Ellen Fitzarthur A Metrical Tale, in Five Cantos [by C. A. Bowles] |
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[I boast no song in magic wonders rife] |
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 | Ellen Fitzarthur |  |
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[I boast no song in magic wonders rife]
“I boast no song in magic wonders rife,
But yet, oh Nature! is there nought to prize,
Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life?”
Campbell.
But yet, oh Nature! is there nought to prize,
Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life?”
Campbell.
Parnassus! to thy heights sublime,
Thy awful steep, I may not climb
Where rays of living light surround
Thy sacred fane, with laurels crowned,
And gushes with melodious flow
Thy fountain, from its source below.
Thy awful steep, I may not climb
Where rays of living light surround
Thy sacred fane, with laurels crowned,
And gushes with melodious flow
Thy fountain, from its source below.
I may not look with eagle gaze
Unshrinking, on those living rays;
I may not soar on eagle's wing,
To drink of that celestial spring;
Reserv'd for bolder hands than mine
The amaranthine flowers to twine
That on its borders glow;
But strays there from that sacred source,
No wand'ring rill, with silver course
That seeks the vale below?
Where pensile willows, on the brink
Of its pure crystal, stoop to drink,
And the low violet's perfume
Betrays where lurks her purple bloom.
Unshrinking, on those living rays;
I may not soar on eagle's wing,
To drink of that celestial spring;
Reserv'd for bolder hands than mine
The amaranthine flowers to twine
That on its borders glow;
But strays there from that sacred source,
No wand'ring rill, with silver course
That seeks the vale below?
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Of its pure crystal, stoop to drink,
And the low violet's perfume
Betrays where lurks her purple bloom.
There might I haunt;—enough for me
Far off, the laurell'd mount to see,
To breathe with deep inhaling sense
The floating odours wafted thence,
To catch the distant melody
Of golden harps, resounding high —
There might I haunt, and haply there
Of wild-flowers, weave a chaplet fair,
Such as the virgin brow of Taste
Might wear, by artless Feeling placed;
Oh! might I to such meed aspire,
Blest were thy strains, my simple lyre!
Companion of my childhood thou,
Friend of my happy youth; and now
Kind soother of the days, o'ercast
With sad remembrance of the past.
But should the world's approving smile
(Reserved for happier minstrel's toil)
Withhold its sunny light from thee,
Submissive to the stern decree,
We'll hush the unsuccessful strain,
And seek our silent shades again.
Far off, the laurell'd mount to see,
To breathe with deep inhaling sense
The floating odours wafted thence,
To catch the distant melody
Of golden harps, resounding high —
There might I haunt, and haply there
Of wild-flowers, weave a chaplet fair,
Such as the virgin brow of Taste
Might wear, by artless Feeling placed;
Oh! might I to such meed aspire,
Blest were thy strains, my simple lyre!
Companion of my childhood thou,
Friend of my happy youth; and now
Kind soother of the days, o'ercast
With sad remembrance of the past.
But should the world's approving smile
(Reserved for happier minstrel's toil)
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Submissive to the stern decree,
We'll hush the unsuccessful strain,
And seek our silent shades again.
Cold is the fondly partial ear
That would have listened to my lay;
And closed the eyes, whose suffrage dear
Had smiled the world's cold looks away.
But still in solitude and shade
Be thy low sounds, my lyre! essayed;
No longer with presumptuous aim,
One kindly fost'ring glance to claim,
But that on life's dark lonely stream,
Thou still wilt shed a cheering gleam,
Smoothe its dark passage to the deep,
And lull me to my latest sleep.
That would have listened to my lay;
And closed the eyes, whose suffrage dear
Had smiled the world's cold looks away.
But still in solitude and shade
Be thy low sounds, my lyre! essayed;
No longer with presumptuous aim,
One kindly fost'ring glance to claim,
But that on life's dark lonely stream,
Thou still wilt shed a cheering gleam,
Smoothe its dark passage to the deep,
And lull me to my latest sleep.
| Ellen Fitzarthur | |