 | The Poetical Works of John Scott |  |
320
ELEGY IN THE MANNER OF HAMMOND;
SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN IN THE AUTHOR'S GARDEN, DURING A STORM. 1756.
Blow on, ye Winds! exert your utmost rage,
Sweep o'er the dome, or thro' the forest howl!
Could North with South, or East with West engage,
What were their war to that within my soul?
Sweep o'er the dome, or thro' the forest howl!
Could North with South, or East with West engage,
What were their war to that within my soul?
There adverse passions fierce contention hold,
There Love and Pride maintain alternate sway,
There fell Despair's dark clouds on clouds are roll'd,
And veil Hope's transient, faint, delusive ray!
There Love and Pride maintain alternate sway,
There fell Despair's dark clouds on clouds are roll'd,
And veil Hope's transient, faint, delusive ray!
Too charming Sylvia! dear capricious Fair!
What strange perplexing change of mind is thine!
No more thy smiles I'll trust, thy frowns I'll bear;
I'll shun the beauty that must ne'er be mine!
What strange perplexing change of mind is thine!
No more thy smiles I'll trust, thy frowns I'll bear;
I'll shun the beauty that must ne'er be mine!
321
Was it for thee I form'd this fair retreat,
Bade thro' the grove the smooth walk wind away,
Adorn'd that walk with many a rustic seat,
And by those seats bade tinkling runnels stray;
Bade thro' the grove the smooth walk wind away,
Adorn'd that walk with many a rustic seat,
And by those seats bade tinkling runnels stray;
Along my sunny wall the fruit-tree spread,
Upon my eves expos'd the curling vine,
Around my door the spicy woodbine led,
Beneath my window saw the jasmine twine?
Upon my eves expos'd the curling vine,
Around my door the spicy woodbine led,
Beneath my window saw the jasmine twine?
Blow on, ye Winds! exert your utmost power,
Rage thro' my groves, and bear down every tree;
Blast the fair fruit, and crush the blooming flower—
For Sylvia's lost, and these are nought to me!
Rage thro' my groves, and bear down every tree;
Blast the fair fruit, and crush the blooming flower—
For Sylvia's lost, and these are nought to me!
| The Poetical Works of John Scott | |