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And adjurations of the God in Heaven),
Impious and false, a light yet cruel race,
Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth
: As if a Government had been a robe,
Such have I been deem’d— But, O dear Britain! O my Mother Isle! Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy To me, a son, a brother, and a friend, A husband, and a father! who revere All bonds of natural love, and find them all Within the limits of thy rocky shores. 0 native Britain! O my Mother Isle! How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and holy To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills, Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas, Have drunk in all my intellectual life, All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts, All adoration of the God in nature, All lovely and all honourable things, Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel The joy and greatness of its future being? There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul Unborrow'd from my country. O divine And beauteous island! thou hast been my sole And most magnificent temple, in the which I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs, Loving the God that made me!
May my fears, My filial fears, be vain! and may the vaunts And menace of the vengeful enemy Pass like the gust, that roar'd and died away In the distant tree: which heard, and only heard In this low dell, bow'd not the delicate grass.
Fine. Sisters! I from Ireland came! Hedge and corn-fields all on flame, I triumph'd o'er the setting sun And all the while the work was done, On as I strode with my huge strides, I flung back my head and I held my sides, It was so rare a piece of fun To see the swelter'd cattle run With uncouth gallop through the night, Scared by the red and noisy light! By the light of his own blazing cot Was many a naked rebel shot: The house-stream met the flame and hiss'd, While crash fell in the roof, I wist, On some of those old bed-rid nurses, That deal in discontent and curses.
us in all directions, he should presume to offer to the public a silly tale of old-fashioned love: and five years ago, I own I should have allowed and felt the force of this objection. But, alas' explosion has succeeded explosion so rapidly, that novelty itself ceases to appear new ; and it is possible that now even a simple story, wholly uninspired with politics or personality, may find some attention amid the hubbub of revolutions, as to those who have remained a long time by the falls of Niagara, the lowest whispering becomes distinctly audible. S. T. C. Dec. 21, 1799.
O leave the lily on its stem;
O leave the elder-bloom, fair maids!
A cypress and a myrtle-bough
Because it fashion'd mournfully
And now a Tale of Love and Woe, A woeful Tale of Love I sing;
Hark, gentle maidens, hark! it sighs And trembles on the string.
But most, my own dear Genevieve,
O come, and hear what cruel wrongs
Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope, my joy, my Genevieve!
She loves me best, whene'er 1 sing The songs that make her grieve.
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
All are but ministers of Love,
Oh! ever in my waking dreams,
II. LOVE POEMS.
Quas humilis tenero stylus olim effudit in a vo.
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE DARK LADIE.
The following Poem is intended as the introduction to a some
Beside the ruin'd tower.
The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve!
She lean'd against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight; She stood and listen'd to my harp, | Amid the ling ring light.
I play’d a sad and doleful air,
An old rude song, that fitted well
She listen’d with a flitting blush,
what longer one. The use of the old Ballad word Laute for Lady, * the only piece of obsoleteness in it; and as it is professedly a *le of ancient times, I trust that the affectionate lovers of venerable antiquity (as Camden says) will grant me their pardon, and perhaps may be induced to admit a force and propriety in it. A heavier objection may be adduced against the author, that in these times of fear and expectation, when novelties explode around
But gaze upon her face.
I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand;
And how for ten long years he wood The Ladie of the Land :
I told her how he pined: and ah!
With which I sung another's love,
She listen’d with a flitting blush;
And she forgave me, that I gazed,
But when I told the cruel scorn
And how he roam'd the mountain-woods,
And how he cross'd the woodman's paths, Through briars and swampy mosses beat;
How boughs rebounding scourged his limbs, And low stubs gored his feet;
That sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes starting up at once
There came and look'd him in the face
And how he knew it was a Fiend,
And how, unknowing what he did,
And saved from outrage worse than death
And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;
And meekly strove to expiate
And how she nursed him in a cave;
When on the yellow forest-leaves
His dying words—but when I reach'd That tend rest strain of all the ditty,
My faltring voice and pausing harp Disturb’d her soul with pity'
All impulses of soul and sense
The music and the doleful tale,
And hopes and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherish'd long!
She wept with pity and delight,
And, like the murmurs of a dream,
I saw her bosom heave and swell,
I could not chuse but love to see