy in others, pride in me excite:Thus still it seems the fateOf man, that tears should chase his transient smile:And, checking thus my burning wishes, IBack to myself return, to muse and sigh.The amorous anxious thought,Which reigns within you, flashes so on me,That from my heart it draws all other joy;Whence works and words so wroughtFind scope and issue, that I hope to beImmortal made, although all flesh must die.At your approach ennui and anguish fly;With your departure they return again:But memory, on the past which doting dwells,Denies them entrance then,So that no outward act their influence tells;Thus, if in me is nurstAny good fruit, from you the seed came first:To you, if such appear, the praise is due,Barren myself till fertilized by you.Thy strains appease me not, O song!But rather fire me still that theme to singWhere centre all my thoughts—therefore, ere long,A sister ode to join thee will I bring.Macgregor.
Sincemortal life is frail,And my mind shrinks from lofty themes deterr'd,But small the trust which I in either feel:Yet hope I that my wail,Which vainly I in silence would conceal,Shall, where I wish, where most it ought, be heard.Beautiful eyes! wherein Love makes his nest,To you my song its feeble descant turns,Slow of itself, but now by passion spurr'd;Who sings of you is blest,And from his theme such courteous habit learnsThat, borne on wings of love,Proudly he soars each viler thought above;Encouraged thus, what long my harass'd heartHas kept conceal'd, I venture to impart.
Yet do I know full wellHow much my praise must wrongful prove to you,But how the great desire can I oppose,Which ever in me grows,Since what surpasses thought 'twas mine to view,Though that nor others' wit nor mine can tell?Eyes! guilty authors of my cherish'd pain,That you alone can judge me, well I know,When from your burning beams I melt like snow,Haply your sweet disdainOffence in my unworthiness may see;Ah! were there not such fear,To calm the heat with which I kindle near,'Twere bliss to die: for better far to meWere death with them than life without could be.
If yet not wasted quite—So frail a thing before so fierce a flame—'Tis not from my own strength that safety came,But that some fear gives might,Freezing the warm blood coursing through its veins,To my poor heart better to bear the strife.O valleys, hills, O forests, floods, and plains,Witnesses of my melancholy life!For death how often have ye heard me pray!Ah, miserable fate!Where flight avails not, though 'tis death to stay;But, if a dread more greatRestrain'd me not, despair would find a way,Speedy and short, my lingering pains to close,—Hers then the crime who still no mercy shows.
Why thus astray, O grief,Lead me to speak what I would leave unsaid?Leave me, where pleasure me impels, to tread:Not now my song complainsOf you, sweet eyes, serene beyond belief,Nor yet of him who binds me in such chains:Right well may you observe the varying huesWhich o'er my visage oft the tyrant strews,And thence may guess what war within he makes,Where night and day he reigns,Strong in the power which from your light he takes:Blessèd ye were as bright,Save that from you is barr'd your own dear sight:Yet often as to me those orbs you turn,What they to others are you well may learn.
If, as to us who gazeWere known to you the charms incredibleAnd heavenly, of which I sing the praise,No measured joy would swellYour heart, and haply, therefore, 'tis deniedUnto the power which doth their motions guide.Happy the soul for you which breathes the sigh,Best lights of heaven! for whom I grateful blessThis life, which has for me no other joy.Alas! so seldom whyGive me what I can ne'er too much possess?Why not more often seeThe ceaseless havoc which love makes of me?And why that bliss so quickly from me steal,From time to time which my rapt senses feel?
Yes, thanks, great thanks to you!From time to time I feel through all my soulA sweetness so unusual and new,That every marring careAnd gloomy vision thence begins to roll,So that, from all, one only thought is there.That—that alone consoles me life to bear:And could but this my joy endure awhile,Nought earthly could, methinks, then match my state.Yet such great honour mightEnvy in others, pride in me excite:Thus still it seems the fateOf man, that tears should chase his transient smile:And, checking thus my burning wishes, IBack to myself return, to muse and sigh.
The amorous anxious thought,Which reigns within you, flashes so on me,That from my heart it draws all other joy;Whence works and words so wroughtFind scope and issue, that I hope to beImmortal made, although all flesh must die.At your approach ennui and anguish fly;With your departure they return again:But memory, on the past which doting dwells,Denies them entrance then,So that no outward act their influence tells;Thus, if in me is nurstAny good fruit, from you the seed came first:To you, if such appear, the praise is due,Barren myself till fertilized by you.
Thy strains appease me not, O song!But rather fire me still that theme to singWhere centre all my thoughts—therefore, ere long,A sister ode to join thee will I bring.
Macgregor.
Lady, in your bright eyesSoft glancing round, I mark a holy light,Pointing the arduous way that heavenward lies;And to my practised sight,From thence, where Love enthroned, asserts his might,Visibly, palpably, the soul beams forth.This is the beacon guides to deeds of worth,And urges me to seek the glorious goal;This bids me leave behind the vulgar throng,Nor can the human tongueTell how those orbs divine o'er all my soulExert their sweet control,Both when hoar winter's frosts around are flung,And when the year puts on his youth again,Jocund, as when this bosom first knew pain.Oh! if in that high sphere,From whence the Eternal Ruler of the starsIn this excelling work declared his might,All be as fair and bright,Loose me from forth my darksome prison here,That to so glorious life the passage bars;Then, in the wonted tumult of my breast,I hail boon Nature, and the genial dayThat gave me being, and a fate so blest,And her who bade hope beamUpon my soul; for till then burthensomeWas life itself become:But now, elate with touch of self-esteem,High thoughts and sweet within that heart arise,Of which the warders are those beauteous eyes.No joy so exquisiteDid Love or fickle Fortune ere devise,In partial mood, for favour'd votaries,But I would barter itFor one dear glance of those angelic eyes,Whence springs my peace as from its living root.O vivid lustre! of power absoluteO'er all my being—source of that delight,By which consumed I sink, a willing prey.As fades each lesser rayBefore your splendour more intense and bright,So to my raptured heart,When your surpassing sweetness you impart,No other thought of feeling may remainWhere you, with Love himself, despotic reign.All sweet emotions e'erBy happy lovers felt in every clime,Together all, may not with mine compare,When, as from time to time,I catch from that dark radiance rich and deepA ray in which, disporting, Love is seen;And I believe that from my cradled sleep,By Heaven provided this resource hath been,'Gainst adverse fortune, and my nature frail.Wrong'd am I by that veil,And the fair hand which oft the light eclipse,That all my bliss hath wrought;And whence the passion struggling on my lips,Both day and night, to vent the breast o'erfraught,Still varying as I read her varying thought.For that (with pain I find)Not Nature's poor endowments may aloneRender me worthy of a look so kind,I strive to raise my mindTo match with the exalted hopes I own,And fires, though all engrossing, pure as mine.If prone to good, averse to all things base,Contemner of what worldlings covet most,I may become by long self-discipline.Haply this humble boastMay win me in her fair esteem a place;For sure the end and aimOf all my tears, my sorrowing heart's sole claim,Were the soft trembling of relenting eyes,The generous lover's last, best, dearest prize.My lay, thy sister-song is gone before.And now another in my teeming brainPrepares itself: whence I resume the strain.Dacre.
Lady, in your bright eyesSoft glancing round, I mark a holy light,Pointing the arduous way that heavenward lies;And to my practised sight,From thence, where Love enthroned, asserts his might,Visibly, palpably, the soul beams forth.This is the beacon guides to deeds of worth,And urges me to seek the glorious goal;This bids me leave behind the vulgar throng,Nor can the human tongueTell how those orbs divine o'er all my soulExert their sweet control,Both when hoar winter's frosts around are flung,And when the year puts on his youth again,Jocund, as when this bosom first knew pain.
Oh! if in that high sphere,From whence the Eternal Ruler of the starsIn this excelling work declared his might,All be as fair and bright,Loose me from forth my darksome prison here,That to so glorious life the passage bars;Then, in the wonted tumult of my breast,I hail boon Nature, and the genial dayThat gave me being, and a fate so blest,And her who bade hope beamUpon my soul; for till then burthensomeWas life itself become:But now, elate with touch of self-esteem,High thoughts and sweet within that heart arise,Of which the warders are those beauteous eyes.
No joy so exquisiteDid Love or fickle Fortune ere devise,In partial mood, for favour'd votaries,But I would barter itFor one dear glance of those angelic eyes,Whence springs my peace as from its living root.O vivid lustre! of power absoluteO'er all my being—source of that delight,By which consumed I sink, a willing prey.As fades each lesser rayBefore your splendour more intense and bright,So to my raptured heart,When your surpassing sweetness you impart,No other thought of feeling may remainWhere you, with Love himself, despotic reign.
All sweet emotions e'erBy happy lovers felt in every clime,Together all, may not with mine compare,When, as from time to time,I catch from that dark radiance rich and deepA ray in which, disporting, Love is seen;And I believe that from my cradled sleep,By Heaven provided this resource hath been,'Gainst adverse fortune, and my nature frail.Wrong'd am I by that veil,And the fair hand which oft the light eclipse,That all my bliss hath wrought;And whence the passion struggling on my lips,Both day and night, to vent the breast o'erfraught,Still varying as I read her varying thought.
For that (with pain I find)Not Nature's poor endowments may aloneRender me worthy of a look so kind,I strive to raise my mindTo match with the exalted hopes I own,And fires, though all engrossing, pure as mine.If prone to good, averse to all things base,Contemner of what worldlings covet most,I may become by long self-discipline.Haply this humble boastMay win me in her fair esteem a place;For sure the end and aimOf all my tears, my sorrowing heart's sole claim,Were the soft trembling of relenting eyes,The generous lover's last, best, dearest prize.
My lay, thy sister-song is gone before.And now another in my teeming brainPrepares itself: whence I resume the strain.
Dacre.
Sincethen by destinyI am compell'd to sing the strong desire,Which here condemns me ceaselessly to sigh,May Love, whose quenchless fireExcites me, be my guide and point the way,And in the sweet task modulate my lay:But gently be it, lest th' o'erpowering themeInflame and sting me, lest my fond heart mayDissolve in too much softness, which I deem,From its sad state, may be:For in me—hence my terror and distress!Not now as erst I seeJudgment to keep my mind's great passion less:Nay, rather from mine own thoughts melt I so,As melts before the summer sun the snow.At first I fondly thoughtCommuning with mine ardent flame to winSome brief repose, some time of truce within:This was the hope which broughtMe courage what I suffer'd to explain,Now, now it leaves me martyr to my pain:But still, continuing mine amorous song,Must I the lofty enterprise maintain;So powerful is the wish that in me glows,That Reason, which so longRestrain'd it, now no longer can oppose.Then teach me, Love, to singIn such frank guise, that ever if the earOf my sweet foe should chance the notes to hear,Pity, I ask no more, may in her spring.If, as in other times,When kindled to true virtue was mankind,The genius, energy of man could findEntrance in divers climes,Mountains and seas o'erpassing, seeking thereHonour, and culling oft its garland fair,Mine were such wish, not mine such need would be.From shore to shore my weary course to trace,Since God, and Love, and Nature deign for meEach virtue and each graceIn those dear eyes where I rejoice to place.In life to them must ITurn as to founts whence peace and safety swell:And e'en were death, which else I fear not, nigh,Their sight alone would teach me to be well.As, vex'd by the fierce wind,The weary sailor lifts at night his gazeTo the twin lights which still our pole displays,So, in the storms unkindOf Love which I sustain, in those bright eyesMy guiding light and only solace lies:But e'en in this far more is due to theft,Which, taught by Love, from time to time, I makeOf secret glances than their gracious gift:Yet that, though rare and slight,Makes me from them perpetual model take;Since first they blest my sightNothing of good without them have I tried,Placing them over me to guard and guide,Because mine own worth held itself but light.Never the full effectCan I imagine, and describe it lessWhich o'er my heart those soft eyes still possess!As worthless I rejectAnd mean all other joys that life confers,E'en as all other beauties yield to hers.A tranquil peace, alloy'd by no distress,Such as in heaven eternally abides,Moves from their lovely and bewitching smile.So could I gaze, the whileLove, at his sweet will, governs them and guides,—E'en though the sun were nigh,Resting above us on his onward wheel—On her, intensely with undazzled eye,Nor of myself nor others think or feel.Ah! that I should desireThings that can never in this world be won,Living on wishes hopeless to acquire.Yet, were the knot undone,Wherewith my weak tongue Love is wont to bind,Checking its speech, when her sweet face puts onAll its great charms, then would I courage find,Words on that point so apt and new to use,As should make weep whoe'er might hear the tale.But the old wounds I bear,Stamp'd on my tortured heart, such power refuse;Then grow I weak and pale,And my blood hides itself I know not where;Nor as I was remain I: hence I knowLove dooms my death and this the fatal blow.Farewell, my song! already do I seeHeavily in my hand the tired pen moveFrom its long dear discourse with her I love;Not so my thoughts from communing with me.Macgregor.
Sincethen by destinyI am compell'd to sing the strong desire,Which here condemns me ceaselessly to sigh,May Love, whose quenchless fireExcites me, be my guide and point the way,And in the sweet task modulate my lay:But gently be it, lest th' o'erpowering themeInflame and sting me, lest my fond heart mayDissolve in too much softness, which I deem,From its sad state, may be:For in me—hence my terror and distress!Not now as erst I seeJudgment to keep my mind's great passion less:Nay, rather from mine own thoughts melt I so,As melts before the summer sun the snow.
At first I fondly thoughtCommuning with mine ardent flame to winSome brief repose, some time of truce within:This was the hope which broughtMe courage what I suffer'd to explain,Now, now it leaves me martyr to my pain:But still, continuing mine amorous song,Must I the lofty enterprise maintain;So powerful is the wish that in me glows,That Reason, which so longRestrain'd it, now no longer can oppose.Then teach me, Love, to singIn such frank guise, that ever if the earOf my sweet foe should chance the notes to hear,Pity, I ask no more, may in her spring.
If, as in other times,When kindled to true virtue was mankind,The genius, energy of man could findEntrance in divers climes,Mountains and seas o'erpassing, seeking thereHonour, and culling oft its garland fair,Mine were such wish, not mine such need would be.From shore to shore my weary course to trace,Since God, and Love, and Nature deign for meEach virtue and each graceIn those dear eyes where I rejoice to place.In life to them must ITurn as to founts whence peace and safety swell:And e'en were death, which else I fear not, nigh,Their sight alone would teach me to be well.
As, vex'd by the fierce wind,The weary sailor lifts at night his gazeTo the twin lights which still our pole displays,So, in the storms unkindOf Love which I sustain, in those bright eyesMy guiding light and only solace lies:But e'en in this far more is due to theft,Which, taught by Love, from time to time, I makeOf secret glances than their gracious gift:Yet that, though rare and slight,Makes me from them perpetual model take;Since first they blest my sightNothing of good without them have I tried,Placing them over me to guard and guide,Because mine own worth held itself but light.
Never the full effectCan I imagine, and describe it lessWhich o'er my heart those soft eyes still possess!As worthless I rejectAnd mean all other joys that life confers,E'en as all other beauties yield to hers.A tranquil peace, alloy'd by no distress,Such as in heaven eternally abides,Moves from their lovely and bewitching smile.So could I gaze, the whileLove, at his sweet will, governs them and guides,—E'en though the sun were nigh,Resting above us on his onward wheel—On her, intensely with undazzled eye,Nor of myself nor others think or feel.
Ah! that I should desireThings that can never in this world be won,Living on wishes hopeless to acquire.Yet, were the knot undone,Wherewith my weak tongue Love is wont to bind,Checking its speech, when her sweet face puts onAll its great charms, then would I courage find,Words on that point so apt and new to use,As should make weep whoe'er might hear the tale.But the old wounds I bear,Stamp'd on my tortured heart, such power refuse;Then grow I weak and pale,And my blood hides itself I know not where;Nor as I was remain I: hence I knowLove dooms my death and this the fatal blow.
Farewell, my song! already do I seeHeavily in my hand the tired pen moveFrom its long dear discourse with her I love;Not so my thoughts from communing with me.
Macgregor.