Poems | ||
V. SCHWYTZ.
The relics of her human charms
Are lock'd in earth's maternal arms
By Grasmere's quiet shore;
Her spirit, ever bright and pure,
Is where there are no ills to cure,
Where pain torments no more.
Are lock'd in earth's maternal arms
By Grasmere's quiet shore;
Her spirit, ever bright and pure,
Is where there are no ills to cure,
Where pain torments no more.
An exile from a blighted home,
From land to land I vainly roam,
And seek, but cannot find
In nature, nor in powerless art,
Some charm to lull an aching heart,
To soothe a troubled mind.
From land to land I vainly roam,
And seek, but cannot find
In nature, nor in powerless art,
Some charm to lull an aching heart,
To soothe a troubled mind.
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Severe it seems, and only seems,
To rouse from life's delusive dreams
The beautiful and young:
If, like Jemima good as fair,
They wake, we trust, in purer air,
Immortal joys among;
To rouse from life's delusive dreams
The beautiful and young:
If, like Jemima good as fair,
They wake, we trust, in purer air,
Immortal joys among;
Theirs is the harder lot who mourn,
Who, with a vain compunction, burn
To expiate faults that grieved
A breast they never more can pain,
A heart they cannot please again—
The living, the bereaved.
Who, with a vain compunction, burn
To expiate faults that grieved
A breast they never more can pain,
A heart they cannot please again—
The living, the bereaved.
O vain complaint of selfishness!
Weak wish to paralyse distress!
The tear, the pang, the groan,
Are justly mine, who once possess'd,
Yetn sometimes pain'd, the fondest breast
Where love was ever known.
Weak wish to paralyse distress!
The tear, the pang, the groan,
Are justly mine, who once possess'd,
Yetn sometimes pain'd, the fondest breast
Where love was ever known.
Poems | ||