Stanzas

Farewell , ye once delightful scenes! farewell!
No more your charms can soothe my aching heart;
These long-drawn sighs, these flowing tears, can tell
How much I grieve, sweet scenes! from you to part.

For once these glassy streams, these smiling plains,
The little sorrows of my soul could ease,
But now each long-known spot augments my pains,
From sad remembrance how it once could please.

Oft in the glistening dews that gemmed yon mead,
Blithesome I've bathed my tiny, truant feet,
When some wild gambol lured my jocund tread,
To seek from tyrant eyes some lone retreat.

Here sported I, when, on swift pinions borne,
The airy minutes of my childhood flew;
And here arose my youth's effulgent morn,
And not a threatening cloud appeared in view.

But soon, ah soon! misfortune's blackest gloom
The radiance of the opening dawn o'ercast,
Nor left one ray of comfort to illume
The horrors of the melancholy waste.

Here first — incautious fool to bless the day —
I saw my Delia bounding o'er the plains:
I saw, and gave my soul a willing prey
To Love's soft bondage, and embraced my chains.

On her the potent queen of love bestowed
Her own sweet smile, her own soul-stealing grace;
Her warm heart with its soft emotion glowed,
And shone in every feature of her face.

A vivid rose-bud opening to the view
Then did she shine, in life's and beauty's morn.
With the rash hand of eager youth I flew,
Snatched at the flower, regardless of the thorn.

But ah! too late I felt the bitter smart,
Too deep I feel it in each throbbing vein;
Far hence, alas! I bear a bleeding heart,
Nor hope to find a solace for my pain.

For nature cursed me not with soul so cool
That time or absence can its griefs remove;
No — reason's cold and unimpassioned rule
Sways not a bosom fired with luckless love.

No, Delia! by those soft and tender sighs
Which pity drew from that soft breast of thine,
By that fair hand which wiped my streaming eyes,
And by those eyes which mixed their tears with mine —

By these I swear thy image from my breast
No time, no absence, ever shall remove;
Where'er I rove, with thy remembrance blest,
I'll doat upon the agonies of love.
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.