Poems by Matilda Betham Part 4

Oh! were I forsaken, the flow'r in my heart, Would fold all its leaves, and re-open them never!

The sunshine of joy and of hope would depart, And belief in affection would perish for ever!

To talk thus is folly! I doubt not thy truth, A few years of absence will quickly pa.s.s over, I scorn other perils that menace my youth, From that wound, I must own, I could never recover!

HENRY,

ON THE DEPARTURE OF HIS WIFE FROM CALCUTTA.

Long is thy pa.s.sage o'er the main, And native air alone can save!

No friend thy weakness will sustain, But India is, for thee, a grave!

Though winds arise, though surges swell, Maria, we must say farewell!

Oh! I bethink me of the time, When with each airy hope in view, In triumph to this fervid clime I bore a flowret nurs'd in dew!

No fears did then my joy reprove, And it was boundless as my love!

Yet now to strangers I consign Thy wounded mind, thy feeble health; A charge more dear than life resign, To watch a little worldly wealth.

Duty compels me to remain But oh! how heavy feels the chain!

My dear Maria! smile no more?

This seeming patience makes me wild!

So would'st thou once my peace restore, When, mourning for our only child, Each faint appeal was lost in air, Or turn'd my sadness to despair.

Alas! I only make thee grieve.

And hark! the boat awaits below!

They call aloud! and I must leave, The tears my folly forc'd to flow.

Oh! had I but the time to prove, That mine are only fears of love!

SONNET.

Urge me no more! nor think, because I seem Tame and unsorrowing in the world's rude strife, That anguish and resentment have not life Within the heart that ye so quiet deem: In this forc'd stillness only, I sustain My thought and feeling, wearied out with pain!

Floating as 'twere upon some wild abyss, Whence, silent Patience, bending o'er the brink, Would rescue them with strong and steady hand, And join again, by that connecting link, Which now is broken:--O, respect her care!

Respect her in this fearful self-command!

No moment teems with greater woe than this, Should she but pause, or falter in despair!

ON THE REGRET OF YOUTH.

Before a rose is fully blown, The outward leaves announce decay; So, ere the spring of Youth is flown, Its tiny pleasures die away;

The gay security we feel, The careless soul's delighted rest, That lively hope, that ardent zeal, And smiling sunshine of the breast.

Those simple tints, so bright and clear, No healing dew-drops can restore; For joys, which early life endear, Once blighted, can revive no more.

Yet lovely is the full-blown rose, Although its infant graces fly; The various opening leaves disclose, A fairer banquet to the eye;

A ruby's beams on drifted snow, Such pure, harmonious blushes shed; If distant, cast a tender glow, But near, its own imperial red;

The form a.s.sumes a prouder air, And bends more graceful in the gale; While, from its cup, of essence rare, A richer h.o.a.rd of sweets exhale.

Could we again, by fancy led, That bower of swelling leaves confine, And round that fine, luxuriant head, The mossy tendrils now entwine,

Over what mult.i.tudes of bloom Would a few timid leaflets close!

What mental joys resign their room, To causeless mirth, and tame repose!

The change to Reason's steady eye, Would neither good nor wise appear; And we may lay one precept by, Our discontent is insincere.

ELEGY ON SOPHIA GRAHAM,

WHO DIED JAN. 21, 1800.

Sweet is the voice of Friendship to the ear, Sweet is Affection's mildly-beaming eye, Sweet the applause which flows from lips sincere, And sweet is Pity's soft responsive sigh!

But now those flowers of life have lost their bloom, Faint all their beauty, cold their healing breath, No object fills my eye but yonder tomb, No sound awakes me but the name of death.

When in the world, I bear a look serene, And veil the gloomy temper of my grief; Sick with restraint at evening quit the scene, To find in tears and solitude relief.

Parent of Hope and Fancy! thoughtful Night!

Why are these nurselings absent from thy bower, While Memory, with sullen, strange delight, Stalks lonely centinel the live-long hour?

O dear Sophia! could we e'er forget, Such fair endowments and unsullied worth, Thy partial friendship calls for our regret, And selfish feeling gives remembrance birth.

How often when this trembling hand essays Thy lov'd resemblance once again to trace, The portrait thought in mimic life arrays With all the sweet expression of thy face;

Art may its symmetry and beauty show, A look, a character, the pencil seize, Give to the form where youthful graces glow, An air of pensive dignity and ease,

But warmth of feeling and sensation fine, By mild reserve from common eyes conceal'd, The ray of genius and the heart benign, In artless gaiety so oft reveal'd--

All these are lost; no looks can now arise, Like those which every little act endear'd, Which even in the stranger's careless eyes Like innocence from other worlds appear'd!

Oft have I fear'd the breath of foolish praise, Might taint the lily which so humbly grew; That flattery's sun might shoot delusive rays, Impede her progress, and distract her view.

But vain the fear--for she remain'd the same, To outward charms indifferent or blind, Heedless alike of either praise or blame, If it respected not her heart and mind.

Rich in historic lore, the poet's lyre Had not, though screen'd by time, forsaken hung, She felt and studied with a kindred fire, The lofty strain immortal Maro sung.