Away, away! delusive power, Seat of my youth! thy distant spire Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill, 40 Each flower a double fragrance flings; My Lycus! wherefore dost thou weep? But, oh, 't will wake again. Think, think, my friend, when next we meet, Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet! From this my hope of rapture springs; While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, Absence, my friend, can only tell, 'Friendship is Love without his wings!' 60 Let bigots rear a gloomy fane, Let superstition hail the pile, Shall man confine his Maker's sway To Gothic domes of mouldering stone? Thy temple is the face of day; Earth, ocean, heaven, thy boundless throne. space; Who calm'st the elemental war, Whose hand from pole to pole I trace: Thou, who in wisdom placed me here, Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere, To Thee, my God, to thee I call! If, when this dust to dust 's restored, But, if this fleeting spirit share 50 TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ. DEAR LONG, in this sequester'd scene, Which spreads the sign of future peace 10 Or if, in melancholy mood, Some lurking envious fear intrude, In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore; Nor through the groves of Ida chase Our raptured visions as before; Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, And Manhood claims his stern dominion Age will not every hope destroy, But yield some hours of sober joy. Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing To soothe its wonted heedless flow; Though now on airy visions borne, To you my soul is still the same. Oft has it been my fate to mourn, 20 30 40 And all my former joys are tame. But, hence! ye hours of sable hue! Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er: By every bliss my childhood knew, I'll think upon your shade no more. Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, And caves their sullen roar enclose, We heed no more the wintry blast, When lull'd by zephyr to repose. Full often has my infant Muse Attuned to love her languid lyre; But now without a theme to choose, The strains in stolen sighs expire. My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown; E- is a wife, and C a mother, 50 60 And Carolina sighs alone, And Mary's given to another; In truth, dear LONG, 't was time to flee; 70 The aid, which once improved their light And bade them burn with fiercer glow, Now quenches all their sparks in night; Thus has it been with passion's fires, As many a boy and girl remembers, While all the force of love expires, Extinguish'd with the dying embers. But now, dear LONG, 't is midnight's noon, Has thrice perform'd her stated round, Has thrice retraced her path of light, 80 90 99 And chased away the gloom profound, I trust that we, my gentle friend, Shall see her rolling orbit wend Above the dear-loved peaceful seat Which once contain'd our youth's retreat; And then with those our childhood knew, We'll mingle in the festive crew; While many a tale of former day Shall wing the laughing hours away, And all the flow of souls shall pour The sacred intellectual shower, Nor cease till Luna's waning horn Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn. TO A LADY [Mrs. Chaworth Musters, the 'Mary' of many poems.] OH! had my fate been join'd with thine, As once this pledge appear'd a token, [The 'Mary' of this poem is not Mrs. Chaworth Musters, nor is it his distant cousin Mary Duff, but the daughter of James Robertson, of the farmhouse of Ballatrich on Deeside.] WHEN I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath, And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow! To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below, Untutor❜d by science, a stranger to fear, And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear; Need I say, my sweet Mary, 't was centred in you ? |