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151
THE LOVE-SICK MAID;
AN IMITATION OF THE WRITERS OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.
Stranger, dost see yon pallid maid,
Reclin'd beneath the willow shade,
Who still, with listless mien,
Plucks the wild flowers that round her gleam,
And watches them sail down the stream,
Trilling a sad wild air between?
Would'st hear, what dims those eyes so sheen?
Know, this it is to love!
Reclin'd beneath the willow shade,
Who still, with listless mien,
Plucks the wild flowers that round her gleam,
And watches them sail down the stream,
Trilling a sad wild air between?
Would'st hear, what dims those eyes so sheen?
Know, this it is to love!
'Tis thus, upon her lute to play,
Warbling the weary hours away,
Like plaintive Philomel;
Yet, to one tender pensive song
Returning still, the notes prolong,
Still on that air enraptur'd dwell,
Hark! 'tis the song he lov'd so well,—
O this it is to love!
Warbling the weary hours away,
Like plaintive Philomel;
Yet, to one tender pensive song
Returning still, the notes prolong,
152
Hark! 'tis the song he lov'd so well,—
O this it is to love!
It is, when with the painter's dies,
She bids a new creation rise,
Surpassing mortal grace;
In Surrey's form, in Sydney's eye,
In hero, or in Deity,
With faithful pencil, still to trace
Her lover's form, and look, and face;
O this it is to love!
She bids a new creation rise,
Surpassing mortal grace;
In Surrey's form, in Sydney's eye,
In hero, or in Deity,
With faithful pencil, still to trace
Her lover's form, and look, and face;
O this it is to love!
It is to shun his very name,
Yet thus in secret nurse the flame,
As rain-drops feed the fire,
So the blaze lit at Fancy's eyes,
Sprinkled with tears and fann'd with sighs,
As fears depress, or hopes aspire,
Still fiercer burns and blazes higher;
O this it is to love!
Yet thus in secret nurse the flame,
As rain-drops feed the fire,
So the blaze lit at Fancy's eyes,
Sprinkled with tears and fann'd with sighs,
As fears depress, or hopes aspire,
Still fiercer burns and blazes higher;
O this it is to love!
153
It is to doubt her beauty's power,
To languish o'er the faded flower,
Drooping and sad like her;
To doubt her glass, to doubt her eyes,
To shun false flattery's honey'd lies,
Yet still, from one dear flatterer,
Such praise to every sound prefer;
O this it is to love!
To languish o'er the faded flower,
Drooping and sad like her;
To doubt her glass, to doubt her eyes,
To shun false flattery's honey'd lies,
Yet still, from one dear flatterer,
Such praise to every sound prefer;
O this it is to love!
'Tis hating her whom he commends;
'Tis envying all he calls his friends;
Yet still his presence flying;
'Tis loathing the Sun's blessed light,
'Tis moaning thro' the tedious night;
'Tis musing, weeping, wailing, sighing,
Not yet to die, yet always dying;
Know, stranger, this is love!
'Tis envying all he calls his friends;
Yet still his presence flying;
'Tis loathing the Sun's blessed light,
'Tis moaning thro' the tedious night;
'Tis musing, weeping, wailing, sighing,
Not yet to die, yet always dying;
Know, stranger, this is love!
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