HANNAH.
At fond sixteen my roving heart
Was pierced by Love's delightful dart:
Keen transport throbb'd through every vein,
—I never felt so sweet a pain!
Where circling woods embower'd the glade,
I met the dear romantic maid:
I stole her hand,—it shrunk,—but no;
I would not let my captive go.
With all the fervency of youth,
While passion told the tale of truth,
I mark'd my Hannah's downcast eye—
'Twas kind, but beautifully shy:
Not with a warmer, purer ray,
The Sun, enamour'd, woos young May;
Nor May, with softer maiden grace,
Turns from the Sun her blushing face.
But, swifter than the frighted dove,
Fled the gay morning of my love;
Ah! that so bright a morn, so soon,
Should vanish in so dark a noon.
The angel of Affliction rose,
And in his grasp a thousand woes;
He pour'd his vial on my head,
And all the heaven of rapture fled.
Yet, in the glory of my pride,
I stood,—and all his wrath defied;
I stood,—though whirlwinds shook my brain,
And lightnings cleft my soul in twain.
I shunn'd my nymph;—and knew not why
I durst not meet her gentle eye;
I shunn'd her, for I could not bear
To marry her to my despair.
Yet, sick at heart with hope delay'd,
Oft the dear image of that maid
Glanced, like the rainbow, o'er my mind,
And promised happiness behind.
The storm blew o'er, and in my breast
The halcyon Peace rebuilt her nest:
The storm blew o'er, and clear and mild
The sea of Youth and Pleasure smiled.
'Twas on the merry morn of May,
To Hannah's cot I took my way:
My eager hopes were on the wing,
Like swallows sporting in the Spring.
Then, as I climb'd the mountains o'er,
I lived my wooing days once more;
And fancy sketch'd my married lot,—
My wife, my children, and my cot.
I saw the village steeple rise,—
My soul sprang, sparkling, in my eyes:
The rural bells rang sweet and clear,—
My fond heart listen'd in mine ear.
I reach'd the hamlet:—all was gay;
I love a rustic holyday;
I met a wedding,—stepp'd aside;
It pass'd,—my Hannah was the bride.
—There is a grief that cannot feel;
It leaves a wound that will not heal;
—My heart grew cold,—it felt not then:
When shall it cease to feel again?
1801.
