 | The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison |  |
54
Henry to Rosamond: AN EPISTLE.
Shall then his beauteous Rosamonda mourn,
Nor Henry's Soul the soft Complaint return!
O cease, my Fair! I deeply feel thy smart,
And all thy Sorrows double in my Heart:
Far from my Breast, ye Scenes of War! remove,
Far from my Breast be every Scene, but Love;
Soft rising Thoughts as when, in Woodstock-Bowers,
Joyful, we lov'd away the laughing Hours.
Nor Henry's Soul the soft Complaint return!
O cease, my Fair! I deeply feel thy smart,
And all thy Sorrows double in my Heart:
Far from my Breast, ye Scenes of War! remove,
Far from my Breast be every Scene, but Love;
Soft rising Thoughts as when, in Woodstock-Bowers,
Joyful, we lov'd away the laughing Hours.
Now mid-night Rest relieves the Soldier's Care,
Hush'd are the Drums, and every Voice of War;
Faint gleam the Fires along the dewy Field,
And faint the Noise, that sleeping Coursers yield;
Yet Love, the lordly Tyrant of my Breast,
Alarms my Soul, and interrupts my Rest;
In vain a Nation's Cares the Monarch move,
For ah! far greater is the Monarch Love!
Hush'd are the Drums, and every Voice of War;
Faint gleam the Fires along the dewy Field,
And faint the Noise, that sleeping Coursers yield;
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Alarms my Soul, and interrupts my Rest;
In vain a Nation's Cares the Monarch move,
For ah! far greater is the Monarch Love!
Warm from my Lips, thy tender Letter lies,
And every Word is Magick to my Eyes;
Weeping, I read, and hear thy soft-breath'd Woes,
And all the Warriour in the Lover lose:
Then I by Fancy vanish'd Joys restore,
Feast on false Love, and act past Pleasures o'er;
Fancy can sooth my Soul with pleasing Dreams,
While tented Gallia, bowery Woodstock seems;
Led by delusive Steps, in Thought, I rove
Thro' well known Greens, and every winding Grove.
There, haply on some flowery Bank reclin'd
My sweet-reposing Rosamonda find;
When then (for then thy secret Thoughts I see)
In pious Slumbers breath'st thy Soul to me;
Dissolv'd with Joy, and feasting on thy Charms,
I clasp thee in imaginary Arms;
And then—ah then!—I seem sincerely blest—
Then only Rosamonda, knows the rest—
And every Word is Magick to my Eyes;
Weeping, I read, and hear thy soft-breath'd Woes,
And all the Warriour in the Lover lose:
Then I by Fancy vanish'd Joys restore,
Feast on false Love, and act past Pleasures o'er;
Fancy can sooth my Soul with pleasing Dreams,
While tented Gallia, bowery Woodstock seems;
Led by delusive Steps, in Thought, I rove
Thro' well known Greens, and every winding Grove.
There, haply on some flowery Bank reclin'd
My sweet-reposing Rosamonda find;
When then (for then thy secret Thoughts I see)
In pious Slumbers breath'st thy Soul to me;
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I clasp thee in imaginary Arms;
And then—ah then!—I seem sincerely blest—
Then only Rosamonda, knows the rest—
O Glories! Empires! Crowns! how weak ye prove,
If thus out-rivall'd by a Dream of Love!
O Love! what Toys thy real Sweets bestow,
When ev'n their Shadows can transport me so!
O Bliss extatick! blest Relief from Cares!
Thus let me lose my Soul in softer Wars!
Be Love's transporting Sighs my sweet Alarms,
Nor Worlds, but Rosamonda crown my Arms!
In Her alone, my full Desires agree,
Her Charms are Empires, Glories, all to Me!
If thus out-rivall'd by a Dream of Love!
O Love! what Toys thy real Sweets bestow,
When ev'n their Shadows can transport me so!
O Bliss extatick! blest Relief from Cares!
Thus let me lose my Soul in softer Wars!
Be Love's transporting Sighs my sweet Alarms,
Nor Worlds, but Rosamonda crown my Arms!
In Her alone, my full Desires agree,
Her Charms are Empires, Glories, all to Me!
| The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison | |