 | Landscapes in verse |  |
At length upon a seat of mossy stone
Resting, we listen to the whisper'd gale
That sighs amongst the trees;—lo! now it plays
On my Cleone's cheek, or sportive hides
In her luxuriant tresses, meriting
Th'ætherial visitant;—and hark! we hear
Another guest assorted to the scene,
The widow'd Turtle mourns amongst the boughs,
That echo to her sobs; and from the vale
The village bell with melancholy sound
Rings out the knell of death:—at every pause
The dismal tone admits, my throbbing heart
Suggests to Fancy's startled ear, the hour,
When she who is now seated by my side
(On the due motion of whose wholesome pulse
My being hangs) shall wake a note like this!
O as I turn affrighted thought this way,
Horror its icy tear upon my cheek
Congeals; I draw the object of my griefs
More near my breast, on which the last cold drop
Of my Cleone's life appears to fall,
And the soft orbs, which now their gentle beams
Lambent with love, dart on my inmost soul
The light of tenderness, shall shine no more.
Resting, we listen to the whisper'd gale
That sighs amongst the trees;—lo! now it plays
On my Cleone's cheek, or sportive hides
In her luxuriant tresses, meriting
Th'ætherial visitant;—and hark! we hear
Another guest assorted to the scene,
The widow'd Turtle mourns amongst the boughs,
That echo to her sobs; and from the vale
The village bell with melancholy sound
27
The dismal tone admits, my throbbing heart
Suggests to Fancy's startled ear, the hour,
When she who is now seated by my side
(On the due motion of whose wholesome pulse
My being hangs) shall wake a note like this!
O as I turn affrighted thought this way,
Horror its icy tear upon my cheek
Congeals; I draw the object of my griefs
More near my breast, on which the last cold drop
Of my Cleone's life appears to fall,
And the soft orbs, which now their gentle beams
Lambent with love, dart on my inmost soul
The light of tenderness, shall shine no more.
| Landscapes in verse | |