 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
79
THE MEETING.
I saw them meet—the pangs of absence o'er,
And Memory holds a picture of the place:
'T was at the threshold of her cottage door,
Eliza met her husband's warm embrace.
And Memory holds a picture of the place:
'T was at the threshold of her cottage door,
Eliza met her husband's warm embrace.
How animated shone her eager eye,
Where joy's delicious tear suspended hung!
Her bosom heaved—but pleasure raised the sigh
Her voice was mute—but bliss had sealed her tongue.
Where joy's delicious tear suspended hung!
Her bosom heaved—but pleasure raised the sigh
Her voice was mute—but bliss had sealed her tongue.
Pressed in his arms, the chaste connubial kiss
Her ruby lips by turns received and gave;
Then, as ashamed of the excessive bliss,
Affection's blush she bids his bosom save.
Her ruby lips by turns received and gave;
Then, as ashamed of the excessive bliss,
Affection's blush she bids his bosom save.
But recollection whispered yet a joy
'T was hers to give; and from the trance she starts,
Puts in his arms their little infant boy,
Love's precious pledge, that closer binds their hearts.
'T was hers to give; and from the trance she starts,
Puts in his arms their little infant boy,
Love's precious pledge, that closer binds their hearts.
80
While round their sire the elder prattlers cling;
Beg for a kiss; their little tales recite;
Each emulous some trifling boon to bring,
And share their parents' unalloyed delight.
Beg for a kiss; their little tales recite;
Each emulous some trifling boon to bring,
And share their parents' unalloyed delight.
Forgotten now is separation's smart,
Or but remembered as the zest of joy;
Her smiles are sunshine to his gladdened heart,
Which love-created fears no more annoy.
Or but remembered as the zest of joy;
Her smiles are sunshine to his gladdened heart,
Which love-created fears no more annoy.
So, wrapped in night, the lonely pilgrim views
Aurora, blushing, throw her veil aside;
And, filled with joy, his lighted path pursues,
Whence erst bewildered he had wandered wide.
Aurora, blushing, throw her veil aside;
And, filled with joy, his lighted path pursues,
Whence erst bewildered he had wandered wide.
And is it joy that fills my eye? I cried—
Ah, no!—regret, that such was not my lot;
But yet to envy 't was so near allied,
I blushed—and sighing, left the happy spot.
Ah, no!—regret, that such was not my lot;
But yet to envy 't was so near allied,
I blushed—and sighing, left the happy spot.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |