 | Annie Weir and Other Poems |  |
135
A STRUGGLE.
Oh! wherefore tempt me thus, sweet Muse?
Why on me smile so kind and fainly?
Though ever dear as summer dews,
Alas! I dare not entertain thee;
I'm captive in the realms of lair,
And have for thee no fitting fare.
Why on me smile so kind and fainly?
Though ever dear as summer dews,
Alas! I dare not entertain thee;
I'm captive in the realms of lair,
And have for thee no fitting fare.
Oh! wherefore tempt me thus? Thou art
No more a solace nor a pleasure;
With thee, once mistress of my heart,
For dalliance now there comes no leisure;
To rhyme, that once such pleasure gave,
I am no more a willing slave.
No more a solace nor a pleasure;
With thee, once mistress of my heart,
For dalliance now there comes no leisure;
To rhyme, that once such pleasure gave,
I am no more a willing slave.
With book and rocks surrounded, see
My drooping fancy, wae and wingless,
Sits fondling with dejected air
The harp she fears will soon be stringless;
While Hope, of sunny dreamland queen,
Sits in the shadows of the scene.
My drooping fancy, wae and wingless,
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The harp she fears will soon be stringless;
While Hope, of sunny dreamland queen,
Sits in the shadows of the scene.
Still dost thou smile? What wouldst thou sing
If I with wonted warmth should press thee?
Of love, or care, or odorous spring,
Whose zephyrs all, unthanked, caress thee?
Ourselves? Poor Muse! can it be so;
Art thou reduced to themes so low?
If I with wonted warmth should press thee?
Of love, or care, or odorous spring,
Whose zephyrs all, unthanked, caress thee?
Ourselves? Poor Muse! can it be so;
Art thou reduced to themes so low?
Nay, nay, I know thou canst not brook
The heart that yields a half devotion,
Nor swells, if thou but deign'st to look,
Up in a spring-tide of emotion.
What canst thou have for him but hate,
Who, e'er he sings, must calculate?
The heart that yields a half devotion,
Nor swells, if thou but deign'st to look,
Up in a spring-tide of emotion.
What canst thou have for him but hate,
Who, e'er he sings, must calculate?
Farewell, farewell! I dare not trust
My longing hand in thine, sweet charmer;
Fools only warfare wage with must—
I dare not, if I would be warmer;
Nor stop to ask if we do wrong
To part, who have been friends so long.
My longing hand in thine, sweet charmer;
137
I dare not, if I would be warmer;
Nor stop to ask if we do wrong
To part, who have been friends so long.
I must not pause to ask if, when
The crawbell from the grass is peeping,
And in the flowery stream-thrilled glen
The blackbird's heart to love is leaping,
There shall be power in human art,
Sweet Muse, to keep us then apart.
The crawbell from the grass is peeping,
And in the flowery stream-thrilled glen
The blackbird's heart to love is leaping,
There shall be power in human art,
Sweet Muse, to keep us then apart.
When from the thorn the first fair spray
Of bursting blossom-buds I'm pu'ing,
Must I still wish thee far away,
The gathering swell of song subduing,
And hear the rapture of the lark,
Without a note my joy to mark?
Of bursting blossom-buds I'm pu'ing,
Must I still wish thee far away,
The gathering swell of song subduing,
And hear the rapture of the lark,
Without a note my joy to mark?
Shall I the early primrose see,
So sweetly with its leaves contrasting,
And round the sloe-bloom hear the bee,
While yet the breeze that bloom seems blasting,
And pass as if I cared not, lest
My thought in song should be expressed?
So sweetly with its leaves contrasting,
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While yet the breeze that bloom seems blasting,
And pass as if I cared not, lest
My thought in song should be expressed?
Oh! why is it so sweet to sing?
Oh! Muse, why dost thou smile so brightly,
And meanly stoop thy pearls to fling
Before a fool that rates them lightly?
With thee a drag in learning's race,
My only prize must be disgrace.
Oh! Muse, why dost thou smile so brightly,
And meanly stoop thy pearls to fling
Before a fool that rates them lightly?
With thee a drag in learning's race,
My only prize must be disgrace.
| Annie Weir and Other Poems | |