Valentine Verses or, Lines of Truth, Love, and Virtue. By the Reverend Richard Cobbold |
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THE DEATH OF ADONIS. |
 | Valentine Verses |  |
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THE DEATH OF ADONIS.
No Venus is on earth, though many fair,
Shine lovely images of Wisdom's care;
No young Adonis, though in honest truth
Full many a fine, intelligent, brave youth:—
Ye fairest creatures of a mortal race,
And you, ye noblest sons of virtue, trace
In this the heathen's story of true love,
From nature painted, what can nature prove.
Shine lovely images of Wisdom's care;
No young Adonis, though in honest truth
Full many a fine, intelligent, brave youth:—
Ye fairest creatures of a mortal race,
And you, ye noblest sons of virtue, trace
In this the heathen's story of true love,
From nature painted, what can nature prove.
Alas! the maiden hanging o'er the bed,
Of lover, long beloved!—alas! when dead;—
Can nature ever to the soul of man
Present more agony? she never can.
Once gain the heart of woman, who can feel
What 'tis to love; the wound will hardly heal
Which tears thee from her, yet a cure is given,—
The hope of meeting in the highest heaven.
Of lover, long beloved!—alas! when dead;—
Can nature ever to the soul of man
Present more agony? she never can.
Once gain the heart of woman, who can feel
What 'tis to love; the wound will hardly heal
Which tears thee from her, yet a cure is given,—
The hope of meeting in the highest heaven.
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Heart-broken lovers, lift your heads again,
And look ye for the spirit not in vain.
Aye look, and love, your constancy shall know
The sweetest recompence for mortal woe.
'Tis but on earth we find in lover's kiss,
The taste of happiness.—Celestial bliss,
From font of knowledge, wisdom's purest source,
Flows undisturb'd a current of such force,
That nature owns, when human passions end,
That cherish'd fountain, was our nature's friend.
And look ye for the spirit not in vain.
Aye look, and love, your constancy shall know
The sweetest recompence for mortal woe.
'Tis but on earth we find in lover's kiss,
The taste of happiness.—Celestial bliss,
From font of knowledge, wisdom's purest source,
Flows undisturb'd a current of such force,
That nature owns, when human passions end,
That cherish'd fountain, was our nature's friend.
Oh! I have seen in life, believe me, seen
The unexpected sorrow intervene
In midst of pleasure, when the heart was high,
The youthful soldier summon'd but to die;
Yet not in battle:—trumpet gave no call;
Nor flew in strife the hostile musket ball;—
By hand of friend the blow untimely given,
Which sent from earth, the spirit up to heaven.
The unexpected sorrow intervene
In midst of pleasure, when the heart was high,
The youthful soldier summon'd but to die;
Yet not in battle:—trumpet gave no call;
Nor flew in strife the hostile musket ball;—
By hand of friend the blow untimely given,
Which sent from earth, the spirit up to heaven.
Oh! I have seen the tender parents woe,
The brother's grief, the sister's sorrow flow;
Tears of such love, the very soul would melt,
And weep for bitterness!—I've seen and felt:
But never, never can I wish to see,
Again such pangs, again such agony.
But O methinks, if sister's soul could show
Such depth of suffering, ah! what the woe,
When one deprived of kindred spirit's tie,
Sees the fond lover stricken near her lie?
Enough!—I dare not, lest my heart should break,
Of such a sorrow, such a horror speak.—
The line was written not to urge again
The thought of past, though not forgotten pain;
'Twas written thus to soothe, and plainly tell
How much the Poet wishes lovers well;—
How much he feels for nature; how much more
For spirit's triumph when their grief is o'er.
The brother's grief, the sister's sorrow flow;
Tears of such love, the very soul would melt,
And weep for bitterness!—I've seen and felt:
But never, never can I wish to see,
Again such pangs, again such agony.
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Such depth of suffering, ah! what the woe,
When one deprived of kindred spirit's tie,
Sees the fond lover stricken near her lie?
Enough!—I dare not, lest my heart should break,
Of such a sorrow, such a horror speak.—
The line was written not to urge again
The thought of past, though not forgotten pain;
'Twas written thus to soothe, and plainly tell
How much the Poet wishes lovers well;—
How much he feels for nature; how much more
For spirit's triumph when their grief is o'er.
| Valentine Verses | |