Supposed to be written by the VICTIM of an ill-placed AFFECTION.
“Enchanted grounds o’er which I vacant stray’d,
In bow’rs of fragrance where I careless sat,
While more than earthly music round me play’d,
To a sad outcast ope again your gate.”
FAWCET.
Oh I could muse, how sadly muse !
On days, on scenes for ever past ;
And with a tearful eye peruse
The page of hopes too bright to last ;
Of hopes that disappointment’s blast,
Wither’d the sweetness and the bloom,
Of winged joys that faded fast,
Of smiles now shrouded in the tomb.
But let my grief-worn haggard mind,
Fly from the mad’ning realms of thought,
For ah ! too sure my heart would find
Their tempting lore too dearly bought.
Perchance my soul to frenzy wrought,
Rebellious as the foamy wave,
By false and fatal reasoning caught,
Might seek a coward, guilty grave.
And is the bright delusion o’er ?
Has Peace withdrawn her placid beams ?
Does frolic Fancy smile no more,
In wild conceits and airy dreams ?
Oh yes ! oft-times her sunny gleams
Flash lustrous o’er my dreary night ;
Sudden a tide of radiance streams
Athwart my darken’d famish’d sight.
I see a well-known worship’d form,
Smiling in love, as once it smil’d,
No poison’d doubts the brow deform,
And intimate suspicions wild.
‘Tis Nature’s pure and artless child,
As once it was, or seem’d to be ;
The form that first my heart beguil’d,
Ah ! now for ever lost to me.
And sweet as ever beams that eye,
Whose soft, ethereal, ‘witching ray,
Could urge my bosom’s crouded sigh,
And wake my soul to prouder day.
“Oh mad’ning thought ! away, away ! “
Cease, cease to rack my tortur’d brain,
Cease, cease with frantic voice to say,
That now I feel its cold disdain.
Thou gale of Night, whose rustling wing
Sweeps o’er my cold and bloodless cheek,
I love to hear thee mournful sing
O’er heathy wilds, and mountains bleak,
For ah ! thy deep notes seem to speak
Of valu’d blessings now no more ;
Vainly with me thou seem’st to seek
Treasures that Fate can ne’er restore.
And thou pale Orb ! whose lucid light
Now silvers o’er the shadowy deep,
Oft do I view thy glances bright,
When other lids are veil’d in sleep ;
Madly I gaze, and gazing weep
O’er ghosts of long departed joy,
Or mask in thought the whirlwind’s sweep,
That doom’d my happiness to die.
Ah, wayward fool ! and dost thou still
List to the song that Mem’ry pours ?
And dost thou love her mournful trill,
And fondly search her hidden stores ?
Yes ! yes ! when darkling Winter lours
We love to muse on days of light ;
How oft we dream of nectar’d flow’rs,
And woo them to our longing sight.
Thus will I muse on days of bliss,
And meet once more the glance of love,
Will ev’ry vulgar care dismiss
With ling’ring Memory to rove.
Now will we seek the breezy grove
Now wander ‘neath the silv’ry beam ;
And oh ! once more will gaily prove
The sweets of Hope’s romantic dream.
Yes ! I will gaze on Pleasure’s morn,
And view of Love the rising sun ;
Live ‘midst the glories of its dawn,
“And oh ! forget its race is run.”
E’en now has passion’s throb begun
To shoot tumultuous thro’ my soul,
With thoughts of cold despair I’ve done,
Away the clouds of sadness roll.
Welcome, ye fantasies of joy,
Dart o’er my mind your wavey light !
And thou sweet Hope begem my sky,
Now curtain’d o’er with shades of night.
Shew to my glad believing sight,
The lovesome, gay, delighting smile ;
And let me drink those glances bright,
That oft have spread their melting wile.
My swelling heart ! thy pulse restrain !
Oh bear of bliss the sunny blaze,
The mad’ning thrill whose pleasing pain,
Thro’ ev’ry pulse wide-wand’ring strays.
Yet can I meet that swimming gaze,
That beamy smile with tranquil mind ?
And to the looks of former days
Insensate seem and coldly blind ?
Ah no ! my soul with rapture springs,
To catch each love-impassion’d ray ;
Forth does she spring on golden wings
To meet th’ ascending orb of day.
Ye mists of Night–away, away !
I come the sweets of Hope to prove ;
With thee pale Memory I’ll stray,
And meet once more the glance of Love.
(Laura Sophia Temple)
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