The Poetical Works of John Langhorne ... To which are prefixed, Memoirs of the Author by his Son the Rev. J. T. Langhorne ... In Two Volumes |
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VERSES
IN
MEMORY OF A LADY. |
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 | The Poetical Works of John Langhorne |  |
97
VERSES IN MEMORY OF A LADY.
WRITTEN AT SANDGATE CASTLE, 1768.
Nec tantum ingenio, quantum servire dolori.
Propert.
Propert.
99
Let others boast the false and faithless pride,
No nuptial charm to know, or known, to hide,
With vain disguise from Nature's dictates part,
For the poor triumph of a vacant heart;
My verse the god of tender vows inspires,
Dwells on my soul, and wakens all her fires.
No nuptial charm to know, or known, to hide,
With vain disguise from Nature's dictates part,
For the poor triumph of a vacant heart;
My verse the god of tender vows inspires,
Dwells on my soul, and wakens all her fires.
Dear, silent partner of those happier hours,
That pass'd in Hackthorn's vales, in Blagdon's bowers!
If yet thy gentle spirit wanders here,
Borne by its virtues to no nobler sphere;
If yet that pity which, of life possest,
Fill'd thy fair eye, and lighten'd thro' thy breast;
If yet that tender thought, that gen'rous care,
The gloomy power of endless night may spare;
Oh! while my soul for thee, for thee complains,
Catch her warm sighs, and kiss her bleeding strains.
Wild, wretched wish! Can pray'r with feeble breath,
Pierce the pale ear, the statu'd ear of death?
Let patience pray, let hope aspire to prayer!
And leave me the strong language of despair!
That pass'd in Hackthorn's vales, in Blagdon's bowers!
If yet thy gentle spirit wanders here,
Borne by its virtues to no nobler sphere;
If yet that pity which, of life possest,
Fill'd thy fair eye, and lighten'd thro' thy breast;
If yet that tender thought, that gen'rous care,
The gloomy power of endless night may spare;
Oh! while my soul for thee, for thee complains,
Catch her warm sighs, and kiss her bleeding strains.
Wild, wretched wish! Can pray'r with feeble breath,
Pierce the pale ear, the statu'd ear of death?
100
And leave me the strong language of despair!
Hence ye vain painters of ingenious woe,
Ye Lytteltons, ye shining Petrarchs, go!
I hate the languor of your lenient strain,
Your flow'ry grief, your impotence of pain.
Oh! had ye known, what I have known, to prove
The searching flame, the agonies of love!
Oh! had ye known how souls to souls impart
Their fire, or mix'd the life-drops of the heart!
Not like the streams that down the mountain side,
Tunefully mourn, and sparkle as they glide;
Not like the breeze, that sighs at ev'ning-hour
On the soft bosom of some folding flower;
Your stronger grief, in stronger accents borne,
Had sooth'd the breast with burning anguish torn.
The voice of seas, the winds that rouse the deep,
Far-sounding floods that tear the mountain's steep;
Each wild and melancholy blast that raves
Round these dim towers, and smites the beating waves—
This soothes my soul—'tis Nature's mournful breath,
'Tis Nature struggling in the arms of death!
Ye Lytteltons, ye shining Petrarchs, go!
I hate the languor of your lenient strain,
Your flow'ry grief, your impotence of pain.
Oh! had ye known, what I have known, to prove
The searching flame, the agonies of love!
Oh! had ye known how souls to souls impart
Their fire, or mix'd the life-drops of the heart!
Not like the streams that down the mountain side,
Tunefully mourn, and sparkle as they glide;
Not like the breeze, that sighs at ev'ning-hour
On the soft bosom of some folding flower;
Your stronger grief, in stronger accents borne,
Had sooth'd the breast with burning anguish torn.
The voice of seas, the winds that rouse the deep,
Far-sounding floods that tear the mountain's steep;
Each wild and melancholy blast that raves
Round these dim towers, and smites the beating waves—
This soothes my soul—'tis Nature's mournful breath,
'Tis Nature struggling in the arms of death!
See, the last aid of her expiring state,
See Love, e'en Love, has lent his darts to fate!
Oh! when beneath his golden shafts I bled,
And vainly bound his trophies round my head;
When crown'd with flowers, he led the rosy day,
Liv'd to my eye, and drew my soul away—
Could fear, could fancy, at that tender hour,
See the dim grave demand the nuptial flower?
There, there his wreathes dejected Hymen strew'd;
And mourn'd their bloom unfaded as he view'd.
There each fair hope, each tenderness of life,
Each nameless charm of soft obliging strife,
Delight, love, fancy, pleasure, genius fled,
And the best passions of my soul lie dead;
All, all is there in cold oblivion laid,
But pale remembrance bending o'er a shade.
See Love, e'en Love, has lent his darts to fate!
101
And vainly bound his trophies round my head;
When crown'd with flowers, he led the rosy day,
Liv'd to my eye, and drew my soul away—
Could fear, could fancy, at that tender hour,
See the dim grave demand the nuptial flower?
There, there his wreathes dejected Hymen strew'd;
And mourn'd their bloom unfaded as he view'd.
There each fair hope, each tenderness of life,
Each nameless charm of soft obliging strife,
Delight, love, fancy, pleasure, genius fled,
And the best passions of my soul lie dead;
All, all is there in cold oblivion laid,
But pale remembrance bending o'er a shade.
O come, ye softer sorrows, to my breast!
Ye lenient sighs, that slumber into rest!
Come, soothing dreams, your friendly pinions wave,
We'll bear the fresh rose to yon honour'd grave;
For once this pain, this frantic pain forego,
And feel at last the luxury of woe!
Ye lenient sighs, that slumber into rest!
Come, soothing dreams, your friendly pinions wave,
We'll bear the fresh rose to yon honour'd grave;
For once this pain, this frantic pain forego,
And feel at last the luxury of woe!
Ye holy suff'rers, that in silence wait
The last sad refuge of relieving fate!
That rest at eve beneath the cypress' gloom,
And sleep familiar on your future tomb;
With you I'll waste the slow-departing day,
And wear, with you, th' uncolour'd hours away.
The last sad refuge of relieving fate!
That rest at eve beneath the cypress' gloom,
And sleep familiar on your future tomb;
With you I'll waste the slow-departing day,
And wear, with you, th' uncolour'd hours away.
102
Oh! lead me to your cells, your lonely aisles,
Where resignation folds her arms and smiles;
Where holy faith unwearied vigils keeps,
And guards the urn where fair Constantia sleeps:
There, let me there in sweet oblivion lie,
And calmly feel the tutor'd passions die.
Where resignation folds her arms and smiles;
Where holy faith unwearied vigils keeps,
And guards the urn where fair Constantia sleeps:
There, let me there in sweet oblivion lie,
And calmly feel the tutor'd passions die.
| The Poetical Works of John Langhorne | |