 | The poetical works of James Montgomery |  |
A RIDDLE.
ADDRESSED TO E. R., 1820.
I know not who these lines may see;
I know not what these lines will be;
But, since a word in season sent,
As from a bow at hazard bent,
May reach a roving eye, or dart
Conviction to a careless heart,
Oh! that an arrow I could find
In the small quiver of my mind,
Which, with unerring aim, should strike
Each, who encounters it, alike!
I know not what these lines will be;
But, since a word in season sent,
As from a bow at hazard bent,
May reach a roving eye, or dart
Conviction to a careless heart,
Oh! that an arrow I could find
In the small quiver of my mind,
Which, with unerring aim, should strike
Each, who encounters it, alike!
Reader! attention!—I will spring
A wondrous thought; 'tis on the wing:
Guard well your heart, you guard in vain,
The wound is made, yet gives no pain;
Surprise may make your cheek to glow,
But, courage! none but you can know;
The thought, awaken'd by my spell,
Is more than I myself can tell.
How?—search the chamber of your breast,
And think of that which you love best!
I've raised the spirit, but cannot lay it,
Your secret found, but can't betray it.
So, ask yourself,—“What will this be,
A thousand ages hence, to me?”
And if it will not stand the fire
In which all nature shall expire,
Think,—ere these rhymes aside are cast,—
As though the thought might be your last,
“Where shall I find below, above,
An object worthy of my love?”
A wondrous thought; 'tis on the wing:
Guard well your heart, you guard in vain,
The wound is made, yet gives no pain;
Surprise may make your cheek to glow,
But, courage! none but you can know;
The thought, awaken'd by my spell,
Is more than I myself can tell.
How?—search the chamber of your breast,
And think of that which you love best!
I've raised the spirit, but cannot lay it,
Your secret found, but can't betray it.
So, ask yourself,—“What will this be,
A thousand ages hence, to me?”
And if it will not stand the fire
In which all nature shall expire,
Think,—ere these rhymes aside are cast,—
As though the thought might be your last,
“Where shall I find below, above,
An object worthy of my love?”
Now hearken, and forget it never,—
Love that which you may love for ever.
Love that which you may love for ever.
| The poetical works of James Montgomery | |