Craven Blossoms or, Poems chiefly connected with the district of Craven. By Robert Storey |
 |
|
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
O WHY IS THERE WOE? |
 | Craven Blossoms |  |
68
O WHY IS THERE WOE?
Look round on this world—it is sweet, it is fair—
There is light in its sky—there is life in its air—
Sublimity breathes from the forms of its hills,
And Beauty winds on with its rivers and rills—
The dew, as with diamonds, its meads hath besprent—
From its groves are a thousand wild melodies sent—
While flowers of each fragrance and hue are unfurled—
O why is there woe in so lovely a world?
There is light in its sky—there is life in its air—
Sublimity breathes from the forms of its hills,
And Beauty winds on with its rivers and rills—
The dew, as with diamonds, its meads hath besprent—
From its groves are a thousand wild melodies sent—
While flowers of each fragrance and hue are unfurled—
O why is there woe in so lovely a world?
Say not that the picture is drawn in a time
When Summer is Queen of the sky and the clime—
Remember young Spring, with her rainbows and songs,
The charm which to Autumn's bright foliage belongs,
And Winter's stern pomp—which no chilled feeling mars—
In his snow-shining land, and his concave of stars!
Yes, well may we question, whate'er sky's unfurled,
O why is there woe in so lovely a world?
When Summer is Queen of the sky and the clime—
69
The charm which to Autumn's bright foliage belongs,
And Winter's stern pomp—which no chilled feeling mars—
In his snow-shining land, and his concave of stars!
Yes, well may we question, whate'er sky's unfurled,
O why is there woe in so lovely a world?
Talk not of a Spectre whose skeleton hand
Robs the sun of his glory, and darkens the land—
His touch, with a power no talisman knows,
But wraps our worn souls in a moment's repose,
To wake in a region yet fairer than this,
Where the heart never beats but its throb is of bliss!
His flag is but Rapture's bright ensign unfurled;
Then why is there woe in so lovely a world?
Robs the sun of his glory, and darkens the land—
His touch, with a power no talisman knows,
But wraps our worn souls in a moment's repose,
To wake in a region yet fairer than this,
Where the heart never beats but its throb is of bliss!
His flag is but Rapture's bright ensign unfurled;
Then why is there woe in so lovely a world?
70
It is not in Winter, with cloud and with storm—
There are passions yet wilder that stain and deform.
It is not in Death, with his fear-imaged darts—
There are vices yet deadlier far in our hearts.
These mar the Eternal's beneficent plan,
Who furnished this earth as the Eden of man,
And bade Pleasure's fair banner be ever unfurled—
O! these have brought woe to so lovely a world!
There are passions yet wilder that stain and deform.
It is not in Death, with his fear-imaged darts—
There are vices yet deadlier far in our hearts.
These mar the Eternal's beneficent plan,
Who furnished this earth as the Eden of man,
And bade Pleasure's fair banner be ever unfurled—
O! these have brought woe to so lovely a world!
| Craven Blossoms | |