Lyrics of the heart With other poems. By Alaric A. Watts. With forty-one engravings on steel |
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MY NATIVE VALE. |
 | Lyrics of the heart |  |
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MY NATIVE VALE.
My native vale, my native vale!
How many a chequered year hath fled,
How many a vision, bright and frail,
My youth's aspiring hopes have fed,
Since last thy beauties met mine eye,
Upon as sweet an eve as this,
And each soft breeze that wandered by,
Whispered of love, repose, and bliss:
I deemed not then a ruder gale,
Would sweep me soon from Malhamdale!
How many a chequered year hath fled,
How many a vision, bright and frail,
My youth's aspiring hopes have fed,
Since last thy beauties met mine eye,
Upon as sweet an eve as this,
And each soft breeze that wandered by,
Whispered of love, repose, and bliss:
I deemed not then a ruder gale,
Would sweep me soon from Malhamdale!
Who may the Poet's thoughts unfold
Ere yet he pours his soul in song,—
When hopes, all glowing but untold,
And passions, numberless and strong,
Are pent within his youthful breast,
Or murmured but in secret sighs;
Till Love, the fondliest cherished guest,
His fettered tongue at length unties,
And bids as wild a strain prevail
As once I breathed in Malhamdale.
Ere yet he pours his soul in song,—
When hopes, all glowing but untold,
And passions, numberless and strong,
Are pent within his youthful breast,
Or murmured but in secret sighs;
Till Love, the fondliest cherished guest,
His fettered tongue at length unties,
And bids as wild a strain prevail
As once I breathed in Malhamdale.
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And she, who listened to my lays,
With downcast eye and blushing cheek,
Her smiles were as the sunny rays
That bad the lips of Memnon speak;
Till all the feelings, wild and warm,
My swelling heart had nursed so long,
Yielding to that all-powerful charm,
Burst forth in one full tide of song:
Alas, that dreams so fair should fail;
We met no more in Malhamdale!
With downcast eye and blushing cheek,
Her smiles were as the sunny rays
That bad the lips of Memnon speak;
Till all the feelings, wild and warm,
My swelling heart had nursed so long,
Yielding to that all-powerful charm,
Burst forth in one full tide of song:
Alas, that dreams so fair should fail;
We met no more in Malhamdale!
Ay, they whose fondness made thee seem
A paradise on earth to me;
The one bright star whose tender beam
Shed light upon my destiny;
The kindly sympathies of love,
The old familiar forms are flown,
And, sered in heart, 'tis mine to rove
This cold and desert world alone:
I, only I am left to wail
O'er the lost joys of Malhamdale!
A paradise on earth to me;
The one bright star whose tender beam
Shed light upon my destiny;
The kindly sympathies of love,
The old familiar forms are flown,
And, sered in heart, 'tis mine to rove
This cold and desert world alone:
I, only I am left to wail
O'er the lost joys of Malhamdale!
When toiling, 'neath a foreign sky,
For wealth that none are left to share,
How oft would Memory's wistful eye,
Revert to scenes and hours more fair;
The village church, my cottage-home,
With all its clustering woodbines gay,
The glades through which I loved to roam,
In years that seemed but yesterday,
Flashed on my soul, and told a tale
Of youth, and hope, and Malhamdale.
For wealth that none are left to share,
How oft would Memory's wistful eye,
Revert to scenes and hours more fair;
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With all its clustering woodbines gay,
The glades through which I loved to roam,
In years that seemed but yesterday,
Flashed on my soul, and told a tale
Of youth, and hope, and Malhamdale.
I never closed my wearied eye
But visions sweet as these were mine,
Nor offered up a prayer on high
That did not breathe of thee and thine:
In dreams by night, in dreams by day,
In hours of gloom or revelry,
Sweet scenes of youth's enchanted May,
My thoughts were still of thine and thee!
What now can Memory's light avail;—
What now to me is Malhamdale!
But visions sweet as these were mine,
Nor offered up a prayer on high
That did not breathe of thee and thine:
In dreams by night, in dreams by day,
In hours of gloom or revelry,
Sweet scenes of youth's enchanted May,
My thoughts were still of thine and thee!
What now can Memory's light avail;—
What now to me is Malhamdale!
And what am I? An exile pale,
With wasted form and withered heart,
Transplanted to his native vale,
To droop awhile, and then depart;
To think of all that might have been,
Of joys, that gold could never buy;
Just wander o'er each long-loved scene,
Then seek me out a grave and die;
Sleep—with no stone to tell my tale—
By her I loved, in Malhamdale.
With wasted form and withered heart,
Transplanted to his native vale,
To droop awhile, and then depart;
To think of all that might have been,
Of joys, that gold could never buy;
Just wander o'er each long-loved scene,
Then seek me out a grave and die;
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By her I loved, in Malhamdale.
My native vale—my native vale!
Even as I mark thy shadows change,
Sweet strains seem breathing on the gale,
I feel a thrilling new and strange;
A radiant form is rising now,
How fair, upon my waning sight;
I know her by her starlike brow,
Her loving eyes so blue and bright;
She beckons me, life's pulses fail;
Adieu, adieu, my native vale!
Even as I mark thy shadows change,
Sweet strains seem breathing on the gale,
I feel a thrilling new and strange;
A radiant form is rising now,
How fair, upon my waning sight;
I know her by her starlike brow,
Her loving eyes so blue and bright;
She beckons me, life's pulses fail;
Adieu, adieu, my native vale!
| Lyrics of the heart | |