SONNET XII. 66 TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ROBBERS." SCHILLER! that hour I would have wished to die, LINES COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795. WITH many a pause and oft reverted eye I climb the Coomb's ascent: sweet songsters near Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock 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 towers, 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 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 boast, Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way; But leave me with the matin hour, at most! But Love, who heard the silence of my thought, When as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head 66 Now, Bard! I'll work thee woe!" the laughing Elfin said. Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing That Sleep enamoured grew, nor moved from his sweet trance! My Sara came, with gentlest look divine; Whispering we went, and Love was all our theme- IMITATED FROM OSSIAN. THE stream with languid murmur creeps, In Lumin's flowery vale : Beneath the dew the Lily weeps "Cease, restless gale! it seems to say, Nor wake me with thy sighing! The honours of my vernal day "To-morrow shall the Traveller come Who late beheld me blooming: His searching eye shall vainly roam With eager gaze and wetted cheek My wonted haunts along, Thus, faithful Maiden! thou shalt seek But I along the breeze shall roll The voice of feeble power; And dwell, the Moon-beam of thy soul, THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHÓMA. How long will ye round me be swelling, blue-tumbling waves of the sea? Not always in caves was my dwelling, ye 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! When they visit the dreams of my rest! To howl through my cavern by night. |