Poems, on sacred and other subjects and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs |
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The Bard's Address to his Flute.
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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
The Bard's Address to his Flute.
Delight of my youth, I will part from thee never,
While hope's cheering ray glads my life-loving soul;
'Till death's fatal stroke—nought on earth shall us sever,
For oft thou hast freed me from languor's control.
I've raised thy soft flow by the breeze-shaken willow,
Which waken'd the lay of the mavis so mellow;
Or pensively lain, 'mong the primroses yellow,
Beside the clear stream, which did murmuring roll.
While hope's cheering ray glads my life-loving soul;
'Till death's fatal stroke—nought on earth shall us sever,
For oft thou hast freed me from languor's control.
I've raised thy soft flow by the breeze-shaken willow,
Which waken'd the lay of the mavis so mellow;
Or pensively lain, 'mong the primroses yellow,
Beside the clear stream, which did murmuring roll.
O flute, my companion, with thee oft I've wander'd
By Calder's green banks, at the close of the day;
And, lonely, on nature's fair volume I've ponder'd,
Deluding the care-winged moments away:
How oft has thy tone banish'd heart-chilling sadness,
And cheer'd my dull mind with the light thrill of gladness!
A rapture unknown to the wild throe of madness,
A joy which alone I derived from thy lay!
By Calder's green banks, at the close of the day;
And, lonely, on nature's fair volume I've ponder'd,
Deluding the care-winged moments away:
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And cheer'd my dull mind with the light thrill of gladness!
A rapture unknown to the wild throe of madness,
A joy which alone I derived from thy lay!
When once, at thy strains, fancy's torch I had lighted,
In transport I'd rove by the shady green wood;
Till the drear-wailing owl had proclaim'd me benighted,
O'er the phantom with miser-endearment I'd brood:
Till cold feeble age check the wide-wand'ring rover,
To wake thy soft voice shall my hand ne'er give over—
Even then warm devotion will over thee hover,
For oft thou hast raised her from sorrow's dull mood.
In transport I'd rove by the shady green wood;
Till the drear-wailing owl had proclaim'd me benighted,
O'er the phantom with miser-endearment I'd brood:
Till cold feeble age check the wide-wand'ring rover,
To wake thy soft voice shall my hand ne'er give over—
Even then warm devotion will over thee hover,
For oft thou hast raised her from sorrow's dull mood.
And when ruthless death ends my pleasure and anguish,
And prostrate me lays in the cold silent tomb,
I'll hail those bright realms, and leave mortals to languish,
For earth and its pleasures shall vanish in gloom:
Thou, then, in some muse-wooing hand shalt bewail me,
And—though not so sweet as with me may thy tale be—
The genius of music, melodious, will hail thee,
And flowers amaranthine around thee shall bloom.
And prostrate me lays in the cold silent tomb,
I'll hail those bright realms, and leave mortals to languish,
For earth and its pleasures shall vanish in gloom:
Thou, then, in some muse-wooing hand shalt bewail me,
And—though not so sweet as with me may thy tale be—
The genius of music, melodious, will hail thee,
And flowers amaranthine around thee shall bloom.
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |