Classic Poem

GERALDINE.

The Scene is supposed to be in some part of the Highlands.

M Y language is rude and uncooth,
My manners are simply and plain:
Oh! Geraldine, scorn not a youth
Whose heart is too honest to feign.
By others thy charms are describ'd;
They talk of their kind and degree:
Such passion my soul hath imbib'd,
Thou seem'st all perfection to me.

In thy eye a mild energy flames,
Soft elegance floats in thy air,
And methinks every feature proclaims
A mind correspondently fair.
Dear maid! I conjure thee, appear
The angel that Nature design'd;
Be honest, at least be sincere,
Though sincerity makes thee unkind.

My temper is ardent and warm,
I was bred on the mountain's rough side;
The labour, that strengthen'd my arm,
With courage my bosom supply'd.
My virtues resemble a soil
That boasts no improvement from art;
The offspring of nature and toil
They glow with full force in my heart.

I have met the keen wind of the North,
When it brought the thick tempest of snow;
I have seen the fork'd lightning burst forth,
When the forests have shrunk from the blow,
To rescue my lambs and my sheep
The loud mountain torrent I've brav'd:
It was clamorous, stormy, and deep,
But the tremblers I happily sav'd.

I have climb'd to the top of the cliff,
Whose summit bends far o'er the main,
From thence I've look'd out for the skiff
Of the fisher, beneath me, in vain.
Yet here, on its uttermost verge,
Their young ones the Penguins will rear;
What time they from ocean emerge,
And spread their broad pinions in air.

There the eggs of the sea fowl I sought,
And the samphire that redolent blooms;
From that eminence haply I brought
The feathers that form thy light plumes.
There I clung while the spray of the waves
Rose life mists o'er the rocks at my feet,
And the birds darting fast from the caves,
Seem'd with clamour to guard their retreat.

I have fail'd on the lake in my boat,
When the West hath look'd dusky and red
When the Sea-mew, with ominous note,
Seem'd to call to the feast of the dead.
From the hills the storm menacing howl'd,
The first thund'ring fell down the steep;
O'er the sky darkness awfully scowl'd,
And horribly roar'd the vex'd deep.

My vessel o'erwhelm'd in the shock,
I rose on the salt surge up-born;
I swam to the caves in the rock,
And waited the coming of morn.
There chill'd by the keen driving blast,
And drench'd by the pitiless rain,
The day has reliev'd me at last,
But the night never heard me complain.

I have past o'er the mountain, which shrouds
Its summit in regions divine,
When the moon, sailing swift through the clouds,
Tipp'd with silver the arrowy pine.
There I met the procession of death;
It pass'd me in shadowy glare,
Slow it mov'd to the valley beneath,
Then melted illusive in air.

A spirit intrepid as mine,
These dangers, these terrors, could prove;
But do not, oh! damsel divine,
Bid it feel the long anguish of love.
Would'st thou bid me approve the regard
And the faith that has never deceiv'd,
Oh! think of some enterprize hard,
And thine eyes shall behold it achiev'd.

Young Carol in dancing in skill'd;
He the pipe's touching notes can prolong:
I have listen'd with extacy thrill'd,
For love was the theme of his song.
New fashions I ne'er could devise;
He varies his habit and air;
My soul could the trisler despise,
But I hear he is lov'd by the fair.

Then teach me, dear girl of my soul,
Every grace that thy taste shall commend;
Tho' I brook not the nod of controul,
My mind to thy guidance shall bend:
Thou shalt smile, Oh! thy smiles will excel
The mornings that June gives to view,
When the woodbine perfumes all the dell,
And the rose blushes soft through the dew.

I would talk of my flock and my herd;
But a venal consent I detest,
'Tis sufficient what fortune conferr'd,
Contentment and industry blest.
How pleasing the toils wou'd appear
That prudence enjoin'd for thy sake;
How grateful the fruits of the year
If Geraldine was to partake.

Thou art artless and modest, my love,
But alas! thou art tender and frail;
Thou seem'st like the innocent dove,
Or the lilly that grows in the vale.
All delicate, soft, and refin'd,
Thou call'st for protection and care;
For the world is still false and unkind
To those who are friendless and fair.

Thy husband, protector, and friend,
Oh! let me those titles receive;
When this arm shall be slack to desend,
This bosom no longer shall heave.
Thou, Geraldine, round our recess,
The smile of chaste tenderness throw;
And the cottage thy presence shall bless,
Will seem a new Eden below.