 | Poems by Mrs. Opie |  |
37
THE MOURNER.
Come, smiles! come, gay attire! and hide
The secret fang that tears my breast!
I'll lay my sable garb aside,
And seem to cold inquirers blest.
Yes,....I will happy triflers join,
As when grief's dart beside me flew,
And love and all its joys were mine,
And sorrow but by name I knew:
For health I saw in Henry's bloom,
Nor knew it marked him for the tomb.
Hard was the stroke;....but, oh! I hate
The sacred pomp of grief to show;
Throned in my breast, in secret state
Shall live the reverend form of woe:
For observation would degrade
The homage to her empire paid.
The secret fang that tears my breast!
I'll lay my sable garb aside,
And seem to cold inquirers blest.
Yes,....I will happy triflers join,
As when grief's dart beside me flew,
And love and all its joys were mine,
And sorrow but by name I knew:
For health I saw in Henry's bloom,
Nor knew it marked him for the tomb.
38
The sacred pomp of grief to show;
Throned in my breast, in secret state
Shall live the reverend form of woe:
For observation would degrade
The homage to her empire paid.
I hate the tear which pity gives;
I'm jealous of her curious eye:
The only balm my wound receives
Is from my own unheeded sigh.
A face of smiles, a heart of tears!
So in the churchyard (realm of death)
The turf increasing verdure wears,
While all is pale and dead beneath.
I'm jealous of her curious eye:
The only balm my wound receives
Is from my own unheeded sigh.
A face of smiles, a heart of tears!
So in the churchyard (realm of death)
The turf increasing verdure wears,
While all is pale and dead beneath.
| Poems by Mrs. Opie | |