 | Orra |  |
INTRODUCTION.
THERE are who scorn the Muse's soothing power,
And deem the rhyming art an idle thing
To please the wealthy in a tedious hour,
And will not deign to hear its vot'ries sing;—
Though Pegasus, they say, be swift of wing,
'Tis but a woful waste of time to ride it,
And that, to want, it seldom fails to bring
Each vain and hapless bard that doth bestride it.
And deem the rhyming art an idle thing
To please the wealthy in a tedious hour,
And will not deign to hear its vot'ries sing;—
Though Pegasus, they say, be swift of wing,
'Tis but a woful waste of time to ride it,
And that, to want, it seldom fails to bring
Each vain and hapless bard that doth bestride it.
iv
Weighed down by worldly cares, and fruitless sighs,
To scenes of pleasure, and a happier clime,
Borne by the Muse, at eve my spirit flies:
Nor do I think that this can be a crime:
I never trespass on the sacred time
Due to the worldly toil by which I live,
Nor hope to gather from my humble rhyme
The meed which nought but honest toil can give.
To scenes of pleasure, and a happier clime,
Borne by the Muse, at eve my spirit flies:
Nor do I think that this can be a crime:
I never trespass on the sacred time
Due to the worldly toil by which I live,
Nor hope to gather from my humble rhyme
The meed which nought but honest toil can give.
There is a land whose solitary coast
Looks out upon the frozen Arctic sea;
Though few the arts her simple sons can boast,
Enough that they are virtuous and free:
Oh! thither let the weary spirit flee
Whose only hope in solitude is placed,
Who would desert the busy world, and be
The lonely resiant of some gloomy waste,
And there that soul its wished-for peace may taste.
Looks out upon the frozen Arctic sea;
Though few the arts her simple sons can boast,
Enough that they are virtuous and free:
Oh! thither let the weary spirit flee
Whose only hope in solitude is placed,
Who would desert the busy world, and be
The lonely resiant of some gloomy waste,
And there that soul its wished-for peace may taste.
v
For many a weary wretch is doomed to prove
The anguish of an ever-aching breast,
And coveteth the pinions of the dove
That he may flee away and be at rest;
But he, alas! who wanders forth in quest
Of lands unvisited by human woe,
Shall wander over all the world unblest:
For perfect bliss no man on earth can know.
The anguish of an ever-aching breast,
And coveteth the pinions of the dove
That he may flee away and be at rest;
But he, alas! who wanders forth in quest
Of lands unvisited by human woe,
Shall wander over all the world unblest:
For perfect bliss no man on earth can know.
O land of darkness, and of wintry storms,
Oft do I wish, although I know not why,
To see those hills that stretch their snowy forms
Aloft beneath thy cold and sunless sky,
While deadly chilliness is in the sigh
Of gentlest airs thy frigid winter knows;
Nor wood nor stream relieves the weary eye,
But all is shrouded in accumulating snows.
Oft do I wish, although I know not why,
To see those hills that stretch their snowy forms
Aloft beneath thy cold and sunless sky,
While deadly chilliness is in the sigh
Of gentlest airs thy frigid winter knows;
Nor wood nor stream relieves the weary eye,
But all is shrouded in accumulating snows.
vi
They boast not there of conquests they have made,
Nor mourn the deeds their enemies have done;
The shining helmet, or the warrior's blade,
Has never glittered in that pallid sun;
They boast no trophies from the foeman won,
And none have yielded to his mightier hand:
No riches covet they—and they have none,
To lure the spoilers from a foreign land.
Nor mourn the deeds their enemies have done;
The shining helmet, or the warrior's blade,
Has never glittered in that pallid sun;
They boast no trophies from the foeman won,
And none have yielded to his mightier hand:
No riches covet they—and they have none,
To lure the spoilers from a foreign land.
There in the fleet Pulkha, along the plain
They glide, exulting in the rein-deer's speed,
Nor dream of happier regions, where the rein
Controuls the gallant and the mighty steed,
Where flocks around the verdant mountains feed,
And yellow corn embrowns the fading year.
Nor are they less content, than those who lead
A life of luxury and splendor here.
They glide, exulting in the rein-deer's speed,
Nor dream of happier regions, where the rein
Controuls the gallant and the mighty steed,
Where flocks around the verdant mountains feed,
And yellow corn embrowns the fading year.
Nor are they less content, than those who lead
A life of luxury and splendor here.
vii
Warm glows their summer, while the sky displays
The solar orb, but soon that summer flies;
The wintry air soon chills the short'ning days,
And suddenly the blasted verdure dies;
Then gathering clouds, and wintry storms arise,
And the pale sun withdraws his feeble light,
No longer striving with the gloomy skies,
But leaves the land to winter and to night.
The solar orb, but soon that summer flies;
The wintry air soon chills the short'ning days,
And suddenly the blasted verdure dies;
Then gathering clouds, and wintry storms arise,
And the pale sun withdraws his feeble light,
No longer striving with the gloomy skies,
But leaves the land to winter and to night.
I sing the sorrows of a faithful pair,
The hapless children of that chilly clime,
For youth and beauty are not wanting there;
Nor is ingenuous passion deemed a crime,
Although that sweet companion of our prime,
To them occasioned many a bitter hour,
And lovely Orra, in an evil time,
First gave her simple bosom to its power.
The hapless children of that chilly clime,
For youth and beauty are not wanting there;
Nor is ingenuous passion deemed a crime,
Although that sweet companion of our prime,
To them occasioned many a bitter hour,
And lovely Orra, in an evil time,
First gave her simple bosom to its power.
viii
Young Orra was a Lapland maid, and fair,
But doomed to wither by an early blight:
Her bosom seemed, beneath her long black hair,
Like snowy hills beneath the clouds of night.
Alas! that ever misery should alight
On one so beautiful, on one so young!
Alas! that all the woe I must recite,
Should, from ingenuous love, have ever sprung.
But doomed to wither by an early blight:
Her bosom seemed, beneath her long black hair,
Like snowy hills beneath the clouds of night.
Alas! that ever misery should alight
On one so beautiful, on one so young!
Alas! that all the woe I must recite,
Should, from ingenuous love, have ever sprung.
| Orra | |