 | Poems And Songs |  |
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COMPLAINT.
WRITTEN DURING A LONG ILLNESS.
Thou, Flora, whom the blooming woods
As heaven's divinest nymph confess,
Although my heart in sorrow broods,
Than these I ne'er can love thee less.
But I am one whose buds of bliss
Misfortune's wintry presence blights;
My days, how cheerless none can guess,
And none can think how dark my nights.
As heaven's divinest nymph confess,
Although my heart in sorrow broods,
Than these I ne'er can love thee less.
But I am one whose buds of bliss
Misfortune's wintry presence blights;
My days, how cheerless none can guess,
And none can think how dark my nights.
How joyful lately were my days,
How glorious were the hopes of spring!
My lyre to smooth and lightsome lays
Responded with harmonious string.
But now my hopes, on crippled wing,
Toil low along a flowerless earth,
And every fitful note I sing,
To weary misery owes its birth.
How glorious were the hopes of spring!
My lyre to smooth and lightsome lays
Responded with harmonious string.
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Toil low along a flowerless earth,
And every fitful note I sing,
To weary misery owes its birth.
'Twas not for fame, 'twas not for wealth,
My prayers were framed, my wishes breathed;
The only boon I craved was health,
With all the good that lies beneath't:
The Powers by whom these are bequeathed,
Alas! my humble wish withstood,
And have, like serpents, round me wreathed
Fell ailments of the bone and blood.
My prayers were framed, my wishes breathed;
The only boon I craved was health,
With all the good that lies beneath't:
The Powers by whom these are bequeathed,
Alas! my humble wish withstood,
And have, like serpents, round me wreathed
Fell ailments of the bone and blood.
Ye woods, around me waving free,
Ye seem in robes of mourning dressed;
Ye flowers, I see ye on the lea,
But still with pleasure unimpressed.
All that was lovely once confessed,
The darkness of my soul enshrouds,
As on the river's gleaming breast
Is thrown the scowl of passing clouds.
Ye seem in robes of mourning dressed;
Ye flowers, I see ye on the lea,
But still with pleasure unimpressed.
All that was lovely once confessed,
The darkness of my soul enshrouds,
As on the river's gleaming breast
Is thrown the scowl of passing clouds.
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The simple tale of love and home,
Not now my cynic muse employs;
A dread from which my thoughts ne'er roam,
Still toward want my thoughts decoys,
Forbidding e'en the dream of joys;
Unstringing with rude hand my lyre,
This one discordant note destroys
The harmony of all life's choir.
Not now my cynic muse employs;
A dread from which my thoughts ne'er roam,
Still toward want my thoughts decoys,
Forbidding e'en the dream of joys;
Unstringing with rude hand my lyre,
This one discordant note destroys
The harmony of all life's choir.
No more.—For wherefore should I mourn?
Few care a mournful tale to hear—
The fortunate my plaint will spurn,
The healthy hear it with a sneer.
Hence, Sympathy! I ask no tear,
Nor, Pity, long to hear thy voice;
A smile upon my face I'll wear,
And seem 'mid sorrow to rejoice.
Few care a mournful tale to hear—
The fortunate my plaint will spurn,
The healthy hear it with a sneer.
Hence, Sympathy! I ask no tear,
Nor, Pity, long to hear thy voice;
A smile upon my face I'll wear,
And seem 'mid sorrow to rejoice.
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