Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Fast by those Meads, where gentle Isis glides,
Fatt'ning the Flocks, that graze her herbag'd sides;
Where the pale Ivy round old Godstow creeps,
Whose mould'ring Tow'r hangs nodding o'er the Deeps:
As in the Covert of a neighbouring Shade,
My weary Limbs to pleasing Rest I lay'd;
Calm, and serene the Stream in Murmurs flows,
Soft thro' the Trees the Evening Zephyr blows;
Streams, Zephyrs all conspire to soften my Repose.

As in a Dream my roving Fancy stray'd,
And airy Phantoms in my Bosom play'd;
Slow from the Tomb fair Rosamonda came,
Her Shape, her Looks, as when alive, the same:
Down from her Head her Night-veil flow'd behind,
Decent, and graceful, sporting with the Wind.
Pensive and slow she wander'd o'er the Grove,
And (if I rightly heard) she talk'd of Love.

But now the midnight Clocks began to toll,
The Breeze diffus'd the Sound from Pole to Pole:
The Hour was come, when Ghosts are said to walk,
And to the Groves in horrid Accents talk:
Sudden was heard to charm the lovely Maid,
A warlike Musick thro' the lonely Shade;
Now Regal Trumpets blow a Shriller Strain,
Now softer Flutes in melting Notes complain;
When lo! I saw great Henry's Form appear,
Still clad in Arms, and in his Hand a Spear:

Thrice bowing he address'd the blooming Fair,
And thrice the Musick floated on the Air.
Then hand in hand along the Grove they walk'd,
And of their past Enjoyments fondly talk'd;
Oft, I perceiv'd, they cast their longing Eyes,
To'ard the dear Bow'r, where Woodstock's Scenes arise;
As o'er the gloomy Wood, and lonely shade
They gaz'd, thus spake the visionary Maid.

Oh! tell me, lovely, dearest Henry, tell,
(For sure it is no Crime to love too well)
Canst Thou forget that ever-happy Day,
When in Love's Arms we first together lay?
When ev'ry Hour was spent in soft Delight,
Each Day return'd as welcome as the night;
Whene'er my Henry, sheath'd in azure Arms,
O'er Heaps of slain, pursu'd the War's Alarms.
Oft thro' the Gloom I'd steal a tender Sigh,
But then methought I heard thy Soul reply:

Whene'er the Trumpets fill'd the passing Gale,
And call'd my Henry from the bow'ry Vale,
Did not my Bosom with an equal Flame
Leap at the Trumpet's Voice, and burn for Fame?
Say, when my Henry drop'd a silent Tear,
Could Sympathetick Rosamond forbear?
Ah! no, she could not; all thy Thoughts were Mine,
And all my eager Soul flew out with Thine.
Oft in yon Bow'r, oft in yon lonely Shade,
Oft by the Murmurs of yon soft Cascade,
Have we together liv'd the happy Day,
Melted in Joys, in Transports died away.

Sweet are the whispers of the midnight Breeze,
That gently pants upon the trembling Trees;
Sweet are the Notes of tender Nightingales,
That sing their Sorrows to the listning Vales;
Sweet, all along the melancholy Shore,
The moaning Halcyons their Fate deplore;

Pleasing's the Falling of the drowsy Floods,
Pleasing's the Verdure of the dusky Woods:
But now no more these once-lov'd Scenes arise,
Melt on my Ear, or brighten in my Eyes.
Vain are the whispers of the midnight Breeze,
In vain it pants upon the trembling Trees;
Vain are the Notes of tender Nightingales,
In vain they sing their Sorrows to the Vales;
In vain, along the melancholy Shore,
The moaning Halcyons their Fate deplore;
No more delights the Falling of the Floods,
No more the Verdure of rhe dusky Woods:
Deep in low Vaults I keep Eternal Night,
Shut up from Day, and ev'ry dear Delight;
Where pale-ey'd Virgins sit beneath the Ground,
And pensive watch the dying Lamps around:
Whence hollow Sounds are heard, and Shapes are seen
Gliding athwart the melancholy Green.

Me oft by Night the wand'ring Peasant sees,
In pensive Mood between the Moonlight Trees;
Backward he starts, struck dead with pale Affright,
And flies me, as a Phantom of the Night.
Oft when the Night slow mounts her Ebon-Throne,
Thro' these lone Shades I wander all alone:
Oft o'er the Meads I roam to Woodstock's Bow'r,
Once the dear Scene of ev'ry softer Hour!
Pleas'd to behold our once-lov'd, happy Seats,
Our silver Streams, and bow'ry, cool Retreats;
These I've resign'd to One more fair than Me,
And proud I am to own, that Spencer's she.

O! could my Henry take me to his Arms,
As once he did, and revel in my Charms!
But what can we? stern Destiny denies,
Thwarts all our Hopes, is deaf to all our Sighs;
No more this Breast must feel the am'rous Fire,
No more must Henry glow with soft Desire:

Time was when we were happy in our Love,
When each bright Charm could ev'ry Sense improve.
Tho' vanish'd Joys by Fancy we restore,
Melt in false Love, and act past Pleasures o'er,
Yet how do we our real Passion prove?
Where's the Embrace, the real Soul of Love?
I can no more—for Lo! the Morning Ray
Peeps o'er yon Eastern Hill; I must away.

She said; and, like some Phantom of the Night,
Or Air impassive, vanish'd from the Sight.

A Place near Oxford, where Rosamond's Tomb is to be seen.