Adieu, thou Hill! where early joy
Spread roses o’er my brow
Where Science seeks each loitering boy
With knowledge to endow.
Adieu, my youthful friends or foes,
Partners of former bliss or woes
No more through Ida’s paths we stray
Soon must I share the gloomy cell,
Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell
Unconscious of the day.
Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes,
Ye spires of Granta’s vale,
Where Learning robed in sable reigns,
And Melancholy pale.
Ye comrades of the jovial hour,
Ye tenants of the classic bower,
On Cama’s verdant margin placed,
Adieu! while memory still is mine,
For, offerings on Oblivion’s shrine,
These scenes must be effaced.
Adieu, ye mountains of the clime
Where grew my youthful years
Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime
His giant summit rears.
Why did my childhood wander forth
From you, ye regions of the North,
With sons of pride to roam?
Why did I quit my Highland cave,
Mar’s dusky heath, and Dee’s clear wave,
To seek a Southern home!
Hall of my Sires! a long farewell
Yet why to thee adieu?
Thy vaults will echo back my knell,
Thy towers my tomb will view
The faltering tongue which sung thy fall,
And former glories of thy Hall,
Forgets its wonted simple note
But yet the Lyre retains the strings,
And sometimes, on Æolian wings,
In dying strains may float.
Fields which surround yon rustic cot,
While yet I linger here,
Adieu! you are not now forgot,
To retrospection dear.
Streamlet! along whose rippling surge
My youthful limbs were wont to urge,
At noontide heat, their pliant course
Plunging with ardour from the shore,
Thy springs will lave these limbs no more,
Deprived of active force.
And shall I here forget the scene,
Still nearest to my breast?
Rocks rise and rivers roll between
The spot which passion blest
Yet, Mary, all thy beauties seem
Fresh as in Love’s bewitching dream,
To me in smiles display’d
Till slow disease resigns his prey
To Death, the parent of decay,
Thine image cannot fade.
And thou, my Friend! whose gentle love
Yet thrills my bosom’s chords,
How much thy friendship was above
Description’s power of words!
Still near my breast thy gift I wear
Which sparkled once with Feeling’s tear,
Of Love the pure, the sacred gem
Our souls were equal, and our lot
In that dear moment quite forgot
Let Pride alone condemn!
All, all is dark and cheerless now!
No smile of Love’s deceit
Can warm my veins with wonted glow,
Can bid Life’s pulses beat
Not e’en the hope of future fame
Can wake my faint, exhausted frame,
Or crown with fancied wreaths my head.
Mine is a short inglorious race,
To humble in the dust my face,
And mingle with the dead.
Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart
On him who gains thy praise,
Pointless must fall the Spectre’s dart,
Consumed in Glory’s blaze
But me she beckons from the earth,
My name obscure, unmark’d my birth,
My life a short and vulgar dream
Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd,
My hopes recline within a shroud,
My fate is Lathe’s stream.
When I repose beneath the sod,
Unheeded in the clay,
Where once my playful footsteps trod,
Where now my head must lay,
The weed of Pity will be shed
In dew-drops o’er my narrow bed,
By nightly skies, and storms alone
No mortal eye will deign to steep
With tears the dark sepulchral deep
Which hides a name unknown.
Forget this world, my restless sprite,
Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven
There must thou soon direct thy flight,
If errors are forgiven.
To bigots and to sects unknown,
Bow down beneath the Almighty’s Throne
To Him address thy trembling prayer
He, who is merciful and just,
Will not reject a child of dust,
Although his meanest care.
Father of Light! to Thee I call
My soul is dark within
Thou who canst mark the sparrow’s fall,
Avert the death of sin.
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star,
Who calm’st the elemental war,
Whose mantle is yon boundless sky,
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive
And, since I soon must cease to live,
Instruct me how to die.
Never love unless you can
Bear with all the faults of a man!
Men sometimes will jealous be,
Though but little cause they see,
And hang the head as discontent,
And speak what straight they will repent.
Men that but one saint adore,
Make a show of love to more
Beauty must be scorned in one
For what is courtship but disguise?
True hearts may have dissembling eyes.
Men, when their affairs require,
Must awhile themselves retire
Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk,
And not ever sit and talk
If these and suchlike you can bear,
Then like, and love, and never fear!
Oh, Mariamne! now for thee
The heart of which thou bled’st is bleeding
Revenge is lost in agony,
And wild remorse to rage succeeding.
Oh, Mariamne! where art thou?
Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading
Ah! could’st thouthou would’st pardon now,
Though heaven were to my prayer unheeding.
And is she dead?and did they dare
Obey my phrensy’s jealous raving?
My wrath but doom’d my own despair
The sword that smote her’s o’er me waving.
But thou art cold, my murdered love!
And this dark heart is vainly craving
For her who soars alone above,
And leaves my soul unworthy saving.
She’s gone, who shared my diadem
She sunk, with her my joys entombing
I swept that flower from Judah’s stem
Whose leaves for me alone were blooming,
And mine’s the guilt, and mine the hell,
This bosom’s desolation dooming
And I have earn’d those tortures well,
Which unconsumed are still consuming!
Away with your fictions of flimsy romance,
Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove!
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.
Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow,
Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove
From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow,
Could you ever tasted the first kiss love!
If Apollo should e’er his assistance refuse,
Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove,
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse,
And try the effect of the first kiss of love.
I hate you, ye cold compositions of art!
Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove,
I court the effusions that spring from the heart,
Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love.
Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes,
Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move
Arcadia displays but a region of dreams
What are visions like these to the first kiss of love.
Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth,
From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove
Some portion of paradise still is on earth,
And Eden revives in the first kiss of love.
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.
Oh never talk again to me
Of northern climes and British ladies
It has not been your lot to see,
Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz
Although her eye be not of blue,
Nor fair her locks, like English lasses,
How far its own expressive hue
The languid azure eye surpasses!
Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole
The fire, that through those silken lashes
In darkest glances seem to roll,
From eyes that cannot hide their flashes
And as along her bosom steal
In lengthen’d flow her raven tresses,
You’d swear each clustering lock could feel,
And curl’d to give her neck caresses.
Our English maids are long to woo,
And frigid even in possession
And if their charms be fair to view,
Their lips are slow at Loves confession
But, born beneath a brighter sun,
For love ordain’d the Spanish maid is,
And who,when fondly, fairly won,
Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz?
The Spanish maid is no coquette,
Nor joys to see a lover tremble,
And if she love, or if she hate,
Alike she knows not to dissemble.
Her heart can ne’er be bought or sold
Howe’er it beats, it beats sincerely
And, though it will not bend to gold,
’Twill love you long and love you dearly.
The Spanish girl that meets your love
Ne’er taunts you with a mock denial,
For every thought is bent to prove
Her passion in the hour of trial.
When thronging foemen menace Spain,
She dares the deed and shares the danger
And should her lover press the plain,
She hurls the spear, her love’s avenger.
And when, beneath the evening star,
She mingles in the gay Bolero,
Or sings to her attuned guitar
Of Christian knight or Moorish hero,
Or counts her beads with fairy hand
Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper,
Or joins Devotion’s choral band,
To chaunt the sweet and hallow’d vesper
In each her charms the heart must move
Of all who venture to behold her
Then let not maids less fair reprove
Because her bosom is not colder
Through many a clime ’tis mine to roam
Where many a soft and melting maid is,
But none abroad, and few at home,
May match the dark-eyed Girl of Cadiz.
Doubtless, sweet girl! the hissing lead,
Wafting destruction o’er thy charms,
And hurtling o’er thy lovely head,
Has fill’d that breast with fond alarms.
Surely some envious demon’s force,
Vex’d to behold such beauty here,
Impell’d the bullet’s viewless course,
Diverted from its first career.
Yes! in that nearly fatal hour
The ball obey’d some hell-born guide
But Heaven, with interposing power,
In pity turn’d the death aside.
Yet, as perchance one trembling tear
Upon that thrilling bosom fell
Which I, th’ unconscious cause of fear,
Extracted fromn its glistening cell
Say, what dire penance can atone
For such an outrage done to thee?
Arraign’d before thy beauty’s throne,
What punishment wilt thou decree?
Might I perform the judge’s part,
The sentence I should scarce deplore
It only would restore a heart
Which but belong’d to thee before.
The least atonement I can make
Is to become no longer free
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake,
Thou shalt be all in all to me.
But thou, perhaps, may’st now reject
Such expiation of my guilt
Come then, some other mode elect
Let it be death, or what thou wilt.
Choose then, relentless! and I swear
Naught shall thy dread decree prevent
Yet holdone little word forbear!
Let it be aught but banishment.
Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,
My life, I love you!
By those tresses unconfined,
Wooed by each Aegean wind
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks’ blooming tinge
By those wild eyes like the roe,
My life, I love you!
By that lip I long to taste
By that zone-encircled waist
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well
By love’s alternate joy and woe,
My life, I love you!
Maid of Athens! I am gone
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,
Athens holds my heart and soul
Can I cease to love thee? No!
My life, I love you!
Woman! experience might have told me,
That all must love thee who behold thee
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are naught
But, placed in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to adore thee.
Oh memory! Thou choicest blessing
When join’d with hope, when still possessing
But how much cursed by every lover
When hope is fled and passion’s over.
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How throbs the pulse when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope’t will last for aye,
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,
Woman, thy vows are traced in sand.
Lesbia! since far from you I’ve ranged,
Our souls with fond affection glow not
You say ’tis I, not you, have changed,
I’d tell you why,but yet I know not.
Your polish’d brow no cares have crost
And, Lesbia! we are not much older,
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,
Or told my love, with hope grown bolder.
Sixteen was then our utmost age,
Two years have lingering past away, love!
And now new thoughts our minds engage,
At least I feel disposed to stray, love!
’Tis I that am alone to blame,
I, that am guilty of love’s treason
Since your sweet breast is still the same,
Caprice must be my only reason.
I do not, love! suspect your truth,
With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not
Warm was the passion of my youth,
One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.
No, no, my flame was not pretended,
For, Oh! I loved you most sincerely
Andthough our dream at last is ended
My bosom still esteems you dearly.
No more we meet in yonder bowers
Absence has made me prone to roving
But older, firmer hearts than ours
Have found monotony in loving.
Your cheek’s soft bloom is unimpair’d,
New beauties still are daily bright’ning,
Your eye for conquest beams prepared,
The forge of love’s resistless lightning.
Arm’d thus, to make their bosoms bleed,
Many will throng to sigh like me, love!
More constant they may prove, indeed
Fonder, alas! they ne’er can be, love!
Parent of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious Queen of childish joys,
Who lead’st along, in airy dance,
Thy votive train of girls and boys
At length, in spells no longer bound,
I break the fetters of my youth
No more I tread thy mystic round,
But leave thy realms for those of Truth.
And yet ’tis hard to quit the dreams
Which haunt the unsuspicious soul,
Where every nymph a goddess seems,
Whose eyes through rays immortal roll
While Fancy holds her boundless reign,
And all assume a varied hue
When Virgins seem no longer vain,
And even Woman’s smiles are true.
And must we own thee, but a name,
And from thy hall of clouds descend?
Nor find a Sylph in every dame,
A Pylades in every friend?
But leave, at once, thy realms of air
To mingling bands of fairy elves
Confess that woman’s false as fair,
And friends have feeling forthemselves?
With shame, I own, I’ve felt thy sway
Repentant, now thy reign is o’er
No more thy precepts I obey,
No more on fancied pinions soar
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,
And think that eye to truth was dear
To trust a passing wanton’s sigh,
And melt beneath a wanton’s tear!
Romance! disgusted with deceit,
Far from thy motley court I fly,
Where Affectation holds her seat,
And sickly Sensibility
Whose silly tears can never flow
For any pangs excepting thine
Who turns aside from real woe,
To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine.
Now join with sable Sympathy,
With cypress crown’d, array’d in weeds,
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh,
Whose breast for every bosom bleeds
And call thy sylvan female choir,
To mourn a Swain for ever gone,
Who once could glow with equal fire,
But bends not now before thy throne.
Ye genial Nymphs, whose ready tears
On all occasions swiftly flow
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,
With fancied flames and phrenzy glow
Say, will you mourn my absent name,
Apostate from your gentle train
An infant Bard, at least, may claim
From you a sympathetic strain.
Adieu, fond race! a long adieu!
The hour of fate is hovering nigh
E’en now the gulf appears in view,
Where unlamented you must lie
Oblivion’s blackening lake is seen,
Convuls’d by gales you cannot weather,
Where you, and eke your gentle queen,
Alas! must perish altogether.
Marion! why that pensive brow?
What disgust to life hast thou?
Change that discontented air
Frowns become not one so fair.
’Tis not love disturbs thy rest,
Love’s a stranger to thy breast
He in dimpling smiles appears,
Or mourns in weedy timid tears
Or bends the languid eyelid down,
But shuns the cold forbidding frown.
Then resume thy former fire
Some will love, and all admire
While that icy aspect chills us,
Naught but cool indiff’rence thrills us.
Wou’dst thou wand’ring hearts beguile,
Smile at least, or seem to smile.
Eyes like thine were never meant
To hide their orbs in dark restraint.
Spite of all thou fain wouldst say,
Still in truant beams they play.
Thy lipsbut here my modest Muse
Her impulse chaste must needs refuse
She blushes, curt’sies, frowns,in short, she
Dreads lest the subject should transport me
And flying off in search of reason,
Brings prudence back in proper season.
All I shall therefore say whate’er
I think, is neither here nor there
Is, that such lips of looks endearing,
Were form’d for better things than sneering
Of soothing compliments divested,
Advice at least’s disinterested
Such is my artless song to thee,
From all the flow of flatt’ry free
Counsel like mine is as a brother’s,
My heart is given to some others
That is to say, unskill’d to cozen
It shares itself among a dozen.
Marion, adieu! oh, pr’ythee slight not
This warning, though it may delight not
And, lest my precepts be displeasing
To those who think remonstrance teasing
At once I’ll tell thee our opinion
Concerning woman’s soft dominion
Howe’er we gaze with admiration
On eyes of blue or lips carnation,
Howe’er the flowing locks attract us,
Howe’er those beauties may distract us,
Still fickle, we are prone to rove,
These cannot fix our souls to love
It is not too severe a stricture
To say they form a pretty picture
But wouldst thou see the secret chain
Which binds us in your humble train,
To hail you queens of all creation,
Know, in a word, ’tis animation.
Whene’er I view those lips of thine,
Their hue invites my fervent kiss
Yet, I forego that bliss divine,
Alas! it wereunhallow’d bliss.
Whene’er I dream of that pure breast,
How could I dwell upon its snows!
Yet, is the daring wish represt,
For that,would banish its repose.
A glance from thy soul-searching eye
Can raise with hope, depress with fear
Yet, I conceal my love,and why?
I would not force a painful tear.
I ne’er have told my love, yet thou
Hast seen my ardent flame too well
And shall I plead my passion now,
To make thy bosom’s heaven a hell?
No! for thou never canst be mine,
United by the priest’s decree
By any ties but those divine,
Mine, my belov’d, thou ne’er shalt be.
Then let the secret fire consume,
Let it consume, thou shalt not know
With joy I court a certain doom,
Rather than spread its guilty glow.
I will not ease my tortur’d heart,
By driving dove-ey’d peace from thine
Rather than such a sting impart,
Each thought presumptuous I resign.
Yes! yield those lips, for which I’d brave
More than I here shall dare to tell
Thy innocence and mine to save,
I bid thee now a last farewell.
Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair
And hope no more thy soft embrace
Which to obtain, my soul would dare,
All, all reproach, but thy disgrace.
At least from guilt shalt thou be free,
No matron shall thy shame reprove
Though cureless pangs may prey on me,
No martyr shalt thou be to love.
When I dream that you love me, you’ll surely forgive
Extend not your anger to sleep
For in visions alone your affection can live,
I rise, and it leaves me to weep.
Then, Morpheus! envelop my faculties fast,
Shed o’er me your languor benign
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,
What rapture celestial is mine!
They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,
Mortality’s emblem is given
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,
If this be a foretaste of Heaven!
Ah! frown not, sweet Lady, unbend your soft brow,
Nor deem me to happy in this
If I sin in my dream, I atone it for now,
Thus doom’d, but to gaze upon bliss.
Though in visions, sweet Lady, perhaps you may smile,
Oh! think not my penance deficient!
When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile,
To awake, will be torture sufficient.
Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
For thou art form’d so heavenly fair,
Howe’er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair
That fatal glance forbids esteem.
When Nature stamp’d thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear’d that, too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own.
Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk,
Within those once celestial eyes.
These might the boldest Sylph appall,
When gleaming with meridian blaze
Thy beauty must enrapture all
But who can dare thine ardent gaze?
’Tis said that Berenice’s hair,
In stars adorns the vault of heaven
But they would ne’er permit thee there,
Who wouldst so far outshine the seven.
For did those eyes as planets roll,
Thy sister-lights would scarce appear
E’en suns, which systems now control,
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.
These locks, which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine,
Than all th’ unmeaning protestations
Which swell with nonsense, love orations.
Our love is fix’d, I think we’ve proved it
Nor time, nor place, nor art have mov’d it
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine
With silly whims, and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic?
Why should you weep, like Lydia Languish,
And fret with self-created anguish?
Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter to nights to sigh half frozen
In leafless shades, to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene’s a garden?
For gardens seem, by one consent,
Since Shakespeare set the precedent
Since Juliet first declar’d her passion
To form the place of assignation.
Oh! would some modern muse inspire,
And set her by a sea-coal fire
Or had the bard at Christmas written,
And laid the scene of love in Britain
He surely, in commiseration,
Had chang’d the place of declaration.
In Italy, I’ve no objection,
Warm nights are proper for reflection
But here our climate is so rigid,
That love itself, is rather frigid
Think on our chilly situation,
And curb this rage for imitation.
Then let us meet, as oft we’ve done,
Beneath the influence of the sun
Or, if at midnight I must meet you,
Within your mansion let me greet you
There, we can love for hours together,
Much better, in such snowy weather,
Than plac’d in all th’ Arcadian groves,
That ever witness’d rural loves
Then, if my passion fail to please,
Next night I’ll be content to freeze
No more I’ll give a loose to laughter,
But curse my fate, for ever after.
O! had my Fate been join’d with thine,
As once this pledge appear’d a token,
These follies had not, then, been mine,
For, then, my peace had not been broken.
To thee, these early faults I owe,
To thee, the wise and old reproving
They know my sins, but do not know
’Twas thine to break the bonds of loving.
For once my soul, like thine, was pure,
And all its rising fires could smother
But, now, thy vows no more endure,
Bestow’d by thee upon another.
Perhaps, his peace I could destroy,
And spoil the blisses that await him
Yet let my Rival smile in joy,
For thy dear sake, I cannot hate him.
Ah! since thy angel form is gone,
My heart no more can rest with any
But what it sought in thee alone,
Attempts, alas! to find in many.
Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!
’Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee
Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid,
But Pride may teach me to forget thee.
Yet all this giddy waste of years,
This tiresome round of palling pleasures
These varied loves, these matrons’ fears,
These thoughtless strains to Passion’s measures
If thou wert mine, had all been hush’d
This cheek, now pale from early riot,
With Passion’s hectic ne’er had flush’d,
But bloom’d in calm domestic quiet.
Yes, once the rural Scene was sweet,
For Nature seem’d to smile before thee
And once my Breast abhorr’d deceit,
For then it beat but to adore thee.
But, now, I seek for other joys
To think, would drive my soul to madness
In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise,
I conquer half my Bosom’s sadness.
Yet, even in these, a thought will steal,
In spite of every vain endeavor
And fiends might pity what I feel
To know that thou art lost for ever.
Think’st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,
Suffus’d in tears, implore to stay
And heard unmov’d thy plenteous sighs,
Which said far more than words can say?
Though keen the grief thy tears exprest,
When love and hope lay both o’erthrown
Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast
Throbb’d, with deep sorrow, as thine own.
But, when our cheeks with anguish glow’d,
When thy sweet lips were join’d to mine
The tears that from my eyelids flow’d
Were lost in those which fell from thine.
Thou could’st not feel my burning cheek,
Thy gushing tears had quench’d its flame,
And, as thy tongue essay’d to speak,
In sighs alone it breath’d my name.
And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,
In vain our fate in sighs deplore
Remembrance only can remain,
But that, will make us weep the more.
Again, thou best belov’d, adieu!
Ah! if thou canst, o’ercome regret,
Nor let thy mind past joys review,
Our only hope is, to forget!
When I hear that you express an affection so warm,
Ne’er think, my beloved, that I do not believe
For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm,
And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive.
Yet, still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring,
That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear
That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring,
Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear
That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze,
When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease.
’Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o’er my features,
Though I ne’er shall presume to arraign the decree,
Which God has proclaim’d as the fate of his creatures,
In the death which will one day deprive you of me.
Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion,
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade
He worships each look with such faithful devotion,
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade.
But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o’ertake us,
And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy glow,
Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us,
When calling the dead, in earth’s bosom laid low,
Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure,
Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow
Let us pass round the cup of love’s bliss in full measure,
And quaff the contents as our nectar below.
Oh when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?
Oh when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay?
The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow
But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day.
From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses
I blast not the fiends who have hurl’d me from bliss
For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses
Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this.
Was my eye, ’stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright’ning,
Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage
On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning,
With transport my tongue give loose to its rage.
But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,
Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight
Could they view us our sad separation bewailing
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight.
Yet still, though we bend with a feign’d resignation,
Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer
Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation,
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear.
Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me,
Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled?
If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee,
Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead.
The roses of Love glad the garden of life,
Though nurtur’d ’mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,
Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,
Or prunes them for ever, in Love’s last adieu!
In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad heart,
In vain do we vow for an age to be true
The chance of an hour may command us to part,
Or Death disunite us, in Love’s last adieu!
Still Hope, breathing peace, through the grief-swollen breast,
Will whisper, Our meeting we yet may renew
With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow’s represt,
Nor taste we the poison, of Love’s last adieu!
Oh! mark you yon pair, in the sunshine of youth,
Love twin’d round their childhood his flow’rs as they grew
They flourish awhile, in the season of truth,
Till chill’d by the winter of Love’s last adieu!
Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way,
Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue?
Yet why do I ask?to distraction a prey,
Thy reason has perish’d, with Love’s last adieu!
Oh! who is yon Misanthrope, shunning mankind?
From cities to caves of the forest he flew
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind
The mountains reverberate Love’s last adieu!
Now Hate rules a heart which in Love’s easy chains,
Once Passion’s tumultuous blandishments knew
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins,
He ponders, in frenzy, on Love’s last adieu!
How he envies the wretch, with a soul wrapt in steel!
His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few,
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel,
And dreads not the anguish of Love’s last adieu!
Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o’ercast
No more, with Love’s former devotion, we sue
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast
The shroud of affection is Love’s last adieu!
In this life of probation, for rapture divine,
Astrea declares that some penance is due
From him, who has worshipp’d at Love’s gentle shrine,
The atonement is ample, in Love’s last adieu!
Who kneels to the God, on his altar of light
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew
His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight,
His cypress, the garland of Love’s last adieu!
You has ask’d for a versethe request
In a rhymer ’twere strange to deny
But my Hippocrene was but my breast,
And my feelings its fountain are dry.
Were I now as I was, I had sung
What Lawrence has painted so well
But the strain would expire on my tongue,
And the theme is too soft for my shell.
I am ashes where once I was fire,
And the bard in my bosom is dead
What I loved I now merely admire,
And my heart is as grey as my head.
My life is not dated by years
There are moments which act as a plough
And there is not a furrow appears
But is deep in my soul as my brow.
Let the young and the brilliant aspire
To sing what I gaze on in vain
For sorrow has torn from my lyre
The string which was worthy the strain.
Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect,
Who to woman deny the soul’s future existence!
Could they see thee, Eliza, they’d own their defect,
And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance.
Had their prophet possess’d half an atom of sense,
He ne’er would have woman from paradise driven
Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence,
With woman alone he had peopled his heaven.
Yet still, to increase your calamities more,
Not Content with depriving your bodies of spirit,
He allots one poor husband to share amongst four!
With souls you’d dispense but this last, who could bear it?
His religion to please neither party is made
On husbands ’tis hard, to the wives most uncivil
Still I Can’t contradict, what so oft has been said,
Though women are angels, yet wedlock’s the devil.
Since now the hour is come at last,
When you must quit your anxious lover
Since now our dream of bliss is past,
One pang, my girl, and all is over.
Alas! that pang will be severe,
Which bids us part to meet no more
Which tears me far from one so dear,
Departing for a distant shore.
Well! we have pass’d some happy hours,
And joy will mingle with our tears
When thinking on these ancient towers,
We shelter of our infant years
Where from this Gothic casement’s height,
We view’s the lake, the park, the dell,
And still, though tears obstruct our sight,
We lingering look a last farewell,
O’er fields through which we used to run,
And spend the hours in childish play
O’er shades where, when our race was done,
Reposing on my breast you lay
Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,
Forgot to scare the hovering flies,
Yet envied every fly the kiss
It dared to give your slumbering eyes
See still the little painted bark,
In which I row’d you o’er the lake
See there, high waving o’er the park,
The elm I clamber’d for your sake.
These times are pastour joys are gone,
You leave me, leave this happy vale
These scenes I must retrace alone
Without thee what will they avail?
Who can conceive, who has not proved,
The anguish of a last embrace?
When, torn from all you fondly loved,
You bid a long adieu to peace.
This is the deepest of our woes,
For this these tears our cheeks bedew
This is of love the final close,
Oh, God! the fondest, last adieu!
This Band, which bound thy yellow hair,
Is mine, sweet girl! Thy pledge of love
It claims my warmest, dearest care,
Like relics left of saints above.
Oh! I will wear it next my heart
’Twill blind my soul in bonds to thee
From me again ’twill ne’er depart,
But mingle in the grave with me.
The dew I gather from thy lip
Is not so dear to me as this
That I but for a moment sip,
And banquet on a transient bliss
This will recall each youthful scene,
E’en when our lives are on the wane
The leaves of Love will still be green
When Memory bids them bud again.
Oh! little lock of golden hue,
In gently waving ringlet curl’d
By the dear head on which you grow,
I would not lose you for a world.
Not though a thousand more adorn
The polish’d brow where once you shone,
Like rays which gild a cloudless morn,
Beneath Columbia’s fervid zone.
Sweet girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne’er forget
And though we ne’er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain
I would not say, I love, but still,
My senses struggle with my will
In vain to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies
Perhaps, this is not love, but yet,
Our meeting I can ne’er forget.
What, though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale in never feels
Deceit, the guilty lips impart,
And hush the mandates of the heart
But soul’s interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise.
As thus our glances oft convers’d,
And all our bosoms felt rehears’d,
No spirit, from within, reprov’d us,
Say rather, ’twas the spirit mov’d us.
Though, what they utter’d, I repress,
Yet I conceive thou’lt partly guess
For as on thee, my memory ponders,
Perchance to me, thine also wanders.
This, for myself, at least, I’ll say,
Thy form appears through night, through day
Awake, with it my fancy teems
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams
The vision charms the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora’s ray
For breaking slumbers of delight,
Which make me wish for endless night.
Since, oh! whate’er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image I can ne’er forget.
Alas! again no more we meet,
No more former looks repeat
Then, let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom’s care
May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
That anguish never can o’ertake her
That peace and virtue ne’er forsake her,
But bliss be aye her heart’s partaker!
Oh! may the happy mortal, fated
To be, by dearest ties, related,
For her, each hour, new joys discover,
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair bosom never know
What ’tis to feel the restless woe,
Which stings the soul, with vain regret,
Of him, who never can forget!
This faint resemblance of thy charms,
Though strong as mortal art could give,
My constant heart of fear disarms,
Revives my hopes, and bids me live.
Here, I can trace the locks of gold
Which round thy snowy forehead wave
The cheeks which sprung from Beauty’s mould,
The lips, which made me Beauty’s slave.
Here I can traceah, no! that eye,
Whose azure floats in liquid fire,
Must all the painter’s art defy,
And bid him from the task retire.
Here, I behold its beauteous hue
But where’s the beam so sweetly straying,
Which gave a lustre to its blue,
Like Luna o’er the ocean playing?
Sweet copy! far more dear to me,
Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,
Than all the living forms could be,
Save her who plac’d thee next my heart.
She plac’d it, sad, with needless fear,
Lest time might shake my wavering soul,
Unconscious that her image there
Held every sense in fast control.
Thro’ hours, thro’ years, thro’ time, ’twill cheer
My hope, in gloomy moments, raise
In life’s last conflict ’twill appear,
And meet my fond, expiring gaze.
Without a stone to mark the spot,
And say, what Truth might well have said,
By all, save one, perchance forgot,
Ah! Wherefore art thou lowly laid?
By many a shore and many a sea
Divided, yet beloved in vain
The Past, the Future fled to thee,
To bid us meetnone’er again!
Could this have beena word, a look,
That softly said, “We part in peace,”
Had taught my bosom how to brook,
With fainter sighs, thy soul’s release.
And didst thou not, since Death for thee
Prepared a light and pangless dart,
Once long for him thou ne’er shall see
Who held, and holds thee in his heart?
Oh! Who like him had watch’d thee here?
Or sadly mark’d thy glazing eye,
In that dread hour ere death appear,
When silent sorrow fears to sigh,
Till all was past? But when no more
’Twas thine to reck of human woe,
Affection’s heart-drops, gushing o’er
Had flow’d as fastas now they flow.
Shall they not flow, when many a day
In these, to me, deserted towers,
Ere call’d but for a time away,
Affection’s mingling tears were ours?
Ours too the glance none saw beside
The smile none else might understand
The whisper’d thought of hearts allied,
The pressure of the thrilling hand.
The kiss, so guiltless and refined,
That Love each warmer wish forbore
Those eyes proclaim’d so pure a mind
Even Passion blush’d to plead for more.
The tone, that taught me to rejoice,
When prone, unlike thee, to repine
The song, celestial from thy voice,
But sweet to me from none but thine
The pledge we woreI wear it still,
But where is thine?Ah! Where art thou?
Oft have I borne the weight of ill,
But never bent beneath till now!
Well hast thou left in life’s best bloom
The cup of woe for me to drain.
If rest alone be in the tomb,
I would not wish thee here again.
But if in worlds more blest than this
Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere,
Impart some portion of thy bliss,
To wean me from mine anguish here.
Teach metoo early taught by thee!
To bear, forgiving and forgiven
On earth thy love was such to me
It fain would form my hope in heaven!
Time! on whose arbitrary wing
The varying hours must flag or fly,
Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,
But drag or drive us on to die
Hail thou! who on my birth bestowed
Those boons to all that know thee known
Yet better I sustain thy load,
For now I bear the weight alone.
I would not one fond heart should share
The bitter moments thou hast given
And pardon theesince thou couldst spare
All that I loved, to peace or Heaven.
To them be joy or reston me
Thy future ills shall press in vain
I nothing owe but years to thee,
A debt already paid in pain.
Yet even that pain was some relief
It felt, but still forgot thy power
The active agony of grief
Retards, but never counts the hour.
In joy I’ve sighed to think thy flight
Would soon subside from swift to slow
Thy cloud could overcast the light,
But could not add a night to Woe
For then, however drear and dark,
My soul was suited to thy sky
One star alone shot forth a spark
To prove theenot Eternity.
That beam hath sunkand now thou art
A blanka thing to count and curse
Through each dull tedious trifling part,
Which all regret, yet all rehearse.
One scene even thou canst not deform
The limit of thy sloth or speed
When future wanderers bear the storm
Which we shall sleep too sound to heed.
And I can smile to think how weak
Thine efforts shortly shall be shown,
When all the vengeance thou canst wreak
Must fall upona nameless stone.
Ah! heedless girl! why thus disclose
What ne’er was meant for other ears
Why thus destroy thine own repose
And dig the source of future tears?
Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid,
While lurking envious foes will smile,
For all the follies thou hast said
Of those who spoke but to beguile.
Vain girl! thy ling’ring woes are nigh,
If thou believ’st what striplings say
Oh, from the deep temptation fly,
Nor fall the specious spoiler’s prey.
Dost thou repeat, in childish boast,
The words man utters to deceive?
Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost,
If thou canst venture to believe.
While now amongst thy female peers
Thou tell’st again the soothing tale,
Canst thou not mark the rising sneers
Duplicity in vain would veil?
These tales in secret silence hush,
Nor make thyself the public gaze
What modest maid without a blush
Recounts a flattering coxcomb’s praise?
Will not the laughing boy despise
Her who relates each fond conceit
Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes,
Yet cannot see the slight deceit?
For she who takes a soft delight
These amorous nothings in revealing,
Must credit all we say or write,
While vanity prevents concealing.
Cease, if you prize your beauty’s reign!
No jealousy bids me reprove
One, who is thus from nature vain,
I pity, but I cannot love.