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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| III. | III. TO ANNA. |
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 | The poetical works of Susanna Blamire "The Muse of Cumberland." |  |
133
III. TO ANNA.
Thou bidst me fly thee, and once more
I wander to a foreign shore;
A world half new before me lies,
“Another earth, and other skies;”
But ah, alas! e'en now I find
I cannot leave myself behind;
Nor bar the avenue of thought,
Nor drink one sweet oblivious draught,
E'en though from Lethe I should lave
The pure translucent silver wave.
I wander to a foreign shore;
A world half new before me lies,
“Another earth, and other skies;”
But ah, alas! e'en now I find
I cannot leave myself behind;
Nor bar the avenue of thought,
Nor drink one sweet oblivious draught,
E'en though from Lethe I should lave
The pure translucent silver wave.
Champagnia's sprightly juice I try,
And feel the spirits mantling high;
E'en then I see the vision rise
That ever swims before my eyes.
What if I snatch the tuneful lyre,
And rush my fingers 'cross the wire,
The gales too catch the mournful song,
Wafting the sweetest notes along;
Till Echo, sitting in her cell,
Resounds the notes she loves so well,
And, as I warble forth my woes,
“Lends her soft voice at every close;”
Such sympathy can never move
The settl'd pain of constant love.
And feel the spirits mantling high;
E'en then I see the vision rise
That ever swims before my eyes.
What if I snatch the tuneful lyre,
And rush my fingers 'cross the wire,
The gales too catch the mournful song,
Wafting the sweetest notes along;
Till Echo, sitting in her cell,
Resounds the notes she loves so well,
And, as I warble forth my woes,
“Lends her soft voice at every close;”
Such sympathy can never move
The settl'd pain of constant love.
To Echo yet my griefs I pour
At evening knell, or midnight hour;
For she, like me, has sorrow known,
And almost pin'd herself to stone;
Yet with an ear so quickly found,—
So sensible of every sound,
That not a sigh can swell the air
But what she slowly lengthens there;
Then, when her sympathy I've tried,
Her soothing voice in vain applied,
I throw away the useless lyre,
And other scenes and views require:
I fly to mountains wild and drear,
Where summer comes not all the year;
There Nature in full pomp behold,
Her silver snows, her rocks of gold.
For this the hardy Swiss I tend,
With him the frozen world descend,
And see the laughing valley spread
Of silken flowers a velvet bed;
See, too, the hamlets smiling round,
Of man now hear the cheerful sound;
Now mark the cot, with cheerful fire,
Amidst yon clump of elms retire;
It glads the heart-glow of my guide,
And mends the measure of his stride:
We near; his Sylvio runs before,
His children meet him at the door,
His modest dame with welcome air
Draws forth with haste the elbow chair,
And seats him in the warmest nook,
With heartfelt gladness in her look.
Think'st thou, when such a scene I see,
My thoughts will not revert to thee?
To thee!—that night!—but ah! 'tis o'er;
Th' unwelcome theme I'll urge no more;
No more, since thou hast sorrow felt,
And “bent the knee where I have knelt.”
At evening knell, or midnight hour;
134
And almost pin'd herself to stone;
Yet with an ear so quickly found,—
So sensible of every sound,
That not a sigh can swell the air
But what she slowly lengthens there;
Then, when her sympathy I've tried,
Her soothing voice in vain applied,
I throw away the useless lyre,
And other scenes and views require:
I fly to mountains wild and drear,
Where summer comes not all the year;
There Nature in full pomp behold,
Her silver snows, her rocks of gold.
For this the hardy Swiss I tend,
With him the frozen world descend,
And see the laughing valley spread
Of silken flowers a velvet bed;
See, too, the hamlets smiling round,
Of man now hear the cheerful sound;
Now mark the cot, with cheerful fire,
Amidst yon clump of elms retire;
It glads the heart-glow of my guide,
And mends the measure of his stride:
We near; his Sylvio runs before,
His children meet him at the door,
His modest dame with welcome air
Draws forth with haste the elbow chair,
And seats him in the warmest nook,
With heartfelt gladness in her look.
135
My thoughts will not revert to thee?
To thee!—that night!—but ah! 'tis o'er;
Th' unwelcome theme I'll urge no more;
No more, since thou hast sorrow felt,
And “bent the knee where I have knelt.”
Italia's gales now bear my song
“In soft-link'd notes her woods among;”
There mouldering columns silent stand,
Bound up by many an osier band,
While arms of oak, enfolding all,
Keep the huge fragment from its fall:
I mark alike weak Tiber's flow,
And see his thirsty channel low;
I see, where temples used to stand,
One scatter'd ruin o'er the land;
Yet see the statues breathing still,
That once might live, as sure they will;
There sister Painting, too, I hear,
Almost gives whispers to my ear;
While Melody, surviving all,
Lets her sweet cadence ever fall,
And every voice in tuneful lay,
Bears the soft harmony away.
“In soft-link'd notes her woods among;”
There mouldering columns silent stand,
Bound up by many an osier band,
While arms of oak, enfolding all,
Keep the huge fragment from its fall:
I mark alike weak Tiber's flow,
And see his thirsty channel low;
I see, where temples used to stand,
One scatter'd ruin o'er the land;
Yet see the statues breathing still,
That once might live, as sure they will;
There sister Painting, too, I hear,
Almost gives whispers to my ear;
While Melody, surviving all,
Lets her sweet cadence ever fall,
And every voice in tuneful lay,
Bears the soft harmony away.
There love's soft blandishments entwine
Round every human heart but mine;
What though Italia's nymphs I find
More charming than half womankind;
Yet, as they are not like to thee,
Italia's nymphs are nought to me!
On Virgil's tomb I'll hang my lyre,
There shall the rust consume the wire;
Sigh to the winds in low return,
And o'er his sacred ashes mourn,
While one weak string is left to bear
The plaintive murmur through the air;
Nor poesy again be chose
The vehicle of bosom-woes.
Vain, vain's the skill, the trial's o'er,
And Italy shall charm no more;
No more shall France, in spirits wild,
Dress up the humours of her child;
Home I return to breathe with thee
The better air of Liberty;
To breathe near thee must have some power
O'er the dark demons of the hour!
Fear not, my Anna, I shall tell
How long I've lov'd, and ah! how well;
To this one wish my soul shall bend—
“To be alone thy bosom-friend!”
Round every human heart but mine;
What though Italia's nymphs I find
More charming than half womankind;
Yet, as they are not like to thee,
Italia's nymphs are nought to me!
136
There shall the rust consume the wire;
Sigh to the winds in low return,
And o'er his sacred ashes mourn,
While one weak string is left to bear
The plaintive murmur through the air;
Nor poesy again be chose
The vehicle of bosom-woes.
Vain, vain's the skill, the trial's o'er,
And Italy shall charm no more;
No more shall France, in spirits wild,
Dress up the humours of her child;
Home I return to breathe with thee
The better air of Liberty;
To breathe near thee must have some power
O'er the dark demons of the hour!
Fear not, my Anna, I shall tell
How long I've lov'd, and ah! how well;
To this one wish my soul shall bend—
“To be alone thy bosom-friend!”
THE MOURNER.
| The poetical works of Susanna Blamire "The Muse of Cumberland." | |