The bard, and minor poems By John Walker Ord ... Collected and edited by John Lodge |
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 | The bard, and minor poems |  |
IX.
Woe to the generations! ever woe!
That love should fade like wavelet of the sea;
Nor summer clouds, enrich'd by evening's glow,
Nor rainbow-splendour are so frail as thee!
Yet beautiful as diamond in the mine,
Or glow-worm dreaming in some mossy dell;
One ray of sunlight, where lone captives pine—
One star rejoicing o'er some mountain well!
But, lo! the winter clouds o'erspread the sky,
And winter tempests whistle through the air;
Love's fruits and flowers are left to fade and die,
Her bridegroom Sorrow, and her fruit Despair.
That love should fade like wavelet of the sea;
Nor summer clouds, enrich'd by evening's glow,
Nor rainbow-splendour are so frail as thee!
Yet beautiful as diamond in the mine,
Or glow-worm dreaming in some mossy dell;
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One star rejoicing o'er some mountain well!
But, lo! the winter clouds o'erspread the sky,
And winter tempests whistle through the air;
Love's fruits and flowers are left to fade and die,
Her bridegroom Sorrow, and her fruit Despair.
“Through leagues of weary wandering must we go,
Who seek the bowers of Love's immortal sway;
Amid the gloom entangling creepers grow,
Whilst every poisonous herb pollutes the way
But, lo! the gorgeous temples where they stand,
What glorious visions burst upon the eye;
In prime of youth glows all the blushing land,
With tints as radiant as an eastern sky.
Here lurk no craven fears, no base desires—
Nor dread, nor doubt, nor sorrow borne in vain;
But love encircles with celestial fires,
And lights the sacred shrines of heart and brain.
Who seek the bowers of Love's immortal sway;
Amid the gloom entangling creepers grow,
Whilst every poisonous herb pollutes the way
But, lo! the gorgeous temples where they stand,
What glorious visions burst upon the eye;
In prime of youth glows all the blushing land,
With tints as radiant as an eastern sky.
Here lurk no craven fears, no base desires—
Nor dread, nor doubt, nor sorrow borne in vain;
But love encircles with celestial fires,
And lights the sacred shrines of heart and brain.
“Yea, joys are thine, unequall'd else beside,
Of nations in their first, their fairest prime;
When lovers revell'd in the early pride
Of the world's youth, ere yet unstain'd with crime.
Oh, Love, that with the primrose of the vale,
Or violet of the morn, was pure and bright;
Whilst clouds of fragrance swept along the gale,
From woodbine bowers of gladness and delight!
How joyous then!—ere vessel trod the wave,
Or cities tower'd—abodes of lust and wrong;
When sea-nymphs revell'd in each coral cave,
And Dryads charm'd the forests with their song.
Of nations in their first, their fairest prime;
When lovers revell'd in the early pride
Of the world's youth, ere yet unstain'd with crime.
Oh, Love, that with the primrose of the vale,
Or violet of the morn, was pure and bright;
Whilst clouds of fragrance swept along the gale,
From woodbine bowers of gladness and delight!
How joyous then!—ere vessel trod the wave,
Or cities tower'd—abodes of lust and wrong;
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And Dryads charm'd the forests with their song.
“Then, touch'd with heavenly fire, each fairest maid,
In sweet submission, tuned the amorous lay;
Nor fear'd to meet her lover in the shade,
Beneath the tender moon's alluring ray.
Then shone the stars on true-love's purest kiss—
The birth of passion, ere the sting of pain;
Whilst earthly trust aspired to heavenly bliss:
When shall we know these blessed hours again!
In sweet submission, tuned the amorous lay;
Nor fear'd to meet her lover in the shade,
Beneath the tender moon's alluring ray.
Then shone the stars on true-love's purest kiss—
The birth of passion, ere the sting of pain;
Whilst earthly trust aspired to heavenly bliss:
When shall we know these blessed hours again!
“Love is Religion's handmaid: on her brow
Shine lights of heaven; and, cinctur'd on her head,
Glow amaranthine wreaths; whilst round her flow
Strains, tender and sublime, that might arouse the dead!”
Shine lights of heaven; and, cinctur'd on her head,
Glow amaranthine wreaths; whilst round her flow
Strains, tender and sublime, that might arouse the dead!”
| The bard, and minor poems | |