 | Woman, A Poem |  |
116
THE FAREWELL.
Go, tender Muse, tis near the gloomy day
Of parting; go, and bid farewell for me;
Farewell to her who once endured thy lay,
Since hence she hastens far—Ah, hard decree!
Of parting; go, and bid farewell for me;
Farewell to her who once endured thy lay,
Since hence she hastens far—Ah, hard decree!
Tell her I feel, at that portentous hour,
Not waves alone will heave in tumult high;
Not skies alone will rain a gushing shower,
Not winds alone will breathe a plaintive sigh.
Not waves alone will heave in tumult high;
Not skies alone will rain a gushing shower,
Not winds alone will breathe a plaintive sigh.
117
Say, that her influence flies not with her form,
That distant, she will still engage my mind
That suns are most remote when most they warm,
That flying Parthians scatter darts behind.
That distant, she will still engage my mind
That suns are most remote when most they warm,
That flying Parthians scatter darts behind.
Long will I gaze upon her vacant home,
As the bird lingers near its pilfered nest;
Still murmur, There she read the studious tome,
There sported, there her happy pet caressed.
As the bird lingers near its pilfered nest;
Still murmur, There she read the studious tome,
There sported, there her happy pet caressed.
There, as she sat at each accomplished art,
I saw her form inclined with Sapphic grace
Her looks, her movements, simple from the heart,
And all the unbought treasures of her face.
I saw her form inclined with Sapphic grace
Her looks, her movements, simple from the heart,
And all the unbought treasures of her face.
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That open forehead parting clustered hair,
That cheek of peachy tinct, that slender brow;
The witching archness, and the pensive air,
So magical, they charmed I knew not how.
That cheek of peachy tinct, that slender brow;
The witching archness, and the pensive air,
So magical, they charmed I knew not how.
Light were her footsteps, as the silent flakes
Of falling snow; her smiles, elate as morn;
Her dimple, like the print a berry makes,
In glassy brook, when dropping from the thorn.
Of falling snow; her smiles, elate as morn;
Her dimple, like the print a berry makes,
In glassy brook, when dropping from the thorn.
To catch her accents, as afar she spoke,
To see her distant hand (that future prize!)
Fling back a ringlet, oft I dared provoke
The gentle vengeance of averted eyes.
To see her distant hand (that future prize!)
Fling back a ringlet, oft I dared provoke
The gentle vengeance of averted eyes.
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Yet ah, what wonder, if, when conscious awe
Withheld me from approach, I broke my chain?
Or, when I made a single glance my law,
What wonder if that law were made in vain?
Withheld me from approach, I broke my chain?
Or, when I made a single glance my law,
What wonder if that law were made in vain?
And can no charm but sweet discourse enthrall?
Tho' ne'er for me those speaking features moved;
The valley, silent save where echoes call,
When long beheld, eternally is loved.
Tho' ne'er for me those speaking features moved;
The valley, silent save where echoes call,
When long beheld, eternally is loved.
That spot, the shelter of our early years,
That spot, where shrouded friends and kindred lie;
Still for that spot we shed remembering tears,
Still to that absent spot return and die.
That spot, where shrouded friends and kindred lie;
Still for that spot we shed remembering tears,
Still to that absent spot return and die.
120
Go then, my Muse, before the parting day,
Long dreaded; go, and bid farewell for me;
Farewell to her who once endured thy lay,
Whate'er engage her, whereso'er she be.
Long dreaded; go, and bid farewell for me;
Farewell to her who once endured thy lay,
Whate'er engage her, whereso'er she be.
If slumbering, tell her in my dreams she sways,
If speaking, tell her in my words she glows;
If thoughtful, tell her in my thoughts she strays,
If tuneful, tell her in my song she flows.
If speaking, tell her in my words she glows;
If thoughtful, tell her in my thoughts she strays,
If tuneful, tell her in my song she flows.
Confess that soon my dreams will wander wild,
That soon my words will intermingle moans;
That soon my thoughts will languish unbeguiled,
That soon my song will wake lamenting tones.
That soon my words will intermingle moans;
That soon my thoughts will languish unbeguiled,
That soon my song will wake lamenting tones.
121
Then, in romantic moments, I will frame
Some scene ideal, when we meet at last;
Where, rescued by myself from surge or flame,
She smiles reward and talks of all the past.
Some scene ideal, when we meet at last;
Where, rescued by myself from surge or flame,
She smiles reward and talks of all the past.
Now to the rural lark she hastes away.
Ah! could the bard some winged warbler be;
Following her form, no longer would he say,
Go, tender Muse, and bid farewell for me.
Ah! could the bard some winged warbler be;
Following her form, no longer would he say,
Go, tender Muse, and bid farewell for me.
| Woman, A Poem | |