Poems by James Hyslop ... With a Sketch of his Life, and Notes on his Poems, By the Rev. Peter Mearns |
 |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVI. |
| XLVII. |
| XLVIII. |
| XLIX. |
| L. |
| LI. |
| LII. |
| LIII. |
| LIV. |
| LV. |
| LVI. |
| LVII. |
| LVIII. |
| LIX. |
| LX. |
| LXI. |
| LXII. |
| LXIII. |
| LXIV. |
| LXV. | LXV.
The Poet's Favourite Theme.
|
| LXVI. |
| LXVII. |
| LXVIII. |
| LXIX. |
| LXX. |
| LXXI. |
| LXXII. |
| LXXIII. |
| LXXIV. |
| LXXV. |
| LXXVI. |
| LXXVII. |
| LXXVIII. |
| LXXIX. |
| LXXX. |
| LXXXI. |
| LXXXII. |
 | Poems by James Hyslop |  |
LXV.
The Poet's Favourite Theme.
I'll not write for the world—I'll tell you why,
Writing would then be pain instead of pleasure;
Writing of songs I never can enjoy
When I must studiously correct each measure.
Writing would then be pain instead of pleasure;
Writing of songs I never can enjoy
When I must studiously correct each measure.
217
But I will write a little book of love,
In my heart's carelessness, to thee alone;
Heedless I'll range thro' Fancy's flowery grove,
Where no path leads,—as we have often done.
In my heart's carelessness, to thee alone;
Heedless I'll range thro' Fancy's flowery grove,
Where no path leads,—as we have often done.
I would not tempt Ambition's thorny path;
Nor, if I could, like Moore and Byron shine:
All my ambition is, that after death,
In songs of love, my name be blent with thine.
Nor, if I could, like Moore and Byron shine:
All my ambition is, that after death,
In songs of love, my name be blent with thine.
The happiness my heart has found in thee
Fame might destroy, but never could increase:
Should critics shoot their poisoned darts at me,
Well do I know how it would hurt thy peace.
Fame might destroy, but never could increase:
Should critics shoot their poisoned darts at me,
Well do I know how it would hurt thy peace.
Would I be dearer to you if my brow,
Like Moore's, were with poetic laurels bound;
Dreaming of little worth thy heart's soft vow,
And singing songs to every fair one round?—
Like Moore's, were with poetic laurels bound;
Dreaming of little worth thy heart's soft vow,
And singing songs to every fair one round?—
Wasting affection's hours in mirth and wine,
The life of every circle glad and gay;
Leaving at home my lov'd one to repine
Over the soft hours stolen from her away?
The life of every circle glad and gay;
Leaving at home my lov'd one to repine
Over the soft hours stolen from her away?
Oh! no, my love!—altho' poetic merit
Should make the world court my society,
I've far too fond a heart, too proud a spirit,
To squander it on any one but thee.
Should make the world court my society,
I've far too fond a heart, too proud a spirit,
To squander it on any one but thee.
I would not be that vain, contemptuous creature,
Who is content to dine with lords and dukes,
To make an exhibition of his nature,
And sun himself beneath their gracious looks.
Who is content to dine with lords and dukes,
To make an exhibition of his nature,
And sun himself beneath their gracious looks.
Well dost thou know that I was never made
Amidst the world's gay butterflies to shine,
With spring's fresh flowers let me thy tresses braid
Far in the woods: give Moore his sparkling wine.
Amidst the world's gay butterflies to shine,
With spring's fresh flowers let me thy tresses braid
Far in the woods: give Moore his sparkling wine.
| Poems by James Hyslop | |