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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A CALL TO HOPE.
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 | The poetical works of Susanna Blamire "The Muse of Cumberland." |  |
A CALL TO HOPE.
22D MAY, 1792.
WRITTEN AFTER A LONG ILLNESS, AND NOT EXPECTING TO RECOVER.
Stay, Hope, and hear thy votary's prayer,
Nor spread thy filmy wings in air;
Those painted pinions light and gay
Must they then waft thee far away?
Must they then spread before my sight,
And shade me into deepest night?
See where I've deck'd thy once lov'd shrine!
See what gay flowers thy bust entwine!
The morning rose that fades ere noon,
Buds promising to blow full soon,
The first green leaf that nature spreads,
The first flowers rising from their beds,
The daisy ever fond to blow,
And the sweet drop that's wrapp'd in snow;
All these an offering oft I've paid,
As at thy shrine I fondly pray'd;
Still didst thou promise thou wouldst be,
Next to fond Fancy, kind to me.
Nor spread thy filmy wings in air;
Those painted pinions light and gay
Must they then waft thee far away?
Must they then spread before my sight,
And shade me into deepest night?
See where I've deck'd thy once lov'd shrine!
See what gay flowers thy bust entwine!
The morning rose that fades ere noon,
Buds promising to blow full soon,
The first green leaf that nature spreads,
The first flowers rising from their beds,
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And the sweet drop that's wrapp'd in snow;
All these an offering oft I've paid,
As at thy shrine I fondly pray'd;
Still didst thou promise thou wouldst be,
Next to fond Fancy, kind to me.
When gay Hygēa used to frown,
And chain my rising wishes down;
When she beyond yon hill would stray,
And leave my sight a length of way;
Then thou wouldst come, and with a smile
Half charm the weary hour the while,
Drawing a landscape sweet and fair
That mingl'd with the softest air,
And painted Days of other hue,
And Evenings spangl'd o'er with dew,
And Hours that, laughing as they trode,
Left a flower-circle on the sod.
And chain my rising wishes down;
When she beyond yon hill would stray,
And leave my sight a length of way;
Then thou wouldst come, and with a smile
Half charm the weary hour the while,
Drawing a landscape sweet and fair
That mingl'd with the softest air,
And painted Days of other hue,
And Evenings spangl'd o'er with dew,
And Hours that, laughing as they trode,
Left a flower-circle on the sod.
Then dost thou fly me?—Goddess, stay!
Seest thou where Sickness chains the day?
Seest thou what loads 'tis forc'd to bear,
And drag around the weary year?
See! see! she now arrests my breath,
And almost threatens instant death;
A lifeless calm she now demands,
And ties my weak unmoving hands.
No more my fingers seek the lyre,
And wildly sweep along the wire,—
The trembling wire that oft has found
The softest way to sweetest sound,
And thrilling yet along the line
Would aid this falling note of mine,
Then melting with the plaintive air
Seem'd a weak sort of echo there;
Or when the sprightly notes would swell
Of some sweet halcyon days to tell,
And Memory spring at every note,
Till all her visions round me float,
And friends appear—the distant far—
Led by Affection's polar star,
And round me throng with tender zeal,
And make me think 'tis bliss to feel,
Which, though the pleasure leads to pain,
Persuades it is not given in vain.
Seest thou where Sickness chains the day?
Seest thou what loads 'tis forc'd to bear,
And drag around the weary year?
See! see! she now arrests my breath,
And almost threatens instant death;
A lifeless calm she now demands,
And ties my weak unmoving hands.
No more my fingers seek the lyre,
And wildly sweep along the wire,—
The trembling wire that oft has found
The softest way to sweetest sound,
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Would aid this falling note of mine,
Then melting with the plaintive air
Seem'd a weak sort of echo there;
Or when the sprightly notes would swell
Of some sweet halcyon days to tell,
And Memory spring at every note,
Till all her visions round me float,
And friends appear—the distant far—
Led by Affection's polar star,
And round me throng with tender zeal,
And make me think 'tis bliss to feel,
Which, though the pleasure leads to pain,
Persuades it is not given in vain.
Nay, tarry, Hope! for if thou goest,
Then in a world of woes I'm toss'd;
'Tis true thou leav'st a Sister's eye
Dropping like balm beneath the sky;
That sees from far my wishes stray,
And kindly meets them on the way,
Leaving no void within the breast,
But lulling every care to rest.
Yet, goddess, should thy feathery feet
Stray where again we ne'er shall meet;
Shouldst thou just brush the pearly dew
From velvet lawns I never knew;
And shouldst thou leave me far behind,
As weak in frame as weak in mind,
How could this pilgrimage be borne,—
How could I wear life's rankling thorn!
In life's best days, O! smiling stand,
And blandly take the traveller's hand,
Conduct him through the fairy scene,—
“Thy meadows pied and alleys green,”
“Thy vistas long that open day”
And half conceal the length of way,
As fancied visions softly rise
And cheat his eager willing eyes,
Illusions glide in shadowy form,
And waft away the rising storm;
Continue thus thy magic power,
And charm for once the heavy hour,
From present ill the Fancy bear
The painful sufferings into air,
There catch the spirits light and free,
That leave me bless'd with them and thee.
Then in a world of woes I'm toss'd;
'Tis true thou leav'st a Sister's eye
Dropping like balm beneath the sky;
That sees from far my wishes stray,
And kindly meets them on the way,
Leaving no void within the breast,
But lulling every care to rest.
Yet, goddess, should thy feathery feet
Stray where again we ne'er shall meet;
Shouldst thou just brush the pearly dew
From velvet lawns I never knew;
And shouldst thou leave me far behind,
As weak in frame as weak in mind,
How could this pilgrimage be borne,—
How could I wear life's rankling thorn!
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And blandly take the traveller's hand,
Conduct him through the fairy scene,—
“Thy meadows pied and alleys green,”
“Thy vistas long that open day”
And half conceal the length of way,
As fancied visions softly rise
And cheat his eager willing eyes,
Illusions glide in shadowy form,
And waft away the rising storm;
Continue thus thy magic power,
And charm for once the heavy hour,
From present ill the Fancy bear
The painful sufferings into air,
There catch the spirits light and free,
That leave me bless'd with them and thee.
| The poetical works of Susanna Blamire "The Muse of Cumberland." | |