ORIGINAL POETRY. THREE LOVE EPISTLES. BY ANNA SEWARD. WRITTEN IN EARLY LIFE. EVANDER TO EMILLIA. O! never did thy glowing pen bestow, So much, by generous, trusting Faith inspir'd, But this long absence!-countless are its pains, That stays for none, and fleets so swift away. EVANDER TO EMILLIA. EMILLIA, thou art far away, And languid creep the vacant hours; Yet, when the last mild Evening chas'd; With yellow light, the recent Showers, Their wonted path my slow steps found Soft setting Sun-beams gently glanc'd O'er the young leaves a sweet farewell; But ah! to these delightless eyes How vacant seem'd the bloomy cell! Tho' gilded by so mild a light, Tho' linnets warbled in the gale, A lone, and wintry air it wore, And Silence seem'd to shroud the Vale. Thy little, faithful Dog I met, Saw him the circling Lanes explore, Rush down the glades, then up the steps Spring to thy clos'd, and silent door. With eager look, and plaintive whine, Slow he walk'd away, and hung His sullen head, and nothing car'd He left me near the silent Door, No more half open'd to thy Friend, When dull the clouds of Evening lour, And fast her heavy dews descend; Or drizzling rains, that often weep, Now in that little hall's dear grate No social embers glow the while, To us so kindly to disclose The mutual glance, the tender smile. Protecting Walls! Asylum blest The rigor of th' unfeeling mind. From Pride, and Avarice' taunting sneer, That sylvan cottage is thine own, Till that was thine, thou know'st full well That dar'd the last distress for me. But now, that shelter, food, and rest And scorn the curbs of Pride and Power! The busy, bustling haunts of Men The great Ones court thee for their Bride; They wou'd the pomps of Life divide, Ah, it is vanity, not love, That bids them seek thy matchless charms, But Love alone, and love like mine Deserves the heaven that's in thine arms. But can that soft, that yielding soul The shelter of these arms again? O! yes, while Memory's power remains, TO EMILLIA. 1. PALE florets tremble o'er the shadow'd Streams, 2. For now, my love-devoted Soul, at rest, Hails all the lonely graces of the scene; Hails them, in soft, confiding fondness blest, And leaves ambition to her anxious spleen, Her pomps, her triumphs unregarded shine, While fair Emillia's melting heart is mine. 3. Wou'd I this lock of my Emillia's hair, For all they pine to see a Rival seize ? |