The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle With A Sketch of his Life, by Leitch Ritchie |
 |
 |
|
|
|
| I. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. | FYTTE IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| II. |
| III. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle |  |
151
FYTTE IV.
And all about grew every flower and tree,
To which sad lovers were transformed of yore.—
—Me seems of those I see the hapless fate
To whom sweet poets' verse hath given endless date.
Spenser's Faery Queene.
To which sad lovers were transformed of yore.—
—Me seems of those I see the hapless fate
To whom sweet poets' verse hath given endless date.
Spenser's Faery Queene.
The cool breeze from the billowy main
Breathes through the cedar groves again;
When from the grotto's mystic shade
We fare into the forest glade,
And through its wildering mazes glide
Until we gain the farther side,—
Whence the distant view descries,
Dimly seen, the Vale of Sighs.
Breathes through the cedar groves again;
When from the grotto's mystic shade
We fare into the forest glade,
And through its wildering mazes glide
Until we gain the farther side,—
Whence the distant view descries,
Dimly seen, the Vale of Sighs.
Winding down, the pathway slow
Leads us to that valley low,
Deep amidst the mountains wending;
Where the silvery willows, bending
O'er the melancholy stream,
Like despairing damsels seem,
With dishevelled tresses swinging,
Evermore their white hands wringing.
All along that lonesome glen,
Tall grey stones like shapes of men,
Rocks with tufts of myrtle crowned,
Cast their shadows o'er the ground—
Shadows strange that seem to fly,
Ghost-like, from my earthly eye;
And, at times, a feeble wail
Floats upon the sighing gale,
From those willows by the river
With their tresses waving ever,
Or the myrtle bowers above,
Like voice of one who dies for love.
Leads us to that valley low,
Deep amidst the mountains wending;
Where the silvery willows, bending
O'er the melancholy stream,
Like despairing damsels seem,
With dishevelled tresses swinging,
Evermore their white hands wringing.
All along that lonesome glen,
Tall grey stones like shapes of men,
Rocks with tufts of myrtle crowned,
Cast their shadows o'er the ground—
Shadows strange that seem to fly,
Ghost-like, from my earthly eye;
And, at times, a feeble wail
Floats upon the sighing gale,
152
With their tresses waving ever,
Or the myrtle bowers above,
Like voice of one who dies for love.
As we silently pass on,
Fair groups, upon the marble stone
Graven with surpassing skill,
The softened soul with pity fill:
Many a scene of mournful mood,
And acts of generous womanhood,
Such as high bards in ancient days
Sung to the lyre in tender lays,
In magic sculpture tell their tale,
Along that monumental vale,—
Preserved from ravage or decay
While crowns and empires pass away:
—Full many a scene we linger o'er
That thrilled the hearts of classic yore—
Young Thisbe watching in the wood,
Sweet Hero by wild Sestos' flood,
Pale Dido in her frenzied grief,
Deserted by the Trojan chief:
For in that Vale of Sighs appear
All scenes that waken pity's tear,
All tragic tales of gentle strain
Where woman's heart has bled in vain.
—In vain? No! I the word recal:
A lofty moral lives in all
Those stories of the heart's devotion,
Opening sources of emotion
Deeper far than Love can boast
Where his hopes have ne'er been crossed.
Fair groups, upon the marble stone
Graven with surpassing skill,
The softened soul with pity fill:
Many a scene of mournful mood,
And acts of generous womanhood,
Such as high bards in ancient days
Sung to the lyre in tender lays,
In magic sculpture tell their tale,
Along that monumental vale,—
Preserved from ravage or decay
While crowns and empires pass away:
—Full many a scene we linger o'er
That thrilled the hearts of classic yore—
Young Thisbe watching in the wood,
Sweet Hero by wild Sestos' flood,
Pale Dido in her frenzied grief,
Deserted by the Trojan chief:
For in that Vale of Sighs appear
All scenes that waken pity's tear,
All tragic tales of gentle strain
Where woman's heart has bled in vain.
—In vain? No! I the word recal:
A lofty moral lives in all
Those stories of the heart's devotion,
Opening sources of emotion
Deeper far than Love can boast
Where his hopes have ne'er been crossed.
153
At length, by the spell-guarded mount,
Where gushes a bright river's fount
Into the limpid pool below,
We pause with faltering step and slow
In that lone dell's remotest bound,
Arrested by a mournful sound;
For there, where clustering forests tall
Embower the deep-voiced waterfall,
Is heard the ever-moaning wail
Of one forlorn. Her tragic tale
In Grecian glen sweet Ovid found-
The Nymph who faded to a sound
For grief of unrequited love.
And lo, her Naiad sisters rove
For ever round the enchanted spot
Where Echo holds her misty grot,
Conversing with the viewless shade
Hovering o'er that haunted glade.
Oft as they tell her hapless story,
Responsive from the cavern hoary,
Loud wailing words of tender woe,
Half heard amidst the waters' flow,
Murmur of love's deceitful arts,
Of blighted forms and broken hearts,
And woman's triumph pure and high
In generous, deathless constancy! [OMITTED]
Where gushes a bright river's fount
Into the limpid pool below,
We pause with faltering step and slow
In that lone dell's remotest bound,
Arrested by a mournful sound;
For there, where clustering forests tall
Embower the deep-voiced waterfall,
Is heard the ever-moaning wail
Of one forlorn. Her tragic tale
In Grecian glen sweet Ovid found-
The Nymph who faded to a sound
For grief of unrequited love.
And lo, her Naiad sisters rove
For ever round the enchanted spot
Where Echo holds her misty grot,
Conversing with the viewless shade
Hovering o'er that haunted glade.
Oft as they tell her hapless story,
Responsive from the cavern hoary,
Loud wailing words of tender woe,
Half heard amidst the waters' flow,
Murmur of love's deceitful arts,
Of blighted forms and broken hearts,
And woman's triumph pure and high
In generous, deathless constancy! [OMITTED]
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle | |