University of Virginia Library

There is a weary listless hour
For those who roam by land or sea,
When most they sink beneath the power
Of travel's dull monotony:
When jarring boat or jolting stage
Have been a torment many a league;
When pleasant views no more engage,
And sights and sounds alike fatigue:
What then can rouse, revive, attract?
'Tis Fancy! her green grafts endue
The worn-out stem of barren Fact,
And bid it bloom with joy anew.
But most of all those day-dreams dear,
Which own the lordship of the will,
Most dear are those which feign thee near,
My love, my fond employment still!
Suppose to-day, some cruel fate
Had made that tender frame, those frail
And delicate limbs, the costly freight
Of our rude coach, which crawls like snail
Across the Alleghanies' brow,
Where rocks through flowers their grey heads thrust;
Suppose the searching heat as now
Burn'd on the cheek,—the stifling dust
In yellow clouds obscured the view;
The jolting coach incessantly
From side to side our bodies threw;
And there wert thou alone with me—
O gentle creature! could'st thou bear
The troubles of the painful way?
To see such gentle creature there
Alas! were greater pain than they!
What could I do but make thee rest
Within my arms around thee spread—
What else but make my anxious breast
A pillow for thy precious head!
With planted foot, now here, now there,
Observant meet each sudden shake—
And firm and quick, with cautious care,
The force of each concussion break?
And when the sun's remorseless beam
Had made thee weak and very faint,
How would I bless the limpid stream
That still with self-conversing plaint
Survived a six-weeks' summer drought,
And fill'd its streak'd and sandy track
Across the high-road pencilled out,
With spirit neither dim nor slack,
By heat, by thick dust uneffaced—
Fair type of cheerful innocence
That meekly walks misfortune's waste!
And water I would gather thence,
For want of better cup to choose,
E'en in the bright tin pail, I wis,
Which for their horses drivers use
To dip in wayside brooks like this;
And putting back thy raven hair
With tender skill by true-love given,
Would I not bathe thy temples fair,
So white, with veins as blue as heaven?
Nay—make a fan of chestnut boughs,
And bid the winnowing breezes woo
Those soft-sealed lids, those meek-curved brows,
Sweet cheeks, and lips unparted too?
Oh I would nurse thee, I would brood
O'er thy distress with fondness fraught
With searching watchfulness that would
Anticipate thy very thought!
With more devoted delicate care
Than mothers give, than infants ask;
Delight so deep, such rapture rare
Would so endear the gentle task!
And I would soothe thee all the while
With broken words of whispered love;
And thou at last would'st faintly smile,
And those full lids would slowly move
Their fringes—and thy languid eyes
Would yield one tender thankful glance,
Then close again; but I would prize
Thy looks revived—thy countenance
Resign'd though faint, in tranquil rest;
Not now exhausted—pallid—sad;
And gazing on those features blest,
How thankful I should be, and glad!
Then would my lips sink down on thine,
For their sweet warmth and softness burning;
And cling until they grew to mine
With thirst as deep, with kindred yearning!
I hear thy heart's thick panting then—

Nay, Fancy! wherefore thus deride me?
The coach has stopped—and worldly men
Are talking politics beside me!