Epistles from Bath Or, Q.'s Letters to His Yorkshire Relations; And Miscellaneous Poems. By Q. In The Corner [i.e. N. T. H. Bayly] |
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TO THE MEMORY OF LAURA. |
 | Epistles from Bath |  |
55
TO THE MEMORY OF LAURA.
How vain are our visions, how transient our joys,
The bright beam of happiness soon disappears;
And the arrow of fate in a moment destroys
The fabric that Hope has been building for years:
The bright beam of happiness soon disappears;
And the arrow of fate in a moment destroys
The fabric that Hope has been building for years:
The place of my birth can no longer enchant,
Its former attractions seem withered to me;
I find a sad relic in every plant,
And a trace of my Laura in every tree.
Its former attractions seem withered to me;
I find a sad relic in every plant,
And a trace of my Laura in every tree.
Its jessamine bowers the spot may unfold,
And roses as lovely may cluster the stem;
It is brilliant and bright as a casket of gold,—
The casket remains—but, oh! where is the gem?
And roses as lovely may cluster the stem;
It is brilliant and bright as a casket of gold,—
The casket remains—but, oh! where is the gem?
56
Each favorite object distinctly I trace,
But the spell that endeared them I cannot recall;
'Twas the form of my Laura enlivened the place,
And she was the star that illumined it all.
But the spell that endeared them I cannot recall;
'Twas the form of my Laura enlivened the place,
And she was the star that illumined it all.
For ever I go, and relinquish the scene,
Where often in happier moments we met;
Yet still I bear with me such traces within
Of her charms and her goodness—I cannot forget.
Where often in happier moments we met;
Yet still I bear with me such traces within
Of her charms and her goodness—I cannot forget.
'Tis true I may gaze on the groves she has seen,
I may gather the flowrets she used to prefer;
I may walk in the path where her footsteps have been—
But I need no such ties to remind me of her.
I may gather the flowrets she used to prefer;
I may walk in the path where her footsteps have been—
But I need no such ties to remind me of her.
The heart is the only true record of love,
Where those who were dear to us live to the last;
Her form will be with me wherever I rove,
A mournful memento of days that are past.
Where those who were dear to us live to the last;
Her form will be with me wherever I rove,
A mournful memento of days that are past.
The dark wave of Time in its progress removes
Our long-cherished trifles from memory's list;
But fondly we cling to our earliest loves,
When those that endeared them no longer exist.
Our long-cherished trifles from memory's list;
But fondly we cling to our earliest loves,
When those that endeared them no longer exist.
| Epistles from Bath | |