The poetical works of Susanna Blamire "The Muse of Cumberland." Now for the first time collected by Henry Lonsdale; With a preface, memoir, and notes by Patrick Maxwell |
 |
|
| I. | I. TO ANNA. |
| II. |
| III. |
|
|
|
|
 | The poetical works of Susanna Blamire "The Muse of Cumberland." |  |
I. TO ANNA.
Thou canst not fly me, dearest maid!
I haunt thee with the Evening's shade;
I see with thee “her golden glow
Fall on the silver lake below,”—
The trees that paint them in the stream
Another earth and sky to seem,—
The self-same shades that tinge thy sky
Make the full circle of my eye.
I haunt thee with the Evening's shade;
I see with thee “her golden glow
Fall on the silver lake below,”—
The trees that paint them in the stream
Another earth and sky to seem,—
The self-same shades that tinge thy sky
Make the full circle of my eye.
When Night her mantle casts around,
With golden stars the border's bound;
Or when her crescent crowns her brow,
And glitters all the woodland through
With quivering beam, that oft deceives,
While spreading foil on spangl'd leaves;
Till some dark cloud comes sailing by
And drinks the lustre of the sky,—
Pours from her horn the watery store,
And leaves and flowers are bright no more:
When Morn stands tiptoe on yon hill,
And then first prints the cottage sill,
And views her, blushing to be seen,
As if from bathing she had been;
Her golden locks yet scarcely dry,
And the dropp'd dew half in her eye;
Her sandals wet as wet can be,
Her robe still dripping from the sea,
Her car just waiting for her hand
To drive the coursers over land,
And, for the heats of sultry day,
To chase the sullen clouds away,—
Ah! thinkst thou not I see thee still,
And ever did and ever will?
With golden stars the border's bound;
Or when her crescent crowns her brow,
And glitters all the woodland through
With quivering beam, that oft deceives,
While spreading foil on spangl'd leaves;
Till some dark cloud comes sailing by
And drinks the lustre of the sky,—
Pours from her horn the watery store,
And leaves and flowers are bright no more:
128
And then first prints the cottage sill,
And views her, blushing to be seen,
As if from bathing she had been;
Her golden locks yet scarcely dry,
And the dropp'd dew half in her eye;
Her sandals wet as wet can be,
Her robe still dripping from the sea,
Her car just waiting for her hand
To drive the coursers over land,
And, for the heats of sultry day,
To chase the sullen clouds away,—
Ah! thinkst thou not I see thee still,
And ever did and ever will?
Can absence tear thee from my sight?
My eyes' full joy—my soul's delight!
No;—in the soft and silken bower
Where slumber binds the drowsy hour,
And sweetest dreams in visions sends
To be the wretch's fancied friends,
Think'st thou that any form but thine
Can meet this ardent gaze of mine?
Or, when the blissful vision's o'er,
And I must grasp thy shade no more,—
When sorrowing drops my eyelids stain,
And wake me to my woes again;
Think'st thou fond memory will not bear
Thy image through the drowning tear?
The mind's eye then shall take the place,
And wander o'er thy much lov'd face,—
See every look and every thought
That feeling or that fancy wrought.
E'en now I see that starting tear;
Where lurks the anguish? tell me where?
Ah! my soul trembles while I see
That tear, alas! not dropp'd for me.
For me! ah, no; she knows I mourn,
Yet gives no sorrow in return;—
Has seen unmov'd my struggling sighs
Send a full deluge from my eyes,—
Nay, bade me, while the torrent fell,
A long, a sad, a last farewell!
My eyes' full joy—my soul's delight!
No;—in the soft and silken bower
Where slumber binds the drowsy hour,
And sweetest dreams in visions sends
To be the wretch's fancied friends,
Think'st thou that any form but thine
Can meet this ardent gaze of mine?
Or, when the blissful vision's o'er,
And I must grasp thy shade no more,—
When sorrowing drops my eyelids stain,
And wake me to my woes again;
Think'st thou fond memory will not bear
Thy image through the drowning tear?
The mind's eye then shall take the place,
And wander o'er thy much lov'd face,—
129
That feeling or that fancy wrought.
E'en now I see that starting tear;
Where lurks the anguish? tell me where?
Ah! my soul trembles while I see
That tear, alas! not dropp'd for me.
For me! ah, no; she knows I mourn,
Yet gives no sorrow in return;—
Has seen unmov'd my struggling sighs
Send a full deluge from my eyes,—
Nay, bade me, while the torrent fell,
A long, a sad, a last farewell!
All this I know; yet still that tear
Sheds a slow languid poison here;
The heart's full tubes are running o'er,
And the weak veins can hold no more.
No more! ah, would it were but so,
And death might end the pangs of woe;
For what are his to those I've here,
Whilst I but think I see that tear!
Sheds a slow languid poison here;
The heart's full tubes are running o'er,
And the weak veins can hold no more.
No more! ah, would it were but so,
And death might end the pangs of woe;
For what are his to those I've here,
Whilst I but think I see that tear!
THE MOURNER.
| The poetical works of Susanna Blamire "The Muse of Cumberland." | |