The bard, and minor poems By John Walker Ord ... Collected and edited by John Lodge |
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 | The bard, and minor poems |  |
III.
“Arise, arise! if there be none
To comfort and assuage thy woe,
I, even like thee, depress'd and lone,
With thee o'er these wild wastes will go,
And soothe thee when the tempests blow.
What though the storms of life are strong,
And Desolation rides the air;—
What though impell'd by fear and wrong,
And hunted by Despair?
There yet are hopes, thy soul shall know
Life's pleasant flowerets are not dead;
Thou'lt hear the joyous waters flow,
And mountain breezes fan thy head.
The pious lore of ancient men
Shall greet thee in thy lonely bower,
And magic of the wood and glen
Entrance the passing hour.
Along each happy solitude,
Still beauty walks in joy and pride;
And love shall smooth thy pathways rude,
And lure thee to her side.
What if the lady of thy love
Hath scorn'd thee, and denied her smiles;
Or if she tread the skies above,
Amid the heavenly isles?
Lament not,—give thou scorn for scorn,—
Or tears and blessings, if no more:
Though storm to-night, to-morrow morn
The sun will gladden every shore.”
To comfort and assuage thy woe,
I, even like thee, depress'd and lone,
With thee o'er these wild wastes will go,
And soothe thee when the tempests blow.
6
And Desolation rides the air;—
What though impell'd by fear and wrong,
And hunted by Despair?
There yet are hopes, thy soul shall know
Life's pleasant flowerets are not dead;
Thou'lt hear the joyous waters flow,
And mountain breezes fan thy head.
The pious lore of ancient men
Shall greet thee in thy lonely bower,
And magic of the wood and glen
Entrance the passing hour.
Along each happy solitude,
Still beauty walks in joy and pride;
And love shall smooth thy pathways rude,
And lure thee to her side.
What if the lady of thy love
Hath scorn'd thee, and denied her smiles;
Or if she tread the skies above,
Amid the heavenly isles?
Lament not,—give thou scorn for scorn,—
Or tears and blessings, if no more:
Though storm to-night, to-morrow morn
The sun will gladden every shore.”
From underneath his even brow
The shadow o'er his eyes was gone;
In the clear air uprose he now,
All pale as sculptur'd stone.
Beauteous and brave, he once had been
Among the mountains like a god;
No spot of all this varied scene
His footsteps had not trod.
His soul had drank each new delight,
Each impulse swell'd his heaving breast;
And Nature, in her power and might,
His being and his life imprest.
The morning hue, the evening dream,
The ocean's calm, or stormy deep,
These lit with joy, each favour'd theme,
And linger'd in his sleep.
No earthly maid might shield her love,
From him, amid the festal throng:
So bright, as if from heaven above,
A seraph moved along:
Some shadow of the imaged thought,
Which fancy to a maid hath brought,—
A maiden wanderer of the wood,
In love's ecstatic solitude.
The shadow o'er his eyes was gone;
In the clear air uprose he now,
All pale as sculptur'd stone.
7
Among the mountains like a god;
No spot of all this varied scene
His footsteps had not trod.
His soul had drank each new delight,
Each impulse swell'd his heaving breast;
And Nature, in her power and might,
His being and his life imprest.
The morning hue, the evening dream,
The ocean's calm, or stormy deep,
These lit with joy, each favour'd theme,
And linger'd in his sleep.
No earthly maid might shield her love,
From him, amid the festal throng:
So bright, as if from heaven above,
A seraph moved along:
Some shadow of the imaged thought,
Which fancy to a maid hath brought,—
A maiden wanderer of the wood,
In love's ecstatic solitude.
| The bard, and minor poems | |