On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease, And while the lazy boat sways to and fro, Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow, But O, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers, Makes the cock shrilly on the rain storm crow, Whom his own true-love buried in the sands! Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice re-measures Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures The things of Nature utter; birds or trees Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves, Or where the stiff grass 'mid the heath-plant waves, Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. 1799. Do ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, The linnet and thrush say, "I love and I love!” In the winter they're silent-the wind is so strong; What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing, and loving-all come back together. 1798-9. TO A LADY. WITH FALCONER'S " SHIPWRECK." AH! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice; Nor while half-listening, 'mid delicious dreams, To harp and song from lady's hand and voice; Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood. On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell; Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings, Now groans, and shivers, the replunging bark! 'Cling to the shrouds!" In vain! The breakers roar— Death shrieks! With two alone of all his clan Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore, No classic roamer, but a ship-wrecked man! Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains The elevating thought of suffered pains, Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the name Of gratitude! remembrances of friend, Or absent or no more! shades of the Past, Which Love makes substance! Hence to thee I send, O dear as long as life and memory last! I send with deep regards of heart and head, Sweet maid, for friendship formed! this work to thee: And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me. TO A YOUNG LADY. ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER. WHY need I say, Louisa dear! Risen from the bed of pain and fear, The sunny showers, the dappled sky, Believe me, while in bed you lay, How can we do without her? Besides, what vexed us worse, we knew, INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE DARK LADIE. O LEAVE the lily on its stem; A cypress and a myrtle bough This morn around my harp you twined, Its murmurs in the wind. And now a tale of love and woe, But most, my own dear Genevieve, And now, once more a tale of woe, And trembles on the string. *Here followed the Stanzas, afterwards published separately under the title "Love" (see p. 198), and after them came the other three stanzas printed above; the whole forming the introduction to the intended Dark Ladie, of which all that exists is subjoined. When last I the cruel scorn, sang That crazed this bold and lovely knight, And how he roamed the mountain woods, Nor rested day nor night; I promised thee a sister tale, Come then, and hear what cruel wrong THE BALLAD OF THE DARK LADIE. A FRAGMENT. BENEATH yon birch with silver bark, And there upon the moss she sits, The Dark Ladie in silent pain; The heavy tear is in her eye, And drops and swells again. Three times she sends her little page |