 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
114
Breathe, Breathe on my Heart.
1829.
“Breathe, breathe on my heart, O breathe on my heart,
Ye flowers of a valley so loved of yore!
I come but to gaze—but to gaze and depart,
And I ask ye the pulse of my youth to restore!
For my heart is so languid, so weary, so low,
So dry, and so withered!—But breathe, as ye blow,
Your beauty into it—cool—dewy—and O!
It will waken to all its old feelings once more.
Ye flowers of a valley so loved of yore!
I come but to gaze—but to gaze and depart,
And I ask ye the pulse of my youth to restore!
For my heart is so languid, so weary, so low,
So dry, and so withered!—But breathe, as ye blow,
Your beauty into it—cool—dewy—and O!
It will waken to all its old feelings once more.
“Breathe, breathe on my heart, sweet crow-flower, breathe,
As thou streakest the turf with the gold of thy bloom!
And ye, purple blossoms, that gem the dark heath,
O freshen my soul with your mountain perfume!
The primrose hath vanished; the violet too,
Hath passed from the walk with its leaflets of blue;
And of all the gay blossoms of broomwood, but few
Remain with their light in the glen's verdant gloom.
As thou streakest the turf with the gold of thy bloom!
And ye, purple blossoms, that gem the dark heath,
O freshen my soul with your mountain perfume!
The primrose hath vanished; the violet too,
Hath passed from the walk with its leaflets of blue;
And of all the gay blossoms of broomwood, but few
Remain with their light in the glen's verdant gloom.
“Yet breathe on my heart, ye lingerers, breathe!
Ye have rapture within your moist foldings for me!
And thou, stately fox-glove, thyself a bright wreath
Of blossoms the loveliest, I call upon thee;
From thy string of sweet bells—a most fairy like string—
The soft, silent music of beauty O fling!
It will enter my heart like a song in the spring—
The first that is poured from the fresh-budding tree!
Ye have rapture within your moist foldings for me!
And thou, stately fox-glove, thyself a bright wreath
Of blossoms the loveliest, I call upon thee;
From thy string of sweet bells—a most fairy like string—
The soft, silent music of beauty O fling!
115
The first that is poured from the fresh-budding tree!
“Breathe, breathe on my heart, wild thyme of the hill,
That lovest to bloom on the verge of the glen!
Breathe, every sweet floweret befringing the rill,
Or namelessly starring the green of the fen!
But chiefly, ye roses, profusely that flaunt,
Ye woodbines, that welcome me back to my haunt,
The charm and the perfume of other years grant—
O breathe on my heart as ye breathed on it then!”
That lovest to bloom on the verge of the glen!
Breathe, every sweet floweret befringing the rill,
Or namelessly starring the green of the fen!
But chiefly, ye roses, profusely that flaunt,
Ye woodbines, that welcome me back to my haunt,
The charm and the perfume of other years grant—
O breathe on my heart as ye breathed on it then!”
I stood, as I spoke, on the brow of the dell,
Where oft I had loitered in long-vanished years;
And here waved the forest, and there rose the fell,
Which the songs of my youth had described without peers!
The flowers I apostrophised, over me cast
The sweets they had shed in the bright summers past,
And, o'ercome by the reflux of feeling at last,
I sank on the turf, and bedewed it with tears!
Where oft I had loitered in long-vanished years;
And here waved the forest, and there rose the fell,
Which the songs of my youth had described without peers!
The flowers I apostrophised, over me cast
The sweets they had shed in the bright summers past,
And, o'ercome by the reflux of feeling at last,
I sank on the turf, and bedewed it with tears!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Story | |