I mourn'd the linnet-lover's fate, Or turtle from her murder'd mate, Condemn'd the widow'd hours to wail: Alas! misfortune's cloud unkind The wrath of Nature smites our bowers, And desolate before his time, In silence sad the mourner walks and weeps! Relentless power! whose fated stroke Ha! love's eternal chain is broke, The bleeding shade, the unlaid ghost? Yet not unwelcome waves the wood, That hides me in its gloom, While lost in melancholy mood I muse upon the tomb. Their chequer'd leaves the branches shed, They sadly sigh, that Winter's near: The warning voice I hear behind, That shakes the wood without a wind, And solemn sounds the death-bell of the year. Nor will I court Lethean streams, The sorrowing sense to steep; While nightly o'er the hallow'd hill And pour my sorrows o'er th' untimely urn! ELEGY, WRITTEN AT THE APPROACH OF SPRING. [J. SCOTT.] STERN Winter hence with all his train removes, And cheerful skies and limpid streams are seen; Thick-sprouting foliage decorates the groves; Reviving herbage clothes the fields with green. Yet lovelier scenes th' approaching months prepare; O Fancy, paint not coming days too fair! But should kind Spring her wonted bounty show'r, I shun the scenes where maddening passion raves, And unrelenting Avarice drives her slaves The grassy lane, the wood-surrounded field, The rude stone fence with fragrant wall-flowers gay, The clay-built cot, to me more pleasure yield Than all the pomp imperial domes display: And yet ev'n here, amid these secret shades, And Death's dread dart is ever in my sight. While genial suns to genial showers succeed, (The air all mildness, and the earth all bloom); While herds and flocks range sportive o'er the mead, Crop the sweet herb, and snuff the rich perfume; O why alone to hapless man denied To taste the bliss inferior beings boast? O why this fate, that fear and pain divide His few short hours on earth's delightful coast? Ah cease-no more of Providence complain! 'Tis sense of guilt that wakes the mind to woe, Gives force to fear, adds energy to pain, And palls each joy by Heaven indulg'❜d below: Why else the smiling infant train so bless'd, Ere wild desire inflames the youthful breast, As to the bleating tenants of the field, As to the sportive warblers on the trees, Such mine, when first, from London's crowdedstreets, Rov'd my young steps to Surry's wood-crown'd hills, O'er new-blown meads that breath'd a thousand sweets, By shady coverts and by crystal rills. O happy hours, beyond recovery fled! |