Poems by St. John Honeywood . with some pieces in prose |
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IMPROMPTU: WRITTEN IN A ROOM AT A SMALL COUNTRY INN WHICH HAD ONCE BEEN THE RESIDENCE OF A LADY OF THE AUTHOR'S ACQUAINTANCE. |
 | Poems by St. John Honeywood . |  |
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IMPROMPTU: WRITTEN IN A ROOM AT A SMALL COUNTRY INN WHICH HAD ONCE BEEN THE RESIDENCE OF A LADY OF THE AUTHOR'S ACQUAINTANCE.
In this low mansion, where th' unpainted sign
Invites the weary traveller to rest;
Where village hinds in noisy chorus join,
Drone the long tale, and break the thread-bare jest;
Invites the weary traveller to rest;
Where village hinds in noisy chorus join,
Drone the long tale, and break the thread-bare jest;
Some years ago a fair, whom heaven design'd
For brighter prospects and a milder fate,
Dead to the world, in mute despondence pin'd
In the rough arms of an unfeeling mate.
For brighter prospects and a milder fate,
Dead to the world, in mute despondence pin'd
In the rough arms of an unfeeling mate.
She was the floweret drooping o'er the hill,
Whose trembling lips imbibe the morning dew;
He was the hemlock bristling on the hill,
Rough at the first, and rough'ning as he grew.
Whose trembling lips imbibe the morning dew;
He was the hemlock bristling on the hill,
Rough at the first, and rough'ning as he grew.
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As well she knew 'twas fruitless to bewail
Her vanish'd joys and destiny severe;
She told to none her sympathetic tale,
And check'd, with proud reserve, the rising tear.
Her vanish'd joys and destiny severe;
She told to none her sympathetic tale,
And check'd, with proud reserve, the rising tear.
If led by instinct, to her husband's ear,
In some soft hour, she ventur'd to complain,
He whistled, yawn'd, and rais'd th'unmeaning stare,
Then turn'd and dosed the live long night again.
In some soft hour, she ventur'd to complain,
He whistled, yawn'd, and rais'd th'unmeaning stare,
Then turn'd and dosed the live long night again.
Yet this dull mansion's cloister'd gloom to cheer,
Her happier friends oft held the social round,
The sprightly Bertice shed a radiance here,
And Tredwell chang'd the spot to classic ground.
Her happier friends oft held the social round,
The sprightly Bertice shed a radiance here,
And Tredwell chang'd the spot to classic ground.
Here oft the village Bard, and one full droll
We had, a mixture strange of law and rhime,
With his fair shepherdess was wont to stroll,
And kill in harmless chat the tedious time.
We had, a mixture strange of law and rhime,
With his fair shepherdess was wont to stroll,
And kill in harmless chat the tedious time.
| Poems by St. John Honeywood . | |