ME , from the source of every comfort torn,
Condemn’d in pensive solitude to mourn,
Me, a devoted prey to pain and grief,
E’en the false flatterer hope denies relief.
Oh! look propitious on these lines, that flow
From love sincere and undissembled woe.
No certain aim my wishes now pursue;
To weep and mourn is all I now can do.
In sorrow sunk, dismay’d by hopeless love,
Thro’ fancy’s endless labyrinth I rove;
Review those happy scenes of past delight,
Where oft you sooth’d mine ear and charm’d my sight.
When winter’s rage the smiling year deforms,
And blackens all the skies with gathering storms,
Spring’s opening dawn the dismal prospect cheers,
When she, in smiles array’d, serene appears.
But will no spring for me its joys renew,
And chase the gloom of sorrow from my view?
For me has fate no happy time in store?
Will joy and ORAN greet mine eyes no more?
Each well-known spot recals you to my mind,
Where oft you walk’d, or where you oft reclin’d.
But, absent you, I gaze on empty air,
Yet think I hear your voice, and see you there.
Lovers these unavailing arts essay,
When fancy gives what fortune takes away.
As some fond mother, who distracted eyes
Her dying babe, yet scarce believes it dies;
Views each faint sign of life with dire delight
And obstinately hopes in nature’s spite:
Thus, when thy cruel coldness I survey’d,
When first I found my easy faith betray’d,
Alarm’d, and still reluctant to believe,
I tried each art that could my fears deceive:
Hop’d what I wish’d, and form’d thee to my mind,
Of truth tenacious, and for ever kind.
But soon the sad conviction grew too strong;
For falsehood, tho’ it please, supports not long.
Yet, say? what wonder, thou shouldst win the heart,
Endow’d by nature, and adorn’d by art.
I thought thee best, as comeliest of thy kind,
A faultless form with every virtue join’d.
Oh! had the work been perfect, as it seem’d;
Prais’d for its beauty, for its worth esteem’d;
On thee each eye with fond delight had hung,
Each ear had caught the music of thy tongue.
Why, led astray by vanity and youth,
Could’st thou with treacherous aims dissemble truth?
Why try each pleasing charm, each winning art,
To pierce with grief a fond believing heart,
Whose warmest vows were all to heaven address’d,
To crown thy wishes, and pronounce thee bless’d?
Thy fond endearments more than all I priz’d,
And, if but ORAN lov’d, the world despis’d.
Too long, alas! by dire misfortune cross’d,
On a wide sea of adverse chances toss’d,
In thee I hop’d one faithful plank to find,
And brave secure the rage of wave and wind:
On this I trusted all that yet remain’d,
Safe from the shipwreck I so late sustain’d.
Ah! foolish hope, and, Ah! believing maid,
By thine own truth and honest heart betray’d:
For soon dark clouds of ever-during night
Swept all the pleasing vision from my sight.
Thus, when the merchant, in pursuit of gain,
Attempts the dangers of the faithless main,
Lo! sudden storms his air-built hopes betray,
And all his wealth becomes at once their prey,
To one rich casket still he fondly cleaves,
And, grasping that, the rest to ruin leaves:
This dearest to his soul, and valued most,
Consoles him for the mighty treasures lost.
But if some swelling wave ev’n this denies,
And sweeps his darling casket from his eyes,
Despondent now, he strives with fate no more,
But fainting gives the hopeless struggle o’er:
All lost for ever he resigns his breath,
And seeks a last and safe retreat in death.
If souls above with fond affection glow,
If spirits mingle in affairs below,
To me, kind heaven, one happy lot assign;
To guard my best-lov’d ORAN still be mine.
For ever near him let my soul preside,
Repel each danger, and each action guide;
Direct what path to shun, and what pursue;
From errour and from passion clear his view.
No distance then thy presence shall deny,
Nor shall this hated form offend thine eye;
But, veil’d in some soft mist of melting air,
Be still invisible, tho’ ever near.
(Elizabeth Scot)
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