Dramas Translations, and Occasional Poems. By Barbarina Lady Dacre.[i.e. Barbarina Brand] In Two Volumes |
I. |
II. |
POEMS. |
Dramas | ||
POEMS.
STANZAS
WRITTEN IN APRIL, 1797, SOME MONTHS AFTER THE DEATH OF MY SISTER JANE.
On Zephyr's wing a thousand perfumes float,
And the first cuckoo's solitary note
Bids us expect the evening nightingale:
With gaudy flowers the chequer'd fields are drest,
The violet lurks in every brake and dell;
With joy and hope all Nature seems to swell:
But 'tis nor joy, nor hope, that swells within my breast.
Nor zephyrs breathing on the bounding sense
Of untamed youth, in all their redolence,
Can now keen memory's secret power control:
That once through all my being bore delight,
Can my dull ear and sadden'd eye invite,
Or teach my heart again with joy and hope to swell.
Bearing away the new-turn'd furrow's breath,
And scent of grass fresh-nibbled on the heath
By eager sheep; while on the crumbling steep
Rash lambs, thick huddling, seem the race to urge:
So rash, so sportive once, a happy child,
My new existence filled with rapture wild,
I too snatched pleasure strange, like them, on danger's verge.
To her, whose first friend is in earth laid low.
Nor grass, nor sheep, can teach the heart to glow,
Whose loved companion is the prey of Death:
Nor life first bursting all around is sweet
To eyes that mark'd life ebb in one so dear;
Nor Nature's universal smile can cheer
Her, who is doomed no more her sister's smile to meet.
SONNET
OCCASIONED BY A DREAM.
Oft when life's cares, and woes, and fears are fled,Swept by the wing of hovering sleep away,
Fair dreams enchanting float around my head,
(Enchanting dreams, for of my sisters they),
And all the heaven of my early day
Fresh dawns upon me; and around me glows
Each sparkling eye, with youth, and hope, once gay,
Now closed for ever, or now dimm'd by woes:
My weary spirit tastes of joy again
In sweet illusion, when a creeping thrill
Of horror, boding some impending ill,
Half thought—half felt—renews the sense of pain;
Affrighted sleep spreads his swift wings for flight,
Fair dreams and sister forms quick snatching from my sight.
TO A YOUNG LADY
ON HER APPROACHING MARRIAGE.
Oh! never may the hope that lights thine eye,Sweet maid! be changed to disappointment's gloom!
Never, th' ingenuous frolic laugh I prize
To the forced smile that care must oft assume!
But may the blissful dream of thy young heart—
That dream from which so many wake too late—
Of joys that love requited shall impart,
Be realized in thy approaching fate!
And may I meet that frolic laugh again,
When time shall mix thy raven locks with grey,
Nor on thy brow detect the trace of pain,
Open as now, ingenuous, and gay;
And calling to thy mind my terrors vain,
“My dream is realized,” oh may'st thou say!
BOUTS RIMÉS
O! that I could my lab'ring thought so dressThat grave rebuke might wear an aspect gay,
So should I wake fair virtue's sleeping ray
In thy young breast, thy riper age to bless.
So shouldst thou crown thy father's visions bright,
And, nobly roused, from Pleasure's shackles free,
Thy genius and thy worth should then agree;
Nor wouldst thou Reason's sober dictates slight.
Then wise and gentle, generous and brave,
Thy brow should thy soul's character assume,
Whose lasting trace should dignify the gloom
Of age one day, nor fade till in the grave.
Awake! awake! disdain each worthless care,
Spurn Pleasure's tinsel chain, and nobly dare!
ON DUNSTONBURGH CASTLE.
Majestic Ruins! that so sadly speakThe glory of past days, and seem to grow
To the huge rock, high, desolate, and bleak,
That curbs the ocean tossing far below;
Shatter'd by time and war, sublime ye stand
In awful solitude!—on either side,
How vast the waste of water, or of land!
Above your head th' expanse of Heaven how wide!
Now round your hoary battlements dark frown
The threat'ning skies! while sudden from the west
The setting sun a radiant beam has thrown,
That gilds each fretted stone on your broad breast.
Touch'd by the glorious light, your turrets now
Gleam on the heavy clouds that roll away
With sullen pride,—again your deep-scarr'd brow
Smiles terrible beneath the evening ray.
And far more sad, my country! heaven-born Peace
Her radiance flings, that gilds thy every scar,
While backward rolling, Fate's dark tempests cease.
So smiling terrible, through nature's tears,
Fancy might paint thy veterans, with clasp'd hands,
O'er the void tombs that vain affection rears
To sons, to brothers, fallen in hostile lands;
The gallant youths, alas! thy strength, and pride,
England! who in thy cause, yet not in Freedom's died!
SONNET.
[See the poor captive from his dungeon break]
See the poor captive from his dungeon break,Where long he pined, and hail the light of day,
With eyes that in the broad effulgence ache,
With smiles that mid deep lines of anguish play!
How eagerly he meets the morning gale,
With lab'ring lungs that each sweet breath would seize!
How fondly views the hill, the plain, the vale,
Green meadows, brooks, fields, flow'rs, and waving trees!
And, “Gods!” he cries, “how dear is Liberty!
Is there in Heaven's large gift a boon beside?
The world is mine, and all the good I see!”
But soon, too soon, his raptures wild subside,
And sighing sad, “Not Freedom's self to me
Is sweet,” he cries, “if one to share it be denied.”
IMITATION OF BURNS.
That best thy virtues could ha' sung,
On lyre the muse hersel' had strung
To Scottish lays,
Till on the inmost heart had rung
Thy well-earn'd praise.
And cozie 'mang the grass is housed,
Wi' head beneath his wing composed,
The houlet shrill
Shrieks, by the dewy night-air roused,
Wi' fearless bill.
Though thy own country's bard be dead,
Wi' Burns away,
Wad weave a garland for thy head
O' Scottish bay!
Resistless as the tempest's wing
That wave on wave does dashing fling
Upo' the shore;
Yet mild thy soul as breath of spring
When war is o'er.
Thy social merits a' to tell,
And thou maun aiblins blush thysel'
Sic strains to hear,
For Virtue loves in shade to dwell
Wi' modest fear.
STANZAS
SUGGESTED BY A CANZONE OF PETRARCH.
Seize not thy unstrung bow, nor aim thy dart,
Void is thy quiver, nerveless is thine arm,
Vanish'd thy cruel empire o'er my heart:
No more a mighty God
Art thou, whose sov'reign nod
To worlds can woes and terrors wild impart;
No more I bend and weep before thy throne,
And sigh my soul away, unheeded and alone.
At the cold foot of Death thy broken bow;
Death's iron hand has borne thy torch away,
Death! mightier Death! proud victor, bends thee low.
And aim'st a pointless dart.
Arm'd by despair, my bosom dares the blow—
Thy baby archery I laugh to scorn—
Away! and leave me here, my liberty to mourn.
Seek thou my treasure in the earth laid low;
And if it be that thy unbounded reign
O'er Heaven extend, and o'er th' abyss below,
Burst thou the sacred tomb,
That clasp'd in early bloom
The form to which alone my soul can bow!
Wrest thou from Death the prize he bore away,
And in her charms resume thy universal sway.
Then wake that smile that might awake the dead,
Bright as the glittering beam of orient light
Breaks o'er a weeping sky when storms are fled!
And breathe those sounds again,
Thrilling through every vein,
Sounds that to thoughts of Heaven the fancy led,
While the rapt soul hung fondly on each note,
Which on the ear, when past, long sweetly seem'd to float.
In glossy braids around her temples bind,
Now in an envious net of twisted gold
Be all their waving glories close confined;
Now loosed from every band,
With sly and sportive hand
Toss them in ringlets on the wanton wind,
Then bind me, gazing, to thy car again,
And I will kiss my bonds, and hug once more my chain!
FRAGMENT,
ON THE IMPRESS OF THE SEAMEN OF THE FLEET FROM INDIA TO MAN THE KING'S SHIPS.
That throng the horizon? freighted with the wealth
Of either world, as their proud bosoms stem
The opposing surge, tossing their big sails high,
Exulting!—for they bring their treasure home,
And, laden as they are, have quell'd the foe
Who durst impede their course. The lioness
Thus homeward bears the prey, to nature true,
And in a mother's fond end uring love
Terrible, although th' unerring spear
Aim'd by the hunter gore her panting side:
So, bounding o'er the billows, ride our fleets,
Of home; and high among the shrouds, brave hearts
Beat towards that home with strong tumultuous joy.
The deep-scarr'd mariner, in thought already
Snatches the dear ones to his arms, long left
In penury, and for whose sake alone
He dared th' Atlantic surge, the tempest's rage,
The thunder of the foe, and dire disease.
Perchance escaped the fatal fever's sweep,
With alter'd looks, languid and sad, some pine
For inland sweets, green fields, umbrageous woods,
And trickling rills refreshing to the soul.
How many eyes that wept not when they saw,
Weltering in blood, their mangled comrades fall,
Now swim in tears at sight of the white cliffs
That gird their native isle! How many ears
That, unappall'd, have heard the cannons roar,
With quivering nerves now strain the trembling sense
To catch the shout faint-wafted from the strand!
Haply the youth, who utter'd not a groan
When the jagg'd steel erewhile his shatter'd limb
Slow-sever'd, heaves the tender sigh, unmann'd,
To think how joyfully his coming waits
The doting mother—who shall see him thus!
But ah! no more shall he, the deep-scarr'd veteran,
In his fond arms his dear ones clasp; nor he,
On inland verdure, nor inhale the airs
Fraught with unnumber'd sweets from flow'rets breathed,
Fresh herbs salubrious, and the steamy earth;
Nor they, who with moist eyes descry these cliffs,
Shall view them nearer, nor with eager step
Print the loved soil; nor shall the trembling sense
Aught seize of an applauding country's shouts,
Save the faint sound by pitying winds convey'd.
For lo! forth rushing from the shore, are sped
The fatal barks, with cruel purpose wing'd,
And sudden torn from yet but fancied joys,
Despotic power condemns them, thus o'ertoil'd,
To labours new, and all the ills of war!
And shall their countrymen her bidding do?
Gods! shall they grasp the unsuspecting hand,
Outstretch'd to greet with honest joy these men
As brothers,—and the mandate fell declare?
This fleet had been attacked, on its homeward bound passage, by the French squadron commanded by Admiral Linois. The senior officer, Captain Dance, not only resisted the attack of the French admiral, but actually compelled him to fly with his flag and men of war, before the armed merchantmen of England.
TO PSYCHE
ON READING HER POEM.
Who hears the lark's wild rapturous carol shrill,Nor feels with kindred joy his bosom glow?
Who, the lone owl's loud dismal shriek of woe,
Nor starts as with a sense of coming ill?
The mingled bleatings that at evening fill
The dewy air with tender sounds, that flow
From mother's love, all answering hearts avow,
Such sympathy does nature's voice instil!
What wonder, then, if the enchanting lay
In which the soul of love and virtue blend
Their force resistless, and thy heart pourtray,
While all the Nine their fascination lend,
That the rapt fancy the strong spell obey,
Greeting thee, unknown Psyche! as a friend?
PSYCHE'S ANSWER.
Lady, forgive if late the languid lyre,At length responsive to thy sweetest lay,
Breathe its low trembling chord with weak essay,
To utter all my grateful thoughts inspire;
Forgive, if vacant of poetic fire
I seem with frigid heart and dull delay
The flattering summons careless to obey;
Woo'd, kindly woo'd, so highly to aspire,
And echo the soft name of friend!—for me,
Alas! for me, in anguish and in fear,
The darkling days have since rolled heavily;
But go, my Psyche! in her partial ear
Whisper the sad excuse; and bid her see
In thine, the “sister form” most fair, most dear!
TRANSLATION OF HORACE'S ODE TO GROSPHUS.
Sighs for repose, when from the pilot's sight
The moon is shrouded, and th' uncertain light
Of friendly stars in gathering clouds is lost.
The Thracian, terrible to armed foes,
Asks of the Gods repose;
Repose the weary Median fain would know
Who bends th' unerring bow;
Repose, my Grosphus, not by gold procured,
By robes of Tyrian dye, nor precious gems ensured.
Th' attendant lictor, and the consul's state,
Can the wild tumults of the soul allay,
And still the breast; nor from the fretted roof
Keep fluttering cares aloof:
Blest who, content with little, simply fares,
Whose board no goblet bears,
Save one descended from his frugal sires;
His rest by fears unbroke, or sordid, base desires.
With distant aim why projects idly form?
Why climates seek that other sun-beams warm?
Say, can the wretch who from his country flies,
Fly from himself?—Destructive care e'en now
Mounts the tall vessel's prow!
Behold the warrior on the rapid steed!
Swift care o'ertakes his speed!
Swifter than flies the stag that, startled, springs,
Swifter than Eurus bears the clouds upon his wings.
No thought will take, still on the present fixt;
And if his cup with bitterness be mixt,
The cheerful smile upon his lip will play,
Tempering the draught—for not on earth below
May we each blessing know:
Found an untimely tomb:
Tithonus languish'd in eternal years,
And Time may snatch from thee what he for me prepares.
Along thy meads; eager thy coursers neigh,
That in the chariot race thy hand obey;
Gorgeous with purple dye thy vestures glow.
To me the gentle fates (my promised meed)
An humble farm decreed;
O'er my rapt thought in happy hour to feel
The Grecian muse soft steal;
And a calm soul, that with determined choice
Shuns the malignant world, and scorns its idle voice.
The above paraphrase was undertaken at the desire of a friend, who accompanied the request with a literal translation in English prose. Had I understood the original, or been, at the time, aware how peculiarly unfitted to the character of Horace is that more expanded metre which I adopted, I should have employed a shorter measure, and have attempted a more compressed style.
SONG.
[Though I may never more behold]
Thine eye of heaven's blue,
And catch the timid glance that told
Thy heart so fond and true;
By memory's magic force I feel
That eye still on me beam,
And half its pang from absence steal,
Lull'd by the waking dream.
So kindly wont to play,
That could each idle care beguile
Of Love's first golden day;
Now, when lone fancy rules the hour,
At evening's lingering close,
Comes o'er my soul with mightier power
To soothe my real woes.
SONG
[Shall this pale cheek no pity claim]
That thou wert wont to swear
Might opening damask roses shame?
Ah! if that hue no more it wear,
Thine, cruel! be alone the blame,
Who hung wan lilies there.
To thine no longer known?
This eye that read the tender thought,
Erewhile soft trembling in thine own;
By thee, alas! to weep, since, taught,
And all its lustre flown.
My joyous break of day,
Youth's mantling bloom, and smile so gay;
Tear from my heart, in pity tear,
The power to love away!
SONG.
NANNIE ATTIE.
That first I rock'd upo' my knee?
The bairn whose earliest moan I hush'd,
The bairn whose first smile dwelt on me?
That hides fra' me thy bonnie brow;
For dim with age these eyes are grown,
And tears of gladness blind them now.
Since Nannie Attie saw thy face;
And these auld eyes or see amiss,
Or still see ilk remember'd grace.
Sae kind the things thy young eye said;
'Twas here I traced the vein sae blue,
'Twas here the thought sae pure I read.
SONG.
[The paleness stealing o'er thy cheek]
The paleness stealing o'er thy cheekTo me betray'd thy pitying thought,
And ill thy faltering tongue could speak
The cruel lesson pride had taught:
Oh give me back the lingering smile,
That bade me hope, though you denied!
Oh let me live in doubt awhile,
And follow, blind, my blindfold guide!
SONG.
[The tell-tale Sun is in the sea]
Now fades the last pale, lingering, light,
And thou hast sworn to fly with me
Beneath the friendly veil of night.
And rudely toss thy raven hair?
Wild Nature's haunts are those of Love,
And peace and liberty are there.
Why start, my love, with doubt and fear?
'Twas but the bird of night that cried!
Hark! 'tis the torrent tumbling near!
To other cares and joys 'tis seal'd;
Love mocks all sorrows but his own,
And damps each joy he does not yield!
LINES
[Ever still must I adore thee]
Though wide seas between us roll,
Each fond thought shall hover o'er thee,
And thy image fill my soul:
Morning breaking on the ocean,
Will thy opening graces wear;
And with evening's last devotion
I will breathe thy name in prayer.
While for thee I live,
Ah! wilt thou, dear one, give
A sigh—a tear—to me?
Is the doubt tormenting groundless?
Yes, I read thine eye;
Faithful I again shall clasp thee
Ere I die:
Though wide seas between us roll,
Each fond thought shall hover o'er thee,
And thy image fill my soul.
Morning breaking on the ocean,
Will thy opening graces wear;
And with evening's last devotion
I will breathe thy name in prayer.
SONNET
ON SEEING THE BUST OF THE LATE SAWREY GILPIN.
My friend! my father! here thy heavenly mien,Here the last smile thy parting spirit hung
On thy cold lips, as passing forth serene
It sought the fount of love from whence it sprung,
Sorrowing I trace, and think how I have seen
Thy meek eye beam sublime, while rapt thy tongue
Told of Heaven's mercy, as each note had been
To win the wanderer home, divinely strung!
The loved, the honour'd, kind, parental air,
Impress'd upon the cold and senseless stone,
My streaming eye, and bursting heart declare,
As when in youth's wild joyous day, long flown,
With smiles benignant, such as fathers wear,
“My child,” thou saidst, as I had been thine own.
WILLIAM AND SARAH:
A BALLAD.
Old William, blind and poor, lived there,
And Sarah, bow'd beneath the load
Of age, and sickness, want, and care.
But spoke with cheerful utterance still,
Thankful for blessings she had known,
For William's sake she welcomed ill.
To live to close his sightless eyes;
For this her torturing pains to bear,
Then sink in death ere morning rise.
Will be,” she said, “poor William's friend?
Who spread his board, who smooth his brow?
Who on his wayward age attend?
With which he feels, amiss, his way?
And careful lay the stone aside
That might his tottering footstep stay?
That fronts the sun at noontide hour?
And watch the western clouds the while
To warn him of the gathering shower?
And the storm rocks our humble wall;
Then helpless blindness shrinks with dread,
Though nought the conscience pure appal!
Shall name our children far away,
And wake each recollection sweet,
Till they in thought around him play?
His eye-balls then in vacant space
Will seem each cherub face to seek,—
On memory stampt a cherub face,—
Since my good man our girls could see;
Our sons have thirty harvests told
Since rosy boys around his knee;
For smiles deep lines of care portray'd,
And cherub faces round them now
So bloom,—and so are doom'd to fade!
Each snatch of joy he e'er has known!—
E'en on the fallow's barren space,
A wild flower here and there has blown!
To live to close his sightless eyes,
For this my torturing pains to bear,
Then sink in death ere morning rise!”
The humble prayer of duteous love,
Pour'd ardent forth, in anguish keen,
Was heard, where mercy rules above!
And without pain resign'd his breath;
His sightless eyes poor Sarah closed,
And, grateful, sunk ere morn in death.
FABLE.
TO MY CHILD,
IN ANSWER TO HER “VISION OF MIRZA.”
Nay, little dreamer, hear me too!May I not dream as well as you?
I've visions also, I can tell ye.
Methought, that journeying towards Delhi,
High mounted on a camel's back,
(A hump-back'd, ewe-neck'd, eastern hack),
Exhausted, weary, thirsty, hot,
I 'lighted on a verdant spot,
Where as I sat to rest and muse,
Flowers spread their bosoms of all hues;
And lo! these various flowers among
Gay butterflies in bevies throng!
One little troop I chiefly note,
That in the soft airs idly float,
With gorgeous wings of velvet plume,
Wrought, one would swear, in Iris' loom,
With tints prepared to deck her bow.
But now observe the strangest thing!
These butterflies of glorious wing
Seem'd still to float, with one consent,
From flow'r to flow'r, wherever went
A little yellow butterfly,
Of small regard to catch the eye;
Of such are seen the homely race
That England's lukewarm dog-days grace.
Now this fond, fickle, fluttering fly
Leads to a rose-bud blooming nigh,
And when to taste its sweets they think,
It beckons to the chequer'd pink;
Now round the woodbine shapes its flight,
But cannot fix on which t' alight:
Then flitting sideways towards the lily,
It spies the vulgar daffodilly,
Or wheeling with a pironette,
Sudden descries the violet;
Yet scarcely has the perfume caught
Ere orange flowers claim a thought,
Or gaudy tulips strike its fancy,
Or, “freakt with jet,” th' immortal pansy.
And now methought the evening hour
Stole on the scene, and every flower
While dews upon the still air hung.
The blue-bells see the planet sink,
And hang their heads, while daisies wink,
And lapt convolvoluses sleep
Till on their lids again he peep.
'Twas now the little yellow thing
Began to droop the cheerless wing,
And labour in its giddy flight,
Clogg'd by the chilly damps of night.
The butterflies in insect tongue,
Now one and all, or said, or sung,
“Look, sisters! whither flies the Sun?
Ah! whither, ere our race be run?
Just now he gave us life and light,
Nor thought we of such things as Night,
And we have no provision made!
The dew will spoil my rich brocade.”
Cries one, “My golden spots look dim,
That in the sun's beam rival'd him!”
Another, “See, my crimson hue
And purple tints are turning blue!”
The thoughtless troop thus put to rout,
Marked an old bee that buzz'd about,
A plodding, bustling, busy soul,
Who still, en passant, something stole,
Ere sleepy flowers their leaves could close.
Her bundling figure they deride,
With thighs like pockets on each side;
The sober bee their quizzing hears,
And thus she buzzes in their ears:
“To sport beneath a summer sun,
And still from sweet to sweet to run,
To aim at all, on none to dwell,
Is not to taste e'en pleasure well:
Learn from old mother Bee this truth:
Some toil may sweeten even youth.”
Haply this hum-drum, drowsy speech,
Like others fared that wisdom preach;
But such a buzzing round my head
Awoke me—in my own tent bed.
IMITATION OF BURNS.
FRAGMENT, IN REPLY TO A LETTER OF AN ARDENT ADMIRER OF BURNS, WHICH CONTAINED EXPRESSIONS TOO COMPLIMENTARY TO MYSELF.
Nor seek auld Wolsey's mouldering wa',
To throw sic courtly parle awa',
Auld crones amang,
As wad turn tapsaltary a'
Brains mickle strang.
Is fenced fra' flattery's treach'rous lore,
Yet flattery fain wad ope the door
O' ilka lug,
An' pu' down prudence, wa' and tower,
Crash at ane tug.
Thou's mony a shift deceitfu' left!
The sonsie face,
Thou'll say he gies to pay the theft
A nobler grace!
Experience! learning's charm profound!
Of counsel sage the witching sound!
And fifty more
Sic grizly ghaists fra' underground,
To deck twa' score.
Place in this scale ane ivory tooth,
Ane dimpled smile, ane ringlet smooth,
And a' thegither,
Shall ilka crone exclaim forsooth,—
“A feint for t' ither!”
TO MR. YOUNG,
ON HIS READING TAM O' SHANTER WITH PECULIAR SPIRIT.
Upheave the waters of the deep,
To dash them on ilk jutting steep
Their fury meets,
And cozie 'mang low flowrets creep,
Stealing their sweets.
To bear upo' the subject tide
Britannia's thunders far and wide,
Wi' milder ray
Will glint adown the copse-wood side
On ilka spray.
Wilt pour, mellifluous, full, and strong,
Great Shakspeare's bold, creative song
Wi' master skill,
Resistless to the listening throng
Thou sway'st at will:
By thee embodied to our view,
The rustic bard wad own sae true
He scant could tell,
Wha 'twas the living picture drew,
Thou, or himsel!
ALICE AND MARIAN:
A BALLAD.
And from the upland field
The cows were lowing at the gate,
Their evening store to yield.
Nor mark'd her feather'd care,
That throng'd, and peck'd, her foot around,
The wonted grain to share;
Beneath her listless hand,
Wayward, she chides the patient cow,
Though motionless she stand:
Big tears upon her cheek,
While sighs, wrung from her inmost soul,
Its bitter anguish speak.
And ere those buds could blow,
His vows,” she cried, “were all betray'd,
And they are Marian's now.
That voice so false, so dear!
Alas! how could I doubt his word,
While mine was so sincere?
That smile would on me beam!
Too well I know it was a cheat,
And all I felt—a dream!
He laughs from morn till noon;
But thy tears, cruel! thine may flow
Ere wane the harvest moon!
The sultry hay-field cheer,
Say, when the short, cold, sunless day
Shall close the parting year,
And beam for only thee?
Will winter's toils to her seem light
As they had seem'd to me?
Duteous thy meal prepare?
Nor know—nor dream—a bliss on earth,
Save but to see thee there?
My bosom's secret smart—
And I could laugh—but that his smile
Still hangs about my heart.
Gay Marian all my woe;”
But as she speaks they bigger swell,
And down her pale cheek flow.
Where first he told his pain,
The stile where his false vows were made
I ne'er will see again.
I will go round a mile;
For as I once, so Marian now
Fond loiters by that stile.”
Of love's relenting wrath,
Behind her cows, sad pacing slow,
She winds the wonted path.
O'er her its lengthen'd shade;
Shudder'd, for there, fond loitering, hung
Marian, the laughing maid!
Among the copse-wood glide;
A trembling hope poor Alice snatch'd—
“He is not by her side!”
With every jealous care!
Thus Hope to some vain shadow clings
Ere all be blank despair!
The long sad summer pined,
And now the yellow leaves are tost
By every gust of wind.
The evening closes chill;
The fields are bare where waved the corn,
And clouds hang o'er the hill.
Forsook the sadden'd plain,
And he, the faithless one, repaid
Poor Alice pain for pain.
TO UGO FOSCOLO,
WITH A SNUFF-BOX.
Ugo, not mine to scan the high control,That wrings for Ortis' woes the honest tear,
And bids us tremble with Ricciarda's fear,
But to the poet's mastery yield my soul!
The patriot course that shall thy name enroll
'Mong those who most have held their country dear—
More dear her glory! and in exile drear
Have borne their honour'd sorrows—Fame's proud scroll
Shall give to after-times!—My task to tell
Of spells that win thee back to lowly earth,
Though in ideal worlds thy genius dwell;
The beaming eye where wit and softness blend!
The homelier radiance of the social hearth,
Haply, e'en now, this bauble from a Friend!
Dramas | ||