The bard, and minor poems By John Walker Ord ... Collected and edited by John Lodge |
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LINES WRITTEN NEAR A WATERFALL. |
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 | The bard, and minor poems |  |
LINES WRITTEN NEAR A WATERFALL.
Lonely I here repose; the birchen tree,
Like a proud lady, waves her tresses long;
This sovereign oak's proud beauties flutter free,
Singing sweet undersong;
Like a dead giant, Silence lone doth brood,
Her banners black unfurl'd on all the solitude.
Like a proud lady, waves her tresses long;
This sovereign oak's proud beauties flutter free,
Singing sweet undersong;
Like a dead giant, Silence lone doth brood,
Her banners black unfurl'd on all the solitude.
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My heart is sick, for I have much to weep—
I weep, because so little I have done;
The burning years of youth all sunk to sleep,
And yet no Trophy won;
My yearnings all in vain—my soarings high
Hurl'd down into the dust, that late had touch'd the sky.
I weep, because so little I have done;
The burning years of youth all sunk to sleep,
And yet no Trophy won;
My yearnings all in vain—my soarings high
Hurl'd down into the dust, that late had touch'd the sky.
I weep, because my heart is growing gray!
And yet, methinks, I am too young for care;
My feelings, passions, thoughts, all sunk away,
All life's illusions fair;
And here I faint, a wither'd leaf of spring,
Whilst all the forest trees are bright and blossoming.
And yet, methinks, I am too young for care;
My feelings, passions, thoughts, all sunk away,
All life's illusions fair;
And here I faint, a wither'd leaf of spring,
Whilst all the forest trees are bright and blossoming.
I weep, because my harp-strings have no song;
There glows no Memnon for the sunlight now;
The oracle inspired hath lost her tongue,
Persuasion's eloquent flow.
Oh! had my time, my feelings waste, my thought,
Chimed with my sounding harp, what garlands I had wrought!
There glows no Memnon for the sunlight now;
The oracle inspired hath lost her tongue,
Persuasion's eloquent flow.
Oh! had my time, my feelings waste, my thought,
Chimed with my sounding harp, what garlands I had wrought!
I have had friends—the beautiful, the brave—
Ye dead, bear witness! they are now no more!
Mine earliest love is rotting in the grave,
Beneath yon ruins hoar!
Hope's rainbow hues are dead, her voice asleep,
Her faithful champion's slain, and therefore do I weep.
Ye dead, bear witness! they are now no more!
Mine earliest love is rotting in the grave,
Beneath yon ruins hoar!
Hope's rainbow hues are dead, her voice asleep,
Her faithful champion's slain, and therefore do I weep.
Yet more lament I griefs that are not mine;
New times have fallen upon old England's fields;
No sacred light illumes the inner shrine;
No sword the patriot wields!
Black clouds of death on the high mountains curl—
Rear up the oriflamme, the blood red flag unfurl.
New times have fallen upon old England's fields;
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No sword the patriot wields!
Black clouds of death on the high mountains curl—
Rear up the oriflamme, the blood red flag unfurl.
There is no Curtius now, to save the state,
Ingulf'd with all his heavenly armour on;
No Cincinnatus, in his cottage great;
No Tell—no Washington;
No God to save, though wax'd the oppressor more;
The Tyrant, many mouth'd, yells at our very door!
Ingulf'd with all his heavenly armour on;
No Cincinnatus, in his cottage great;
No Tell—no Washington;
No God to save, though wax'd the oppressor more;
The Tyrant, many mouth'd, yells at our very door!
Oh! where is there a pilot in this storm,
To scare the Tyrant minions from the throne?
Is there, throughout the land, no terrible form,
To hurl the traitors down?
Shall fire consume our halls, blood stain our hearth,
And yet no warrior forth, to hunt them from the earth?
To scare the Tyrant minions from the throne?
Is there, throughout the land, no terrible form,
To hurl the traitors down?
Shall fire consume our halls, blood stain our hearth,
And yet no warrior forth, to hunt them from the earth?
Thou Waterfall! so brightly flashing by,
Forgive me, that harsh thoughts disturb thy sound!
Thou only know'st these shadows, and the sky,
These solitudes profound!
But when I see even lofty names so vain
Worshipping unknown gods, how can I then refrain?
Forgive me, that harsh thoughts disturb thy sound!
Thou only know'st these shadows, and the sky,
These solitudes profound!
But when I see even lofty names so vain
Worshipping unknown gods, how can I then refrain?
O Nature! were thy face but better known,
Thy language felt more widely through the earth,
Less frequent wouldst thou hear the sigh and moan
Amid the general mirth;
Thou wouldst become a Temple, where we all,
Forgetting each his woes, unto thy God would call.
Thy language felt more widely through the earth,
Less frequent wouldst thou hear the sigh and moan
Amid the general mirth;
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Forgetting each his woes, unto thy God would call.
Thou Waterfall! the winds delight in thee;
The stag starts up to hear thy mellow voice;
And the dried leaves, that haunt thy pinions free,
Thou makest to rejoice!
Oh, ever could I dream the eventide,
And, with exulting heart, behold thy waters glide!
The stag starts up to hear thy mellow voice;
And the dried leaves, that haunt thy pinions free,
Thou makest to rejoice!
Oh, ever could I dream the eventide,
And, with exulting heart, behold thy waters glide!
This ancient bridge, sure it must feel delight,
So long rejoicing on thy pathway fair;
And this white house must glory in the light,
Glimmering everywhere:
No flower that haunts thy wave, no silver'd moss,
No pebble, but hath joy where thy glad footsteps pass.
So long rejoicing on thy pathway fair;
And this white house must glory in the light,
Glimmering everywhere:
No flower that haunts thy wave, no silver'd moss,
No pebble, but hath joy where thy glad footsteps pass.
Thou Waterfall! when I am far away,
I shall behold thee in the heavens of dream;
And I will brood o'er what I felt this day—
Thee for my theme;
And I will strive to mould my future life
As pure, as clear as thou, and as devoid of strife.
I shall behold thee in the heavens of dream;
And I will brood o'er what I felt this day—
Thee for my theme;
And I will strive to mould my future life
As pure, as clear as thou, and as devoid of strife.
| The bard, and minor poems | |