Poems consisting of a tour through parts of North and South Wales, sonnets, odes, and an epistle to a friend on physiognomy. By W. Sotheby |
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 | Poems |  |
O'er mournful solitudes, o'er desert heaths,
Where not a wild tree waves its leafy shade,
Chill'd by the desolating blast that sweeps
With whirlwind wings athwart the stony beach
Of Newegal, when sad and faint thou droop'st
At yon sequester'd shrine, away with dreams
Of this world and its pleasures! loudly roars
The billowy sea, and the bleak winds that rush
Through the rent arches of the aisle, invade
The stillness of the aweful fane, where once
The lonely Monk heard but the dropping bead
That clos'd his orison, save when the shriek
Of the wreck'd sailor dash'd against the rocks
Burst on the vigils of his midnight hour.
Yet these lone wastes, this horror-breathing gloom,
And the wide scene of desolation, suit
The tenor of my soul, while sad I join
The maids and village swains, who annual meet—
Lucy!—to scatter o'er thy funeral sod
Fresh flowers: I knew thee in thy happier days,
Ere melancholy love had wrought thee woe.
Oh! if the muse had taught my lip to breathe
Those sounds which hang upon the ear of time,
That magic melody which makes the past
Present, reanimates the dead, and gives
To immortality; thee, hapless maid!
Thee from oblivion, my memorial note
Of pity should preserve. His country forc'd
Her lover from her arms; in foreign lands
The soldier fell; but Lucy liv'd, if that
May life be deem'd, when madd'ning o'er its grief
Broods dark despair. Yet a mild beam of peace
Gleam'd transient on her soul, when unrestrain'd,
Amid the lov'd retreats where William dwelt,
Frequent she linger'd. Oft on Teivy's banks
At early dawn the lonely angler met
Poor Lucy, wreathing mid her locks fresh flow'rs;
And at the dusky close of eve, again
On the same spot, from her dishevel'd hair
Scatt'ring the faded blossoms in the stream:
There long she roam'd, and time had gradual shed
A lenient balm upon her closing wounds,
When mid the merry crowd who yearly throng'd
The village feast, the wand'rer chanc'd to stray
Unmindful of her woe, where his rude strain
An old blind minstrel sung, simple the tale,
Of a lone maid who on a sea-beat cliff
Wept o'er her lover's loss; artless the tune,
Yet it fell wond'rous forceful on the heart:
Swift rushing through the crowd, ‘'tis mine,’ 'tis mine,
‘To sing her woe,’ the raving Lucy cried,
And in deep notes of frenzy pour'd aloud
Her bleeding miseries. From that sad hour
No more, poor Maid! mid Teivy's sweeter scenes
Lay thy rude path; but oft wert thou beheld
Lone bending o'er the crag in deep despair,
While wint'ry storms from old Cilgarran drove
To the dark flood the shiver'd fragment; oft
On Aberystwith's solitary tow'r
To watch all mournful by the midnight lamp,
That flings its blaze along the troubled sea;
Or by the perilous bridge that overhangs
The black abyss, climbing the slippery crags
Worn by the cataract; thy daily food
The mountain berry, and thy bed at night
The cave, white with the foam of Monach's flood:
There floating down the stream thy breathless corse
The wand'ring shepherd found. Beneath this turf
At length thy sorrows rest. Poor Maid, farewell!
Where not a wild tree waves its leafy shade,
Chill'd by the desolating blast that sweeps
29
Of Newegal, when sad and faint thou droop'st
At yon sequester'd shrine, away with dreams
Of this world and its pleasures! loudly roars
The billowy sea, and the bleak winds that rush
Through the rent arches of the aisle, invade
The stillness of the aweful fane, where once
The lonely Monk heard but the dropping bead
That clos'd his orison, save when the shriek
Of the wreck'd sailor dash'd against the rocks
Burst on the vigils of his midnight hour.
Yet these lone wastes, this horror-breathing gloom,
And the wide scene of desolation, suit
The tenor of my soul, while sad I join
The maids and village swains, who annual meet—
Lucy!—to scatter o'er thy funeral sod
Fresh flowers: I knew thee in thy happier days,
30
Oh! if the muse had taught my lip to breathe
Those sounds which hang upon the ear of time,
That magic melody which makes the past
Present, reanimates the dead, and gives
To immortality; thee, hapless maid!
Thee from oblivion, my memorial note
Of pity should preserve. His country forc'd
Her lover from her arms; in foreign lands
The soldier fell; but Lucy liv'd, if that
May life be deem'd, when madd'ning o'er its grief
Broods dark despair. Yet a mild beam of peace
Gleam'd transient on her soul, when unrestrain'd,
Amid the lov'd retreats where William dwelt,
Frequent she linger'd. Oft on Teivy's banks
At early dawn the lonely angler met
Poor Lucy, wreathing mid her locks fresh flow'rs;
And at the dusky close of eve, again
On the same spot, from her dishevel'd hair
31
There long she roam'd, and time had gradual shed
A lenient balm upon her closing wounds,
When mid the merry crowd who yearly throng'd
The village feast, the wand'rer chanc'd to stray
Unmindful of her woe, where his rude strain
An old blind minstrel sung, simple the tale,
Of a lone maid who on a sea-beat cliff
Wept o'er her lover's loss; artless the tune,
Yet it fell wond'rous forceful on the heart:
Swift rushing through the crowd, ‘'tis mine,’ 'tis mine,
‘To sing her woe,’ the raving Lucy cried,
And in deep notes of frenzy pour'd aloud
Her bleeding miseries. From that sad hour
No more, poor Maid! mid Teivy's sweeter scenes
Lay thy rude path; but oft wert thou beheld
Lone bending o'er the crag in deep despair,
While wint'ry storms from old Cilgarran drove
To the dark flood the shiver'd fragment; oft
32
To watch all mournful by the midnight lamp,
That flings its blaze along the troubled sea;
Or by the perilous bridge that overhangs
The black abyss, climbing the slippery crags
Worn by the cataract; thy daily food
The mountain berry, and thy bed at night
The cave, white with the foam of Monach's flood:
There floating down the stream thy breathless corse
The wand'ring shepherd found. Beneath this turf
At length thy sorrows rest. Poor Maid, farewell!
| Poems | |