To My Daughter On Being Separated from Her on Her Marriage
Dear to my heart as life’s warm stream
Which animates this mortal clay,
For thee I court the waking dream,
And deck with smiles the future day;
And thus beguile the present pain
With hopes that we shall meet again.
Yet, will it be as when the past
Twined every joy, and care, and thought,
And o’er our minds one mantle cast
Of kind affections finely wrought?
Ah no! the groundless hope were vain,
For so we ne’er can meet again!
May he who claims thy tender heart
Deserve its love, as I have done!
For, kind and gentle as thou art,
If so beloved, thou art fairly won.
Bright may the sacred torch remain,
And cheer thee till we meet again!
Behold the gloomy tyrant’s awful form
Binding the captive earth in icy chains;
His chilling breath sweeps o’er the watery plains,
Howls in the blast, and swells the rising storm.
See from its centre bends the rifted tower,
Threat’ning the lowly vale with frowning pride,
O’er the scared flocks that seek its sheltering side,
A fearful ruin o’er their heads to pour.
While to the cheerful hearth and social board
Content and ease repair, the sons of want
Receive from niggard fate their pittance scant;
And where some shed bleak covert may afford,
Wan poverty, amidst her meagre host
Casts round her haggard eyes, and shivers at the frost.
Forget, forget the playful time,
Let every trace be done away,
When I with many an idle rhyme
Was wont to waste the summer's day.
Then hope was new, and love was young,
And fancy on her poet smil'd,
And as my roundelay I sung
The cares of life my song beguil'd.
Now hope is fled, the heart grows cold,
And fancy wears a cypress crown;
The roundelay grows dull and old,
And all the gay delights are flown.
Forget, forget the playful time
The Song at Maria’s Grave
Come, gentle maidens, gather round.
Bring sprigs of rosemary and rue,
Strew virgin lilies on the ground,
And the wild rose embalm'd in dew.
Emblem of hope, upon the thorn
Their transient beauties bloom and die,
While yet their sweets perfume the morn,
They on Maria's grave shall lie.
For she was fair, as fairest flower,
And gentle as the breath of peace;
But now her charms exist no more,
And soon their memory shall cease.
I raise the song, a name so dear
From cold oblivion's power to save;
Come, gentle maidens, round, and hear
The mournful story at her grave.
Methinks I see her on the beach,
Her eyes still fixed upon the sea;
Her thoughts beyond the ocean reach.
Oh, Henry, they were fix’d on thee.