Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;
And she I cherished turned her wheel
Beside an English fire.
Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed,
The bowers where Lucy played;
And thine too is the last green field
That Lucy's eyes surveyed.
She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles,
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.
There is a change, and I am poor;
Your love hath been, nor long ago,
A fountain at my fond heart's door,
Whose only business was to flow;
And flow it did; not taking heed
Of its own bounty, or my need.
What happy moments did I count!
Blessed was I then all bliss above!
Now, for that consecrated fount
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,
What have I? Shall I dare to tell?
A comfortless and hidden well.
A well of love,-it may be deep,
I trust it is, and never dry:
What matter, if the waters sleep
In silence and obscurity?
Such change, and at the very door
Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.
AT fond sixteen my roving heart
Was pierced by Love's delightful dart;
Keen transport throbbed through every vein,
I never felt so sweet a pain!
Where circling woods embowered the glade,
I met the dear romantic maid:
I stole her hand-it shrunk-but no;
I would not let my captive go.
With all the fervency of youth,
While passion told the tale of truth,
I marked my Hannah's downcast eye;
'Twas kind, but beautifully shy:
Not with a warmer, purer ray,
The sun, enamoured, wooes young May;
Nor May, with softer maiden grace,
Turns from the sun her blushing face.
But, swifter than the frighted dove,
Fled the gay morning of my love;
Ah! that so bright a morn, so soon
Should vanish in so dark a noon!
The angel of Affliction rose,
And in his grasp a thousand woes;
He poured his vial on my head,
And all the heaven of rapture fled.
Yet, in the glory of my pride
I stood, and all his wrath defied!
I stood, though whirlwinds shook my brain, And lightnings cleft my soul in twain.
I shunned my nymph; and knew not why
I durst not meet her gentle eye;
I shunned her, for I could not bear
To marry her to my despair.
Yet, sick at heart with hope delayed,
Oft the dear image of that maid
Glanced, like the rainbow, o'er my mind,
And promised happiness behind.
The storm blew o'er, and in my breast
The halcyon Peace rebuilt her nest:
The storm blew o'er, and clear and mild
The sea of Youth and Pleasure smiled.
"T was on the merry morn of May,
To Hannah's cot I took my way:
My eager hopes were on the wing,
Like swallows sporting in the Spring.
Then as I climbed the mountains o'er,
I lived my wooing days once more;
And fancy sketched my marriage lot,
My wife, my children, and my cot.
I saw the village steeple rise,
My soul sprang, sparkling, in my eyes:
The rural bells rang sweet and clear,
My fond heart listened in mine ear.
I reached the hamlet: all was gay;
I love a rustic holiday:
I met a wedding, stepped aside;
It passed-my Hannah was the bride!
There is a grief that cannot feel;
It leaves a wound that will not heal;
My heart grew cold, it felt not then:
When shall it cease to feel again?
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