Ah! what avails this sweetly solemn bower, That silent stream where dimpling eddies play; Yon thymy bank bedeck'd with many a flower, Where maple-tufts exclude the beam of day? Robb'd of my love, for how can these delight, Though lavish Spring her smiles around has cast! Despair, alas! that whelms the soul in night, Dims the sad eye, and deadens every taste. As droops the lily at the blighting gale, Or crimson-spotted cowslip of the mead, Whose tender stalk (alas! their stalk so frail) Some hasty foot hath bruised with heedless tread; As droops the woodbine, when some village hind Hath fell'd the sapling elm it fondly bound; No more it gadding dances in the wind, But trails its fading beauties on the ground; So droops my soul, dear maid, downcast and sad, For ever! ah! for ever torn from thee: Bereft of each sweet hope which once it had, When love, when treacherous love first smiled on me. Return, bless'd days; return, ye laughing hours, Ye know the curling breeze, or gilded fly For ah! I knew not then or love or care. Witness, ye winged daughters of the year, If e'er a sigh had learn'd to heave my breast! If e'er my cheek was conscious of a tear, Till Cynthia came and robb'd my soul of rest. Oh, have you seen, bathed in the morning dew, The budding rose its infant bloom display; When first its virgin tints unfold to view, It shrinks and scarcely trusts the blaze of day. So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came, Youth's damask glow just dawning on her cheek; I gazed, I sigh'd, I caught the tender flame, Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with passion, weak. Yet not unpitied was my pain the while, For oft beside yon sweetbriar in the dale, With many a blush, with many a melting smile, She sat and listen'd to the plaintive tale. Ah me! I fondly dreamt of pleasures rare; Nor deem'd so sweet a face with scorn could glow; How could you cruel then pronounce despair, Chill the warm hope, and plant the thorn of woe? What though no treasures canker in my chest, Nor crowds of suppliant vassals hail me lord! What though my roof can boast no princely guest, Nor surfeits lurk beneath my frugal board! Yet should Content, that shuns the gilded bed, With smiling Peace, and Virtue there forgot, And rose-lipp'd Health, which haunts the strawbuilt shed, With cherub Joy, frequent my little cot; Led by chaste Love, the decent band should come, O charmer, wouldst thou deign my roof to share? Nor should the Muses scorn our simple dome, Or, knit in mystic dance, the Graces fair. The woodland nymphs and gentle fays at eve Forth from the dripping eave and mossy dell, Should round our hearth fantastic measures weave, And shield from mischief by their guardian spell. Come then, bright maid, and quit the city throng, Scorns the fond vow, and spurns the russet stole. Then, Love, begone, thy thriftless empire yield, In youthful toils I'll lose the' unmanly pain: With echoing horns I'll rouse the jocund field, Urge the keen chase, and sweep along the plain. Or all in some lone moss-grown tower sublime With midnight lamp I'll watch pale Cynthia round, Explore the choicest rolls of ancient time, And heal with Wisdom's balm my hapless wound. Or else I'll roam-Ah no! that sigh profound Tells me that stubborn love disdains to yield; Nor flight nor Wisdom's balm can heal the wound, Nor pain forsake me in the jocund field. PERCY. WRITTEN ON VALENTINE'S MORNING. HARK, through the sacred silence of the night, Loud Chanticleer doth sound his clarion shrill, Hailing with song the first pale gleam of light That floats the dark brow of yon eastern hill. Ere these my rustic hands a garland twine, Sweet maiden, fairest of the virgin throng. And let each holy tender sigh prevail. Oh, give me to approach my sleeping love, At sacred distance only will I gaze, 'Awake, my fair, awake, for it is time; All nature sings the hymeneal song, All nature follows where the spring invites ; Come forth, my love, to us these joys belong, Ours is the spring, and all her young delights. For us she throws profusely forth her flowers, Which in fresh chaplets joyful I will twine; Come forth, my fair; oh, do not lose these hours, But wake, and be my faithful Valentine. Full many an hour all lonely have I sigh'd, And oft to far retired solitude All mournfully my slow step have I bent, Luxurious there indulged my musing mood, And there alone have given my sorrows vent. This day resolved I dare to plight my vow: This day, long since the feast of love decreed, Embolden'd will I speak my flame, nor thou Refuse to hear how sore my heart does bleed.' |