That sense of promise every where? IV. As when a mother doth explore V. You stood before me like a thought, A dream remember'd in a dream. VI. Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep, Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar? AN ODE TO THE RAIN. COMPOSED BEFORE DAYLIGHT, ON THE MORNING APPOINTED FOR THE DEPARTURE OF A VERY WORTHY, BUT NOT VERY PLEASANT VISITOR, WHOM IT WAS FEARED THE RAIN MIGHT DETAIN. I. I KNOW it is dark; and though I have lain, I have not once open'd the lids of my eyes, You're but a doleful sound at best: I owe you little thanks, 'tis true, O Rain! you will but take your flight, II. O Rain! with your dull two-fold sound, The clash hard by, and the murmur all round! You know, if you know aught, that we, Both night and day, but ill agree: For days and months, and almost years, Have limp'd on through this vale of tears, Since body of mine, and rainy weather, Have lived on easy terms together. Yet if, as soon as it is light, O Rain! you will but take your flight, I'll nothing speak of you but well. But only now for this one day, III. Dear Rain! I ne'er refused to say You're a good creature in your way; Nay, I could write a book myself, Would fit a parson's lower shelf, Showing how very good you are.— What then? sometimes it must be fair! And if sometimes, why not to-day? Do go, dear Rain! do go away! IV. Dear Rain! if I've been cold and shy, We three, you mark! and not one more ! V. And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain ! Whenever you shall come again, (And by the bye 'tis understood, You're not so pleasant as you're good), And though you stay'd a week or more, Nor should you go away, dear Rain! But only now, for this one day, ELEGY, IMITATED FROM ONE OF AKENSIDE'S BLANK-VERSE INSCRIPTIONS. NEAR the lone pile with ivy overspread, Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound, Where "sleeps the moonlight" on yon verdant bed O humbly press that consecrated ground! For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain ! And there his spirit most delights to rove : Young Edmund! famed for each harmonious strain, And the sore wounds of ill-requited love. Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide, And loads the west-wind with its soft perfume, His manhood blossom'd; till the faithless pride Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb. But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue ! Where'er with wilder'd step she wander'd pale, Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view, Still Edmund's voice accused her in each gale. With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms, Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught : SEPARATION. A SWORDED man whose trade is blood, In grief, in anger, and in fear, Thro' jungle, swamp, and torrent flood, The dazzling charm of outward form, The power of gold, the pride of birth, Have taken Woman's heart by stormUsurp'd the place of inward worth. |