Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

SONNET IX.

Pale Roamer through the night! thou poor Forlorn!
Remorse that man on his death-bed possess,
Who in the credulous hour of tenderness
Betrayed, then cast thee forth to want and scorn!
The world is pitiless : the chaste one's pride
Mimic of Virtue scowls on thy distress :
Thy Loves and they, that envied thee, deride :
And Vice alone will shelter wretchedness!
0! I could weep to think, that there should be
Cold-bosomed lewd ones, who endure to place
Foul offerings on the shrine of misery,
And force from famine the caress of Love;
May He shed healing on the sore disgrace,
He, the great Comforter that rules above !

SONNET X.

SWEET Mercy! how my very heart has blud
To see thee, poor Old Man and thy gray hairs
Hoar with the snowy blast : while no one cares
To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head.
My Father! throw away this tattered vest
That mocks thy shivering! take my garment-use
A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews
That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast.
My Sara too shall tend thee, like a Child :
And thou shalt talk, in our fireside's recess,
of purple pride, that scowls on wretchedness.
He did not so, the Galilean mild,
Who met the Lazars turned from rich men's doors,
And called them Friends, and healed their noisome sores !

SONNET XI.

Thou bleedest, my poor Heart! and thy distress
Reasoning I ponder with a scornful smile,
And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the while
Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness.

Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland ?
Or, listening, why forget the healing tale,
When Jealousy with feverous fancies pale
Jarred thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand ?
Faint was that Hope, and rayless !—Yet 'twas fair,
And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest :
Thou shouldst have loved it most, when most opprest,
And nursed it with an agony of care,
Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir
That wan and sickly droops upon her breast!

[blocks in formation]

Schiller! that hour I would have wished to die,
If through the shuddering midnight I had sent
From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent
That fearful voice, a famished Father's cry-
Lest in some after-moment aught more mean
Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout
Black Horror screamed, and all her goblin ront
Diminished shrunk from the more withering scene !
Ah ! Bard tremendous in sublimity!
Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood
Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye
Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood !
Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood :
Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy.

LINES

COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF BROCKLEY

SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795.

COOMB,

With many a pause and oft-reverted eye
I climb the Coomb's ascent : sweet songsters near
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody :
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear.
Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock

That on green plots o'er precipices browse :
From the deep fissures of the naked rock
The Yew tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs
(Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,
I rest :—and now have gained the topmost site.
Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets
My gaze! Proud to vers, and cots more dear to me,
Elm-shadow'd fields, and prospect-bounding sea!
Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear:
Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here !

LINES

IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER.

O PEACE, that on a lilied bank dost love
To rest thine head beneath an olive tree,
I would, that from the pinions of thy dove
One quill withouten pain yplucked might be!
For 0! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee,
And fain to her some soothing song would write,
Lest she resent my rude discourtesy,
Who vowed to meet her ere the morning light,
But broke my plighted word—ah! false and recreant wight!
Last night as I my weary head did pillow
With thoughts of my dissevered Fair engrost,
Chill Fancy drooped wreathing herself with willow,
As though my breast entombed a pining ghost.
“From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal boast,
Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way;
But leave me with the matin hour, at most!
As night-closed floweret to the orient ray,
My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey."
But Love, who heard the silence of my thought,
Contrived a too successful wile, I ween:
And whispered to himself, with malice fraught-
“ Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen :
To-morrow shall he ken her altered mien !".

He spake, and ambushed lay, till on my bed
The morning shot her dewy glances keen,
When as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head-
“ Now, Bard! I'll work thee woe!” the laughing Elfin said.
Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing
Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart;
When twanged an arrow from Love's mystic string,
With pathless wound it pierced him to the heart.
Was there some magic in the Elfin's dart?
Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance ?
For straight so fair a Form did upwards start
(No fairer decked the bowers of old Romance)
That Sleep enamored grew, nor moved from his sweet trance !
My Sara came, with gentlest look divine ;
Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam:
I felt the pressure of her lip to mine!
Whispering we went, and Love was all our theme-
Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem,
He sprang from Heaven! Such joys with Sleep did 'bide
That I the living image of my dream,
Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd-
“O' how shall I behold my Love at even-tide !"

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

THE stream with languid murmur creeps,

In Lumin's flowery vale:
Beneath the dew the Lily weeps

Slow-waving to the gale.
Cease, restless gale! it seems to say,

Nor wake me with thy sighing !
The honors of my vernal day

On rapid wing are flying.

[ocr errors]

“ To-morrow shall the Traveller come

Who late beheld me blooming :
His searching eye shall vainly roam

The dreary vale of Lumin."

With eager gaze and wetted cheek

My wonted haunts along,
Thus, faithful Maiden! thou shalt seek

The Youth of simplest song.
But I along the breeze shall roll

The voice of feeble power ;
And dwell, the Moon-beam of thy soul,

In Slumber's nightly hour.

THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA.

How long will ye round me be swelling,

O ye blue-tumbling waves of the sea ? Not always in caves was my dwelling,

Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree. Through the high-sounding halls of Cathlóma

In the steps of my beauty I strayed ; The warriors beheld Ninathóma,

And they blessed the white-bosomed Maid!

A Ghost! by my cavern it darted !

In moon-beams the Spirit was drest,
For lovely appear the departed
When they visit the dreams of my

rest! But disturbed by the tempest's commotion

Fleet the shadowy forms of delightAh cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean!

To howl through my cavern by night.

IMITATED FROM THE WELSH.

IF, while my passion I impart,

You deem my words untrue,
O place your hand upon my heart-

Feel how it throbs for you !

Ah no! reject the thoughtless claim

In pity to your Lover!
That thrilling touch would aid the flame,

It wishes to discover.

« ZurückWeiter »