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 |
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| II. | II. TO THE MOURNER. |
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 | The poetical works of Susanna Blamire "The Muse of Cumberland." |  |
II. TO THE MOURNER.
Thou dost not know me, gentle friend;
Would I could make thy sorrows end!
Light as the breeze of early dawn,
When from Aurora newly blown,
As full of life thy heart should be,
Nor drop one dew-tear more for me.
Have I not known the pangs thou'st felt;
Knelt at the shrine where thou hast knelt;
With seeming smiles have bound my brow
To keep the anguish down below;
Nor suffer'd once the cloudy eye
To hold acquaintance with a sigh?
Your sex such griefs may frankly own,
But ours, alas! are ours alone;
The stricken deer the herd must fly,
Seek the lone shade and silent die!
Would I could make thy sorrows end!
Light as the breeze of early dawn,
When from Aurora newly blown,
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Nor drop one dew-tear more for me.
Have I not known the pangs thou'st felt;
Knelt at the shrine where thou hast knelt;
With seeming smiles have bound my brow
To keep the anguish down below;
Nor suffer'd once the cloudy eye
To hold acquaintance with a sigh?
Your sex such griefs may frankly own,
But ours, alas! are ours alone;
The stricken deer the herd must fly,
Seek the lone shade and silent die!
I will not say I doubt thy flame,
For ah! I know I've felt the same,
The tender hopes and fears that dwell
In every breast that loves so well;
The warm solicitudes that keep
Their tyrant watch o'er banish'd sleep;
The pining thought that steals from home
With one lov'd object still to roam;
Despair that drinks the liquid tear,
The heart benumb'd by every fear;
Hope banish'd from the bosom's throne,
And the blank wishes left alone:
'Twas these that made me bid thee fly
To other scenes, to other sky.
Too well I know th' enchanting power
That lurks within the smallest flower;
If a lov'd eye its robes have seen,
Its coif of gold, and train of green;
A fancied charm fast binds the heart,
And with the flower we cannot part;—
“'Twas Anna's eye that dropp'd on thee,
Welcome then little friend to me!
'Twas here she prais'd thy soften'd hue,
'Twas there she sipp'd thy silver dew;
On this leaf bade me cast my eye;
On that she breath'd a tender sigh,
Which gave thy perfume to the air,
By far the sweetest incense there.”
'Twas thus on scenes I lov'd so well
My fancy would for ever dwell,
Or know one moment's sweet repose
From the sad pangs of endless woes;
For memory walk'd the groves around,
I heard her voice in every sound,
That bade me in soft whispers see
Beside the brook—beneath the tree—
The object dear—so long deplor'd—
“Him whom I call'd my bosom's lord!”
For ah! I know I've felt the same,
The tender hopes and fears that dwell
In every breast that loves so well;
The warm solicitudes that keep
Their tyrant watch o'er banish'd sleep;
The pining thought that steals from home
With one lov'd object still to roam;
Despair that drinks the liquid tear,
The heart benumb'd by every fear;
Hope banish'd from the bosom's throne,
And the blank wishes left alone:
'Twas these that made me bid thee fly
To other scenes, to other sky.
Too well I know th' enchanting power
That lurks within the smallest flower;
If a lov'd eye its robes have seen,
Its coif of gold, and train of green;
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And with the flower we cannot part;—
“'Twas Anna's eye that dropp'd on thee,
Welcome then little friend to me!
'Twas here she prais'd thy soften'd hue,
'Twas there she sipp'd thy silver dew;
On this leaf bade me cast my eye;
On that she breath'd a tender sigh,
Which gave thy perfume to the air,
By far the sweetest incense there.”
'Twas thus on scenes I lov'd so well
My fancy would for ever dwell,
Or know one moment's sweet repose
From the sad pangs of endless woes;
For memory walk'd the groves around,
I heard her voice in every sound,
That bade me in soft whispers see
Beside the brook—beneath the tree—
The object dear—so long deplor'd—
“Him whom I call'd my bosom's lord!”
You say I cannot fly you—no;
That I believe! for sure I know,
That Absence cannot guard the cell
Where wayward thoughts are doom'd to dwell;
Out from the bosom they will break,
And former joys for ever seek;
For ever tell the passing hour
'Tis not like that that's gone before!
That I believe! for sure I know,
That Absence cannot guard the cell
Where wayward thoughts are doom'd to dwell;
Out from the bosom they will break,
And former joys for ever seek;
For ever tell the passing hour
'Tis not like that that's gone before!
Yet some remission may be found,
While treading o'er unhallow'd ground
Where Anna's form has never been,
But, like the vapour of a dream,
Painted alone for memory's eye,
In colours that were wont to fly.
But, trust me, if in groves among
Where thou hast heard her voice, her song;
If thou hast mark'd her watch the cloud,
While the hoarse brook kept speaking loud;
Or seen her pensive musing stand,
The wild flowers dropping from her hand;
Or wreathe the woodbine round the tree,—
Trust me, it is no place for thee.
Such scenes would ever hold her there,
And thou would'st meet her every where;
Nor e'er could Time around thy woe
His soften'd veil of sorrow throw,
Such as when Evening dews arise
And seem thin gauze before the eyes;
All objects then, but dimly seen,
Look dimly through th' enamell'd screen;
But yet the landscape charms the sight,
And gives the eye a meek delight.
While treading o'er unhallow'd ground
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But, like the vapour of a dream,
Painted alone for memory's eye,
In colours that were wont to fly.
But, trust me, if in groves among
Where thou hast heard her voice, her song;
If thou hast mark'd her watch the cloud,
While the hoarse brook kept speaking loud;
Or seen her pensive musing stand,
The wild flowers dropping from her hand;
Or wreathe the woodbine round the tree,—
Trust me, it is no place for thee.
Such scenes would ever hold her there,
And thou would'st meet her every where;
Nor e'er could Time around thy woe
His soften'd veil of sorrow throw,
Such as when Evening dews arise
And seem thin gauze before the eyes;
All objects then, but dimly seen,
Look dimly through th' enamell'd screen;
But yet the landscape charms the sight,
And gives the eye a meek delight.
ANNA.
| The poetical works of Susanna Blamire "The Muse of Cumberland." | |