The Poetical Works of John Langhorne ... To which are prefixed, Memoirs of the Author by his Son the Rev. J. T. Langhorne ... In Two Volumes |
 | I. |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
AN
ODE
TO
THE RIVER EDEN. |
| II. |
|
 | The Poetical Works of John Langhorne |  |
107
AN ODE TO THE RIVER EDEN.
WRITTEN IN 1759.
Delightful Eden! parent stream,
Yet shall the maids of Memory say,
(When, led by Fancy's fairy dream,
My young steps trac'd thy winding way)
How oft along thy mazy shore,
That many a gloomy alder bore,
In pensive thought their Poet stray'd;
Or, careless thrown thy bank beside,
Beheld thy dimply waters glide,
Bright thro' the trembling shade.
Yet shall the maids of Memory say,
(When, led by Fancy's fairy dream,
My young steps trac'd thy winding way)
How oft along thy mazy shore,
That many a gloomy alder bore,
In pensive thought their Poet stray'd;
Or, careless thrown thy bank beside,
Beheld thy dimply waters glide,
Bright thro' the trembling shade.
Yet shall they paint those scenes again,
Where once with infant-joy he play'd,
And bending o'er thy liquid plain,
The azure worlds below survey'd:
Led by the rosy-handed Hours,
When Time trip'd o'er that bank of flowers,
Which in thy chrystal bosom smil'd:
Tho' old the God, yet light and gay,
He flung his glass, his scythe away,
And seem'd himself a child.
Where once with infant-joy he play'd,
And bending o'er thy liquid plain,
The azure worlds below survey'd:
108
When Time trip'd o'er that bank of flowers,
Which in thy chrystal bosom smil'd:
Tho' old the God, yet light and gay,
He flung his glass, his scythe away,
And seem'd himself a child.
The poplar tall, that waving near
Would whisper to thy murmurs free;
Yet rustling seems to soothe mine ear,
And trembles when I sigh for thee.
Yet seated on thy shelving brim,
Can Fancy see the Naiads trim
Burnish their green locks in the sun;
Or at the last lone hour of day,
To chase the lightly glancing fay,
In airy circles run.
Would whisper to thy murmurs free;
Yet rustling seems to soothe mine ear,
And trembles when I sigh for thee.
Yet seated on thy shelving brim,
Can Fancy see the Naiads trim
Burnish their green locks in the sun;
Or at the last lone hour of day,
To chase the lightly glancing fay,
In airy circles run.
But, Fancy, can thy mimic power
Again those happy moments bring?
Can'st thou restore that golden hour,
When young Joy wav'd his laughing wing?
When first in Eden's rosy vale,
My full heart pour'd the lover's tale,
The vow sincere, devoid of guile!
While Delia in her panting breast,
With sighs, the tender thought supprest,
And look'd as angels smile.
Again those happy moments bring?
Can'st thou restore that golden hour,
When young Joy wav'd his laughing wing?
When first in Eden's rosy vale,
My full heart pour'd the lover's tale,
The vow sincere, devoid of guile!
While Delia in her panting breast,
With sighs, the tender thought supprest,
And look'd as angels smile.
109
O Goddess of the crystal bow,
That dwell'st the golden meads among;
Whose streams still fair in memory flow,
Whose murmurs melodise my song!
Oh! yet those gleams of joy display,
Which bright'ning glow'd in Fancy's ray.
When, near thy lucid urn reclin'd,
The dryad, Nature, bar'd her breast,
And left, in naked charms imprest,
Her image on my mind.
That dwell'st the golden meads among;
Whose streams still fair in memory flow,
Whose murmurs melodise my song!
Oh! yet those gleams of joy display,
Which bright'ning glow'd in Fancy's ray.
When, near thy lucid urn reclin'd,
The dryad, Nature, bar'd her breast,
And left, in naked charms imprest,
Her image on my mind.
In vain—the maids of Memory fair
No more in golden visions play;
No friendship smoothes the brow of Care,
No Delia's smile approves my lay.
Yet, love and friendship lost to me,
'Tis yet some joy to think of thee,
And in thy breast this moral find;
That life, tho' stain'd with Sorrow's showers,
Shall flow serene, while Virtue pours
Her sunshine on the mind.
No more in golden visions play;
No friendship smoothes the brow of Care,
No Delia's smile approves my lay.
Yet, love and friendship lost to me,
'Tis yet some joy to think of thee,
And in thy breast this moral find;
That life, tho' stain'd with Sorrow's showers,
Shall flow serene, while Virtue pours
Her sunshine on the mind.
| The Poetical Works of John Langhorne | |