 | Lyrical and other poems |  |
SIX YEARS, TO V. M.
Six years! what time will intervene—
How many hours of care,
May twine around life's varied scene,
The thorns of its despair!
Some little—little hours of joy,
(For time is brief with pleasure)
Whilst sorrow spreads its dark alloy,
Enduring, without measure!
How many hours of care,
May twine around life's varied scene,
The thorns of its despair!
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(For time is brief with pleasure)
Whilst sorrow spreads its dark alloy,
Enduring, without measure!
Six years! ah, life will deeply change,
And Passion, now unknown,
Will all thine early hopes estrange,
As if they ne'er had blown.
The pleasures now that light thine eye,
And paint a happier lot,
Before maturer truths will fly,
And be remember'd not!
And Passion, now unknown,
Will all thine early hopes estrange,
As if they ne'er had blown.
The pleasures now that light thine eye,
And paint a happier lot,
Before maturer truths will fly,
And be remember'd not!
Life's little miniature! to thee
All nature glows enchanting,
And childhood buoyant, wild and free,
Can find no pleasures wanting;
But Time, fell monster! yet shall bring
Ay, even to thee, thou dearest!
The pang of feeling's venom'd-sting,
That wounds, when seeming fairest!
All nature glows enchanting,
And childhood buoyant, wild and free,
Can find no pleasures wanting;
But Time, fell monster! yet shall bring
Ay, even to thee, thou dearest!
The pang of feeling's venom'd-sting,
That wounds, when seeming fairest!
And thou wilt know, too soon, too well,
What now, thou little dreameth—
That fancy is an airy spell,
And joy, not that it seemeth:
That friendship kindles to betray,
Like fairy meteors glowing,
That lure the hapless wretch astray,
Destruction, death bestowing.
What now, thou little dreameth—
That fancy is an airy spell,
And joy, not that it seemeth:
That friendship kindles to betray,
Like fairy meteors glowing,
That lure the hapless wretch astray,
Destruction, death bestowing.
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Six years, must pass, ere bliss is mine—
'Twere well, if then it came!
One vow is broke—I'll trust not thine—
Truth loves not passion's flame!
A lip as soft as thine deceiv'd,
An eye as bright, as thine, too smil'd;
A heart as fond, ('twas mine) believed—
It must not be again beguil'd.
'Twere well, if then it came!
One vow is broke—I'll trust not thine—
Truth loves not passion's flame!
A lip as soft as thine deceiv'd,
An eye as bright, as thine, too smil'd;
A heart as fond, ('twas mine) believed—
It must not be again beguil'd.
Six years! why time and care will spread,
A deeper shade upon thy brow,
Thy cheek will lose its purest red,
Thine eye not glow as proud as now!
Six years! and I may cease to know,
Of hope deferr'd and anxious pain,
May sleep with feeling's fondest glow,
And wake beneath its rosiest chain!
A deeper shade upon thy brow,
Thy cheek will lose its purest red,
Thine eye not glow as proud as now!
Six years! and I may cease to know,
Of hope deferr'd and anxious pain,
May sleep with feeling's fondest glow,
And wake beneath its rosiest chain!
And yet within that whirl of Time,
So deeply am I, passion's slave,
How much of anguish, guilt and crime,
May o'er my heart their scorpions wave!
And yet, to me, howe'er time flies,
With peace or anguish on its wing,
Be thine, life's smile, without its sighs—
Life's Hybla, not its—sting!
So deeply am I, passion's slave,
How much of anguish, guilt and crime,
May o'er my heart their scorpions wave!
And yet, to me, howe'er time flies,
With peace or anguish on its wing,
Be thine, life's smile, without its sighs—
Life's Hybla, not its—sting!
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