Stanzas to Time
CAPRICIOUS foe to human joy,
Still varying with the fleeting day;
With thee the purest raptures cloy,
The fairest prospects fade away;
Nor worth, nor pow'r thy wings can bind,
All earthly pleasures fly with THEE;
Inconstant as the wav'ring wind
That plays upon the summer sea.
I court thee not, ungentle guest,
For I have e'er been doom'd to find
Life's gayest hours but idly drest,
With sweets that pall the sick'ning mind:
When smiling HOPE with placid mien,
Around my couch did fondly play;
Too oft thy aëry form I've seen,
On DOWNY pinions glide away.
But when, perplex'd with pain or care,
My couch with THORNS was scatter'd round;
When the pale priestess of DESPAIR
My mind in fatal spells had bound;
When the dull hours no joy could bring,
No bliss my weary fancy prove;
I mark'd thy leaden, pond'rous wing,
With TARDY pace, unkindly move.
IF SUCH THY GIFTS, O Time! for thee
My sated heart shall ne'er repine;
I bow content to FATE'S decree,
And with thy thorns thy roses twine;
Yet e'er thy fickle reign shall end,
The balmy sweets of FRIENDSHIP'S hour,
I'll with my cup of sorrow blend,
And smile, REGARDLESS OF THY POW'R.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Thee, Thee, Only Thee
The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking,
The night's long hours still find me thinking
Of thee, thee, only thee.
When friends are met, and goblets crown'd,
And smiles are near, that once enchanted,
Unreach'd by all that sunshine round,
My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted
By thee, thee, only thee.
Whatever in fame's high path could waken
My spirit once, is now forsaken
For thee, thee, only thee.
Like shores, by which some headlong bark
To the ocean hurries, resting never,
Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,
I know not, heed not, hastening ever
To thee, thee, only thee.
I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
And pain itself seems sweet when springing
From thee, thee, only thee.
Like spells, that nought on earth can break,
Till lips, that know the charm, have spoken,
This heart, howe'er the world may wake
Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken
By thee, thee, only thee.
poem by Thomas Moore
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To Resignation
MAID of the placid smile and heav'nly mien,
With beaming eye, tho' tearful yet serene;
Teach me, like thee, in sorrow's ling'ring hour,
To bless devotion's all-consoling pow'r;
Teach me, like thee, when storms around me rise,
And spreading glooms obscure the azure skies,
On one unclouded light to fix my view,
For ever brilliant and for ever true;
The star of faith! whose mild, celestial ray,
With steady lustre shall direct my way:
Thy seraph-hand shall raise my drooping head;
Angel of peace! thy wings around me spread;
With hallow'd spells my fainting spirit cheer,
Hush the sad murmur, dry the starting tear.
Thus when the halcyon broods upon the tides,
The winds are lull'd, the mountain-wave subsides;
Soft rainbow-hues, reflected, tinge the deep,
And balmy zephyrs on its bosom sleep—
Maid of the placid smile! my troubled soul,
Would own thy gentle reign, thy mild control;
Though the pale cypress twine thy sainted brow,
Eternal palms for thee, in heav'n shall blow.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Faded Bouquet
FAIR was this blushing ROSE of May,
And fresh it hail'd morn's breezy hour,
When ev'ry spangled leaf look'd gay,
Besprinkled with the twilight show'r;
When to its mossy buds so sweet,
The BUTTERFLY enamour'd flew,
And hov'ring o'er the fragrant treat,
Oft bath'd its silken wings in dew.
SWEET was this PRIMROSE of the dale,
When on its native turf it grew;
And deck'd with charms this LILY pale,
And rich this VIOLET'S purple hue;
This od'rous WOODBINE fill'd the grove
With musky gales of balmy pow'r;
When with the MYRTLE interwove
It hung luxuriant round my bow'r.
AH ! ROSE, forgive the hand severe,
That snatch'd thee from thy scented bed;
Where, bow'd with many a pearly tear,
Thy widow'd partner droops its head;
And thou, sweet VI'LET, modest flow'r,
O! take my sad, relenting sigh;
Nor stain the breast whose glowing pow'r,
With too much fondness bade thee die.
SWEET LILY had I never gaz'd
With rapture on your gentle form;
You might have dy'd, unknown, unprais'd,
The victim of some ruthless storm;
Where fickle LOVE his altar rears,
Your little bells had learnt to wave;
Or sadly gemm'd with kindred tears,
Had deck'd some hapless MAIDEN's grave.
Inconstant WOODBINE, wherefore rove
With gadding stem about my bow'r?
Why, with my darling MYRTLE wove,
In bold defiance mock my pow'r?
Why quit thy native, lonely vale,
To flaunt thy buds, thy odours fling;
And idly greet the passing gale,
On ev'ry wanton zephyr's wing?
Yet, yet, repine not, tho' stern FATE
Hath nipp'd thy leaves of varying hue;
Since all that's lovely, soon or late,
Shall sick'ning, fade,and die like you.
The fire of YOUTHthe frost of AGE,
Nor WISDOM S voicenor BEAUTY'S bloom,
Th' insatiate tyrant can assuage,
Or stop the hand that seal'd YOUR DOOM.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Ode To Cheerfulness
LOVELY nymph! with eye serene,
Dimpled smile and frolic mien;
Come, with airy step advancing,
Come, with blooming Hebe dancing;
O'er the meads I see thee straying—
Youth and sport around thee playing—
Gay content, thy sister fair,
Twines a garland round thy hair.
Thine the lip of roseate dye;
Thine the pleasure-sparkling eye;
Thine the cheek that softly glows,
Brighter than the blushing rose!
Guide me to thy fav'rite bow'rs,
To deck thy rural shrine with flow'rs.
In thy lowly, sylvan cell,
Peace and virtue love to dwell;
Ever let me own thy sway,
Still to thee my tribute pay.
When Zephyr waves his balmy wing,
To kiss the sweets of May;
When the soft melodies of spring
Resound from ev'ry spray;
With thee, sweet maid! I'll rove along,
And tread the morning dews;
To hear the wood-lark's early song,
To court the laughing muse.
With thee I'll rove, when summer pours
Her treasures o'er the land;
When fair Pomona sheds her stores,
With kind, luxuriant hand;—
When Autumn, bearing golden sheaves,
Delights the happy swain;
And softly paints the fading leaves,
And crowns the fertile plain.
And e'en in winter's hoary reign
I'll wake my festive lays;
Thy look shall prompt th' enliv'ning strain,
And 'brighten at the blaze!'
I court thee in the vernal hours
Of life's enchanting morn;
Thy hand shall strew my path with flow'rs
And steal away the thorn:
But when the dawn of youth is fled,
The spring of life so fair;
Ah! wilt thou then benignly shed
Thy placid beams around my head,
And steal my thoughts from care?
Yes! gentle pow'r, thy heav'nly ray
Shall cheer my morning bright;
And e'en in life's declining day,
Shall gild the dark and thorny way,
With mild, celestial light!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Stanzas to a Friend
AH! think no more that Life's delusive joys,
Can charm my thoughts from FRIENDSHIP'S dearer claim;
Or wound a heart, that scarce a wish employs,
For age to censure, or discretion blame.
Tir'd of the world, my weary mind recoils
From splendid scenes, and transitory joys;
From fell Ambition's false and fruitless toils,
From hope that flatters, and from bliss that cloys.
With THEE, above the taunts of empty pride,
The rigid frowns to youthful error given;
Content in solitude my griefs I'll hide,
Thy voice my counsellorthy smiles my Heaven.
With thee I'll hail the morn's returning ray,
Or climb the dewy mountain bleak and cold;
On the smooth lake observe the sun-beams play,
Or mark the infant flow'rs their buds unfold.
Pleas'd will I watch the glitt'ring queen of Night
Spread her white mantle o'er the face of Heaven;
And from thy converse snatch the pure delight,
By truth sublime to MENTAL feeling given.
And as the varying seasons glide away,
This moral lesson shall my bosom learn,
How TIME steals on, while blissful hours decay
Like fleeting shadows;NEVER to return.
And when I see thy warm unspotted mind,
Torn with the wound of broken FRIENDSHIP'S dart;
When sickness chills thy breast with pangs unkind,
Or ruthless sorrow preys upon thy heart;
The task be MINE to soothe thee to repose,
To check the sigh, and wipe the trickling tear,
Or with soft SYMPATHY to share thy woes;
O, proudest rapture of the soul sincere !
And ye who flutter thro' the vacant hour,
Where tasteless Apathy's empoison'd wand
Arrests the vagrant sense with numbing pow'r,
While vanquish'd REASON bows at her command.
O say, what bliss can transient Life bestow,
What balm so grateful to the social mind,
As FRIENDSHIP'S voicewhere gentle precepts flow
From the blest source of sentiment refin'd?
When FATE'S stern hand shall close my weeping eye,
And seal, at length, my wand'ring spirit's doom;
Oh! may kind FRIENDSHIP catch my parting sigh,
And cheer with HOPE the terrors of the TOMB.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Sonnet XX: Oh! I Could Toil For Thee
Oh! I could toil for thee o'er burning plains;
Could smile at poverty's disastrous blow;
With thee, could wander 'midst a world of snow,
Where one long night o'er frozen Scythia reigns.
Sever'd from thee, my sick'ning soul disdains
The thrilling thought, the blissful dream to know,
And can'st thou give my days to endless woe,
Requiting sweetest bliss with cureless pains?
Away, false fear! nor think capricious fate
Would lodge a daemon in a form divine!
Sooner the dove shall seek a tyger mate,
Or the soft snow-drop round the thistle twine;
Yet, yet, I dread to hope, nor dare to hate,
Too proud to sue! too tender to resign!
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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To the Myrtle
UNFADING branch of verdant hue,
In modest sweetness drest,
Shake off thy pearly tears of dew,
And decorate my breast.
Dear emblem of the constant mind,
Truth's consecrated tree,
Still shall thy trembling blossoms find
A faithful friend in me.
Nor chilling breeze, nor drizzling rain
Thy glossy leaves can spoil,
Their sober beauties fresh remain
In every varying soil.
If e'er this aching heart of mine
A wand'ring thought should prove;
O, let thy branches round it twine,
And bind it fast to Love.
For ah ! the little fluttering thing,
Amidst LIFE'S tempest rude;
Has felt Affliction's sharpest sting,
YET TRIUMPHS UNSUBDUED.
Like THEE it braves the wintry wind,
And mocks the storm's fierce pow'r,
Tho' from its HOPES the blast unkind,
Has torn each promis'd flow'r.
Tho' round its fibres barb'rous fate
Has twin'd an icy spell;
Still in its central fires elate,
The purest passions dwell.
When LIFE'S disast'rous scene is fled,
This humble boon I crave;
Oh! bind your branches round my head,
AND BLOSSOM ON MY GRAVE.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Ode to Beauty
EXULTING BEAUTY,phantom of an hour,
Whose magic spells enchain the heart,
Ah ! what avails thy fascinating pow'r,
Thy thrilling smile, thy witching art ?
Thy lip, where balmy nectar glows;
Thy cheek, where round the damask rose
A thousand nameless Graces move,
Thy mildly speaking azure eyes,
Thy golden hair, where cunning Love
In many a mazy ringlet lies?
Soon as thy radiant form is seen,
Thy native blush, thy timid mien,
Thy hour is past ! thy charms are vain!
ILL-NATURE haunts thee with her sallow train,
Mean JEALOUSY deceives thy list'ning ear,
And SLANDER stains thy cheek with many a bitter tear.
In calm retirement form'd to dwell,
NATURE, thy handmaid fair and kind,
For thee, a beauteous garland twin'd;
The vale-nurs'd Lily's downcast bell
Thy modest mien display'd,
The snow-drop, April's meekest child,
With myrtle blossoms undefil'd,
Thy mild and spotless mind pourtray'd;
Dear blushing maid, of cottage birth,
'Twas thine, o'er dewy meads to stray,
While sparkling health, and frolic mirth
Led on thy laughing Day.
Lur'd by the babbling tongue of FAME,
Too soon, insidious FLATT'RY came;
Flush'd VANITY her footsteps led,
To charm thee from thy blest repose,
While Fashion twin'd about thy head
A wreath of wounding woes;
See Dissipation smoothly glide,
Cold Apathy, and puny Pride,
Capricious Fortune, dull, and blind,
O'er splendid Folly throws her veil,
While Envy's meagre tribe assail
Thy gentle form, and spotless mind.
Their spells prevail! no more those eyes
Shoot undulating fires;
On thy wan cheek, the young rose dies,
Thy lip's deep tint expires;
Dark Melancholy chills thy mind;
Thy silent tear reveals thy woe;
TIME strews with thorns thy mazy way,
Where'er thy giddy footsteps stray,
Thy thoughtless heart is doom'd to find
An unrelenting foe.
'Tis thus, the infant Forest flow'r
Bespangled o'er with glitt'ring dew,
At breezy morn's refreshing hour,
Glows with pure tints of varying hue,
Beneath an aged oak's wide spreading shade,
Where no rude winds, or beating storms invade.
Transplanted from its lonely bed,
No more it scatters perfumes round,
No more it rears its gentle head,
Or brightly paints the mossy ground;
For ah! the beauteous bud, too soon,
Scorch'd by the burning eye of day;
Shrinks from the sultry glare of noon,
Droops its enamell'd brow, and blushing, dies away.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Ode to the Muse
O, let me seize thy pen sublime
That paints, in melting dulcet rhyme,
The glowing pow'r, the magic art,
Th' extatic raptures of the Heart;
Soft Beauty's timid smile serene,
The dimples of Love's sportive mien;
The sweet descriptive tale to trace;
To picture Nature's winning grace;
To steal the tear from Pity's eye;
To catch the sympathetic sigh;
O teach me, with swift light'nings force
To watch wild passion's varying course;
To mark th' enthusiast's vivid fire,
Or calmly touch thy golden lyre,
While gentle Reason mildly sings
Responsive to the trembling strings.
SWEET Nymph, enchanting Poetry!
I dedicate my mind to Thee.
Oh! from thy bright Parnassian bow'rs
Descend, to bless my sombre hours;
Bend to the earth thy eagle wing,
And on its glowing plumage bring
Blithe FANCY, from whose burning eye
The young ideas sparkling fly;
O, come, and let us fondly stray,
Where rosy Health shall lead the way,
And soft FAVONIUS lightly spread
A perfum'd carpet as we tread;
Ah! let us from the world remove,
The calm forgetfulness to prove,
Which at the still of evening's close,
Lulls the tir'd peasant to repose;
Repose, whose balmy joys o'er-pay
The sultry labours of the day.
And when the blue-ey'd dawn appears,
Just peeping thro' her veil of tears;
Or blushing opes her silver gate,
And on its threshold, stands elate,
And flings her rosy mantle far
O'er every loit'ring dewy star;
And calls the wanton breezes forth,
And sprinkles diamonds o'er the earth;
While in the green-wood's shade profound,
The insect race, with buzzing sound
Flit o'er the rill,a glitt'ring train,
Or swarm along the sultry plain.
Then in sweet converse let us rove,
Where in the thyme-embroider'd grove,
The musky air its fragrance pours
Upon the silv'ry scatter'd show'rs;
To hail soft Zephyr, as she goes
To fan the dew-drop from the rose;
To shelter from the scorching beam,
And muse beside the rippling stream.
Or when, at twilight's placid hour,
We stroll to some sequester'd bow'r;
And watch the haughty Sun retire
Beneath his canopy of fire;
While slow the dusky clouds enfold
Day's crimson curtains fring'd with gold;
And o'er the meadows faintly fly
Pale shadows of the purpling sky:
While softly o'er the pearl-deck'd plain,
Cold Dian leads the sylvan train;
In mazy dance and sportive glee,
SWEET MUSE, I'll fondly turn to thee;
And thou shalt deck my couch with flow'rs,
And wing with joy my silent hours.
When Sleep, with downy hand, shall spread
A wreath of poppies round my head;
Then, FANCY, on her wing sublime,
Shall waft me to the sacred clime
Where my enlighten'd sense shall view,
Thro' ether realms of azure hue,
That flame, where SHAKESPEARE us'd to fill,
With matchless fire, his "golden quill."
While, from its point bright Genius caught
The wit supreme, the glowing thought,
The magic tone, that sweetly hung
About the music of his tongue.
Then will I skim the floating air,
On a light couch of gossamer,
While with my wonder-aching eye,
I contemplate the spangled sky,
And hear the vaulted roof repeat
The song of Inspiration sweet;
While round the winged cherub train,
Shall iterate the aëry strain:
Swift, thro' my quiv'ring nerves shall float
The tremours of each thrilling note;
And every eager sense confess
Extatic transport's wild excess:
'Till, waking from the glorious dream,
I hail the morn's refulgent beam.
DEAR Maid! of ever-varying mien,
Exulting, pensive, gay, serene,
Now, in transcendent pathos drest,
Now, gentle as the turtle's breast;
Where'er thy feath'ry steps shall lead,
To side-long hill, or flow'ry mead;
To sorrow's coldest, darkest cell,
Or where, by Cynthia's glimm'ring ray,
The dapper fairies frisk and play
About some cowslip's golden bell;
And, in their wanton frolic mirth,
Pluck the young daisies from the earth,
To canopy their tiny heads,
And decorate their verdant beds;
While to the grass-hopper's shrill tune,
They quaff libations to the moon,
From acorn goblets, amply fill'd
With dew, from op'ning flow'rs distill'd.
Or when the lurid tempest pours,
From its dark urn, impetuous show'rs,
Or from its brow's terrific frown,
Hurls the pale murd'rous lightnings down;
To thy enchanting breast I'll spring,
And shield me with thy golden wing.
Or when amidst ethereal fire,
Thou strik'st thy DELLA CRUSCAN lyre,
While round, to catch the heavenly song,
Myriads of wond'ring seraphs throng:
Whether thy harp's empassioned strain
Pours forth an OVID's tender pain;
Or in PINDARIC flights sublime,
Re-echoes thro' the starry clime;
Thee I'll adore; transcendent guest,
And woe thee to my burning breast.
But, if thy magic pow'rs impart
One soft sensation to the heart,
If thy warm precepts can dispense
One thrilling transport o'er my sense;
Oh! keep thy gifts, and let me fly,
In APATHY's cold arms to die.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Ode To Peace
Come, peace of mind, delightful guest!
Return and make thy downy nest
Once more in this sad heart:
Nor riches I, nor power pursue,
Nor hold forbidden joys in view,
We therefore need not part.
Where wilt thou dwell if not with me,
From avarice and ambition free,
And pleasure's fatal wiles?
For whom, alas! dost thou prepare
The sweets that I was wont to share,
The banquet of thy smiles?
The great, the gay, shall they partake
The heaven that thou alone canst make;
And wilt thou quit the stream
That murmurs through the dewy mead,
The grove and the sequestered shed,
To be a guest with them?
For thee I panted, thee I prized,
For thee I gladly sacrificed
Whate'er I loved before;
And shall I see thee start away,
And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say--
Farewell! we meet no more?
poem by William Cowper
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To His Forsaken Mistress
I DO confess thou'rt smooth and fair,
And I might have gone near to love thee,
Had I not found the slightest prayer
That lips could move, had power to move thee;
But I can let thee now alone
As worthy to be loved by none.
I do confess thou'rt sweet; yet find
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
Thy favours are but like the wind
That kisseth everything it meets:
And since thou canst with more than one,
Thou'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none.
The morning rose that untouch'd stands
Arm'd with her briers, how sweet she smells!
But pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands,
Her sweets no longer with her dwells:
But scent and beauty both are gone,
And leaves fall from her, one by one.
Such fate ere long will thee betide
When thou hast handled been awhile,
With sere flowers to be thrown aside;
And I shall sigh, while some will smile,
To see thy love to every one
Hath brought thee to be loved by none.
poem by Sir Robert Aytoun
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The Indian Lover. Morning Song.
O'ER flowery fields of waving maize,
The breeze of morning lightly plays;
Arise, my Zumia! let us rove,
The cool and fragrant citron grove!
Fair nature spreads her lavish bloom,
And bids her zephyrs waft perfume;
She breathes ambrosial odours rare;
With cassia-fragrance fills the air,
And calls thee forth her sweets to share,
My lovely maid!
We'll mark each aromatic flower,
Expanding to the radiant hour;
We'll seek the scented orange-bower,
Or tam'rind shade;
Now, ere the fervid hours of day,
Arise, my Zumia! haste away!
Hark! from yonder palmy grove,
Swells the choral song of love!
There, on every weeping spray,
Warblers tune the melting lay:
Morning's roseate hues are spreading
Balmy essence, flowers are shedding;
Nature smiles, in green array,
My Zumia rise! no more delay!
Now glitt'ring in the lucid rays,
The humming-bird his wing displays
Floats on the sun-beam and the gale,
From spicy wood, to myrtle-vale;
Flutters on light, ethereal plume,
In tints of orient beauty drest;
Steals honey from the glowing bloom,
And weaves the fairy-nest.
I'll climb each tall, aspiring tree,
To seek nectareous fruits for thee;
I'll cull the blossoms op'ning fair,
In blushing wreaths to bind thy hair:
For thee the streams in murmurs flow;
For thee the buds empurpling glow;
For thee the balmy zephyrs play;
Arise, my Zumia! haste away!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Bee and the Butterfly
UPON a garden's perfum'd bed
With various gaudy colours spread,
Beneath the shelter of a ROSE
A BUTTERFLY had sought repose;
Faint, with the sultry beams of day,
Supine the beauteous insect lay.
A BEE, impatient to devour
The nectar sweets of ev'ry flow'r,
Returning to her golden store,
A weight of fragrant treasure bore;
With envious eye, she mark'd the shade,
Where the poor BUTTERFLY was laid,
And resting on the bending spray,
Thus murmur'd forth her drony lay:
"Thou empty thing, whose merit lies
In the vain boast of orient dies;
Whose glittering form the slightest breath
Robs of its gloss, and fades to death;
Who idly rov'st the summer day,
Flutt'ring a transient life away,
Unmindful of the chilling hour,
The nipping frost, the drenching show'r;
Who heedless of "to-morrow's fare,"
Mak'st present bliss thy only care;
Is it for THEE, the damask ROSE
With such transcendent lustre glows?
Is it for such a giddy thing
Nature unveils the blushing spring?
Hence, from thy lurking place, and know,
'Tis not for THEE her beauties glow."
The BUTTERFLY, with decent pride,
In gentle accents, thus reply'd:
"'Tis true, I flutter life away
In pastime, innocent and gay;
The SUN that decks the blushing spring
Gives lustre to my painted wing;
'Tis NATURE bids each colour vie,
With rainbow tints of varying die;
I boast no skill, no subtle pow'r
To steal the balm from ev'ry flow'r;
The ROSE, that only shelter'd ME,
Has pour'd a load of sweets on THEE;
Of merit we have both our share,
Heav'n gave thee ART, and made me FAIR;
And tho' thy cunning can despise
The humble worth of harmless flies;
Remember, envious, busy thing,
Thy honey'd form conceals a sting;
Enjoy thy garden, while I rove
The sunny hill, the woodbine grove,
And far remov'd from care and THEE,
Embrace my humble destiny;
While in some lone sequester'd bow'r,
I'll live content beyond thy pow'r;
For where ILL-NATURE holds her reign
TASTE, WORTH, and BEAUTY, plead in vain;
E'en GENIUS must to PRIDE submit
When ENVY wings the shaft of WIT.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Absence
WHEN from the craggy mountain's pathless steep,
Whose flinty brow hangs o'er the raging sea,
My wand'ring eye beholds the foamy deep,
I mark the restless surgeand think of THEE.
The curling waves, the passing breezes move,
Changing and treach'rous as the breath of LOVE;
The "sad similitude" awakes my smart,
And thy dear image twines about my heart.
When at the sober hour of sinking day,
Exhausted Nature steals to soft repose,
When the hush'd linnet slumbers on the spray,
And scarce a ZEPHYR fans the drooping ROSE;
I glance o'er scenes of bliss to friendship dear,
And at the fond remembrance drop a tear;
Nor can the balmy incense soothe my smart,
Still cureless sorrow preys upon my heart.
When the loud gambols of the village throng,
Drown the lorn murmurs of the ring-dove's throat;
I think I hear thy fascinating song,
Join the melodious minstrel's tuneful note
My list'ning ear soon tells me 'tis not THEE,
Nor THY lov'd songnor THY soft minstrelsy;
In vain I turn away to hide my smart,
Thy dulcet numbers vibrate in my heart.
When with the Sylvan train I seek the grove,
Where MAY'S soft breath diffuses incense round,
Where VENUS smiles serene, and sportive LOVE
With thornless ROSES spreads the fairy ground;
The voice of pleasure dies upon mine ear,
My conscious bosom sighsTHOU ART NOT HERE !
Soft tears of fond regret reveal its smart,
And sorrow, restless sorrow, chills my heart.
When at my matin pray'rs I prostrate kneel,
And Court RELIGION's aid to soothe my woe,
The meek-ey'd saint who pities what I feel,
Forbids the sigh to heave, the tear to flow;
For ah ! no vulgar passion fills my mind,
Calm REASON's hand illumes the flame refin'd,
ALL the pure feelings FRIENDSHIP can impart,
Live in the centre of my aching heart.
When at the still and solemn hour of night,
I press my lonely couch to find repose;
Joyless I watch the pale moon's chilling light,
Where thro' the mould'ring tow'r the north-wind blows;
My fev'rish lids no balmy slumbers own,
Still my sad bosom beats for thee alone:
Nor shall its aching fibres cease to smart,
'Till DEATH's cold SPELL is twin'd about my HEART.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Answer To Cloe Jealous. The Author Sick
Yes, fairest Proof of Beauty's Pow'r,
Dear Idol of My panting Heart,
Nature points This my fatal Hour:
And I have liv'd; and We must part.
While now I take my last Adieu,
Heave Thou no Sigh, nor shed a Tear;
Lest yet my half-clos'd Eye may view
On Earth an Object worth it's Care.
From Jealousy's tormenting Strife
For ever be Thy Bosom free'd:
That nothing may disturb Thy Life,
Content I hasten to the Dead.
Yet when some better-fated Youth
Shall with his am'rous Parly move Thee;
Reflect One Moment on His Truth,
Who dying Thus, persists to love Thee.
poem by Matthew Prior
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A Dead Rose
O Rose! who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;
But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,---
Kept seven years in a drawer---thy titles shame thee.
The breeze that used to blow thee
Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away
An odour up the lane to last all day,---
If breathing now,---unsweetened would forego thee.
The sun that used to smite thee,
And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,
Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,---
If shining now,---with not a hue would light thee.
The dew that used to wet thee,
And, white first, grow incarnadined, because
It lay upon thee where the crimson was,---
If dropping now,---would darken where it met thee.
The fly that lit upon thee,
To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet,
Along thy leaf's pure edges, after heat,---
If lighting now,---would coldly overrun thee.
The bee that once did suck thee,
And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,---
If passing now,---would blindly overlook thee.
The heart doth recognise thee,
Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,---
Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.
Yes, and the heart doth owe thee
More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold
As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!---
Lie still upon this heart---which breaks below thee!
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Ode to Meditation
SWEET CHILD OF REASON! maid serene;
With folded arms, and pensive mien,
Who wand'ring near yon thorny wild,
So oft, my length'ning hours beguil'd;
Thou, who within thy peaceful call,
Canst laugh at LIFE'S tumultuous care,
While calm repose delights to dwell
On beds of fragrant roses there;
Where meek-ey'd PATIENCE waits to greet
The woe-worn Trav'ller's weary feet,
'Till by her blest and cheering ray
The clouds of sorrow fade away;
Where conscious RECTITUDE retires;
Instructive WISDOM; calm DESIRES;
Prolific SCIENCE,lab'ring ART;
And GENIUS, with expanded heart.
Far from thy lone and pure domain,
Steals pallid GUILT, whose scowling eye
Marks the rack'd soul's convulsive pain,
Tho' hid beneath the mask of joy;
Madd'ning AMBITION'S dauntless band;
Lean AVARICE with iron hand;
HYPOCRISY with fawning tongue;
Soft FLATT'RY with persuasive song;
Appall'd in gloomy shadows fly,
From MEDITATION'S piercing eye.
How oft with thee I've stroll'd unseen
O'er the lone valley's velvet green;
And brush'd away the twilight dew
That stain'd the cowslip's golden hue;
Oft, as I ponder'd o'er the scene,
Would mem'ry picture to my heart,
How full of grief my days have been,
How swiftly rapt'rous hours depart;
Then would'st thou sweetly reas'ning say,
"TIME journeys thro' the roughest day."
THE HERMIT, from the world retir'd,
By calm Religion's voice inspir'd,
Tells how serenely time glides on,
From crimson morn, 'till setting sun;
How guiltless, pure, and free from strife,
He journeys thro' the vale of Life;
Within his breast nor sorrows mourn,
Nor cares perplex, nor passions burn;
No jealous fears, or boundless joys,
The tenor of his mind destroys;
And when revolving mem'ry shows
The thorny world's unnumber'd woes;
He blesses HEAV'N's benign decree,
That gave his days to PEACE and THEE.
The gentle MAID, whose roseate bloom
Fades fast within a cloyster's gloom;
Far by relentless FATE remov'd,
From all her youthful fancy lov'd;
When her warm heart no longer bleeds,
And cool Reflection's hour succeeds;
Led by THY downy hand, she strays
Along the green dell's tangled maze;
Where thro' dank leaves, the whisp'ring show'rs
Awake to life the fainting flow'rs;
Absorb'd by THEE, she hears no more
The distant torrent's fearful roar;
The well-known VESPER's silver tone;
The bleak wind's desolating moan;
No more she sees the nodding spires,
Where the dark bird of night retires;
While Echo chaunts her boding song
The cloyster's mould'ring walls among;
No more she weeps at Fate's decree,
But yields her pensive soul to THEE.
THE SAGE, whose palsy'd head bends low
'Midst scatter'd locks of silv'ry snow;
Still by his MIND's clear lustre tells,
What warmth within his bosom dwells;
How glows his heart with treasur'd lore,
How rich in Wisdom's boundless store;
In fading Life's protracted hour,
He smiles at Death's terrific pow'r;
He lifts his radiant eyes, which gleam
With Resignation's sainted beam:
And, as the weeping star of morn,
Sheds lustre on the wither'd thorn,
His tear benign, calm comfort throws,
O'er rugged Life's corroding woes;
His pious soul's enlighten'd rays
Dart forth, to gild his wint'ry days;
He smiles serene at Heav'n's decree,
And his last hour resigns to THEE.
When Learning, with Promethean art,
Unveils to light the youthful heart;
When on the richly-budding spray,
The glorious beams of Genius play;
When the expanded leaves proclaim
The promis'd fruits of rip'ning Fame;
O MEDITATION, maid divine!
Proud REASON owns the work is THINE.
Oft, have I known thy magic pow'r,
Irradiate sorrow's wint'ry hour;
Oft, my full heart to THEE hath flown,
And wept for mis'ries not its own;
When pinch'd with agonizing PAIN,
My restless bosom dar'd complain;
Oft have I sunk upon THY breast,
And lull'd my weary mind to rest;
'Till I have own'd the blest decree,
That gave my soul to PEACE and THEE.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Sonnet to Evening
[Written under a tree in the woods of St. Amand, in Flanders.]
SWEET BALMY HOUR! dear to the pensive mind,
Oft have I watch'd thy dark and weeping shade,
Oft have I hail'd thee in the dewy glade,
And drop'd a tear of SYMPATHY refin'd.
When humming bees, hid in their golden bow'rs,
Sip the pure nectar of MAY'S blushing rose,
Or faint with noon-day toils, their limbs repose,
In Baths of Essence stol'n from sunny flow'rs.
Oft do I seek thy shade dear with'ring tree,
Sad emblem of my OWN disast'rous state;
Doom'd in the spring of life, alas ! like THEE
To fade, and droop beneath the frowns of FATE;
Like THEE, may Heaven to ME the meed bestow,
To shelter Sorrow's tear, and sooth THE CHILD OF WOE.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Sonnet -- The Tear
AH! LUST'ROUS GEM, bright emblem of the Heart,
That nobly scorns a borrow'd ray to share,
Whose gentle pow'r can break the spells of care,
And sooth, with lenient balm, the keenest smart.
Whether from holy FRIENDSHIP'S vow profan'd,
Or the dire frenzy of unpitied LOVE;
Whether from cherish'd passion unrestrain'd,
Or the worst pang the jealous mind can prove.
Yet, if sad mem'ry ling'ring o'er past woe,
Calls THEE, soft trembler, from thy crystal throne,
And sternly bids thy pearly incence flow,
E'en when the treach'rous phantom, HOPE, is flown;
How fickle are the gifts thy rays impart,
At once the BALM and POISON OF THE HEART.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Ode, Written On The Opening Of The Last Campaign
Spring! thy impatient bloom restrain,
Nor wake so soon thy genial pow'r,
For, deeds of death must hail thy reign,
And clouds of fate around thee low'r.
Alas! not all thy store of charms
For patriot hearts can comfort find,
Or lull to peace the dread alarms
Which rack the friends of human kind.
In vain thy balmy breath to me
Scents with its sweets the ev'ning gale;
In vain the violet's charms I see,
Or fondly mark thy primrose pale.
To me thy softest zephyrs breathe,
Of sorrow's soul-distracting tone,
To me thy most attractive wreath
Seems ting'd with human blood alone.
Arrest thy steps, thou source of love,
Thou genial friend of joy and life
Let not thy smile propitious prove
To works of carnage, scenes of strife.
Bid Winter all his frowns recall,
And back his icy footsteps trace;
Again the soil in frost inthrall,
And check the War-fiend's murd'rous chace.
Ah, fruitless pray'r! thy hand divine
MUST on the teeming season lead,
And (contrast dire!) at War's red shrine
Must bid unnumber'd victims bleed.
But not in vain—if on this hour
The fate of Freedom shall depend—
If o'er this earth th' Eternal Pow'r
The scale of Justice now extend.
For then, O Spring, thy sun shall see
The patriot flame triumphant shine;
GALLIA shall bid the world be free,
And WAR his blood-stain'd throne resign!
poem by Amelia Opie
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