---

Скачать книгу

---

mental eye exulting now explore,

       And soon with kindred minds shall haste to enjoy

      (Free from the ills which here our peace destroy)

      Content and Bliss on Transatlantic shore.

      ELEGY IMITATED FROM ONE OF AKENSIDE’S BLANK-VERSE INSCRIPTIONS

      Near the lone pile with ivy overspread,

       Fast by the rivulet’s sleep-persuading sound,

      Where ‘sleeps the moonlight’ on yon verdant bed —

       O humbly press that consecrated ground!

      For there does Edmund rest, the learnéd swain! 5

       And there his spirit most delights to rove:

      Young Edmund! fam’d for each harmonious strain,

       And the sore wounds of ill-requited Love.

      Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide,

       And loads the West-wind with its soft perfume, 10

      His manhood blossom’d; till the faithless pride

       Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb.

      But soon did righteous Heaven her Guilt pursue!

       Where’er with wilder’d step she wander’d pale,

      Still Edmund’s image rose to blast her view, 15

       Still Edmund’s voice accus’d her in each gale.

      With keen regret, and conscious Guilt’s alarms,

       Amid the pomp of Affluence she pined;

      Nor all that lur’d her faith from Edmund’s arms

       Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind. 20

      Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught:

       Some tearful Maid perchance, or blooming Youth,

      May hold it in remembrance; and be taught

       That Riches cannot pay for Love or Truth.

      THE FADED FLOWER

      Ungrateful he, who pluck’d thee from thy stalk,

      Poor faded flow’ret! on his careless way;

      Inhal’d awhile thy odours on his walk,

      Then onward pass’d and left thee to decay.

      Ah! melancholy emblem! had I seen 5

      Thy modest beauties dew’d with Evening’s gem,

      I had not rudely cropp’d thy parent stem,

      But left thee, blushing, ‘mid the enliven’d green

      And now I bend me o’er thy wither’d bloom,

      And drop the tear — as Fancy, at my side, 10

      Deep-sighing, points the fair frail Abra’s tomb —

      ‘Like thine, sad Flower, was that poor wanderer’s pride!

      Oh! lost to Love and Truth, whose selfish joy

      Tasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy!’

      THE OUTCAST

      Pale Roamer through the night! thou poor Forlorn!

      Remorse that man on his deathbed possess,

      Who in the credulous hour of tenderness

      Betrayed, then cast thee forth to Want and Scorn!

      The world is pitiless: the chaste one’s pride 5

      Mimic of Virtue scowls on thy distress:

      Thy Loves and they that envied thee deride:

      And Vice alone will shelter Wretchedness!

      O! I could weep to think that there should be

       Cold-bosom’d lewd ones, who endure to place 10

      Foul offerings on the shrine of Misery,

      And force from Famine the caress of Love;

      May He shed healing on the sore disgrace,

      He, the great Comforter that rules above!

      DOMESTIC PEACE

      FROM ‘THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE’, ACT I, L. 210

      Tell me, on what holy ground

      May Domestic Peace be found?

      Halcyon daughter of the skies,

      Far on fearful wings she flies,

      From the pomp of Sceptered State, 5

      From the Rebel’s noisy hate.

      In a cottag’d vale She dwells,

      Listening to the Sabbath bells!

      Still around her steps are seen

      Spotless Honour’s meeker mien, 10

      Love, the sire of pleasing fears,

      Sorrow smiling through her tears,

      And conscious of the past employ

      Memory, bosom-spring of joy.

      ON A DISCOVERY MADE TOO LATE

      Thou bleedest, my poor Heart! and thy distress

      Reasoning I ponder with a scornful smile

      And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the while

      Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness.

      Why didst thou listen to Hope’s whisper bland? 5

      Or, listening, why forget the healing tale,

      When Jealousy with feverous fancies pale

      Jarr’d thy fine fibres with a maniac’s hand?

      Faint was that Hope, and rayless! — Yet ‘twas fair

      And sooth’d with many a dream the hour of rest: 10

      Thou should’st have lov’d it most, when most opprest,

      And nurs’d it with an agony of care,

      Even as a mother her sweet infant heir

      That wan and sickly droops upon her breast!

      TO THE AUTHOR OF ‘THE ROBBERS’

      Schiller! that hour I would have wish’d to die,

      If thro’ the shuddering midnight I had sent

      From the dark dungeon of the Tower timerent

      That fearful voice, a famish’d Father’s cry —

      Lest in some after moment aught more mean 5

      Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout

      Black Horror scream’d, and all her goblin rout

      Diminish’d shrunk from the more withering scene!

      Ah! Bard tremendous in sublimity!

      Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood 10

      Wandering at eve with finely-frenzied eye

      Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood!

      Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood:

      Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy!

      MELANCHOLY

      A FRAGMENT

      Stretch’d on a moulder’d Abbey’s broadest wall,

       Where ruining ivies propp’d the ruins steep —

      Her folded arms wrapping her tatter’d pall, The fern was press’d beneath her hair,

       The dark green Adder’s Tongue was there;

      And

---

Скачать книгу