The Poetical Works of Anna Seward :: :: University of Virginia Library

With languid step and heart by sorrow torn,
Haunt of my youth, I wander thro' thy grove,
My loved Alinda's fate incessant mourn,
And drop my blighted garlands as I rove.

Yet e'en these rankling woes some respite find,
And on the smiling landscape sooth'd I gaze,
Where joy's wild music cheers the drooping mind,
As Nature's warblers swell the song of praise.

The blooming trees bend o'er the glassy stream,
In June's gay pride they wave their flowing heads;
While, from the setting sun, a golden gleam
O'er these green fields the soften'd radiance sheds.

But ah! behold the transient glories fly,
And on the fair horizon steals a cloud,
A few cold drops fall from the louring sky,
And mute the plumy warblers, late so loud!

What means this sudden damp—this awful gloom,
This more than usual presage of the soul?
All things are silent as Alinda's tomb,
All but the death-bell's melancholy toll!

From the rent earth why starts that horrid shade?
O! from its power my shrinking spirit save!
Why thus in dread funereal garb array'd,
The shroud,—the pall,—the vestments of the grave?

O'er the wan brow the shadowy crape is bound,
And withering flowers in mournful wreaths are twined,

That willows, yew, and cypress buds surround,
With dark, warp'd leaves unfragrant and declin'd.

Her cheek all bloodless, and all dim her eye,
With hollow tone, she cries,—“Behold Despair!
“She bids thee ceaseless heave th' heart-rending sigh,
“And shed eternally the bitter tear.

“A glowing sun, in Summer splendour gay,
“Soft gales, that scatter fragrance as they rove,
“The beauteous flowers, that drink the humid ray,
“'Mid the wild transports of the vocal grove,

“Have they a charm for thee?—and still remains,
“Deep in thy breast, fond joy's congenial tide?
“Springing at Beauty's glance and Pleasure's strains,
“Do her bright streams thro' Sorrow's mansion glide?

“See'st thou this rose? its gay, its crimson glow
“Faded and gone, and all its fragrance fled!
“This sullied lily, once, with breast of snow,
“Was the chaste glory of its verdant bed.

“Yet this the lily, this the splendent rose
“Alinda gather'd on her jocund way,

“When her fair cheek could rival bloom disclose,
“When her eyes beam'd with health's enlivening ray.

“Beneath this shade she cropt the glowing flowers,
“Herself a fairer flower,” that Death has cropt,
“From this lov'd bank, where oft, in happy hours,
“She raised each stem whose sickly blossom dropt.

“Mark'd every charm of Nature's varying year,
“Of Fancy's lucid orb each hue refined,
“And all that lifts the spirit, warm and clear,
“High o'er th' inert, the common mass of mind.

“Where is she now?—within the narrow cell,
“Pale, cold, and sunk, she lies in dread repose!
“Then, Julia, bid thy joys a long farewell!
“Young as thou art, in youth's gay hours they close.”

I hear no more;—the spectre's hollow tone
Sinks in the wind that howls along the glade,
And darkness o'er its ghastly form has thrown,
Gloom following gloom, impenetrable shade.

Cold as the falling dews, tear chasing tear,
Streams on my folded hands!—yet I remain,

Transfix'd with anguish at the doom severe,
While night and horror gather on the plain;

Silent and mournful has the lingering hour
Beheld me plunged in Sorrow's deadly dreams;
But now, while soften'd winds forget to roar,
On a cloud's edge the star of evening beams;

And now, emerging, all the stellar fires
Light the dark cope, as with unnumber'd eyes;
Yet soon, before night's ample orb, retires
Each lesser glory that illumes the skies.

Circled with shadowy hills the grassy vale,
Thro' plenteous dews, shines silver'd by her light,
While the embosom'd lake, beneath the gale,
Reflects her lustre, tremulously bright.

Ah see! a form, than yon full orb benign
Of lustre more benevolent appears!
And, as she glides from an o'ershadowing pine,
My earnest eyes dispense their gathering tears.

“To the meek words of Patience listen calm,
“Lone child of Sorrow,” the kind vision cries;

“Receive on thy pierced heart my healing balm,
“And to my voice attune thy soften'd sighs!

“Wiltthou from Heav'n receive the nectar'd draught
“Of bliss, yet start if in the mingled bowl
“Rise the alloying griefs that fate has brought,
“Commission'd from above, to wean thy soul?

“Medicinal, tho' sharp, the blended woe.—
“Thou, who hast been most happy, bow resign'd!
“For man no more unfading roses blow,
“Winter lays waste his year, and grief his mind.

“But Heav'n, that sends abroad the breath of Spring
“T' expand the foliage, and disclose the flowers,
“Shall to the sorrowing mind sweet comforts bring,
“And warmly renovate its fainting powers.

“Two sister-handmaids to the Will Divine,
“For this blest purpose, quit the seraph train;
“Thro' me, thro' Patience, first its mercies shine;
“O gently listen, and no more complain!

“Yield to my influence, my behests obey,
“So shall the lenient hand of Time to thee
“Lead pious Cheerfulness, fair child of day,
“Whom the Dread Voice has bade succeed to me.

“Again her comforts shall thy breast pervade,
“Tho' clouds of sorrow have eclipsed their ray,
“And she will chace each dark and deadly shade,
“Till life's fresh paths shall brighten on thy way.

“Thy soul, humiliated, now feels and mourns
“The tarriance short of giddy joy below;
“But guard thee well, when jocund she returns,
“Against the meteor-fires that round her glow.

“To many a dangerous path those fires shall lead,
“While through luxuriant scenes with thee she roves,
“Where snares for Innocence infest the meads,
“Circean-banquets rise, and syren-groves.

“Stain'd is the spirit, following Luxury's lure,
“Cold is the heart, by earthly pride made hard,
“And 'gainst the cold, the thankless, and impure,
“The everlasting gates of bliss are barr'd.

“While to the kind, warm heart, resign'd sedate,
“The blooming wreaths of happiness are given,
“For peace on earth and joys immortal wait
“Good-will to Man and confidence in Heaven.”

Now melts the vision in the moon's pale beam,
And o'er my soul serener thoughts arise,

Grief prompts no more her ineffectual stream,
And swell no longer her convulsive sighs.

But let me haste the deeper woes to sooth,
That press so hard on life's declining years,
With filial fondness sedulously smooth
My parents' thorny pillow, steep'd in tears.

The bridal vestments waited to array,
In emblematic white, their duteous maid;
But ne'er for them arrived that festal day;
Their sweet, crush'd lily low in earth is laid.

O! she was all parental Hopes desire,
To gild declining life with softest light;
Ill can my frailer mind's impetuous fire
Compensate her mild soul's eternal flight!

And yet, on their lone couch, this heart sincere,
With tender love, shall shed some bless'd relief,
Watch for the moment when its voice may cheer,
And joy to mark the ebbing tide of grief.

And young Honora, in each rising charm
Of form and mind, the pious task shall aid;

O! like their loved Alinda, soft and warm,
Glows this transplanted flower that decks their shade.

Scarce o'er her head are thirteen summers flown,
Yet clear intelligence, unswerving truth,
And every soothing sympathy, have thrown
Meridian lustre o'er her morn of youth.

And dost thou stretch, dear maid, those gentle arms,
Smile through thy tears, in pity's hallow'd guile?
Shield me, my love, from woe's o'erwhelming harms,
Thy tears are balm, and peace is in thy smile.

Thy tender accents, on my grief-chill'd soul
Fall, like the vernal breath on wintry bowers,
When, from the fleecy clouds, that lightly roll,
Silent and mild descend the sunny showers.

And since in Thee, to every worth alive,
The sacred energies of Friendship burn,
Thy love, my dear Honora, shall revive
The joys that faded o'er Alinda's urn.

(j.)

This Poem was written on the terrace walk of the Palace garden at Lichfield, soon after the death of the Author's only sister, who died at 19, on the eve of her intended marriage.

This, and all other Poems of this Collection marked; were written between the age of 17 and 23.

The Vale of Stowe, which slopes down from Lichfield Cathedral.

Miss Honora Sneyd, since Mrs Edge- worth, the daughter of Edward Sneyd, Esq. She was adopted by Mr and Mrs Seward, and educated in their family. In her 18th year she became the object of the brave, unfortunate Ma- jor André's unalienable attachment.

KNOWLEDGE,

A POEM IN THE MANNER OF SPENCER.

Is there a joy that gilds our stormy days,
For which the soul of man so much should pine
As heaven-born Knowledge? Yet her sacred rays
Are as the diamond's, and by art must shine;
The latent beams more exquisitely fine
In some of highest worth, yet all require
Industrious care, or lost the light divine
Ordain'd to wake each elegant desire
That shall to all that's fair, and great, and good aspire.

While yet unknown the principles of art,
Impervious veils must shroud its radiance clear;
When sluggish ignorance surrounds the heart
No lustres can pervade the darkness drear,
But all as colours to the blind appear;
Where Pleasure's tint, celestial, rosy red,
Majestic purple, scarlet, hue of war,

The undulating mantle of the mead,
And Heaven's gay robe, a dark, unmingled mass is spread.

There glows in man a principle innate,
Of powerful bias, which to good, or ill,
Low, or exalted, must direct his state,
And one fixed purpose of the soul fulfill,
As early choice, to habit grown, shall will;
If, like the lark that mounts the orient beam,
His wing he not expand, aspiring still
To Wisdom's sun, whence light and beauty stream,
He sinks in murky caves, where owls and ravens scream.

Youth is life's spring, the seed-time, when the mind
Fosters each new idea planted there;
If we neglect to sow the grain refined,
No future pains can raise a harvest fair;
And memory, warm and soft in early year
As yielding wax, disused, grows cold and hard,
Nor aught retains of each impression rare,
Which, when retain'd, acquire the high reward
Bestow'd by star-crown'd Fame on timely studious bard.

Mild Sensibility, whose trembling light
Has rarely fail'd to shine in youthful breast,

Resisted, chill'd, withdraws her influence bright,
From the dull spirit, in its stagnant rest;
She flies!—and with her flies each lovely guest,
From her deriving all their noblest powers,
Genius and Truth, in sun-gilt mantle drest,
Love, Friendship, Pity, all that speed the hours,
And strew the path of life with ever blooming flowers.

PORTRAIT OF MISS LEVETT.

Tho' lovely Stella's pleasing features show
Nor Phydian symmetry, nor Titian glow,
Yet Mind imparts, their transient charms to foil,
Life to her glance, and magic to her smile.

When serious tender, and when gay serene,
Consummate elegance in all her mien,
To her the youth from vaunted beauty flies,
And for the Graces, in their favourite, sighs,
They, in the very ribbons that o'ershade
Her lively brows, her auburn tresses braid,

Infuse, with playful spirit, all their own,
The power resistless of the Cyprian zone.

Her dress, her air, her accent to attain,
See emulative fair-ones strive in vain!
While sires and matrons in attention vie,
And watch the rising archness in her eye.
E'en envious maids, in life's deserted wane,
Look half as pleased as if beloved again;
Lose, as they listen, all their sullen cares,
Remit their scandal, and neglect their prayers.
Round the grave Scholiast as her spirit plays,
Behold him chace it thro' its brilliant maze,
And, sexual pride subdued, at length disown
The Salique Law for Wit and Fancy's throne!

(j.)

Then of Lichfield, and afterwards wife of the Rev. Richard Levett. This picture, in verse, was drawn by the author at eighteen.

ELEGY

ADDRESSED TO CORNET V---,

IN THE AUTUMN 1765.

Ere yet thou seek'st Ierne's jocund shore,
Pensive I wave this tributary lay;
Confess thy Julia must the fate deplore,
That soon shall lead thee o'er the wat'ry way.

Tinged with no blush, she boasts herself thy friend,
That gentle name, from dangerous wishes free!
Yet will no merit from the boast pretend,
For who, who would not be the friend of thee?

While youth and bloom, and dignity combine,
All that can interest, all that can adorn,
To manly grace attempering softness join,
Life's noon-tide lustres in her orient morn.

The lights of intellect around thee thrown,
Thy modest virtues every where the theme!—
Strange, if the coldest maid should blush to own
Desert so high awakes her owed esteem.

Love's fairy visions for a while are gay,
A little, little while, when they are new,
But soon the sweet enchantment fades away,
Transient as summer morn's exhaling dew.

Ah, then approach a throng of secret woes,
To faithless hope the varied pang succeeds;
The thorny pillow banishes repose;
The wounded heart inevitably bleeds.

Yes, bleed it must, and bleed at every vein,
When the pale brood, of Disappointment born,
Attendants oft on Love's tyrannic reign,
Teach the lost maid her living death to mourn.

If my presaging soul aright divine,
Such the sad lot I am ordain'd to prove,
Should I, rash votary at that dangerous shrine,
Receive the rose-deck'd chains of guileful love!

No wreaths of amaranth he weaves for me,
Then guarded rise my gay, my youthful hours!
Calm be my thoughts, my artless bosom free
From the sharp thorns of transitory flowers!

But, happier amity, pervade my breast,
With tranquil empire, thro' these vernal years,
While, in Horatio's trusting friendship blest,
Mine his prosperity, and mine his cares.

This sympathizing heart implores the task
To sooth thee, drooping in thy native clime;
Give then the precious confidence I ask,
The tender records of the vanish'd time!

My pitying spirit shall partake thy pains,
And griefs divided lose their power to blight;
Watch the lone sigh, that steals to Gallia's plains,
Where Beauty mourns thy much unwilling flight.

Ah! pale no more thy star of love should gleam,
Could my soul's wishes its soft orb command,
But point in purest light each languid beam,
And on the azure zenith shining stand.

O! may unblemish'd Honour guard thy fame,
And plumy Conquest triumph on thy sword;
Thine be each meed the milder virtues claim,
Health, Peace, and Plenty, hand-maids of thy board!

When ardent Youth, and rosy Love are flown,
O! e'en thy graces cannot bribe their stay!
As Joy had brighten'd in thy radiant noon,
May soft Contentment gild thy closing day!
And when thou soarest from these veering spheres,
From busy Life, and from its silent bourne,
Thine be the bliss, that change nor period fears,
In the blest regions of the nightless morn.

(j.)

The author had heard, and be- lieved, that her friend was attached, at the time this poem was written, to a young lady at Angiers.

THE HAY-FIELD,

A MORNING SCENE.

The joys, gay Spirit of the social plain,
And useful labours, renovate my strain,
Rising, it vibrates to thy oaten reed,
And sings the artless pleasures of the mead.
No frown the Muse from Truth and Nature fears,
Tho' pale Refinement sicken as she hears.

Now is it June's bright morn, and Beauty twines
The glowing wreaths that deck her thousand shrines;
On the lark's wing, sweet music hails the day,
And o'er the sun-beam pours his liquid lay;
While the blithe Spirit of the social plain
Leads Health, and Love, and Gladness in his train.

Crown'd with her pail, light rocking as she steps,
Along the fresh moist grass, young Lucy trips.

The rustic vest is from her ancle drawn,
Yet catches many a dew-drop of the lawn.
Warm on her downy cheek health's deepest glow,
And in her eyes its lavish lustres flow;
And in her voice its wildly-warbled song
Floats, and returns the echoing glades among.
Her nut-brown tresses wanton on the gale,
Her breath perfumes afresh the blossom'd vale.

Nine blooming maidens meet her in the grove,
And ask and tell the tender tale of love;
With their prone fork and mystic scroll they frame,
Tracing on sand each heart-recorded name.
O'er the bared shoulder hangs the idle rake,
And busy Fancy paints the coming wake;
But from the lip th' unfinish'd periods break,
And joy's warm blushes deeper tinge the cheek;
For, see th' expected youths, in manhood's pride,
Stoutly are striding down the mountain's side;
High o'er the rapid brook at once they bound,
And gay good-morrows thro' the plain resound!

And now is Labour busy in the dale;
The cow stands duteous by the cleanly pail,
Where the rich milk descends in eddying tides,
Pure as the virgin hands thro' which it glides.

The youths, with short'ning arm and bending head,
Sweep their bright scythes along the shiver'd mead;

Three blithsome maids the grassy treasure shake,
Three draw, with gentle hand, the thrifty rake;
And three, 'mid carol sweet and jocund tale,
Scatter the breathing verdure to the gale.

Where yonder cottages' ascending smoke,
In spiral columns, wreaths the sun-gilt oak;
The careful parents of the village dwell,
And dress the savoury pottage in the cell;
Their little rosy girls and boys prepare
The steaming breakfast thro' the vale to bear.

See, with pleased looks, gay Ceres' happy train
Watch their young donors loaded on the plain,
Inhale the grateful fumes that round them rise,
Mark their slow, heedful step and earnest eyes,
The chubby hands that grasp the circling rim,
Where health's warm viand rises to the brim.
Light on the violet bank recline the band,
And take the present from the willing hand;
With eager appetite, and poignant taste,
Thank the kind bearers, and enjoy the feast.

Yon tall white spire, that rises 'mid the trees,
Courting, with golden vane, the passing breeze,
A peal, far heard, sends merry down the dale,
The notes of triumph tell a bridal tale.

The hallow'd green sod the swift river laves,
Dark alders trembling o'er the sunny waves;
Its ripling breast receives each measured round,
Mellowing the shrillness of the silver sound.

Our youthful lovers hail th' harmonious noise,
And Hope anticipates their bridal joys;
Pours all her magic influence on the scene,
Laughs in their eyes, and triumphs in their mien.
Sportful their infant friends around them rove,
And all is frolic, innocence, and love.

May equal bliss the varying year adorn,
And gild the labours of each future morn!
Whether the wanton hours, that lead the spring,
Catch silver rain-drops from her shining wing,
Or zoneless Summer, flaunting o'er the meads,
Empurpled bloom, and richest fragrance sheds;
Or auburn Autumn, from her full lap, throws
The mellow fruits upon the bending boughs;
Or Winter, with his dark relentless train,
Wind, snow, and sleet, shall desolate the plain;
Howl o'er the hill, and as the river raves,
In drear stagnation warp th' arrested waves.
Yes, may the days of bloom and ripeness find
Such joys rewarding each untainted mind;
And, in the rage of the severer hours,
May balmy Comfort, with assuasive powers,

Present the stores by former toil amass'd,
Pile the warm hearth, and dress the neat repast;
Bid sport and song prepare the gladsome rite,
Then smooth the pillow through the stormy night!
Thus Health and Love the varying year shall crown,
While Truth and Nature smile, tho' pale Refinement frown.

INSCRIPTION

[_]

For an Urn in a Gentleman's Garden, amid the Mountainous Parts of Scotland, where two Lovers had been killed by the fall of an impending Precipice.

Blow, Winter-wind, these desert rocks around,
No blight from thee my cypress garland fears!
Away ye months, with light and roses crown'd!
But, melting April, steep it in thy tears!
Here the fond lover to his fair one told
The tale of tenderness and gay delight,
When, from its base, th' incumbent mountain roll'd,
And Beauty, Youth, and Love, were whelm'd in night.
Ah! gentle stranger, pensive o'er me bend,
Who, in these deathful scenes, am doom'd to prove,
A sad memorial of the timeless end,
And living grave, of Beauty, Youth, and Love!