 | Poems |  |
So, after ten years on a curacy past,
It is this, my dear friend, to be vicar at last.
Yet, tho' buried here in the fogs of the south,
My heart, as I write, be quite up in my mouth,
I trace, with fond pleasure, the years I have spent on
The curacy, (lovely retirement!) of Kenton;
Where I tun'd to my Laura sweet sonnets of love,
And a wreath for the pupil of eloquence wove;
Bade the lawns and the woodlands re-echo my strains
Transferr'd to Devonia from Sicily's plains;
And, uniting the poets of Cornwall and Devon,
Prais'd them all with applauses untainted by leaven;
And where, to involve the fair landscape in gloom,
I consign'd my poor Laura's remains to the tomb.
It is this, my dear friend, to be vicar at last.
Yet, tho' buried here in the fogs of the south,
My heart, as I write, be quite up in my mouth,
I trace, with fond pleasure, the years I have spent on
The curacy, (lovely retirement!) of Kenton;
Where I tun'd to my Laura sweet sonnets of love,
And a wreath for the pupil of eloquence wove;
Bade the lawns and the woodlands re-echo my strains
Transferr'd to Devonia from Sicily's plains;
And, uniting the poets of Cornwall and Devon,
Prais'd them all with applauses untainted by leaven;
And where, to involve the fair landscape in gloom,
I consign'd my poor Laura's remains to the tomb.
Still, doctor, I've reason to pluck up my spirits,
When I think on my Mary's affection and merits:
And, whilst I may look to the prospect of greeting,
Now and then, the good friends from whose smiles I'm retreating,
I should deem myself blest in so lovely a wife,
E'en here at Manaccan—tho' hardly for life!
When I think on my Mary's affection and merits:
255
Now and then, the good friends from whose smiles I'm retreating,
I should deem myself blest in so lovely a wife,
E'en here at Manaccan—tho' hardly for life!
| Poems | |