 | Sonnets and Miscellaneous Poems by the late Thomas Russell |  |
SONNETS AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
iii
TO THE
REVEREND DOCTOR WARTON,
HEAD-MASTER OF THE COLLEGE,
AND
PREBENDARY OF THE CATHEDRAL CHURCH
OF WINCHESTER,
THE FOLLOWING POEMS,
WRITTEN BY ONE OF HIS SCHOLARS,
ARE HUMBLY INSCRIBED
BY THE EDITOR.
1
SONNET. I.
In days of old, ere charm'd at length to rest
Stern Chivalry her idle spear uphung,
Sweet mid loud arms the Minstrel's music rung;
In each proud castle, at the gorgeous feast,
Mix'd with bold Chiefs he sat, an honour'd guest;
Cheer'd with the genial rites, his lyre he strung,
War, Love, the Wizard, and the Fay he sung,
And fir'd with rapture each impassion'd breast:
Such were the strains, which in her livelier prime
Bright Fancy pour'd; but ah! they're heard no more!
Yet is not Genius dead: the song sublime
Might burst in tides as copious as of yore;
But Want, grim Monster, checks the raging rhyme,
And damps the Poet's wing outstretch'd to soar.
Stern Chivalry her idle spear uphung,
Sweet mid loud arms the Minstrel's music rung;
In each proud castle, at the gorgeous feast,
Mix'd with bold Chiefs he sat, an honour'd guest;
Cheer'd with the genial rites, his lyre he strung,
War, Love, the Wizard, and the Fay he sung,
And fir'd with rapture each impassion'd breast:
Such were the strains, which in her livelier prime
Bright Fancy pour'd; but ah! they're heard no more!
Yet is not Genius dead: the song sublime
Might burst in tides as copious as of yore;
But Want, grim Monster, checks the raging rhyme,
And damps the Poet's wing outstretch'd to soar.
2
SONNET II.
Ah! what avails it with adventurous pace
To scale, fair Poesy, thy heights sublime?
Tho' many a flower adorn the fragrant clime,
Oft chilling storms with envious blast deface
Each opening bloom: meanwhile with lifted mace
High on the mountain's brow, in garb obscene,
Sits Want, a Spectre pale, whose threatening mien
Oft drives the Bard to quit th' unfinish'd race:
Yet nobler Some, undaunted at his frown,
Up the steep hill have trod the rugged way;
Such sung the Redcross Knight, the Trojan Town,
Brave Gama's toils, and Salem's bloody fray;
Such too, with harder fate, tho' like renown,
Great Ælla's Minstrel pour'd his deathless lay.
To scale, fair Poesy, thy heights sublime?
Tho' many a flower adorn the fragrant clime,
Oft chilling storms with envious blast deface
Each opening bloom: meanwhile with lifted mace
High on the mountain's brow, in garb obscene,
Sits Want, a Spectre pale, whose threatening mien
Oft drives the Bard to quit th' unfinish'd race:
Yet nobler Some, undaunted at his frown,
Up the steep hill have trod the rugged way;
Such sung the Redcross Knight, the Trojan Town,
Brave Gama's toils, and Salem's bloody fray;
Such too, with harder fate, tho' like renown,
Great Ælla's Minstrel pour'd his deathless lay.
Spenser, Homer, Camoens, Tasso, and Chatterton are the poets alluded to in the four concluding lines.
3
SONNET III.
Oxford, since late I left thy peaceful shore,
Much I regret thy domes with turrets crown'd,
Thy crested walls with twining ivy bound,
Thy Gothic fanes, dim isles, and cloysters hoar,
And treasur'd rolls of Wisdom's ancient lore;
Nor less thy varying bells, which hourly sound
In pensive chime, or ring in lively round,
Or toll in the slow Curfeu's solemn roar;
Much too thy moonlight walks, and musings grave
Mid silent shades of high-embowering trees,
And much thy Sister-Streams, whose willows wave
In whispering cadence to the evening breeze;
But most those Friends, whose much-lov'd converse gave
Thy gentle charms a tenfold power to please.
Much I regret thy domes with turrets crown'd,
Thy crested walls with twining ivy bound,
Thy Gothic fanes, dim isles, and cloysters hoar,
And treasur'd rolls of Wisdom's ancient lore;
Nor less thy varying bells, which hourly sound
In pensive chime, or ring in lively round,
Or toll in the slow Curfeu's solemn roar;
Much too thy moonlight walks, and musings grave
Mid silent shades of high-embowering trees,
And much thy Sister-Streams, whose willows wave
In whispering cadence to the evening breeze;
But most those Friends, whose much-lov'd converse gave
Thy gentle charms a tenfold power to please.
4
SONNET. IV.
Yes, lov'd retreat, those wonted gales I know,
That shed soft fragrance o'er my drooping frame,
Sweet, as of old, when first the youthful flame
Was kindled in my veins; and now below
I see thy varlous length of landscape glow
With all it's custom'd blooms, it's groves the same,
It's verdant lawns, and towers of antique same,
And streams that gently murmur as they flow:
Now too the sounds, that us'd my soul to cheer,
Thy mingled melodies of hill and plain,
Melt in faint murmurs on my ravish'd ear:
But say, will They too bless my eyes again,
My Friends of yore? if They no more appear,
Fair as thou art, thy other charms are vain.
That shed soft fragrance o'er my drooping frame,
Sweet, as of old, when first the youthful flame
Was kindled in my veins; and now below
I see thy varlous length of landscape glow
With all it's custom'd blooms, it's groves the same,
It's verdant lawns, and towers of antique same,
And streams that gently murmur as they flow:
Now too the sounds, that us'd my soul to cheer,
Thy mingled melodies of hill and plain,
Melt in faint murmurs on my ravish'd ear:
But say, will They too bless my eyes again,
My Friends of yore? if They no more appear,
Fair as thou art, thy other charms are vain.
5
SONNET. V.
To the Author of the Arabian Nights Entertainments.
Η θαυματα πολλα,
Και που τι και βροτων φρενας
Υπερ τον αληθη λογον
Δεδαιδαλμενοι ψευδετι πεικιλοις
Εξαπατωντι μυθοι.
Και που τι και βροτων φρενας
Υπερ τον αληθη λογον
Δεδαιδαλμενοι ψευδετι πεικιλοις
Εξαπατωντι μυθοι.
Pindar. Olymp. I.
Blest Child of Genius, whose fantastic Sprite
Rides on the vollied lightning's flash, or roves
Thro' flowery valleys, and Elysian groves,
Or, borne on venturous pinions, takes it's flight
To those dread realms, where hid from mortal sight
Fierce Genii roam, or where in bright alcoves
Mild Fairies reign, and woo their secret loves;
Whate'er thy theme, whether the magic might
Of the stern Kings, that dwell mid Ocean's roar,
Or Sindbad's perils, or the cruel wiles
Of Afric's curst Enchanter charm us more,
Or ought more wondrous still our ear beguiles,
Well-pleas'd we listen to thy fabling lore,
And Truth itself with less attraction smiles.
Rides on the vollied lightning's flash, or roves
Thro' flowery valleys, and Elysian groves,
Or, borne on venturous pinions, takes it's flight
To those dread realms, where hid from mortal sight
Fierce Genii roam, or where in bright alcoves
Mild Fairies reign, and woo their secret loves;
Whate'er thy theme, whether the magic might
Of the stern Kings, that dwell mid Ocean's roar,
Or Sindbad's perils, or the cruel wiles
Of Afric's curst Enchanter charm us more,
Or ought more wondrous still our ear beguiles,
Well-pleas'd we listen to thy fabling lore,
And Truth itself with less attraction smiles.
6
SONNET VI. TO BOCCACCIO.
Not for thy Gothic Trumpet's martial rage,
Not for thy Latian Bays, nor that 'twas thine
The Tuscan's rugged period to refine,
Nor yet, Boccaccio, that thy faithful page
Reflects the genuine manners of thy Age,
Nor that, enliven'd at thy sprightlier style,
Pale Sorrow's Victims smooth the brow, and smile;
For nought of worth like this, immortal Sage,
Haste I to twine this garland round thy tomb;
But that I oft have shar'd Nastagio's fears
At his dread Vision, oft have wept the doom
Of fair Ghismonda, sunk in early years,
I crown thee with this chaplet's simple bloom,
The Bard sublime of Terrour, and of Tears.
Not for thy Latian Bays, nor that 'twas thine
The Tuscan's rugged period to refine,
Nor yet, Boccaccio, that thy faithful page
Reflects the genuine manners of thy Age,
Nor that, enliven'd at thy sprightlier style,
Pale Sorrow's Victims smooth the brow, and smile;
For nought of worth like this, immortal Sage,
Haste I to twine this garland round thy tomb;
But that I oft have shar'd Nastagio's fears
At his dread Vision, oft have wept the doom
Of fair Ghismonda, sunk in early years,
I crown thee with this chaplet's simple bloom,
The Bard sublime of Terrour, and of Tears.
Boccaccio wrote the Theseida an Epic poem in Ottava Rima, and several Latin works; but owes his reputation chiefly to the Decamerone, the style of which is still considered as the standard of perfection in the Italian language. Among the many humorous and licentious tales, which form this work, are some of a more serious character. Such are the two here mention'd, which Dryden has imitated under the names of Theodore and Honoria, Sigismonda and Guiscardo.
7
SONNET VII.
Sick with the pangs, that prompt the Lover's moan,
Long tender Tasso pin'd, but pin'd in vain:
Despair at length and Frenzy fir'd his brain;
In silence oft he sat, and wept alone,
Oft rav'd aloud, and taught wild woods to groan;
Oft too in songs, if songs might ease his pain,
He pour'd his soul, changing the Trumpet's strain
For rural Reeds, and the Lute's amorous tone:
I, who like him whole years with tortur'd heart
Have woo'd, and vainly woo'd, as fair a Dame,
Feel thro' my boiling veins like madness dart;
So could I learn, like him, the lay to frame,
If She, if haply She, who caus'd my smart,
Might deign to listen, and relieve my pain!
Long tender Tasso pin'd, but pin'd in vain:
Despair at length and Frenzy fir'd his brain;
In silence oft he sat, and wept alone,
Oft rav'd aloud, and taught wild woods to groan;
Oft too in songs, if songs might ease his pain,
He pour'd his soul, changing the Trumpet's strain
For rural Reeds, and the Lute's amorous tone:
I, who like him whole years with tortur'd heart
Have woo'd, and vainly woo'd, as fair a Dame,
Feel thro' my boiling veins like madness dart;
So could I learn, like him, the lay to frame,
If She, if haply She, who caus'd my smart,
Might deign to listen, and relieve my pain!
8
SONNET. VIII. TO VALCLUSA.
What tho', Valclusa, the fond Bard be fled,
That woo'd his Fair in thy sequester'd bowers,
Long lov'd her living, long bemoan'd her dead,
And hung her visionary shrine with flowers!
What tho' no more he teach thy shades to mourn
The hapless chances that to Love belong,
As erst, when drooping o'er her turf forlorn
He charm'd wild Echo with his plaintive song!
Yet still, enamour'd of the tender tale,
Pale Passion haunts thy grove's romantic gloom,
Yet still soft Music breathes in every gale,
Still undecay'd the Fairy-garlands bloom,
Still heavenly incense fills each fragrant vale,
Still Petrarch's Genius weeps o'er Laura's tomb.
That woo'd his Fair in thy sequester'd bowers,
Long lov'd her living, long bemoan'd her dead,
And hung her visionary shrine with flowers!
What tho' no more he teach thy shades to mourn
The hapless chances that to Love belong,
As erst, when drooping o'er her turf forlorn
He charm'd wild Echo with his plaintive song!
Yet still, enamour'd of the tender tale,
Pale Passion haunts thy grove's romantic gloom,
Yet still soft Music breathes in every gale,
Still undecay'd the Fairy-garlands bloom,
Still heavenly incense fills each fragrant vale,
Still Petrarch's Genius weeps o'er Laura's tomb.
9
SONNET IX.
No more, fond Father of a much-lov'd Child,
Let thy sad heart, big with paternal fears,
Dread the rude storms, that wait his riper years;
A Friend, who knows him generous, brave, and mild,
By Pride unspoil'd, by Flattery unbeguil'd,
True to his promise, faithful to his trust,
Blind to his own, to others merit just,
Nor stain'd with Folly, nor with Vice defil'd,
And zealous still in Honour's arduous way
To emulate the race his Sire has run,
Tells thee, that if kind Heaven prolong his day
To mourn thy ashes, when thy life is done,
Thy fame shall live unconscious of decay,
And all thy virtues flourish in thy Son.
Let thy sad heart, big with paternal fears,
Dread the rude storms, that wait his riper years;
A Friend, who knows him generous, brave, and mild,
By Pride unspoil'd, by Flattery unbeguil'd,
True to his promise, faithful to his trust,
Blind to his own, to others merit just,
Nor stain'd with Folly, nor with Vice defil'd,
And zealous still in Honour's arduous way
To emulate the race his Sire has run,
Tells thee, that if kind Heaven prolong his day
To mourn thy ashes, when thy life is done,
Thy fame shall live unconscious of decay,
And all thy virtues flourish in thy Son.
10
SONNET X.
Could then the Babes from yon unshelter'd cot
Implore thy passing charity in vain?
Too thoughtless Youth! what tho' thy happier lot
Insult their life of poverty and pain!
What tho' their Maker doom'd them thus forlorn
To brook the mockery of the taunting throng,
Beneath th' Oppressor's iron scourge to mourn,
To mourn, but not to murmur at his wrong!
Yet when their last late evening shall decline,
Their evening chearful, tho' their day distrest,
A Hope perhaps more heavenly-bright than thine,
A Grace by thee unsought, and unpossest,
A Faith more fix'd, a Rapture more divine
Shall gild their passage to eternal Rest.
Implore thy passing charity in vain?
Too thoughtless Youth! what tho' thy happier lot
Insult their life of poverty and pain!
What tho' their Maker doom'd them thus forlorn
To brook the mockery of the taunting throng,
Beneath th' Oppressor's iron scourge to mourn,
To mourn, but not to murmur at his wrong!
Yet when their last late evening shall decline,
Their evening chearful, tho' their day distrest,
A Hope perhaps more heavenly-bright than thine,
A Grace by thee unsought, and unpossest,
A Faith more fix'd, a Rapture more divine
Shall gild their passage to eternal Rest.
11
SONNET XI.
Too long, alas! thro' Life's tempestuous tide
Heedless of Heaven, my giddy course I steer'd,
Link'd with the scoffing crew, nor ought rever'd
Great Naturb's God: such erring dreams belied
My Fancy, swoln with unsubstantial pride:
While, uglier far than have been feign'd or fear'd,
Ten thousand Phantoms to my sight appear'd,
And drew me darkling far from truth aside.
But vigorous now, with eagle-ken restor'd,
By nobler means aiming at nobler ends,
To the mild bosom of it's saving Lord,
Elate with ardent Hope, my Soul ascends,
While o'er the dreadful gulph, yet unexplor'd,
Religion's golden Sun it's evening-beam extends.
Heedless of Heaven, my giddy course I steer'd,
Link'd with the scoffing crew, nor ought rever'd
Great Naturb's God: such erring dreams belied
My Fancy, swoln with unsubstantial pride:
While, uglier far than have been feign'd or fear'd,
Ten thousand Phantoms to my sight appear'd,
And drew me darkling far from truth aside.
But vigorous now, with eagle-ken restor'd,
By nobler means aiming at nobler ends,
To the mild bosom of it's saving Lord,
Elate with ardent Hope, my Soul ascends,
While o'er the dreadful gulph, yet unexplor'd,
Religion's golden Sun it's evening-beam extends.
12
SONNET XII.
Dear Babe, whose meaning by fond looks exprest,
Thy only little eloquence, might move
The sternest soul to tenderness and love,
While thus, nor taught by Age to fawn, nor drest
In Treachery's mask, nor Falsehood's glistering vest,
Thou sweetly smilest, at the pleasing sight,
Wretch as I am, unwonted to Delight,
A transient gleam of gladness cheers my breast:
Yet soon again bursts forth th' unbidden tear,
And inly bleeds my heart, while I divine
What chilling blasts may nip thy riper year,
What blackening storms may cloud thy life's decline;
What for myself I feel, for Thee I fear:
Nay! God forbid my woes should e'er be thine!
Thy only little eloquence, might move
The sternest soul to tenderness and love,
While thus, nor taught by Age to fawn, nor drest
In Treachery's mask, nor Falsehood's glistering vest,
Thou sweetly smilest, at the pleasing sight,
Wretch as I am, unwonted to Delight,
A transient gleam of gladness cheers my breast:
Yet soon again bursts forth th' unbidden tear,
And inly bleeds my heart, while I divine
What chilling blasts may nip thy riper year,
What blackening storms may cloud thy life's decline;
What for myself I feel, for Thee I fear:
Nay! God forbid my woes should e'er be thine!
13
SONNET XIII. Suppos'd to be written at Lemnos.
On this lone Isle, whose rugged rocks affright
The cautious pilot, ten revolving years
Great Pæan's Son, unwonted erst to tears,
Wept o'er his wound: alike each rolling light
Of heaven he watch'd, and blam'd it's lingering flight,
By day the sea-mew screaming round his cave
Drove slumber from his eyes, the chiding wave,
And savage howlings chas'd his dreams by night.
Hope still was his: in each low breeze, that sigh'd
Thro' his rude grot, he heard a coming oar,
In each white cloud a coming sail he spied;
Nor seldom listen'd to the fancied rear
Of Oeta's torrents, or the hoarser tide
That parts fam'd Trachis from th' Euboic shore.
The cautious pilot, ten revolving years
Great Pæan's Son, unwonted erst to tears,
Wept o'er his wound: alike each rolling light
Of heaven he watch'd, and blam'd it's lingering flight,
By day the sea-mew screaming round his cave
Drove slumber from his eyes, the chiding wave,
And savage howlings chas'd his dreams by night.
Hope still was his: in each low breeze, that sigh'd
Thro' his rude grot, he heard a coming oar,
In each white cloud a coming sail he spied;
Nor seldom listen'd to the fancied rear
Of Oeta's torrents, or the hoarser tide
That parts fam'd Trachis from th' Euboic shore.
14
SONNET XIV. To the Spider.
Ingenious Insect, but of ruthless mould,
Whose savage craft, as Nature taught, designs
A mazy web of death, the filmy lines,
That form thy circling labytinth, enfold
Each thoughtless Fly, that wanders near thy hold,
Sad victim of thy guile; nor ought avail
His silken wings, nor coat of glossy mail,
Nor varying hues of azure, jet, or gold:
Yet, tho' thus ill the fluttering captive fares,
Whom heedless of the fraud thy toils trepan,
Thy tyrant-fang, that slays the stranger, spares
The bloody brothers of thy cruel clan;
While Man against his fellows spreads his snares,
Then most delighted, when his prey is Man.
Whose savage craft, as Nature taught, designs
A mazy web of death, the filmy lines,
That form thy circling labytinth, enfold
Each thoughtless Fly, that wanders near thy hold,
Sad victim of thy guile; nor ought avail
His silken wings, nor coat of glossy mail,
Nor varying hues of azure, jet, or gold:
Yet, tho' thus ill the fluttering captive fares,
Whom heedless of the fraud thy toils trepan,
Thy tyrant-fang, that slays the stranger, spares
The bloody brothers of thy cruel clan;
While Man against his fellows spreads his snares,
Then most delighted, when his prey is Man.
15
SONNET XV. To the Owl.
Grave Bird, that shelter'd in thy lonely bower,
On some tall oak with ivy overspread,
Or in some silent barn's deserted shed,
Or mid the fragments of some ruin'd tower,
Still, as of old, at this sad solemn hour,
When now the toiling Sons of Care are fled,
And the freed Ghost slips from his wormy bed,
Complainest loud of Man's ungentle power,
That drives thee from the chearful face of day
To tell thy sorrows to the pale-eyed Night,
Like thee, escaping from the sunny ray,
I woo this gloom, to hide me from the sight
Of that fell Tribe, whose persecuting sway
On Me and Thee alike is bent to light.
On some tall oak with ivy overspread,
Or in some silent barn's deserted shed,
Or mid the fragments of some ruin'd tower,
Still, as of old, at this sad solemn hour,
When now the toiling Sons of Care are fled,
And the freed Ghost slips from his wormy bed,
Complainest loud of Man's ungentle power,
That drives thee from the chearful face of day
To tell thy sorrows to the pale-eyed Night,
Like thee, escaping from the sunny ray,
I woo this gloom, to hide me from the sight
Of that fell Tribe, whose persecuting sway
On Me and Thee alike is bent to light.
16
SONNET XVI.
Once more return'd to curl the dimpling lake
Auspicious Zephyr waves his downy wing,
Rouz'd at his touch the slumbering flowers awake
With all the smiling Family of Spring:
Again is heard the turtle's amorous tale,
Again the swallow twitters o'er her nest,
Again wild music melts in every vale,
And love rekindling glows in every breast:
Thus they return: but ah! to me no more
Return the pleasures of the vernal plain,
In vain for me resounds the vocal shore,
And woods renew their verdant robes in vain;
Nor counsel sweet of Friends can ease my care,
Nor even the sweeter converse of the Fair.
Auspicious Zephyr waves his downy wing,
Rouz'd at his touch the slumbering flowers awake
With all the smiling Family of Spring:
Again is heard the turtle's amorous tale,
Again the swallow twitters o'er her nest,
Again wild music melts in every vale,
And love rekindling glows in every breast:
Thus they return: but ah! to me no more
Return the pleasures of the vernal plain,
In vain for me resounds the vocal shore,
And woods renew their verdant robes in vain;
Nor counsel sweet of Friends can ease my care,
Nor even the sweeter converse of the Fair.
The Italian reader will perceive a resemblance between this and the 269th Sonnet of Petrarch:
Zefiro torna; e'l bel tempo rimena &c:17
SONNET XVII.
Oh Thou, whose poison taints life's richest feast,
Thou Fiend, whom Fear on Love begot of yore,
Whom dark Suspicion foster'd at her breast,
And Vengeance tutor'd in his deadliest lore,
Oh Jealousy, whose inly-rankling dart
Racks the fond bosom with unnumber'd throes,
That now, even now, art busy at my heart,
Far hence avaunt, and leave me to repose!
Go in some Stygian cave unheard to moan,
There night and day thy restless eye-balls roll—
Ah! spare me, spare me, since thy power I own!
Nor thus, so soon returning from controul,
In size more huge, in shape more hideous grown,
With tenfold horrours rush upon my soul.
Thou Fiend, whom Fear on Love begot of yore,
Whom dark Suspicion foster'd at her breast,
And Vengeance tutor'd in his deadliest lore,
Oh Jealousy, whose inly-rankling dart
Racks the fond bosom with unnumber'd throes,
That now, even now, art busy at my heart,
Far hence avaunt, and leave me to repose!
Go in some Stygian cave unheard to moan,
There night and day thy restless eye-balls roll—
Ah! spare me, spare me, since thy power I own!
Nor thus, so soon returning from controul,
In size more huge, in shape more hideous grown,
With tenfold horrours rush upon my soul.
18
SONNET XVIII. From Petrarch.
If, here reclining while I weep my woes,
The Turtle near me tells her plaintive tale,
Or headlong brook with warbling murmur flows,
Or green leaves rustle to the sighing gale,
In each low sound, that makes these rocks reply,
I seem my Laura's long-lost voice to hear,
And oft, bright beaming on my raptur'd eye,
Her charms more lovely than in life appear;
A Naiad oft, emerging from the flood,
Graceful she seems to tread the dimpling wave,
Oft glides along, a Goddess of the wood,
Oft sits, the Nymph of this sequester'd cave,
Oft mounting beckons from a cloud of light,
Till Heaven at length receives her from my sight.
The Turtle near me tells her plaintive tale,
Or headlong brook with warbling murmur flows,
Or green leaves rustle to the sighing gale,
In each low sound, that makes these rocks reply,
I seem my Laura's long-lost voice to hear,
And oft, bright beaming on my raptur'd eye,
Her charms more lovely than in life appear;
A Naiad oft, emerging from the flood,
Graceful she seems to tread the dimpling wave,
Oft glides along, a Goddess of the wood,
Oft sits, the Nymph of this sequester'd cave,
Oft mounting beckons from a cloud of light,
Till Heaven at length receives her from my sight.
19
SONNET XIX. From Petrarch.
Full twice ten years, pining with fond desire,
Love's Slave I liv'd, nor broke the galling chain,
Nor banish'd hope, tho' hope was always vain;
Ten more, these eyes, when Death's avenging ire
Snatch'd the dear Maid, to whom they dar'd aspire,
Wept o'er her grave, while still my plaintive strain
Told each sad Echo of these groves my pain:
But now, since Time has quench'd th' unwilling fire,
This remnant of my days, with clouds o'ercast,
To thee, great God, whose mercies never cease,
I meekly vow, to expiate the past;
Praying, if prayer may sins like mine release,
By storms long tost to find a port at last,
Long bruis'd in war at length to sleep in peace.
Love's Slave I liv'd, nor broke the galling chain,
Nor banish'd hope, tho' hope was always vain;
Ten more, these eyes, when Death's avenging ire
Snatch'd the dear Maid, to whom they dar'd aspire,
Wept o'er her grave, while still my plaintive strain
Told each sad Echo of these groves my pain:
But now, since Time has quench'd th' unwilling fire,
This remnant of my days, with clouds o'ercast,
To thee, great God, whose mercies never cease,
I meekly vow, to expiate the past;
Praying, if prayer may sins like mine release,
By storms long tost to find a port at last,
Long bruis'd in war at length to sleep in peace.
21
SONNET XX. Imitated from SONETTO DI FAUSTINA MARATTI.
Too beauteous Rival, whose enticing charms
Once to my heart's sole Darling seem'd so fair,
That oft he praises still thy ivory arms,
Thy ruby lips, blue eyes, and auburn hair;
Say, when he heard thy tongue's seducing strain,
Stood he e'er silent, or with scorn replied,
Or turn'd with alter'd brow of cold disdain
From thy soft smiles, as now from mine, aside?
Once, once, too well I know, he held thee dear,
And then, when captive to thy sovereign will—
But why that look abash'd, that statting tear,
Those conscious blushes which my fears fulfil?
Speak, answer, speak; nay answer not, forbear,
If thou must answer, that he loves thee still.
Once to my heart's sole Darling seem'd so fair,
That oft he praises still thy ivory arms,
Thy ruby lips, blue eyes, and auburn hair;
Say, when he heard thy tongue's seducing strain,
Stood he e'er silent, or with scorn replied,
Or turn'd with alter'd brow of cold disdain
From thy soft smiles, as now from mine, aside?
Once, once, too well I know, he held thee dear,
And then, when captive to thy sovereign will—
But why that look abash'd, that statting tear,
Those conscious blushes which my fears fulfil?
Speak, answer, speak; nay answer not, forbear,
If thou must answer, that he loves thee still.
23
SONNET XXI. Imitated from BELINDE. EIN SONNET VON HERR GLEIM.
From her fair limbs the last thin veil she drew,
And naked stood in all her charms confest,
The wanton gales her ringlets backward blew,
To sport themselves more freely on her breast:
From each warm beauty of th' uncover'd Maid,
Before scarce guess'd at, or but seen in part,
From all, for all was to my eyes display'd,
Delicious poison trickled to my heart:
Since thus I gaz'd (was mine to gaze the blame?)
Nor bliss my soul has tasted, nor repose;
The subtle venom glides thro' all my frame,
And in my brain a fiery deluge glows:
Thou, who my pangs wouldst shun, with wiser care
The spot, where Cynthia bathes at noon, beware.
And naked stood in all her charms confest,
The wanton gales her ringlets backward blew,
To sport themselves more freely on her breast:
From each warm beauty of th' uncover'd Maid,
Before scarce guess'd at, or but seen in part,
From all, for all was to my eyes display'd,
Delicious poison trickled to my heart:
Since thus I gaz'd (was mine to gaze the blame?)
Nor bliss my soul has tasted, nor repose;
The subtle venom glides thro' all my frame,
And in my brain a fiery deluge glows:
Thou, who my pangs wouldst shun, with wiser care
The spot, where Cynthia bathes at noon, beware.
25
SONNET XXII. Imitated from SONETO DE LUIZ DE CAMOENS.
These hills that lift their verdant heads so high,
These towering palms that form a cooling shade,
These moss-grown banks for peaceful slumbers made,
This lingering stream that flows in silence by,
The distant-murmuring main, the Zephyr's sigh,
The Sun that sinks behind yon dusky glade,
The nibbling flocks that crop their evening blade,
Those glittering clouds that fringe the western sky;
Each various beauty, which the vernal year
Pours out profuse on woodland, vale, or plain,
Each pastoral charm, since thou no more art near,
Smiles not to these sad eyes, or smiles in vain;
Even scenes like these a cheerless aspect wear,
And pleasure sickens, till it turns to pain.
These towering palms that form a cooling shade,
These moss-grown banks for peaceful slumbers made,
This lingering stream that flows in silence by,
The distant-murmuring main, the Zephyr's sigh,
The Sun that sinks behind yon dusky glade,
The nibbling flocks that crop their evening blade,
Those glittering clouds that fringe the western sky;
Each various beauty, which the vernal year
Pours out profuse on woodland, vale, or plain,
Each pastoral charm, since thou no more art near,
Smiles not to these sad eyes, or smiles in vain;
Even scenes like these a cheerless aspect wear,
And pleasure sickens, till it turns to pain.
27
SONNET XXIII. Imitated from SONETO DE LUIZ DE CAMOENS.
Weep, Nymphs of Tagus, weep the hapless doom
Ordain'd by Fate, and Death's severe decree,
Severe to all, but most, alas! to me,
In Youth's gay pride, in Beauty's early bloom
To sink the lov'd Ophelia to the tomb.
Heavens! that such eyes, whose orbs so sweetly roll'd,
Such lips of rubies, and such locks of gold
So soon should moulder in eternal gloom!
Tremble ye lesser Stars! if nought could save
Charms, such as her's, from the foul shades of night,
How soon shall fade your glories in the grave!
Yet cease my Soul to grieve; her Heaven-born Sprite,
Too pure to linger in it's earthly cave,
Wing'd its free passage to the realms of light.
Ordain'd by Fate, and Death's severe decree,
Severe to all, but most, alas! to me,
In Youth's gay pride, in Beauty's early bloom
To sink the lov'd Ophelia to the tomb.
Heavens! that such eyes, whose orbs so sweetly roll'd,
Such lips of rubies, and such locks of gold
So soon should moulder in eternal gloom!
Tremble ye lesser Stars! if nought could save
Charms, such as her's, from the foul shades of night,
How soon shall fade your glories in the grave!
Yet cease my Soul to grieve; her Heaven-born Sprite,
Too pure to linger in it's earthly cave,
Wing'd its free passage to the realms of light.
29
IMITATION OF ΒΑΚΧΥΛΙΔΟΥ ΠΑΙΑΝ.
Hail sacred Peace! when thus thy sovereign word
Bids hostile Nations sheath the slaughtering sword,
Glad sees the Swain the curling vapours rise,
While altars blaze, and incense fills the skies:
No more at midnight, scar'd with dire alarms,
Pale Watchmen rouze the slumbering Youth to arms:
The lance imbrown'd with rust, and rough with gore,
Flames in the ruddy van of War no more:
In idle helms, and mails of alter'd hue
Well-pleas'd the Spider spreads her subtle clue:
To fighting toils athletic sports succeed,
And to the trumpet's clang the rural reed:
Love, Laughter, Wine the fleeting hours employ,
The dance of triumph, and the song of joy.
Bids hostile Nations sheath the slaughtering sword,
Glad sees the Swain the curling vapours rise,
While altars blaze, and incense fills the skies:
No more at midnight, scar'd with dire alarms,
Pale Watchmen rouze the slumbering Youth to arms:
The lance imbrown'd with rust, and rough with gore,
Flames in the ruddy van of War no more:
In idle helms, and mails of alter'd hue
Well-pleas'd the Spider spreads her subtle clue:
To fighting toils athletic sports succeed,
And to the trumpet's clang the rural reed:
Love, Laughter, Wine the fleeting hours employ,
The dance of triumph, and the song of joy.
36
ODE
Imitated from ODA DEL MAESTRO FR. LUIS DE LEON.
I
While on bright Tago's banks reclin'd,And all to Love's soft joys resign'd,
Rodrigo panted on fair Caba's breast,
Sudden, a Seer of future woes,
The River's awful God arose,
And thus with boding groans the fearless Chief addrest.
II
In vain, while horrours round thee rise,Thy arms enfold their ravish'd prize,
The prize so fatal to thy princely line:
Soon shall the Moor, so Fate has said,
Avenge the violated Maid,
And wrest Iberia's throne from Odin's race divine.
37
III
In vain, with Gothic pride elate,To suit thy shadowy dream of state,
Corduba rears her gilded roof on high:
No Child of thine in years to come
Shall revel in the gorgeous dome:
It's alter'd Echoes now to barbarous tongues reply.
IV
On Calpe's rocks with threatening handI see the injur'd Father stand,
All-torn his beard, and rent his hoary hair:
See, now he points to Libya's coast,
Now hails aloud the turban'd host,
And waves his purple flag of vengeance in the air.
V
With oars, that sparkle to the Sun,Swift o'er the level waves they run,
Their broad sails whiten on the crouded main;
And now their clashing arms I hear,
The trumpet's clang invades my ear,
Loud neigh the fiery steeds, and paw the rattling plain.
38
VI
With Ceuta's race, renown'd in fight,Fierce Barca's swarthy Sons unite;
Tunis her mooned ensigns wide displays;
With flaming scymetar and shield
Morocco's squadrons shake the field,
On Alla's name they call, and shout the Prophet's praise.
VII
O'er her rich meads with lifted lanceFair Betis sees their ranks advance,
Proud Seville hears, Granada shakes with dread,
Sad Douro listens to the roar,
Ill-fated Minho foams with gore,
And distant Ebro groans with mountains of the dead.
VIII
To arms, great Chief, to arms with speed!Let the sword rage, the battle bleed!
Ken'st thou not yet th' approaching storm from fat?
Bid, bid thy Knights their faulchions wave,
Nor thou be slow the day to save,
But like a Comet blaze in the dark van of war!
39
IX
Yet ah! in vain: nor spear, nor spellThe ruthless Saracen can quell,
That crush'd stern Afric with his iron yoke:
He safely sheath'd in ribs of mail
Defies thy sharpest arrowy hail,
Laughs at the javelin's hiss, and mocks the sabre's stroke.
X
Five bloody Suns with headlong rageEach host an equal war shall wage,
Each see by turns his doubtful scale ascend;
The sixth shall view thy flight forlorn,
Thy shatter'd arms, thy banners torn,
While Spain's proud neck beneath the victor's heel shall bend.
40
THE MANIAC.
Tho' Grief had nipp'd her early bloom,
Young Julia still was fair:
The rose indeed had left her cheek,
The lily still was there.
Young Julia still was fair:
The rose indeed had left her cheek,
The lily still was there.
Tho' of all other actions past
Her memory bore no part,
The dear remembrance of her love
Still linger'd in her heart.
Her memory bore no part,
The dear remembrance of her love
Still linger'd in her heart.
Long in that heart had reign'd alone
A swain of equal youth,
Of equal beauty too with her's,
But not of equal truth.
A swain of equal youth,
Of equal beauty too with her's,
But not of equal truth.
Whole years her yielding breast he sooth'd
With passion's tender tale;
Till Avarice call'd him from her arms
O'er the wide seas to sail.
With passion's tender tale;
Till Avarice call'd him from her arms
O'er the wide seas to sail.
41
With many a vow of quick return
He cross'd the briny tide,
But when a foreign shore he reach'd,
Soon found a wealthier bride.
He cross'd the briny tide,
But when a foreign shore he reach'd,
Soon found a wealthier bride.
Poor Julia sicken'd at the news,
Yet never told her pain,
Long on her secret soul it prey'd,
And turn'd at last her brain.
Yet never told her pain,
Long on her secret soul it prey'd,
And turn'd at last her brain.
From Brethren, Parents, house, and home
The mourning Maniac fled;
The sky was all her roof by day,
A bank by night her bed.
The mourning Maniac fled;
The sky was all her roof by day,
A bank by night her bed.
When thirst and hunger griev'd her most,
If any food she took,
It was the berry from the thorn,
The water from the brook.
If any food she took,
It was the berry from the thorn,
The water from the brook.
42
Now hurrying o'er the heath she hied,
Now wander'd thro' the wood,
Now o'er the precipice she peep'd,
Now stood and eyed the flood.
Now wander'd thro' the wood,
Now o'er the precipice she peep'd,
Now stood and eyed the flood.
From every hedge a flower she pluck'd,
And moss from every stone,
To make a garland for her Love,
Yet left it still undone.
And moss from every stone,
To make a garland for her Love,
Yet left it still undone.
Still, as she rambled, was she wont
To trill a plaintive song,
'Twas wild, and full of fancies vain,
Yet suited well her wrong.
To trill a plaintive song,
'Twas wild, and full of fancies vain,
Yet suited well her wrong.
All loose, yet lovely, to the wind
Her golden tresses flew,
And now alas! with heat were scorch'd,
And now were drench'd with dew.
Her golden tresses flew,
And now alas! with heat were scorch'd,
And now were drench'd with dew.
43
No Friend was left the tears to wipe
That dimm'd her radiant eyes,
Yet oft their beams like those would shine
That gleam from watry skies.
That dimm'd her radiant eyes,
Yet oft their beams like those would shine
That gleam from watry skies.
Oft too a smile, but not of joy,
Play'd on her brow o'ercast;
It was the faint cold smile of Spring,
Ere Winter yet is past.
Play'd on her brow o'ercast;
It was the faint cold smile of Spring,
Ere Winter yet is past.
Those sorrows, which her tongue conceal'd,
Her broken sighs confest;
Her cloak was too much torn to hide
The throbbings of her breast.
Her broken sighs confest;
Her cloak was too much torn to hide
The throbbings of her breast.
From all, who near her chanc'd to stray,
With wild affright she ran;
Each voice that reach'd her scar'd her breast,
But most the voice of Man.
With wild affright she ran;
Each voice that reach'd her scar'd her breast,
But most the voice of Man.
44
To me alone, when oft we met,
Her ear she would incline,
And with me weep, for well she knew
Her woes resembled mine.
Her ear she would incline,
And with me weep, for well she knew
Her woes resembled mine.
One morn I sought her; but too late—
Her wound had bled so sore—
God rest thy Spirit, gentle Maid!
Thou'rt gone for evermore!
Her wound had bled so sore—
God rest thy Spirit, gentle Maid!
Thou'rt gone for evermore!
45
TO CERVANTES.
Great Sage, whose wand at one commanding strokeEach antique pile of Elfin fabric broke,
From midnight Spectres purg'd the Sorcerer's cell,
And burst stern Chivalry's fantastic spell,
Tho' on thy toil applauding Truth has smil'd,
And Reason hails thee as her favorite Child,
Romantic Fancy still, that lov'd to roam
Thro' the drear desert, and enchanted dome,
To view the perils of adventurous Knight
In stately tournament, or hardy fight,
To hear of Giants gorg'd with human blood,
Of Dragons lurking in the charmed wood,
Of Paynim-Foes in sable steel array'd,
The Dwarf attendant, and the Warriour-Maid,
Of herbs unblest that drug the witching bowl,
And talismans that earth and air controul,
46
And amber streams that roll o'er sands of gold,
Of fragrant isles which diamond rocks surround,
Of wailing Ghosts in iron durance bound,
Of fiery walls to Demon-Guards assign'd,
Of laboring Fiends to hollow mines confin'd,
Of warning voices sent from opening graves,
Of gaudy pageants seen in twilight caves,
Of viewless harps that breathe from airy bowers,
Of golden bridges rais'd by Goblin-Powers,
Of winged steeds thro' fields of air that soar,
And magic barks that speed from shore to shore;
Fancy, that erst on dreams like these repos'd,
Unwilling sees the Fairy Vision clos'd;
Sighs, while dissolving fades the wondrous show,
To see bright Fiction's robe no longer glow;
And weeping blames the ruthless hand that tore
The mystic veil by Genius weav'd of yore.
47
STANZAS
Address'd to a young Man who was disgusted with Oxford.
Say thou, whom Oxford doom'd thy prime to waste
A prey to Melancholy's moping power,
What envious spell forbad thy lips to taste
The sweets that bloom'd profusely round thy bower?
A prey to Melancholy's moping power,
What envious spell forbad thy lips to taste
The sweets that bloom'd profusely round thy bower?
Say, o'er this vale when blackening mists were spread,
Did ne'er the golden Sun bring back the day,
With kindlier verdure cloathe the fragrant mead,
And each dark grove in livelier tints array?
Did ne'er the golden Sun bring back the day,
With kindlier verdure cloathe the fragrant mead,
And each dark grove in livelier tints array?
Did no gay landscapes deck fair Cherwell's shore?
Were no wild warblings echoed on her stream?
Did ne'er the whitening sail, or sparkling oar
On the bright waves of beauteous Isis gleam?
Were no wild warblings echoed on her stream?
Did ne'er the whitening sail, or sparkling oar
On the bright waves of beauteous Isis gleam?
48
And ah! had Art no charms to sooth thy breast?
Could heavenly Music never ease thy pain?
Did Attic domes upheave the glittering crest,
And the warm marble breathe for thee in vain?
Could heavenly Music never ease thy pain?
Did Attic domes upheave the glittering crest,
And the warm marble breathe for thee in vain?
Say didst thou never, never haply pass
Where Wykeham rear'd his gorgeous fane on high,
To gaze with rapture on the storied glass,
Whose hues with Titian's or with Nature's vie?
Where Wykeham rear'd his gorgeous fane on high,
To gaze with rapture on the storied glass,
Whose hues with Titian's or with Nature's vie?
Did Learning vainly spread her various page
To lure thine eyes, which Scorn had turn'd aside?
Could nor the Wit delight thee, nor the Sage,
Nor Truth with Fancy, Taste with Sense allied?
To lure thine eyes, which Scorn had turn'd aside?
Could nor the Wit delight thee, nor the Sage,
Nor Truth with Fancy, Taste with Sense allied?
Did chance ne'er give thee, if not choice, a Friend,
Whose social converse might thy cares beguile,
Whose mild reproof thy follies might amend,
Whose mirth might teach thee 'twas no crime to smile?
Whose social converse might thy cares beguile,
Whose mild reproof thy follies might amend,
Whose mirth might teach thee 'twas no crime to smile?
49
Did no fair Damsel lull thy vacant mind
(As mine is lull'd) to think on her alone?
That charm had driven thy sorrows to the wind:
For Love can cure all troubles but his own.
(As mine is lull'd) to think on her alone?
That charm had driven thy sorrows to the wind:
For Love can cure all troubles but his own.
If nought of this thy Soul from Spleen could save,
Back, pensive Youth, back to thy cell forlorn!
Go, sadly seek it, as a Ghost his grave;
For where is Joy, if here be cause to mourn?
Back, pensive Youth, back to thy cell forlorn!
Go, sadly seek it, as a Ghost his grave;
For where is Joy, if here be cause to mourn?
50
TO SILENCE.
Oh Silence, Maid of pensive mien,
That liv'st unknown, unheard, unseen,
Within thy secret cell,
A pilgrim to thy shrine I come;
Oh lead me to thy hallow'd home,
That I with thee may dwell!
That liv'st unknown, unheard, unseen,
Within thy secret cell,
A pilgrim to thy shrine I come;
Oh lead me to thy hallow'd home,
That I with thee may dwell!
Say, dost thou love to drink the dew
That trickles from the church-yard yew
At midnight's stillest hour;
Or wrapt in melancholy fit
In some dear charnel-house to sit,
Or some dismantled tower?
That trickles from the church-yard yew
At midnight's stillest hour;
Or wrapt in melancholy fit
In some dear charnel-house to sit,
Or some dismantled tower?
Ah no! the hoarse night-raven's song
Forbids thee there to linger long,
When darkness shrouds the coast;
There too complains the wakeful owl,
With many a yelling Demon foul,
And many a shrieking Ghost.
Forbids thee there to linger long,
When darkness shrouds the coast;
There too complains the wakeful owl,
With many a yelling Demon foul,
And many a shrieking Ghost.
51
Or with thy Sister Solitude
Dwell'st thou, mid Asia's deserts rude,
Beneath some craggy rock,
Where nor the roving robber hies,
Nor.Arab sees his tent arise,
Nor shepherd folds his flock?
Dwell'st thou, mid Asia's deserts rude,
Beneath some craggy rock,
Where nor the roving robber hies,
Nor.Arab sees his tent arise,
Nor shepherd folds his flock?
Yet even in that sequester'd sphere
The serpent's hiss assails thy ear,
And fills thee with affright,
While lions, loud in angry mood,
And tigers, roaming for their food,
Rage dreadful thro' the night.
The serpent's hiss assails thy ear,
And fills thee with affright,
While lions, loud in angry mood,
And tigers, roaming for their food,
Rage dreadful thro' the night.
Or dost thou near the frozen pole,
Where slumbering seas forget to roll,
Brood o'er the stagnant deep,
Where nor is heard the dashing oar,
Nor wave, that murmurs on the shore,
To break thy charmed sleep?
Where slumbering seas forget to roll,
Brood o'er the stagnant deep,
Where nor is heard the dashing oar,
Nor wave, that murmurs on the shore,
To break thy charmed sleep?
52
Yet there each bird of harshest cry,
That bravely wings the wintry sky,
Screams to the northern blast,
While on each ice-built mountain hoar,
That parting falls with hideous roar,
Grim monsters howl aghast.
That bravely wings the wintry sky,
Screams to the northern blast,
While on each ice-built mountain hoar,
That parting falls with hideous roar,
Grim monsters howl aghast.
Then where, ah tell me! shall I find
Thy haunt untrodden by mankind,
And undisturb'd by noise,
Where, hush'd with thee in calm repose,
I may forget life's transient woes,
And yet more transient joys?
Thy haunt untrodden by mankind,
And undisturb'd by noise,
Where, hush'd with thee in calm repose,
I may forget life's transient woes,
And yet more transient joys?
53
VERSES
On hearing a Lady sing to her two Daughters who were dancing a minuet.
Ye feeling few, who joys refin'd can prove,And taste the elegant delights of love,
Who oft, when scenes of heart-felt bliss appear,
Heave the soft sigh, and shed the silent tear,
See what alone might vice itself controul,
And wake to virtuous extasy the soul!
See the fond Parent with officious care
To measur'd motion form her darling pair!
Her voice attempering leads th' obedient pace,
Guides the just air, and moulds the infant grace,
While as they move unbidden beauties rise,
Bloom on their cheeks, and lighten in their eyes.
54
From such an Offspring, such a Spouse detain,
How would thy throbbing heart at once unite
The Husband's love, the Father's fond delight,
To see such beauties in one groupe combine,
And all the Mother in the Daughters shine!
For Me meanwhile, who, tho' to thee unknown,
Can in thy kindred virtues love thy own,
Can the fond Husband in the Wife admire,
And in the Children venerate the Sire,
Enough such charms with silent joy to praise,
Retire at distance, and with reverence gaze.
55
TO DELIA.
'Tis not a cheek that boasts the ruby's glow,The neck of ivory, or the breast of snow,
'Tis not a dimple known so oft to charm,
The hand's soft polish, or the tapering arm,
'Tis not the braided lock of golden hue,
Nor reddening lip that swells with vernal dew,
'Tis not a smile that blooms with young desire,
'Tis not an eye that sheds celestial fire,
No Delia, these are not the spells that move
My heart to fold thee in eternal love,
But 'tis that Soul which from so fair a frame
Looks forth, and tells us 'twas from Heaven it came.
56
TO ZEPHYR.
If loitering thro' the noon-tide hour
Young Zephyr near my Delia's bower
Thou haply chance to rove,
Pass not, as erst, unheeding by,
But waft at least one gentle sigh
To tell her of my love.
Young Zephyr near my Delia's bower
Thou haply chance to rove,
Pass not, as erst, unheeding by,
But waft at least one gentle sigh
To tell her of my love.
So from each bank where violets bloom
Still mayst thou steal a new perfume
To scent thy spicy gale,
So mayst thou soon in amorous play
Incline thy own coy favorite May
To listen to thy tale.
Still mayst thou steal a new perfume
To scent thy spicy gale,
So mayst thou soon in amorous play
Incline thy own coy favorite May
To listen to thy tale.
57
TO DELIA.
Since thought but adds to my regret,
To sleep my eyelids I resign,
If haply so I may forget
That first enchanting smile of thine:
To sleep my eyelids I resign,
If haply so I may forget
That first enchanting smile of thine:
In vain; the same enchanting smile
In every fleeting dream appears,
And still more surely to beguile
Each charm that haunts me waking wears:
In every fleeting dream appears,
And still more surely to beguile
Each charm that haunts me waking wears:
Ah then, in pity to my pain,
And all my doubts at once to smother,
Take back that one dear smile again,
Or oh! confirm it by another.
And all my doubts at once to smother,
Take back that one dear smile again,
Or oh! confirm it by another.
60
TO A VIOLET.
Imitated from the two first stanzas of AN EIN VEILCHEN Von C.F. WEISSE.
Tho' from thy bank of velvet torn,
Hang not, fair Flower, thy drooping crest;
On Delia's bosom shalt thou find
A softer sweeter bed of rest.
Hang not, fair Flower, thy drooping crest;
On Delia's bosom shalt thou find
A softer sweeter bed of rest.
Tho' from mild Zephyr's kiss no more
Ambrosial balms thou shalt inhale,
Her gentle breath, whene'er she sighs,
Shall fan thee with a purer gale.
Ambrosial balms thou shalt inhale,
Her gentle breath, whene'er she sighs,
Shall fan thee with a purer gale.
But Thou be grateful for that bliss
For which in vain a thousand burn,
And, as thou stealest sweets from her,
Give back thy choicest in return.
For which in vain a thousand burn,
And, as thou stealest sweets from her,
Give back thy choicest in return.
61
THE FAREWEL.
Adieu! thou darling of my heart,
Whom never more these eyes shall view;
Yet once again, before we part,
Nymph of my soul, again adieu!
Whom never more these eyes shall view;
Yet once again, before we part,
Nymph of my soul, again adieu!
Yet one kiss more: this kiss, the last
That I will ask, or thou shalt give,
Tho' on my lips it dies too fast,
Shall always in my memory live.
That I will ask, or thou shalt give,
Tho' on my lips it dies too fast,
Shall always in my memory live.
But thou each tender thought of me
Blot out for ever from thy breast,
Nor heed what pangs I feel for thee,
While with another thou art blest.
Blot out for ever from thy breast,
Nor heed what pangs I feel for thee,
While with another thou art blest.
62
To him, whom Heaven has made thy mate,
Thus, thus thy beauties I resign;
He boasts, alas! a happier fate,
But not a purer flame than mine.
Thus, thus thy beauties I resign;
He boasts, alas! a happier fate,
But not a purer flame than mine.
Yet let him make thy bliss his care,
As I, thou know'st it, would have done,
My love for thy sake he shall share,
My envy only for his own.
As I, thou know'st it, would have done,
My love for thy sake he shall share,
My envy only for his own.
THE END.
| Sonnets and Miscellaneous Poems by the late Thomas Russell | |