The poetical works of Leigh Hunt Now finally collected, revised by himself, and edited by his son, Thornton Hunt. With illustrations by Corbould |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
|
|
|
|
 | The poetical works of Leigh Hunt |  |
Alas! I delay as long as I can,
For who may find words for thy grief, sweet Anne?
'Tis hard, when young heart, singing songs of to-morrow,
Is suddenly met by the old hag, Sorrow.
She fainteth, she prayeth, she feeleth sore ill;
She wringeth her hands; she cannot stand still;
She tasteth the madness of wonder and will;—
Nor, sweet though she was, had she yielded at last,
Had Sir Guy not his loathly old plethora cast
In the scale against love and its life-long gains,
And threaten'd her fears for his bursting veins.
“I'll wed him,” she wrote to Sir William;—“yes;
But nothing on earth—” and here her distress
Broke off, and she wept, and the tears fell hot
On the paper, and made a great starry blot.
Alas! tears and letter burn under the eye
Of watchful, unmerciful, old Sir Guy;
And so on a night, when all things round,
Save the trees and the moon, were sleeping sound,
From his casement in shadow he sees his child,
Bent in her weeping, yet alway mild,
The fairest thing in the moon's fair ray,
Borne like some bundle of theft away;
Borne by a horde of old thieves away,
The guests and the guards of false Sir Grey.
For who may find words for thy grief, sweet Anne?
'Tis hard, when young heart, singing songs of to-morrow,
Is suddenly met by the old hag, Sorrow.
She fainteth, she prayeth, she feeleth sore ill;
She wringeth her hands; she cannot stand still;
She tasteth the madness of wonder and will;—
Nor, sweet though she was, had she yielded at last,
Had Sir Guy not his loathly old plethora cast
In the scale against love and its life-long gains,
And threaten'd her fears for his bursting veins.
“I'll wed him,” she wrote to Sir William;—“yes;
But nothing on earth—” and here her distress
Broke off, and she wept, and the tears fell hot
On the paper, and made a great starry blot.
Alas! tears and letter burn under the eye
Of watchful, unmerciful, old Sir Guy;
And so on a night, when all things round,
Save the trees and the moon, were sleeping sound,
From his casement in shadow he sees his child,
Bent in her weeping, yet alway mild,
74
Borne like some bundle of theft away;
Borne by a horde of old thieves away,
The guests and the guards of false Sir Grey.
| The poetical works of Leigh Hunt | |