I may not call the star mine own,
I may not wear it near
This heart which but its image keeps
In doting fondness here.
But as the mariner whose star
His bark guides o'er the main;
So may I worship-but to tell
Thee all I feel were vain.
The statue in a garden stands,
Once scented by the rose,-
Retains the perfume when the flower
No longer by it grows.
And so thy virtues' odour still
Like incense in my brain,
Scents all my thoughts-but still to tell
Thee all I feel were vain!
I LOVED THEE NOT IN FORTUNE'S HOUR.
I LOVED thee not, when fortune smiled on thee,
And false ones breathed for thee love's ardent vow;
But when I saw both friends and fortune flee,
And sorrow set her impress on thy brow;
'Twas then that love, with strange and magic power, Bound my fond heart to thine in sorrow's hour.
I sigh not for the wealth that once was thine-
crave one boon, and only one from thee;
Say, wilt thou bow with me at love's pure shrine,
And worship there for evermore with me?
I'll bid thee welcome to my humble home,
Blest with thy love, I ne'er will sigh to roam.
O COME TO MY BOWER!-A SONG.
THE twilight is deepening o'er valley and grove,
And pensive the hour;
And mournful the voice of the lone turtle-dove;
I'm lonely, I'm lonely, haste, Willie, my love,
O come to my bower!
The nightingale sings, O so pensively sings!
To her favourite flower;
As she wooes the soft fragrance abroad that she flings-
O haste, ye glad hours that my Willie aye brings?
O come to my bower!
The moonlight sleeps sweetly through valley and grove;
Now is love's witching hour:
O where, my own Willie, say, where dost thou rove?
Canst devote not one hour to Mary and love?
O come to my bower!
O come, and thy couch shall be softly o'erspread
With many a flower!
While my love a bright hallo around thee shall shed,
And fondly this bosom shall pillow thy head,
O come to my bower!
WRITTEN AT SHURTON BARS, NEAR BRIDGEWATER, SEPTEMBER, 1795, IN ANSWER TO A LETTER FROM BRISTOL.
[The first Stanza alludes to a Passage in the Letter.]
NOR travels my meand'ring eye
The starry wilderness on high;
Nor now with curious sight
I mark the glow-worm, as I pass,
Move with " green radiance" thro' the grass,
An Emerald of Light.
O ever-present to my view!
My wafted spirit is with you,
And soothes your boding fears;
I see you all oppress'd with gloom
Sit lonely in that cheerless room-
Ah me! You are in tears!
Beloved woman.! did you fly
Chill'd Friendship's dark disliking eye,
Or mirth's untimely din?
With cruel weight these trifles press
A temper sore with Tenderness,
When aches the void within.
But why with sable wand unbless'd,
Should Fancy rouse within my breast
Dim-visag'd shapes of Dread?
Untenanting its beauteous clay
My Sara's soul has wing'd its way,
And hovers round my head!
I felt it prompt the tender Dream,
When slowly sunk the day's last gleam;
You rous'd each gentler sense,
As sighing o'er the Blossom's bloom,
Meek evening wakes its soft perfume
With viewless influence.
And hark, my Love! The sea-breeze moans
With broad impetuous sweep,
The fast encroaching tides supply
The silence of the cloudless sky
With mimic thunders deep.
Dark-redd'ning from the channel'd Isle*
(Where stands one solitary pile
Unslated by the blast)
The Watchfire, like a sullen star,
Twinkles to many a dozing Tar
Rude-cradled on the mast.
Ev'n 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 troubled flame :
And there in black and jaundic'd fit
A sad gloom-pamper'd Man to sit,
And listen to the roar :
When mountain Surges bellowing deep
With many an uncouth monster leap
Plung'd foaming on the shore.
Then by the Lightning's blaze to mark
Some toiling tenipest-shatter'd bark;
Her vain distress-guns hear:
And when a second sheet of light
Flash'd o'er the blackness of the night-
To see no Vessel there!
*The Holmes, in the Bristol Channel.
But Fancy now more gaily sings;
Or if awhile she droop her wings,
As sky-larks mid the corn,
On summer fields she grounds her breast:
Th' oblivious Poppy o'er her nest
Nods, till returning morn.
O mark those smiling tears, that swell
The open'd Rose! From heaven they fell,
And with the sun-beam blend;
Blest visitation from above:
Such are the tender woes of Love
Fost'ring the heart they bend!
When stormy Midnight howling round
Beats on our roof with clatt'ring sound,
To me your arms you'll stretch:
Great God! you'll say-To us so kind,
O shelter from this loud bleak wind
The houseless, friendless wretch!
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 answ'ring swell of mine!
How oft, my Love! with shapings sweet
I paint the moment, we shall meet!
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, on Summer's evening hour
Flashes the golden-coloured flower
A fair electric flame;
And so shall flash my love-charg'd eye
When all the heart's big ecstacy
Shoots rapid thro' the frame!
TO MARY-A SONG.
Down within the happy valley,
Where we dwelt so long ago,
Where the lightest breezes daily,
O'er the brightest blooms do blow;
Mary, I have wandered, lonely
Musing on the days of yore,
While fond memory whispers only
Of the joys that are no more!
Happy haunts! they seem so holy,
Where we strayed by tinkling streams,
Fancies, filled with melancholy,
Wilder me in sweetest dreams,
Deathless dreams of fleeting gladness!
Memories, that will not depart,
In a most delicious sadness,
Rest-like music on my heart.
I have rambled through the meadows,
I have journeyed by the lake,
Where we walked within the shadows,
Of the blooming hazel-brake;
But their glories which so sweetly
Charmed our hearts in years agone,
All have vanished! fallen fleetly-
Mary-I am all alone!
LOVE'S REPLY.
"WHAT shall I bring thee, lady fair,
From the far-off orient land?' said he;
'Shall I bring thee a girdle, rich and rare?
Or a jewel to light thy waves of hair,
As the star-beam lights the sea?
'What shall I bring to thee, maiden mine?
A broidered robe from an Eastern loom?
A bird whose plumes so proudly shine
You'll think they've stolen their tints divine
From the rainbow's changing bloom?
'How shall I win, O say, ma belle.
One welcoming smile from thee?
Shall I bring thee a beautiful rosy shell,
A blossom rare, or a gay gazelle,
From the far land over the sea?
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