Poems by Matilda Betham Part 2

REFLECTIONS

OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF FRIENDS.

My happiness was once a goodly tree, Which promis'd every day to grow more fair, And rear'd its lofty branches in the air, In sooth, it was a pleasant sight, to see!

Amidst, fair honey-suckles crept along, Twin'd round the bark, and hung from every bough, While birds, which Fancy held by slender strings, Plum'd the dark azure of their shining wings, Or dipp'd them in the silver stream below, With many a joyful note, and many a song!

When lo! a tempest hurtles in the sky!

Dark low'r the clouds! the thunders burst around!

Fiercely the arrowy flakes of lightning fly!

While the scar'd songsters leave the quiv'ring bough, The blasted honey-suckles droop below, And many n.o.ble branches strew the ground!

Though soon the air is calm, the sky serene, Though wide the broad and leafy arms are spread, Yet still the scars of recent wounds are seen; Their shelter henceforth seems but insecure; The winged tribes disdain the frequent lure, Where many a songster lies benumb'd or dead; And when I would the flow'ry tendrils train, I find my late delightful labour vain.

Affection thus, once light of heart, and gay, Chasten'd by memory, and, unnerv'd by fear, Shall sadden each endearment with a tear, Sorrowing the offices of love shall pay, And scarcely dare to think that good her own, Which fate's imperious hand may s.n.a.t.c.h away, In the warm sunshine of meridian day, And when her hopes are full and fairest blown.

TO MRS. T. FANCOURT,

July 15, 1803.

I love not yon gay, painted flower, Of bold and coa.r.s.ely blended dye, But one, whose nicely varied power May long detain the curious eye.

I love the tones that softly rise, And in a fine accordance close; That waken no abrupt surprise, Nor leave us to inert repose.

I love the moon's pure, holy light, Pour'd on the calm, sequester'd stream; The gale, fresh from the wings of night, Which drinks the early solar beam;

The smile of heaven, when storms subside, When the moist clouds first break away; The sober tints of even-tide, Ere yet forgotten by the day.

Such sights, such sounds, my fancy please, And set my wearied spirit free: And one who takes delight in these, Can never fail of loving thee!

TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

July 29th, 1803.

Dear boy, when you meet with a rose, Admire you the thorns very much?

Or like you to play with a ball, When the handling it blisters your touch!

Yet should it be firm and compact, It is easy to polish it nice; If the rose is both pretty and sweet, The thorns will come off in a trice.

The thistle has still many more, As visible too in our eyes, But who will take pains with a weed, That n.o.body ever can prize?

'Tis what we deem precious and rare, We most earnestly seek to amend; And anxious attention and care, Is the costliest gift of a friend.

We all have our follies: what then?

Let us note them, and never look bluff!

Without any caressing at all, They will cling to us closely enough.

Weeds are of such obstinate growth, They elude the most diligent hand; And, if they were not to be check'd, Would quickly run over the land.

If some could be taken away, That hide part of your worth from the view; The conquest perhaps would be ours, But the profit is wholly to you.

FRAGMENT.

A Pilgrim weary, toil-subdued, I reach'd a country, strange and rude, And trembled, lest approaching eve My hope of shelter might deceive; When I espied a hunter train, Prowling at leisure o'er the plain, And hasten'd on to ask relief, Of the ill-omen'd, haughty chief.

His eye was artful, keen, and bold, His smile malevolently cold, And had not all my fire been fled, And every earthly pa.s.sion dead, His pity to contempt allied, Had rous'd my anger and my pride; But, as it was, I bent my way, Where his secluded mansion lay, Which rose before my eyes at length, A fortress of determin'd strength, And layers of every colour'd moss The lofty turrets did emboss, As tho' the hand of father Time, Prepar'd a sacrifice sublime,-- Giving his daily rites away, To aggrandize some future day.

Here as I roam'd the walk along, I heard a plaintive broken song; And ere I to the portal drew, An open window caught my view, Where a fair dame appear'd in sight, Array'd in robes of purest white.

Large snowy folds confin'd her hair, And left a polish'd forehead bare.

O'er her meek eyes, of deepest blue, The sable lash long shadows threw; Her cheek was delicately pale, And seem'd to tell a piteous tale, But o'er her looks such patience stole, Such saint-like tenderness of soul, That never did my eyes behold, A beauty of a lovelier mold.

The Lady sigh'd, and closely prest A sleeping infant to her breast; Shook off sweet tears of love, and smil'd, Kissing the fingers of the child, Which round her own unconscious clung, Then fondly gaz'd, and softly sung:

Once like that sea, which ebbs and flows, My bosom never knew repose, And heavily each morn arose.

I bore with anger and disdain, I had no power to break my chain, No one to whom I dar'd complain.

And when some bird has caught my eye, Or distant sail been flitting by, I wish'd I could at freely fly.

But I can now contented be, Can tell, dear babe, my griefs to thee.

And feel more brave, and breathe more free.

And when thy father frowns severe, Although my spirit faints with fear, I feel I have a comfort near.

And when he harshly speaks to me, If thou art smiling on my knee, He softens as he looks on thee.

To soothe him in an evil hour The bud has balm, oh! may the flower Possess the same prevailing power!

Nor forc'd to leave thy native land, To pledge a cold, unwilling hand, May'st thou receive the hard command.

My mother had not half the zeal, The aching fondness which I feel, She had no broken heart to heal!

And I was friendless when she died, Who could my little failings chide, And for an hour her fondness hide.

But I can see no prospect ope, Can give no fairy vision scope, If thou art not the spring of hope.