« ПретходнаНастави »
"Twould put your mind into a rage,
I dare not change a first decree,
She's doom'd to please, nor can be free,
This said, he darted o'er the plain,
And after follow'd all his train;
But sure I am, the little spright
AN EVENING ADDRESS TO THE
SWEET Bird! that kindly perching near,
Thanks for thy sorrow-soothing strain :
For surely thou hast known to prove,
Else why so feelingly complain,
And with thy piteous notes thus sadden all the
That oft enamour'd on thy strains has hung?
Alas, for BOTH I weep
In all the pride of youthful charms,
A beauteous bride torn from my circling arms!
And wing'd its flight to seek her in the skiesThen, Oh! our comforts be the same,
At evening's peaceful hour,
To shun the noisy paths of wealth and fame,
And breathe our sorrows in this lonely bower.
But why alas! to thee complain?
To thee-unconscious of my pain!
Soon shalt THOU cease to mourn thy lot severe,
The genial warmth of joy-renewing spring
But, oh! for me in vain may seasons roll,
Nought can dry up the fountain of my tears, Deploring still the COMFORT OF MY SOUL,
I count my sorrows by increasing years.
Tell me, thou Syren Hope, deceiver, say,
Her last bequest-with all a mother's care,
And cheer a heart long lost to joy!' How oft, when fondling in mine arms, Gazing enraptur'd on its angel face,
My soul the maze of Fate would vainly trace,
And burn with all a father's fond alarms!
Till every aching sense was sweetly pain'd,
Nor my full heart could bear, nor tongue could utter
Just Heaven!' I cried, with recent hopes elate,
Yet I will live-will live, though Emma's deadSo long bow'd down beneath the storms of Fate, Yet will I raise my wo-dejected head!
My little Emma, now my ALL,
Will want a father's care,
Her looks, her wants, my rash resolves recall,
And oft together we'll complain,
Complaint the only bliss my soul can know, From me, my child shall learn the mournful strain, And prattle tales of wo;
And O in that auspicious hour,
When Fate resigns her persecuting pow'r,
No more to weep-my sorrow-streaming eyes,
When death gives misery repose,
And opes a glorious passage to the skies.'
Vain thought! it must not be-She too is dead—
And vengeance can no more—
Crush'd by misfortune-blasted by disease-
Perhaps, obsequious to my will,
But ah! from my affections far remov'd!
As if, unconscious of poetic fire,
Yet-while this weary life shall last,
While yet my tongue can form th' impassion'd strain,
In piteous accents shall the Muse complain,
And dwell with fond delay on blessings past;
For O how grateful to a wounded heart,
The tale of misery to impart!