Madmoments: or First Verseattempts :: :: University of Virginia Library

Madmoments: or First Verseattempts

By a Bornnatural. Addressed to the Lightheaded of Society at Large, by Henry Ellison

Ellison, Henry

VOL. I.

II.

VOL. II.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

CHILDHOODREMINISCENCES.

1

Sweet early Years, pure early Years,
Oh ye are flown away,
Your pleasant Smiles are turned to Tears,
Your Hopes Time doth gainsay.

2

Like Summerbees, ye wandered o'er
The first, fresh Flowers of Life,
Yet now, alas, ye be bear no more
Your Honey to the Hive!

3

Oh 'tis a saddening Thought to think
On the oweet Days of Youth,

163

When Time has forced our Lips to drink
The bitter Draught of Truth.

4

There are whom Sorrow touches light,
Whose Joys do not fly fleet,
Yet the first View most charms the Sight,
And the first Taste's most sweet.

5

Yes, even these may sigh, to think
Their Hearts less pure are grown,
For who may Life's dark Waters drink,
Yet wish no Thing undone?

6

Who has not often wished to be
Again a little Child,
From Memory, Thought, and Passion free,
As artless and as wild?

7

Oh could I lay my weary Head
Upon my Mother's Breast,
I would give Wealth and Fame instead
For one such Hour of Rest!

8

But never on such Pillow more
My throbbing Heart can lie,
That Breast is now not as before,
And oh! changed too am I!

9

E'en on that Pillow Time has strown
The Thorns that wound me most,
And should I seek it, 'twould alone
Bring Dreams of what I've lost!

10

My Mother's Breast, on which the Flood
Of youthful Fancies fair
I poured, so happy! for how could
I dream of Sorrow there?

11

Whereon I wept my sweetest Tears,
Aye Tears more sweet than Joy,
And sighed in Peace the Moment's Fears,
Which stir but not annoy.

12

My Mother's Breast! on which I breathed
My Aspirations bright

164

For Fame and Name, while Fancy wreathed
Her Laurels for the Fight.

13

Fade Daydreams sweet, your Rainbowhues
Have melted all in Air,
Ye were as in the Flower the Dews
Which Midday finds not there.

14

Or if some few should still survive
Of the whole Swarm, scarce one
Returns unto the ruined Hive
Whence all it loved are gone.

15

The young Enthusiasm that shed
Its Light so brilliantly
Upon Life's Dawn, is cold and dead,
Or smouldering doth lie.

16

Yet Poesy her Torch has lit
At the expiring Flame,
And the pure Altarfire, with it
Enkindled, burns the same.

17

She can unweave Life's Web again
And blend it as she will,
She makes a Dream of Grief and Pain,
A Child at Moments still.

18

And tho' the Poet often find
His Inspiration bright
In his own Throes, th' immortal Mind
Sublimes them to Delight!

19

Yet there are Griefs which Poesy
In vain would seek to heal,
Yes, Griefs which have a Sanctity,
Which the true Heart must feel.

20

Sorrows which Love has holy made,
Where Fancy's Sacriledge,
Which never from fond Memory fade,
Which are Affection's Pledge.

21

The Ivy from the Tree is shorn
And leaves it slightly scarred,

165

But Graftboughs when once rudely torn
Are both by one Blow marred.

22

Sweet early Years, pure early Years,
Tho' ye be flown away,
Yet not for ye I shed these Tears,
Claimed from our poor, frail Clay,

23

I mourn the many Links intwain
Snapp'd from that chain of Love
Which binds our Hearts, that viewless Chain
By Angels forged above.

24

That Chain which binds the Earth to Heaven,
And blends them into one:
To which the least Touch by Love given,
Runs straight to God's own Throne!

25

My Heart is inly stirred and full,
With Thoughts of bygone Years,
I cannot see, mine Eyes grow dull,
Filled with unbidden Tears:

26

My Home, my Home! with all its bright
And gladsome Looks of Love
Once more I see, a Dream that might
The sternest Spirit move!

27

For as some green Nook smiles amid
The wildest Alpine Heights,
So in Man's Heart are Feelings hid,
Which the cold World ne'er blights!

28

Enough, 'tis idle thus to wake
A Sorrow half at Rest,
Yet Memory at Times will shake
The Stoic from our Breast!

29

Can I forget that such Things were?
Were! and to me how dear!
Look at the Leaves the Branches bear,
So sapless and so sere!

30

Vain Mourner stop: thine Hourglass take,
And thoughtfull turn it o'er,

166

Think in its Span how little make
A few, brief Moments more!

31

Would selfish Grief recall to Earth,
From Bliss undreamt below,
The Beings whem we loved, whose Birth
Linked Joy more close with Woe?

32

He who the Wound thinks fit t'ordain,
Gives too the Power to bear,
Cease then his Wisdom to arraign,
He visits but to spare.

33

Cheaply is bought the World to come
With thoughtbrief Pains in this:
'Tis o'er! Time's fleeting Dream is done,
We wake— to Life and Bliss.