The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle With A Sketch of his Life, by Leitch Ritchie |
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A PARTING DIRGE. |
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle |  |
A PARTING DIRGE.
In joyous Love's delicious spring,
I said, ‘I will of sorrow sing;’
For hearts too happy seek relief
From joy itself in fancied grief.
Alas! was there a Demon near,
That listened with malignant ear,
That looked on us with evil eye,
And laughed at coming misery?
Ah! little wist I that my song
Should be our parting dirge ere long;
And all thy lover's minstrel art
The murmurs of a breaking heart!
I said, ‘I will of sorrow sing;’
For hearts too happy seek relief
From joy itself in fancied grief.
Alas! was there a Demon near,
That listened with malignant ear,
That looked on us with evil eye,
And laughed at coming misery?
Ah! little wist I that my song
Should be our parting dirge ere long;
And all thy lover's minstrel art
The murmurs of a breaking heart!
So fondly loved—so sweetly won—
And art Thou then for ever gone!
And what on earth remains behind
To cheer the darkening waste of mind?
What wish can Wealth or Glory wake,
Though once I prized them for thy sake?
Is there no balm by Friendship lent
To heal the hearts which fate hath rent?
Can Fancy's power no spell combine
To hide that parting look of thine?
And art Thou then for ever gone!
And what on earth remains behind
To cheer the darkening waste of mind?
What wish can Wealth or Glory wake,
Though once I prized them for thy sake?
Is there no balm by Friendship lent
To heal the hearts which fate hath rent?
Can Fancy's power no spell combine
To hide that parting look of thine?
164
Ay, other feelings may control
The inward current of the soul;
Passion in apathy may die,
This lonely breast forget to sigh,
And changes o'er my spirit pass—
But ne'er the heart be what it was,
Ere the fell fingers of Despair
Had writ their cruel legend there!
The inward current of the soul;
Passion in apathy may die,
This lonely breast forget to sigh,
And changes o'er my spirit pass—
But ne'er the heart be what it was,
Ere the fell fingers of Despair
Had writ their cruel legend there!
And yet, had I again to choose,
I scarce could wish this lot to lose;
Love, even though joy and hope are past,
Retains enchantment to the last:
But wherefore glows his living spark
With rapture's light to set so dark!
I scarce could wish this lot to lose;
Love, even though joy and hope are past,
Retains enchantment to the last:
But wherefore glows his living spark
With rapture's light to set so dark!
I heard the tempest's rising wrath—
But Thou wert then to light my path;
And what from Fortune could I fear,
While hope was kind and Thou wert near?
While round us breathed Elysium's bloom,
How could I heed the gathering gloom?
Sweet dwelt on mine thy melting eyes,
Love's golden torch illumed the skies,
And, dazzled by the enchanting ray,
I thought the storm had passed away:
Alas! 'twas like the rainbow's beam,
Quenched in the lightning's lurid gleam!
But Thou wert then to light my path;
And what from Fortune could I fear,
While hope was kind and Thou wert near?
While round us breathed Elysium's bloom,
How could I heed the gathering gloom?
Sweet dwelt on mine thy melting eyes,
Love's golden torch illumed the skies,
And, dazzled by the enchanting ray,
I thought the storm had passed away:
Alas! 'twas like the rainbow's beam,
Quenched in the lightning's lurid gleam!
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle | |