The Sylphs of the Season with Other Poems Part 8

First Love.

_A Ballad_[8].

Ah me! how hard the task to bear The weight of ills we know!

But harder still to dry the tear, That mourns a nameless we.

If by the side of Lucy's wheel I sit to see her spin, My head around begins to reel, My heart to beat within.

Or when on harvest holliday I lead the dance along, If Lucy chance to cross my way, So sure she leads me wrong,

If I attempt the pipe to play, And catch my Lucy's eye, The trembling musick dies away, And melts into a sigh.

Where'er I go, where'er I turn, If Lucy there be found, I seem to shiver, yet I burn, My head goes swimming round.

I cannot bear to see her smile, Unless she smile on me; And if she frown, I sigh the while, But know not whence it be.

Ah, what have I to Lucy done To cause me so much stir?

From rising to the setting sun I sigh, and think of her.

In vain I strive to join the throng In social mirth and ease; Now lonely woods I stray among, For only woods can please.

Ah, me! this restless heart I fear Will never be at rest, 'Till Lucy cease to live, or tear Her image from my breast.

The Complaint.

"Oh, had I Colin's winning ease,"

Said Lindor with a sigh, "So carelessly ordained to please, I'd every care defy.

"If Colin but for Daphne's hair A simple garland weave, He gives it with so sweet an air He seems a crown to give.

"But, though I cull the fairest flower That decks the breast of spring, And posies from the woodland bower For Daphne's bosom bring,

"When I attempt to give the fair, With many a speech in store, My half-form'd words dissolve in air, I blush and dare no more.

"And shall I then expect a smile From Daphne on my love, When every word and look the while My clownish weakness prove?

"Oft at the close of summer day, When Daphne wander'd by, I've left my little flock astray, And follow'd with a sigh.

"Yet, fearing to approach too near, I lingered far behind: And, lest my step should reach her ear, I shook at every wind.

"How happy then must Colin be Who never knew this fear, Whose sweet address at liberty Commands the fair-one's ear!

"A smile, a tear, a word, a sigh, Stand ready at his call; In me unknown they live and die, Who have and feel them all."

Ah, simple swain, how little knows The love-sick mind to scan Those gifts which real love bestows To mark the favoured man.

Secure, let fluent parrots feign The musick of the dove; 'Tis only in the eye may reign The eloquence of love.

Will, the Maniac.

_A Ballad._

HARK! what wild sound is on the breeze?

'Tis Will, at evening fall Who sings to yonder waving trees That shade his prison wall.

Poor Will was once the gayest swain At village dance was seen; No freer heart of wicked stain E'er tripp'd the moonlight green.

His flock was all his humble pride, A finer ne'er was shorn; And only when a lambkin died Had Will a cause to mourn.

But now poor William's brain is turn'd, He knows no more his flock; For when I ask'd "if them he mourn'd,"

He mock'd the village clock.

No, William does not mourn his fold, Though tenantless and drear; Some say, a love he never told Did crush his heart with fear.

And she, 'tis said, for whom he pin'd Was heiress of the land, A lovely lady, pure of mind Of open heart and hand.

And others tell, as _how_ he strove To win the n.o.ble fair.

Who, scornful, jeer'd his simple love.

And left him to despair.

Will wander'd then amid the rocks Through all the live long day, And oft would creep where bursting shocks Had rent the earth away.

He lov'd to delve the darksome dell Where never pierc'd a ray, There to the wailing night-bird tell, 'How love was turn'd to clay.'

And oft upon yon craggy mount, Where threatening cliffs hang high, Have I observ'd him stop to count With fixless stare the sky.

Footnotes

[1] In a late beautiful poem by Mr. Montgomery is the following lines "_The spirits of departed hours_." The Author, fearing that so singular a coincidence of thought and language might subject him to the charge of plagiarism, thinks it necessary to state that his poem was written long before he had the pleasure of reading Mr. M.'s.

[2] The Author would be sorry to have it supposed that he alludes here to any individual; for he can say with truth, that such a character has never fallen under his observation: much less would he be thought to reflect on the Artists, as a cla.s.s of men to which such baseness may be generally imputed. The case here is merely _supposed_, to shew how easily imbecility and selfishness may pervert this most innocent of all arts to the vilest purposes. He may be allowed also to disclaim an opinion too generally prevalent; namely, that envy and detraction are the natural offspring of the art. That Artists should possess a portion of these vices, in common with Poets, Musicians, and other candidates for fame, is reasonably to be expected; but that they should exclusively monopolise them, or even hold an undue proportion, 'twere ungenerous to suppose. The Author has known Artists in various countries; and can truly say, that, with a very few exceptions, he has found them candid and liberal; prompt to discover merit, and just in applauding it. If there have been exceptions, he has also generally been able to trace their cause to the unpropitious coincidence of narrow circ.u.mstances, a defective education, and poverty of intellect. Is it then surprising, that in the hands of such a triumvirate the art should be degraded to an imposture, to the trick of a juggler? but it surely would be a cause of wonder, if, with such leprous members, the sound and respectable body of its professors should escape the suspicion of partaking their contamination.