Poems, on various subjects by Ann Yearsley ... being her second work |
 |
ELEGY, Written on the Banks of the Avon, where the Author took a last Farewel of her Brother. |
 | Poems, on various subjects |  |
37
ELEGY, Written on the Banks of the Avon, where the Author took a last Farewel of her Brother.
Oh! thou false wave, that seemd'st so wond'rous smooth,
When a lov'd brother press'd thy yielding bosom,
“What shall be said of thee?” Shall I arraign
Thee, simple instrument, that proudly bore
A darling boy from his fond mother's arms?
Ah, no! far, far remote th'all-powerful cause
Of thy officious zeal.—Yet in thy depths
Lives there a Nereid, or a Sea-god, stern,
Who bore the mandate down thy fatal stream,
Or, with their tridents, push'd the wand'ring youth
To his last port? O God, what tremors shook
The strongest pow'rs of my reluctant soul,
When, from his eyes, I took their farewel gaze;
So pensive, yea, so full of promis'd death,
That my sad bosom slow responses beat,
And all my mother shudder'd in my breast;
For her fond hopes I felt; for her my soul
Forgot its resolutions: sure, the pang
Of pity, pointed with another's woe,
Is then most strong. But, ah, too fatal wave!
Why tempt so oft the wild despairing wretch
To thy cold bed? Here sad Maria sought
Oblivion; here she dar'd the dreadful change,
From which poor Nature starts. Now o'er the mead,
Her shade, light-bearing on the silver dews,
Perhaps, may hail my pensive pitying lay.
When a lov'd brother press'd thy yielding bosom,
“What shall be said of thee?” Shall I arraign
Thee, simple instrument, that proudly bore
A darling boy from his fond mother's arms?
Ah, no! far, far remote th'all-powerful cause
Of thy officious zeal.—Yet in thy depths
38
Who bore the mandate down thy fatal stream,
Or, with their tridents, push'd the wand'ring youth
To his last port? O God, what tremors shook
The strongest pow'rs of my reluctant soul,
When, from his eyes, I took their farewel gaze;
So pensive, yea, so full of promis'd death,
That my sad bosom slow responses beat,
And all my mother shudder'd in my breast;
For her fond hopes I felt; for her my soul
Forgot its resolutions: sure, the pang
Of pity, pointed with another's woe,
Is then most strong. But, ah, too fatal wave!
Why tempt so oft the wild despairing wretch
To thy cold bed? Here sad Maria sought
39
From which poor Nature starts. Now o'er the mead,
Her shade, light-bearing on the silver dews,
Perhaps, may hail my pensive pitying lay.
Ah, hapless maid! should thy wan ghost be near,
And with me sigh to Cynthia's chilling beam;
Yet list, nor fly mortality; my soul,
Heedless of horror, mid the starless gloom,
Would hang on thy shrill sound: Oh! could'st thou dare
Unfold the charts of never-ending space,
How would my spirit strike the eager wing,
To claim her new creation! 'Twill not be:
Here must I joyless rove; yet, not like thee,
Will I throw off my Being. Mercy gave
Existence, as the origin of bliss,
And shall I cast it lightly? Shall I dare
This life-subduing wave? Yea, farther, dare
Presumptuously my God? No; 'tis enough
That I, one day, may find thee; near thee find
A kind Creator, who in pity strikes,
From thy account, this heav'n-opposed act.
And with me sigh to Cynthia's chilling beam;
Yet list, nor fly mortality; my soul,
Heedless of horror, mid the starless gloom,
Would hang on thy shrill sound: Oh! could'st thou dare
Unfold the charts of never-ending space,
How would my spirit strike the eager wing,
To claim her new creation! 'Twill not be:
Here must I joyless rove; yet, not like thee,
Will I throw off my Being. Mercy gave
40
And shall I cast it lightly? Shall I dare
This life-subduing wave? Yea, farther, dare
Presumptuously my God? No; 'tis enough
That I, one day, may find thee; near thee find
A kind Creator, who in pity strikes,
From thy account, this heav'n-opposed act.
Why glide thus swiftly from my mental eye?
Wouldst thou escape yon pale dejected form,
Who lightly treads on the unyielding stream?
It comes with tardy step; Ah! tis the shade
Of thy lov'd Brother: See! he waves his hand,
And beckons thee again to prove the deep.
Abrupt, he sunk in Friendship's strongest act;
When bearing young Philander to the shore,
He sigh'd his soul away. Oh! 'twas a scene,
Where Horror revell'd; on the margin stood
Horatio , smiling at the sportive youth,
Who fain would lash the wave with strengthless arm.
Ah, effort vain! Down! down! he hopeless sinks:
While in Horatio's bosom Nature swell'd
More strong than tempest wild; dauntless he plung'd
'Mid liquid death. Yet shall this wat'ry world
One day her cold inhabitants resign
To the demand of Mercy. Charming truth!
Here thou may'st blazon Virtue unresin'd,
And in a vulgar breast: Where shall romance
Strike weeping Fancy with an act like this?
Wouldst thou escape yon pale dejected form,
Who lightly treads on the unyielding stream?
It comes with tardy step; Ah! tis the shade
Of thy lov'd Brother: See! he waves his hand,
And beckons thee again to prove the deep.
41
When bearing young Philander to the shore,
He sigh'd his soul away. Oh! 'twas a scene,
Where Horror revell'd; on the margin stood
Horatio , smiling at the sportive youth,
Who fain would lash the wave with strengthless arm.
Ah, effort vain! Down! down! he hopeless sinks:
While in Horatio's bosom Nature swell'd
More strong than tempest wild; dauntless he plung'd
'Mid liquid death. Yet shall this wat'ry world
One day her cold inhabitants resign
To the demand of Mercy. Charming truth!
Here thou may'st blazon Virtue unresin'd,
And in a vulgar breast: Where shall romance
Strike weeping Fancy with an act like this?
42
Oh, Pity, dear tormentor! 'tis not now
My soul would hail thee; strike not my weak sense
With all thy pomp of sorrow. Why bend o'er
Yon wave-drench'd boy who sinks with seeming smile,
To clasp his much lov'd sire; in playful mood
The chearful rover felt the chilling death,
Nor paus'd repentant, listless of his fate.
My soul would hail thee; strike not my weak sense
With all thy pomp of sorrow. Why bend o'er
Yon wave-drench'd boy who sinks with seeming smile,
To clasp his much lov'd sire; in playful mood
The chearful rover felt the chilling death,
Nor paus'd repentant, listless of his fate.
Gone! ever gone! ye kindred souls: yet hear
My plaintive lay, should Cromartie's wan ghost
Flit thro' your airy paths, oh, bear my sigh
To that fond brother! Whither, whither fled,
Thou long-lov'd youth! 'tis dreary silence all;
No answer, save the hoarse-resounding Avon.
Yet here, with me, thou trodd'st the dewy mead,
When the bright daisy woo'd our infant hand,
In life's young hour; and oft the flow'ry wreath
I wrought for thy dear brow, when laughing May
Danc'd o'er the gay Creation; faded long
The blooming garland, wither'd soon, they fell,
Like thee, neglected, and are seen no more.
My plaintive lay, should Cromartie's wan ghost
Flit thro' your airy paths, oh, bear my sigh
To that fond brother! Whither, whither fled,
Thou long-lov'd youth! 'tis dreary silence all;
No answer, save the hoarse-resounding Avon.
43
When the bright daisy woo'd our infant hand,
In life's young hour; and oft the flow'ry wreath
I wrought for thy dear brow, when laughing May
Danc'd o'er the gay Creation; faded long
The blooming garland, wither'd soon, they fell,
Like thee, neglected, and are seen no more.
Ah, when! or where shall I now hail thy shade,
Or clasp thee to my bosom? Fancy, come!
Haste! haste! with all thy sorrow-soothing hues,
And paint the scene which yields a long embrace.
Oh, bear my spirit thro' the gulph of Death!
Where Being, from oblivion instant springs
Eternity's firm Heir; pointing my soul
To where a mother hangs on her lov'd boy;
Yet, trembling with her change ---
Or clasp thee to my bosom? Fancy, come!
Haste! haste! with all thy sorrow-soothing hues,
And paint the scene which yields a long embrace.
Oh, bear my spirit thro' the gulph of Death!
Where Being, from oblivion instant springs
Eternity's firm Heir; pointing my soul
To where a mother hangs on her lov'd boy;
Yet, trembling with her change ---
| Poems, on various subjects | |