« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
Nor think it aught a misnomer
Then all around in just degree,
With these fair dames, and heroes round,
TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.
MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Was nursed in whirling storms,
Thee when young Spring first question’d Winter's
Thee on this bank he threw
In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Unnoticed and alone,
So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of life she rears her head,
While every bleaching breeze that on her blows,
And hardens her to bear
To the River Trent. Written on Recovery from Sickness.
A pensive invalid, reduced and pale,
Wooes to his wan-worn cheek the pleasant gale. 0! to his ear how musical the tale
Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat! And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail,
How wildly novel on his senses float!
As, lone, he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam, And at his casement heard, with wild affright,
The owl's dull wing and melancholy scream, On this he thought, this, this his sole desire, Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland
GIVE me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,
Where, far from cities, I may spend my days, And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled, May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways.
While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,
List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,
I shall not want the world's delusive joys; But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,
Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more;
I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore,
Supposed to have been addressed by a female lunatic to
LADY, thou weepest for the Maniac's wo,
And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young; Oh! may thy bosom never, never know [wrung. The
pangs with which my wretched heart is I had a mother once-a brother too
(Beneath yon yew my father rests his head:) I had a lover once,—and kind, and true,
But mother, brother, lover, all are fled! Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely eye?
Oh! gentle lady-not for me thus weep, The green sod soon upon my breast will lie,
And soft and sound will be my peaceful sleep.
* This Quatorzain had its rise from an elegant Sonnnet, "occasioned by seeing a young Female Lunatic,” written by Mrs. Lofft, and published in the Monthly Mirror.
Go thou and pluck the roses while they bloom
My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb.
Supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody, in
a Storm, while on board a Ship in his Majesty's Service.
Lo! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds
Successive fly, and the loud-piping wind Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds,
While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclined Lists to the changeful storm: and as he plies
His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him sad,
Of wife and little home, and chubby lad, And the half-strangled tear bedews his eyes; I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn,
View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep, Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep, For not for me shall wife or children mourn, And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell Sweetly, as solemn peal of pious passing-bell.
THE WINTER TRAVELLER.
God help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far;
The wind is bitter keen,—the snow o'erlays
The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow ways, And darkness will involve thee.-No kind star