The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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Love Poetry.
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
241
Love Poetry.
THE ABSENT LOVER.
In vain the youths and rosy maids
All wish me to be gay,
For health declines, and pleasure fades,
While Henry's far away.
All wish me to be gay,
For health declines, and pleasure fades,
While Henry's far away.
The birds may strain their warbling throats,
Upon the blossom'd spray,
But there's no music in their notes,
When Henry's far away.
Upon the blossom'd spray,
But there's no music in their notes,
When Henry's far away.
The sweets of June, the hill, the dale,
With nature's beauties gay,
Appear to me but winter pale,
When Henry's far away.
With nature's beauties gay,
Appear to me but winter pale,
When Henry's far away.
242
The evening moments creep but slow,
And dull's the brightest day;
For none my anxious cares can know,
When Henry's far away.
And dull's the brightest day;
For none my anxious cares can know,
When Henry's far away.
My trembling harp no pleasure yields,
My hands forget to play;
No joy at home, nor in the fields,
While Henry's far away.
My hands forget to play;
No joy at home, nor in the fields,
While Henry's far away.
The hours which now I think my best,
I wish them not to stay;
For nought on earth can make me rest,
While Henry's far away.
I wish them not to stay;
For nought on earth can make me rest,
While Henry's far away.
Pháeton, cord afresh thy whip,
And on thy coursers lay,
To make them o'er thy azure skip,
While Henry's far away.
And on thy coursers lay,
To make them o'er thy azure skip,
While Henry's far away.
And, Night, upon thy sable throne,
Be scarce an hour thy stay:
But bid the weeks be swiftly gone,
While Henry's far away.
Be scarce an hour thy stay:
But bid the weeks be swiftly gone,
While Henry's far away.
Then, on the wings of rosy Health
May he be swiftly borne;
For more to me than worlds of wealth
Will be his blest return.
May he be swiftly borne;
For more to me than worlds of wealth
Will be his blest return.
243
THE DYING LOVER.
Ah! soon, sweet maid, this heart of mine
Will give its beating o'er;
This weary aching head recline
Upon thy breast no more.
Will give its beating o'er;
This weary aching head recline
Upon thy breast no more.
These hands can pluck no more for thee
The heather's purple bloom;
No more must I accompany
My lovely Mary home.
The heather's purple bloom;
No more must I accompany
My lovely Mary home.
But, hush!—those sighs of fragrant breath,
The lovely crystal tear,
Can no impression make on Death,
Or keep me longer here.
The lovely crystal tear,
Can no impression make on Death,
Or keep me longer here.
Go, touch my sweet piano's strings,
And chant me into rest,
Till angels come, and on their wings
Convey me to the blest.
And chant me into rest,
Till angels come, and on their wings
Convey me to the blest.
And mourn not as I soar away
To tune my harp on high;
Useless the tears upon my clay,
For I'm prepared to die.
To tune my harp on high;
Useless the tears upon my clay,
For I'm prepared to die.
244
LOVE ON THE HEATH.
On the heath-vestur'd hills, where I courted my Sally,
Like stars was the bloom on the cranberry stalk;
The wild birds, unknown to the throng-peopled valley,
Were all that could see us or listen our talk.
Like stars was the bloom on the cranberry stalk;
The wild birds, unknown to the throng-peopled valley,
Were all that could see us or listen our talk.
The pale yellow moss on the side of the mountain,
Far softer than velvet, invited our stay;
And there by the rock, from whose foot gush'd the fountain,
We, innocent, lov'd the sweet moments away.
Far softer than velvet, invited our stay;
And there by the rock, from whose foot gush'd the fountain,
We, innocent, lov'd the sweet moments away.
How oft she would say, when sat happy together,
“'Tis thee—and thee only I ever can love!”
With breath far more sweet than the bloom on the heather,
Her eyes far more comely than those of the dove.
“'Tis thee—and thee only I ever can love!”
With breath far more sweet than the bloom on the heather,
Her eyes far more comely than those of the dove.
How oft had she vowed, while we walked o'er the rushes,
With me, and me only she'd wander so far,
Then bent down her head with such beautiful blushes,—
'Twas Modesty's hand that had painted them there.
With me, and me only she'd wander so far,
Then bent down her head with such beautiful blushes,—
'Twas Modesty's hand that had painted them there.
245
On the heath thus we lov'd, and our love so delicious—
If Heaven e'er bless'd any mortals below,
It gave them such moments, unknown to the vicious,
Which only in innocent bosoms can glow!
If Heaven e'er bless'd any mortals below,
It gave them such moments, unknown to the vicious,
Which only in innocent bosoms can glow!
But oh! how the pleasures of mortals are clouded,
For Sally the heather-bells blossom no more!
With the cold robe of death my charmer is shrouded,
And I on the heath must behold her no more!
For Sally the heather-bells blossom no more!
With the cold robe of death my charmer is shrouded,
And I on the heath must behold her no more!
ON LOVE.
The love how true—the love how sweet,
That is in youth begun,
When innocence and beauty meet,
That never lov'd but one!
That is in youth begun,
When innocence and beauty meet,
That never lov'd but one!
No anxious doubts, no jealous fears,
Disturb the constant breast;
The faithful youth, whose vows are truth,
With one alone is bless'd.
Disturb the constant breast;
The faithful youth, whose vows are truth,
With one alone is bless'd.
Let other suitors come—her heart
From him she never moves;
Nor aught on earth but death can part
Her soul from him she loves.
From him she never moves;
Nor aught on earth but death can part
Her soul from him she loves.
246
If angels smile at aught on earth,
They smile on love like this,
Whose origin's of heav'nly birth,—
The crown of mortal bliss;
They smile on love like this,
Whose origin's of heav'nly birth,—
The crown of mortal bliss;
The sweetest flower that blooming grows
Amongst the thorns of care;
The balm that heals our bosoms' woes,
And yields contentment there.
Amongst the thorns of care;
The balm that heals our bosoms' woes,
And yields contentment there.
Such is that love which Heav'n bestow'd
To make its creatures bless'd;
And such in our first parents glow'd,
When Eden they possess'd.
To make its creatures bless'd;
And such in our first parents glow'd,
When Eden they possess'd.
LOVE SANS REASON.
Wild's the night, my love, my Mary!
But I promised thee to meet;
Winds and rain they sound so dreary,
Yet thou list'nest for my feet!
But I promised thee to meet;
Winds and rain they sound so dreary,
Yet thou list'nest for my feet!
Dark the woods which lie between us,
High the rocks I have to pass,
Where the nymphs and swains have seen us,
Each one happy with his lass.
High the rocks I have to pass,
Where the nymphs and swains have seen us,
Each one happy with his lass.
247
Frail's the plank across the river,
Slipp'ry with a night of rain;
One false step—I'm gone for ever,
Ne'er to meet my love again!
Slipp'ry with a night of rain;
One false step—I'm gone for ever,
Ne'er to meet my love again!
Swoll'n the streams of ev'ry fountain,
Trackless is the stormy moor,
Capp'd with mist the lofty mountain
Which I have to wander o'er.
Trackless is the stormy moor,
Capp'd with mist the lofty mountain
Which I have to wander o'er.
Though the winds be cold and dreary,
I have promis'd thee to meet;
If I reach my love, my deary,
'Twill but make our bliss more sweet!
I have promis'd thee to meet;
If I reach my love, my deary,
'Twill but make our bliss more sweet!
What the rocks or misty mountains?
What the darkness of the woods?
What the roaring of the fountains,
Though the rills be swoll'n to floods?
What the darkness of the woods?
What the roaring of the fountains,
Though the rills be swoll'n to floods?
What the trackless moor or river,
Though some demon should appear?
Can those stop me? Oh no,—never!
Three short hours will land me there.
Though some demon should appear?
Can those stop me? Oh no,—never!
Three short hours will land me there.
Then my plaid I will throw o'er me,
Sing of Mary on the way;
Though great dangers lie before me,
Yet I cannot, will not stay.
Sing of Mary on the way;
Though great dangers lie before me,
Yet I cannot, will not stay.
248
I WILL LOVE THEE, MARY!
While the larks mount up in spring,
While the grouse sport on the ling,
While the thrush and blackbird sing,
I will love thee, Mary!
While the grouse sport on the ling,
While the thrush and blackbird sing,
I will love thee, Mary!
While the heat of summer glows
On each daisy, pink, and rose,—
Come sweet pleasure or deep woes,
I will love thee, Mary!
On each daisy, pink, and rose,—
Come sweet pleasure or deep woes,
I will love thee, Mary!
When the harvest field appears
Yellow with the golden ears,—
Bless'd with joys, or press'd with cares,
I will love thee, Mary!
Yellow with the golden ears,—
Bless'd with joys, or press'd with cares,
I will love thee, Mary!
In the coldest winter's frost,
On the drifted mountain lost,
Or on foaming billows toss'd,
I will love thee, Mary!
On the drifted mountain lost,
Or on foaming billows toss'd,
I will love thee, Mary!
Life may waste,—but still impress'd
Are thy virtues on my breast;
Till in death my heart shall rest,
I will love thee, Mary!
Are thy virtues on my breast;
Till in death my heart shall rest,
I will love thee, Mary!
249
MARY, I WILL THINK OF YOU.
When upon the heather bloom
First appears the evening dew,
When the daisies close their eyes,
Mary, I will think of you.
First appears the evening dew,
When the daisies close their eyes,
Mary, I will think of you.
When the woodland doves I hear,
On the budding birchen bough,
While the thrush is singing clear,
Mary, I will think of you.
On the budding birchen bough,
While the thrush is singing clear,
Mary, I will think of you.
When I hear the evening chime,
While soft echo answers true,
Though at midnight's solemn time,
Mary, I will think of you.
While soft echo answers true,
Though at midnight's solemn time,
Mary, I will think of you.
When upon the orient skies
Morning spreads her pinky hue,
When I wake, before I rise,
Mary, I will think of you.
Morning spreads her pinky hue,
When I wake, before I rise,
Mary, I will think of you.
When among the heather bells,
Rousing up the wild curlew,
Where the wildest music swells,
Mary, I will think of you.
Rousing up the wild curlew,
Where the wildest music swells,
Mary, I will think of you.
250
On the banks of Windermere,
'Mid fair scenes for ever new,
Then I wish'd my Mary there,
Sharing ev'ry changing view.
'Mid fair scenes for ever new,
Then I wish'd my Mary there,
Sharing ev'ry changing view.
When my bark must leave the shore,
Yet, unchang'd, my heart is true;
Singing to the well-tim'd oar,
I'll drop a tear and think of you.
Yet, unchang'd, my heart is true;
Singing to the well-tim'd oar,
I'll drop a tear and think of you.
When my bark is far away,
Nought but seas and skies in view,
Ploughing through the wat'ry way,
Mary, I will think of you.
Nought but seas and skies in view,
Ploughing through the wat'ry way,
Mary, I will think of you.
ODE TO LAURA.
Softly sighing will I mourn
The blossom that was nipp'd in spring,
Hang a chaplet on the urn
Of lovely Virtue's blossoming.
The blossom that was nipp'd in spring,
Hang a chaplet on the urn
Of lovely Virtue's blossoming.
O'er her no praise shall marble bear,
Those pageants vain of solemn pride;
Though all on earth I held most dear,
Forsook me when my Laura died.
Those pageants vain of solemn pride;
Though all on earth I held most dear,
Forsook me when my Laura died.
251
Oh! 'tis in vain—I'll cease to try
To write in characters my sorrow deep,
For could I write a river dry,
My eyes another sea could weep.
To write in characters my sorrow deep,
For could I write a river dry,
My eyes another sea could weep.
But words can never show the worth
Of her who was too rich to stay,
Mourning on a joyless earth,
When fit for everlasting day.
Of her who was too rich to stay,
Mourning on a joyless earth,
When fit for everlasting day.
TRUE AFFECTION.
The face of Henry faded fast,
The fever next in crimson came;
Each weary day was thought the last,
For furious was the fever's flame.
The fever next in crimson came;
Each weary day was thought the last,
For furious was the fever's flame.
Eliza heard, Eliza sighed,
And often of the youth inquired;
Her vow was given, and she his bride
Was all she wished on this side heav'n.
And often of the youth inquired;
Her vow was given, and she his bride
Was all she wished on this side heav'n.
She heard the croaking raven cry,
Her lovely eyes of sleep bereft;
She thought—If now my Henry die,
There's nought for me but sorrow left.
Her lovely eyes of sleep bereft;
She thought—If now my Henry die,
There's nought for me but sorrow left.
252
The fair was there, and all was mirth,
The viols and all music play;
But not a joy was left on earth—
These were to Henry flown away.
The viols and all music play;
But not a joy was left on earth—
These were to Henry flown away.
Now, Henry's father, he was proud,
And scorned Eliza, she was poor;
He vowed his son should wear a shroud
Ere he should see Eliza more.
And scorned Eliza, she was poor;
He vowed his son should wear a shroud
Ere he should see Eliza more.
The fever raged, till every one
That nursed the youth was laid near death;
The father durst not see his son,
But feared contagion from his breath.
That nursed the youth was laid near death;
The father durst not see his son,
But feared contagion from his breath.
Yet Henry's mother never moved,
Stayed with the youth, and would not move;
When all relations say, “We loved,”
Where is such truth as mothers' love?
Stayed with the youth, and would not move;
When all relations say, “We loved,”
Where is such truth as mothers' love?
'Twas midnight, and the winds were strong,
Henry insensible to pain,
His pulse not likely to beat long,
Nor his parched tongue to speak again.
Henry insensible to pain,
His pulse not likely to beat long,
Nor his parched tongue to speak again.
The storm beat hard against the door,
The eaves-drops fell both loud and fast,
The lightning blazed amid the shower,
When, lo! a virgin's form went past.
The eaves-drops fell both loud and fast,
The lightning blazed amid the shower,
When, lo! a virgin's form went past.
253
His mother trembled at the sight,
Then looked if Henry yet had breath;
The form that passed in purest white,
She thought the messenger of death.
Then looked if Henry yet had breath;
The form that passed in purest white,
She thought the messenger of death.
We need not lengthen out the tale;
It was Eliza came to pray,
Amid the storm of rain and hail,
That she might with her Henry stay.
It was Eliza came to pray,
Amid the storm of rain and hail,
That she might with her Henry stay.
She spoke, but spoke as in despair,
“Is yet my Henry's spirit here?
O let me stay! I will not care,
Though death in every form appear.”
“Is yet my Henry's spirit here?
O let me stay! I will not care,
Though death in every form appear.”
Softly in grief the mother spoke,
“Eliza, why in such a plight?”
She says, “My heart will sure be broke,
If I see not your son to-night.”
“Eliza, why in such a plight?”
She says, “My heart will sure be broke,
If I see not your son to-night.”
The mother's pity melted then,
She softly crept towards the door;
She let the storm-drenched maiden in—
She came, but home returned no more.
She softly crept towards the door;
She let the storm-drenched maiden in—
She came, but home returned no more.
All dropping she to Henry flew,
In time to catch his parting breath,
That kiss she to her bosom drew,
And soon with him was lain in death.
In time to catch his parting breath,
That kiss she to her bosom drew,
And soon with him was lain in death.
254
THE DESERTED MAID.
To some gloomy cave will I wander away,
Where waterfalls foam through each cleft,
And there shun the light of the pleasant spring day,
Since I by my lover am left.
Where waterfalls foam through each cleft,
And there shun the light of the pleasant spring day,
Since I by my lover am left.
There hang, ye dried ferns, in the wet gloomy shade,
Ye owls, fly around me in scorn,
As ye hoot at a maid by her lover betray'd,
Whose features with weeping are worn.
Ye owls, fly around me in scorn,
As ye hoot at a maid by her lover betray'd,
Whose features with weeping are worn.
Oh let not a flower be seen in the field,
Nor daisies spring up near my feet;
Thou beautiful hill, no more primroses yield,
Where my lover and I used to meet.
Nor daisies spring up near my feet;
Thou beautiful hill, no more primroses yield,
Where my lover and I used to meet.
Ye eglantines, keep your sweet scent in the bud,
Nor throw it away to the wind;
Ye hyacinths, blossom no more in the wood,
Where I on his bosom reclin'd.
Nor throw it away to the wind;
Ye hyacinths, blossom no more in the wood,
Where I on his bosom reclin'd.
But wither, like me, ev'ry cowslip and rose,
Nor bloom in your beauty and charms,
As you did when this bosom knew nothing of woes,
Lull'd to peace in a false lover's arms.
Nor bloom in your beauty and charms,
As you did when this bosom knew nothing of woes,
Lull'd to peace in a false lover's arms.
255
Ye stockdoves I fed in the cold chilling frost,
Let your cooings be accents of pain,
In woe sing, ye birds, that my lover is lost,
Till the grottos re-echo the strain.
Let your cooings be accents of pain,
In woe sing, ye birds, that my lover is lost,
Till the grottos re-echo the strain.
The gems that he bought in my bosom I'll bear,
I only the jewels will view,
And dim their bright lustre with many a tear,
Which springs from a bosom that's true.
I only the jewels will view,
And dim their bright lustre with many a tear,
Which springs from a bosom that's true.
When life has ebb'd out to the last fatal day,
And this bosom heaves feebly for breath,
If then I can speak, for my Edwin I'll pray,
And show that I lov'd him in death.
And this bosom heaves feebly for breath,
If then I can speak, for my Edwin I'll pray,
And show that I lov'd him in death.
A CALM SUMMER'S NIGHT.
The night is calm, the cygnet's down
Scarce skims the lake along;
The throstle to the hazel's flown,
To trill his evening song.
Scarce skims the lake along;
The throstle to the hazel's flown,
To trill his evening song.
The curling woodbine now appears
More sweet than fragrant gums,
The sky a robe of crimson wears,
The scale-clad beetle hums.
More sweet than fragrant gums,
The sky a robe of crimson wears,
The scale-clad beetle hums.
256
What pleasure, walking with my Jane,
Earth's truest, best delight,
Returning to embrace again,
And loath to bid good night.
Earth's truest, best delight,
Returning to embrace again,
And loath to bid good night.
A FRAGMENT.
ALCASTO.Banish the wealthless virgin from thy thoughts!
Or eminence and wealth are from thee far
As from the beggar is the monarch's crown.
REGINALD.
Break nature's laws, and send me to the world
In my worst suit, no king in miniature,
Stamped on rich ore, to be my passport through,
I'll love her still! Our passions now are mixed,
As are the waters of two meeting rills.
Ours is superior love, as rarely found
As is the phœnix burning on her nest.
I saw and loved her when she rowed along,
The lake unruffled, save with her white skiff.
Had she been absent there, I could have seen,
Upon the bosom of the polished lake,
257
Tinged with the lustre of the setting sun;
But all I now remember seemed a sky,
And she like Dian on th' inverted arch,
Skimming in modest majesty along—
With her she took my heart: and can your wealth,
Your honours, influence, or wide estates,
Purchase a form as fair, a richer skiff;
Give to another nymph that voice I heard,
Teach Myra's song, and make such echoes join?
Do these—her image I will strive t' efface,
Though painted on the canvas of my heart.
ALCASTO.
Is not Romilia more lovely far,
Possessing wealth, and modesty, and wit;
So virtuous, that the night's unhealthy wind
Blasts not her cheeks to make her blushes fade?
REGINALD.
Know you my Myra's worth? Has Slander spoke!
No—earth's three darkest demons all are mute.
She takes her soft guitar, and sings so sweet,
That gloomy, callous-hearted Envy weeps,
Shrinks to the shades where meagre Malice sits;
But both are charmed, their vices lose, and gaze
Upon her beauty, and return to praise.
[OMITTED]
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |