Re: Pleure En Silence Streaming Vk
Melisa Niederhaus
This electronic text has been prepared from a copy in the editor's possession. The text has been corrected in keeping with the author's own corrections, as itemized on the ERRATA page (p. [v]). All other textual phenomena, including nonstandard spellings and puctuation, appear here as they do in the original.
AN interesting Author of the present day* has,
in his preface to his beautiful Poems, so exactly
anticipated every thing that can be said on com-
positions resembling the following, that I have
only with great humility to submit them to the
Public, soliciting their indulgence for the melan-
choly that pervades them, which, unfortunately
for the writer, has not been affected. To those who
have suffered from long sickness; to those who
have stood,
O! happy Bard, nurs'd by the graceful Muse,
She early taught thee to attune the lyre,
To touch the string, and harmony diffuse,
To which her children only dare aspire.
I, vagrant loit'rer near the fairy land,
Pleas'd with the shadows of her sun to play,
Presuming struck the chord, with unskill'd hand,
And nought but discord sounded to my lay.
Forgive, sweet Muse, a rude uncultur'd weed,
That dar'd to spring 'mid Helicon's fair flow'rs;
Yet not devoid of sunshine are her days,
Though still denied the favour'd Poet's meed,
Since on her graceless line thy bounty show'rs,
Since not unpleas'd thou read'st her untaught lays.
SONNET III.
WRITTEN IN ILL HEALTH.
AH! what avails, when sinking down to sleep,
That silken curtains shade the languid eye?
On beds of down how many wake to weep,
And break the calm of night with sorrow's sigh!
O! then, thou poor, ne'er at thy lot repine,
If o'er thy straw-stuff'd bed no trappings play;
More pure thy sleep, and calmer dreams are thine,
Than those who waste in luxury their day.
If o'er thy cheek the loose-zon'd goddess, Health,
With coral finger, spread her rosy hues,
Far art thou bless'd, beyond the joys of wealth,
And all the joys the busy crowd pursues.
Nor more would I at little ills repine,
Were her full eye, and sparkling luster mine.
SWEET, as when Spring unfolds the infant leaf
Of purple violets, peeping in the shade,
Is silent Charity, whose fond relief
Falls as the Summer rain o'er plants that fade.
Thou, Heav'n-born virtue, inmate of the heart,
Where whiterob'd Peace, and calm Contentment dwell,
Giv'st not the pompous alms, but far apart
From crowded haunts, seek'st the sequester'd cell.[1]
There, bending o'er the couch of tott'ring age,
Where some poor hopeless sinner fears to die,
Thou calm'st his terrours with the sacred page,
Sweet mercy's drop bright sparkling in thine eye,
And tell'st that Heav'n, unlike the worldly friend,
Forgives weak man, and knows he must offend.
YE solemn Evergreens! beneath whose shade
The blossom'd Laurel sheds divine perfume,
I love your mossy bed in dew array'd,
And court your shelter of congenial gloom.
Yet doom'd, alas! to take the sad farewel,
No more to wander through your hallow'd grove,
O! let this verse my parting anguish tell,
And still be sacred to the shades I love.
And may no wand'rer thro' this peaceclad grove
Invoke the Muse, to pour the sorrowing lay,
But hearts united by the purest love
Still loiter here their tender vows to pay;
Nor may the din of vice pollute this seat,
Where virtue only finds a calm retreat.
SILENT and sad I take a fond adieu
Of yon sweet wood, and variegated plain;
Ah! 'twill be long ere Spring these charms renew,
Or I shall tread the mossy grove again.
Ah! sister dear, sweet partner of my walk,
On whose kind arm delighted I have hung,
List'ning with rapture to thy friendly talk,
Or loit'red where the Nightingale had sung.
Though fate decrees us now to live apart,
And tears me from the scenes I most adore,
She may relent, and to this throbbing heart
The friend sincere, and flow'ry path restore;
Together then we'll live, and fondly prove,
That absence long has not diminsh'd love.
AH! whether wand'ring o'er thy native plains,
Where the full grape in sweet luxuriance wild [2]
Gives up its treasures to the sunburnt swains,
Who in purple vintage long have toil'd:
Or whether liot'ring through our rosy bow'rs,
Or on our chalky cliffs you musing stray,
Culling with tasteful hand fair Nature's flowers,
O! take with thee this tributary lay.
Of the coy Muse no favours do I own,
Th'encircling bays for me were ne'er entwin'd,
Else would I tell what virtues in thee shone,
And sing the beauties of thy polish'd mind.
Then ah! forgive, if no kind Muse inspire,
So ill I paint the talents I admire.
PENSIVE I stray, and view the setting sun
Skirting with gold the blue horizon wide,
Till sober Ev'ning throws her mantle dun
O'er the broad landscape, and the mountain's side.
Here, undisturb'd, does Memory retrace,
With pencil kind, past happiness. Awhile
She seems to please, and I with joy embrace
Her visions fair, the sad hours to beguile.
Yet like the trav'ller, who with heart forlorn,
Exil'd from all he loves, turns to the shore,
Where dwells the partner from his bosom torn,
And turning, does with streaming eye deplore,
E'en so to Mem'ry do I vainly mourn,
And sighing say, these joys will ne'er return.
THE tender flow'ret, nursling of the morn,
That flaunted gaily in the noontide ray,
Oft bows its head beneath night's 'whelming storm,
Embraces earth, and slowly dies away.
So sinks the bosom by sharp misery torn,
When Hope, enchantress of the soul! is fled,
When friends long lov'd are gone, and we forlorn
Are left to weep o'er their cold earthy bed.
Slow winds the silver stream adown the lawn,
And the wide prospect opens with the day,
As it had wont; but ah! I weeping mourn,
That she, with whom enraptur'd I did stray,
Sleeps in the grave, and I must still deplore,
Till this sad trembling heart can beat no more.
O! why, soft sleep, do I thy aid implore?
For though awhile, to this deluded breast,
Thy dreams the image of my friend restore,
I wake from the fair picture thou hast dress'd,
And to my silent pillow vainly grieve
That the fond phantom flies at morning's light,
And I no more the fancied bliss receive,
Or hear her soothing voice with sweet delight.
Yet flatt'ring power, wrapt in thy dark arms
I oft enjoy thee, though I sadly find,
Like the false friend, thou quickly withdraw'st thy charms,
When grief's hard pressure wastes the tortur'd mind.
But ah! how lovely do thy joys appear,
When tired infants court thee with a tear.
AH! ling'ring beauty of the faded year,
The while I gaze on thy poor sickly crest,
O'er thy brown leaves I drop the silent tear
That flows for her, who in youth's lustre dress'd
Fell, sadly fell, 'neath death's relentless hand;
And the fair face that far outshone thy bloom,
And the soft voice that did all ears command,
Is sunk, is lost, in the cold cheerless tomb.
Alas! I mourn, as thy neglected root,
When all its beauteous buds are from it torn.
Yet Summer's sun again will bid them shoot,
Again its leaves will drink the dew of morn,
But Frienship's sun no more o'er me will spread,
Nor its soft dew revive my drooping head.
SCENES of my youth, where in life's early day
I tun'd the artless reed of rural joy,
How all thy fairy pleasures fade away!
Ah! how does time the flow'ry path destroy!
Here have I nurs'd the lily's tender stem,
And seen with joy the yellow crocus blow;
And when the hoar forst had dress'd with many a gem
The flow'rets, peeping from their beds of snow,
On the white margin of the frozen flood
How oft did I the prattling circle meet,
And with the vacant mind have laughing stood,
To see the ice betray th'adventurer's feet.
Ah! happy days! ye flew on hasty wing,
Remembrance now is all I've left of Spring.
AS thy green hill, sweet Muswell, I now tread,
And mourning wander o'er thy shadowy way;
From each lone shrub some spirit seems to say,
"Thy hours of peace and joy are ever fled."
Here, while pale Ev'ning sheds her pensive beam,
Veiling the beauteous landscape from the view,
On the high grass, bespangled with her dew,
Reclin'd, and wrapt in fancy's magic dream,
How oft has Friendship, whispering most sweet
Her dulcet notes in my deluded ear,
Beguil'd the time: and still this bliss sincere,
Amid thy shades, I ever hop'd to meet;
But now thy trees, thy flow'rs, no pleasure lend,
They blow around the low grave of my Friend.
SWEET sensibility! though oft thy tear
Bedews my cheek, and makes me ever prone
To add each wretch's sorrow to my own,
Yet is thy gentle sigh to me most dear.
Far dost thou fly the giddy vacant throng;
And though the languid eye, and faded cheek,
Thy children, do most eloquently speak,
More melody than pleasure's syren song
Ere gave, in thy low whisper dwells,
When far retiring from the blaze of day,
Thy tearful eye emits its pensive ray,
As crowding thought thy gentle bosom swells
With scorn for those, who climbing fortune's steep,
Ne'er turn aside at thy low shrine to weep.
NOT for the beauty of thy roseate cheek,
Not for the lustre of thy sparkling eye,
Wert thou alone caress'd; the tender sigh,
Soft heav'd for misery, did thy virtue speak.
This aching heart, so oft by sorrow torn,
That all its noble powers died away,
Has felt thy friendship shed its chearing ray,
Sweet as Aurora blushes o'er the morn.
But thou art gone; and never, never more,
Thy presence shall the lowly cot endear.
O'er her sad babes the widow drops the tear,
And feels no increase to her scanty store.
Ah! vain her tears, and vain this last sad boon,
It cannot reach thee in the silent tomb.