 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
TO MATILDA
The wind howls around and the swift rain is pouring,
The storm beaten billows tumultuously roll;
But though fiercely the tempests of winter are roaring,
More fierce is the tempest that wars in my soul!
Though duty commands it, love mocks the endeavour,
To forget thee, Matilda! to leave thee for ever!
The bonds of affection can int'rest dissever,
Or prudence the noblest of passions controul?
The storm beaten billows tumultuously roll;
But though fiercely the tempests of winter are roaring,
More fierce is the tempest that wars in my soul!
188
To forget thee, Matilda! to leave thee for ever!
The bonds of affection can int'rest dissever,
Or prudence the noblest of passions controul?
Dear, dear to the sailor, long toss'd on the ocean,
Again his lov'd home, friends and country to see;
To me, long the slave of each ardent emotion,
More dear is the transport of gazing on thee.
Though pride may the beauties of nature be scorning,
The peasant with joy hails the breath of the morning,
Sweet to him are the smiles Spring's dominion adorning,
But the smiles of Matilda are sweeter to me.
Again his lov'd home, friends and country to see;
To me, long the slave of each ardent emotion,
More dear is the transport of gazing on thee.
Though pride may the beauties of nature be scorning,
The peasant with joy hails the breath of the morning,
Sweet to him are the smiles Spring's dominion adorning,
But the smiles of Matilda are sweeter to me.
And must we then part to be no more united?
And must I, Matilda, each hope then resign,
Each hope which my too sanguine fancy delighted,
When I thought that thy heart beat responsive to mine?
Farewell! thou dear source of my pain and my pleasure!
May thy joys, like thy virtues be still without measure!
But where shall I meet with so matchless a treasure;
Oh! where find a heart I could value like thine?
And must I, Matilda, each hope then resign,
Each hope which my too sanguine fancy delighted,
When I thought that thy heart beat responsive to mine?
Farewell! thou dear source of my pain and my pleasure!
May thy joys, like thy virtues be still without measure!
But where shall I meet with so matchless a treasure;
Oh! where find a heart I could value like thine?
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |