 | The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard |  |
253
SOUR GRAPES.
I have frequently observed that resignation is never so perfect as
when the object of our desire begins to lose its attraction in our
eyes.—
Mr. Collins, in Pride and Prejudice.
Those tempting grapes! how rich their hue
Amidst the green on which they rest!
Their purple blood seems bursting through,
As eager to be prest.
Amidst the green on which they rest!
Their purple blood seems bursting through,
As eager to be prest.
A bunch of beauty—hue and shape—
Combined to form their fair design—
A group of fairy globes, each grape
A little world of wine.
Combined to form their fair design—
A group of fairy globes, each grape
A little world of wine.
Most beautiful to every sense;
The heart drinks pleasure through the eyes;
And now its longing grows intense—
The hand would seize the prize.
The heart drinks pleasure through the eyes;
And now its longing grows intense—
The hand would seize the prize.
It seizes—no! but try again,
Another catch, on tiptoe try—
One effort more—the hope is vain,
They hang so very high.
Another catch, on tiptoe try—
One effort more—the hope is vain,
They hang so very high.
254
A dreary change—a chilling shade—
A sudden breath of blighting power
Falls on the grapes—their colours fade;
The fruit, in fact, is sour.
A sudden breath of blighting power
Falls on the grapes—their colours fade;
The fruit, in fact, is sour.
So it is with us, hour by hour,
Age after age: and this were meet,
If calling sweets beyond us sour
Could make our sours more sweet.
Age after age: and this were meet,
If calling sweets beyond us sour
Could make our sours more sweet.
It may be wise to scorn the prize
For which in vain we read or wrote;
But wiser far to deem the star
Still radiant though remote.
For which in vain we read or wrote;
But wiser far to deem the star
Still radiant though remote.
If happy he, who, should he miss
The fruit, can pass it as pernicious,
More blessed his lot, who, losing bliss,
Still thinks the grapes delicious;
The fruit, can pass it as pernicious,
More blessed his lot, who, losing bliss,
Still thinks the grapes delicious;
Who sees the crowning cluster, where
His hand may reach in two more summers,
And laughs, and leaves its sweetness there,
A feast for after-comers.
His hand may reach in two more summers,
And laughs, and leaves its sweetness there,
A feast for after-comers.
1835.
| The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard | |