Craven Blossoms or, Poems chiefly connected with the district of Craven. By Robert Storey |
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ON THE DEATH OF MISS --- |
 | Craven Blossoms |  |
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ON THE DEATH OF MISS ---
If on some bright and breezeless eve,
When falls the ripe rose leaf by leaf,
The moralizing bard will heave
A sigh that seems allied to grief,
Shall I be blithe—shall I be mute—
Nor shed the tear—nor pour the wail,
When Death has blighted to its root
The sweetest Flower of Malhamdale?
When falls the ripe rose leaf by leaf,
The moralizing bard will heave
A sigh that seems allied to grief,
Shall I be blithe—shall I be mute—
Nor shed the tear—nor pour the wail,
When Death has blighted to its root
The sweetest Flower of Malhamdale?
Her form was like the fair sun-stream
That glances through the mists of noon—
Ah! little thought we that its beam
Would vanish from our glens so soon!
Yet when her eye had most of mirth,
And when her cheek the least was pale,
They talked of purer worlds than earth—
She could not stay in Malhamdale!
That glances through the mists of noon—
Ah! little thought we that its beam
Would vanish from our glens so soon!
Yet when her eye had most of mirth,
And when her cheek the least was pale,
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She could not stay in Malhamdale!
The placid depth of that dark eye—
The wild-rose tint of that fair cheek—
Will still awake the long-drawn sigh
While Memory of the past shall speak.
And we can never be but pained
To think, when gazing on that vale,
One Angel more to Heaven is gained,
But one is lost to Malhamdale!
The wild-rose tint of that fair cheek—
Will still awake the long-drawn sigh
While Memory of the past shall speak.
And we can never be but pained
To think, when gazing on that vale,
One Angel more to Heaven is gained,
But one is lost to Malhamdale!
I may not tell what dreams were mine—
Dreams, laid in bright futurity—
When the full, soft, and partial shine
Of that fair eye was turned on me:
Enough, enough—the blooming wreath
Of Love, and Hope, and Joy is pale,
And now its withering perfumes breathe
O'er yon new grave in Malhamdale!
Dreams, laid in bright futurity—
When the full, soft, and partial shine
Of that fair eye was turned on me:
Enough, enough—the blooming wreath
Of Love, and Hope, and Joy is pale,
And now its withering perfumes breathe
O'er yon new grave in Malhamdale!
| Craven Blossoms | |