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 | Harvest-Home (1805) |  |
EXTEMPORE LINES, PRESENTED ON THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND: INCLUDING THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY FOR APPEARING IN BLACK.
How's this?—in mourning-garments, and the night
When Undertakers would array in white,
Were they a pair just married to attend?
When e'en the jetty Raven would assume
The Swan's fair colours, could she change her plume,—
And comes in black the Poet and the Friend?
When Undertakers would array in white,
Were they a pair just married to attend?
When e'en the jetty Raven would assume
The Swan's fair colours, could she change her plume,—
And comes in black the Poet and the Friend?
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I own the charge:—but Bride-nights have been sung
Since Love's first Couple, when the World was young;
A pair most fond, though rather near akin:
Both seem'd by Nature—Love's Mamma—design'd
To form but One in body and in mind;
In troth, they were as near as bone and skin.
Since Love's first Couple, when the World was young;
A pair most fond, though rather near akin:
Both seem'd by Nature—Love's Mamma—design'd
To form but One in body and in mind;
In troth, they were as near as bone and skin.
To hail this Marriage came the tuneful Nine,
And their first Song was laid at Wedlock's shrine;
To them the Hymeneal harp was giv'n:
And ever since that Union, every Pair,
On bridal days, have been the Muses' care;
And some have thought each Match was made in Heav'n.
And their first Song was laid at Wedlock's shrine;
To them the Hymeneal harp was giv'n:
And ever since that Union, every Pair,
On bridal days, have been the Muses' care;
And some have thought each Match was made in Heav'n.
In very truth, there's not a simile,
A trope, a figure left, alas! for me;
Stripp'd are the Trees of Fancy and of Love;
And, just like Shakspeare's Mulberry,
Fiction has cut a Forest from a Tree;
And Hymen, who loves shade, has not one Grove.
A trope, a figure left, alas! for me;
Stripp'd are the Trees of Fancy and of Love;
And, just like Shakspeare's Mulberry,
Fiction has cut a Forest from a Tree;
And Hymen, who loves shade, has not one Grove.
At least a hundred thousand songs, thrice told,
—'Tis lucky that these Muses ne'er grow old—
Have hail'd as many Weddings; and, I fear,
Successive Poets have so hard been prest,
And each oblig'd to borrow from the rest,
There's nothing left for Matches made this year.
—'Tis lucky that these Muses ne'er grow old—
Have hail'd as many Weddings; and, I fear,
Successive Poets have so hard been prest,
And each oblig'd to borrow from the rest,
There's nothing left for Matches made this year.
Nothing, I mean, that's new:—bride-pinks and roses
Have long been us'd in Matrimonial Posies,
That scarce a bud remains for Beauty's pillow;
Bards have to true-love-knots turn'd all the bowers,
And made so many chaplets of the flowers,
That I have nought to offer but the Willow.
Have long been us'd in Matrimonial Posies,
That scarce a bud remains for Beauty's pillow;
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And made so many chaplets of the flowers,
That I have nought to offer but the Willow.
And hence it is I am in sables drest,
While bloomy vestments grace each other guest:
Yet still my heart-warm Wishes are as true,
Though breath'd in an undecorated lay,
As if all Eden's fragrance strew'd the way,
And Love's first Paradise around me grew.
While bloomy vestments grace each other guest:
Yet still my heart-warm Wishes are as true,
Though breath'd in an undecorated lay,
As if all Eden's fragrance strew'd the way,
And Love's first Paradise around me grew.
Then since the flowers Parnassian are o'er,—
May all the Garlands Bards have twin'd before,
And all that Fancy ever imag'd true,
Of fair and good, of tender and of kind,
In this day's happy Nuptials be COMBIN'D,
To form a fadeless Wreath, my Friend, for You!
May all the Garlands Bards have twin'd before,
And all that Fancy ever imag'd true,
Of fair and good, of tender and of kind,
In this day's happy Nuptials be COMBIN'D,
To form a fadeless Wreath, my Friend, for You!
| Harvest-Home (1805) | |