O ever present to my view! My wafted spirit is with you, And soothes your boding fears: I see you all oppressed with gloom Sit lonely in that cheerless room— Ah me! You are in tears! Beloved Woman! did you fly When aches the Void within But why with sable wand unblest Untenanting its beauteous clay. I felt it prompt the tender dream, And hark, my Love! The sea-breeze moans Through yon reft house! O'er rolling stones The onward-surging tides supply The silence of the cloudless sky With mimic thunders deep. Dark reddening from the channelled Isle' The watchfire, like a sullen star Rude cradled on the mast. Even there-beneath that light-house tower— In the tumultuous evil hour Ere Peace with Sara came, Time was, I should have thought it sweet To count the echoings of my feet, And watch the storm-vexed flame. And there in black soul-jaundiced fit When mountain surges bellowing deep Then by the lightning's blaze to mark 1 The Holmes, in the Bristol Channel. Her vain distress-guns hear; And when a second sheet of light Flashed o'er the blackness of the night— To see no vessel there! But Fancy now more gaily sings ; On summer fields she grounds her breast: O mark those smiling tears, that swell The opened rose! From heaven they fell, And with the sun-beam blend. Blest visitations from above, Such are the tender woes of Love When stormy Midnight howling round The tears that tremble down your cheek, Shall bathe my kisses chaste and meek In Pity's dew divine; And from your heart the sighs that steal Shall make your rising bosom feel The answering swell of mine! How oft, my Love! with shapings sweet With eager speed I dart I seize you in the vacant air, And fancy, with a husband's care I press you to my heart! 'Tis said, in Summer's evening hour And so shall flash my love-charged eye LINES TO A FRIEND IN ANSWER TO A MELANCHOLY LETTER. AWAY, those cloudy looks, that labouring sigh, The peevish offspring of a sickly hour! Nor meanly thus complain of Fortune's power, When the blind gamester throws a luckless die. Yon setting sun flashes a mournful gleam Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train: To-morrow shall the many-coloured main Wild, as the autumnal gust, the hand of Time Bears on its wing each hour a load of Fate; Nor shall not Fortune with a vengeful smile There shiv'ring sad beneath the tempest's frown Round his tired limbs to wrap the purple vest; And mixed with nails and beads, an equal jest! Barter for food the jewels of his crown. VOL. I. |