Poetics :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh! thou of pallid hue, and raven hair,
Who mid sequester'd haunts alone art seen,
Deep-nurturing some silent care within,
Some weight of grief, which none with thee may share;
Whose eye, whence tears have long forgot to flow,
To heav'n-directed looks, of earth afraid;—
Dear is to me thy form of speechless woe;
Still sacred are the haunts, where thou hast whilome stray'd.

For I have mark'd thee oft near willowy stream;
And tho' no youthful smile endear'd thy face,
Tho' on thy cheek no roses I could trace,
Yet didst thou but in Life's soft spring-time seem:
Careless thy vestment hung, as snowdrop white!
Loose-floating fell thy locks, unbound thy zone;
Thine eye now softly sad, now wildly bright,
Bespoke thy lover dead, and thou wouldst love but one.

Oft have I view'd thee wand'ring in the wood,
Where pour'd the nightingale her liquid throat,
And varied thro' the night her melting note,
As tho' her mate were fled, or tender brood:
To thee more pleasing then the vestment grey,
Pale mourner! saddest of the widow-train,
Doom'd to lament, at thy dark close of day,
Some aged Priam dead, some youthful Hector slain.

Thee Fancy sometimes hails, the Muse of Woe,
Whom fabled wrongs could wake to real smart:
Ovid's soft fictions make thee melt at heart;
And suffering ghosts instruct the tear to flow.
Do tender sorrows Pity's Bard inspire?
Thy lute responsive gives the tragic moan:
But does Orestes curse the God of fire?
I see thee leave thy lute, to listen to his groan.

Say, can that pensive look thy mind reveal,
While from thy lips th'unfinish'd accents fall,
As tho' thy forward tongue would utter all,
Which yet thy secret bosom would conceal?
Witness to wrongs no pity can relieve,
To joys, which flatter, but must shortly flee:
—E'en fancied mis'ry wakes the cause to grieve—
Thou hast a sigh for all! none heaves a sigh for thee!

Then haste thee, Queen of Woe, from mortal eye;
Thy mansion fix within some lonely cell,
Where pale-ey'd Superstition loves to dwell,
Sated of life, and lingers but to die.
As the sand streams to mark the fleeting hour,
As the death's head reminds thee of thy doom,
As the spade sinks thy future grave-bed lower,
I too will learn to die, sad pilgrim, at thy tomb.

For, oh! whatever form I see thee wear,
If yet soft mercy dwell within thy breast,
Thyself so sad, yet anxious to make blest,
For others' woe, while thou a sigh canst spare;

Tho' like the sage, that only liv'd to weep,
Tho' all the load of human ills were thine;
For thee will I forego the balmy sleep,
Or wand'ring wild, like thee, will make thy sorrows mine.