 | Tales, in verse and miscellaneous poems |  |
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THE LOVER'S REVERIE.
The mind that's unclouded from sorrow and care,
May relish young Spring with the buds of the year,
And Summer yield comfort to those that are free,
Yet they're cheerless and lonely, and lost unto me:
For mine is the empire of sorrow and care,
To be cross'd in affection, corroded with fear;
Since my heart's soothing blossom will yield no relief,
But mocks at my cares and despises my grief.
May relish young Spring with the buds of the year,
And Summer yield comfort to those that are free,
Yet they're cheerless and lonely, and lost unto me:
For mine is the empire of sorrow and care,
To be cross'd in affection, corroded with fear;
Since my heart's soothing blossom will yield no relief,
But mocks at my cares and despises my grief.
O! Phœbe, thou'rt fairer than love can unfold,
Thou gayest and dearest, e'er nature did mould;
What beams with thy glances to me can compare?
What mien so engaging, or face half so fair?
Does the chains of reflection e'er trace o'er thy mind,
Or point to the moments when once you were kind;
Or can that soft bosom where graces repair
Like the snows in December, be cold and yet fair
Thou gayest and dearest, e'er nature did mould;
What beams with thy glances to me can compare?
What mien so engaging, or face half so fair?
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Or point to the moments when once you were kind;
Or can that soft bosom where graces repair
Like the snows in December, be cold and yet fair
But the titles of honour and dignified birth,
Exalts thee above me, and lessens my worth;
As yon rock which bears diamonds and hangs o'er the sea,
Is gazed at and longed for, so thou art to me.
But why need I warble my woes thus alane,
Since Phœbe the fairest deserted the plain?—
Yes I'll sigh with the wild blast, and mourn with the dove,
And I'll soothe me with sorrow for the loss of my love?
Exalts thee above me, and lessens my worth;
As yon rock which bears diamonds and hangs o'er the sea,
Is gazed at and longed for, so thou art to me.
But why need I warble my woes thus alane,
Since Phœbe the fairest deserted the plain?—
Yes I'll sigh with the wild blast, and mourn with the dove,
And I'll soothe me with sorrow for the loss of my love?
| Tales, in verse and miscellaneous poems | |