 | Judith, Esther, and other poems |  |
TO Mrs. --- ---, my beloved and venerated friend.
Time, a very cold night.
Lady of melting heart and mien of pride,
(Can there a nobler union be?) allied,
I'm thine alone to night, and yet essay
In vain to weave a tributary lay.
When sad imagination will not soar,
The learn'd can gild their strains with classick lore,
But thy uncultured friend to find a theme,
Must wildly banquet in some waking dream:
And when the painted vision will not glow,
Has only left to number out her woe.
But Memory sketched thy last endearing smile,
Some dreaded hour of anguish to beguile,
And now her true and pitying hands unroll
The lovely picture to my sinking soul;
And, like the sunbeams in a misty day,
Brighten the clouds they cannot chase away.
(Can there a nobler union be?) allied,
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In vain to weave a tributary lay.
When sad imagination will not soar,
The learn'd can gild their strains with classick lore,
But thy uncultured friend to find a theme,
Must wildly banquet in some waking dream:
And when the painted vision will not glow,
Has only left to number out her woe.
But Memory sketched thy last endearing smile,
Some dreaded hour of anguish to beguile,
And now her true and pitying hands unroll
The lovely picture to my sinking soul;
And, like the sunbeams in a misty day,
Brighten the clouds they cannot chase away.
Then come, my harp, come to these arms again—
Ah! why wilt thou so dull and cold remain,
I'll tune thee o'er with more attentive care—
Come, rest against my heart and warm thee there.
I would expose thee to the air's soft sigh,
Did summer spread a mild and mellow sky.
These aching eyes, through seas of humid light,
Could gaze refreshed upon its azure height,
And bid these restless pains, and thee, good night.—
'Tis yet perverse, but as the traveller, worn,
Presses, for lack of softer couch, a stone;
Lady, I hang, apart from solace dear,
O'er this reluctant, for the hour is drear.
The cold, cold moon emits a frosty beam,
And piercing winds at every crevice scream;
And, like the prisoner bird of useless wing,
'Tis only mine to shiver and to sing,
Swell to some absent one, beloved the throat,
And listen to the echo of the note.
But what is cold, or heat, or calm, or storm?—
Could there be granted me one bosom warm,
Heedless of all beside, this raptured ear
Would but that friendly bosom's beatings hear;
Count every tender throb, and almost know
The thoughts that rapid as its currents flow—
Kind heaven permitted, once, that pleasure high.
Rise, gratitude, and hush th' impatient sigh!
Ah! why wilt thou so dull and cold remain,
I'll tune thee o'er with more attentive care—
Come, rest against my heart and warm thee there.
I would expose thee to the air's soft sigh,
Did summer spread a mild and mellow sky.
These aching eyes, through seas of humid light,
Could gaze refreshed upon its azure height,
And bid these restless pains, and thee, good night.—
'Tis yet perverse, but as the traveller, worn,
Presses, for lack of softer couch, a stone;
Lady, I hang, apart from solace dear,
O'er this reluctant, for the hour is drear.
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And piercing winds at every crevice scream;
And, like the prisoner bird of useless wing,
'Tis only mine to shiver and to sing,
Swell to some absent one, beloved the throat,
And listen to the echo of the note.
But what is cold, or heat, or calm, or storm?—
Could there be granted me one bosom warm,
Heedless of all beside, this raptured ear
Would but that friendly bosom's beatings hear;
Count every tender throb, and almost know
The thoughts that rapid as its currents flow—
Kind heaven permitted, once, that pleasure high.
Rise, gratitude, and hush th' impatient sigh!
| Judith, Esther, and other poems | |