« EelmineJätka »
Arise, O Petrarch, from the' Elysian bowers,
Arise, and hither bring the silver lyre,
To the soft notes of elegant desire,
Was spread the fame of thy disastrous love;
Rough mountain oaks and desert rocks, to pity move. What were, alas! thy woes compar'd to mine? To thee thy mistress in the blissful band
Of Hymen never gave her hand;
The joys of wedded love were never thine.
She never bore a share,
Nor with endearing art
Would heal thy wounded heart
Of every secret grief that fester'd there: Nor did her fond affection on the bed Of sickness watch thee, and thy languid head Whole nights on her unwearied arm sustain, And charm away the sense of pain: Nor did she crown your mutual flame With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name. O best of wives! O dearer far to me Than when thy virgin charms
Were yielded to my arms,
How can my soul endure the loss of thee?
Abandon'd and alone,
Without my sweet companion can I live?
The dear reward of every virtuous toil,
What pleasures now can pall'd Ambition give?
E'en the delightful sense of well-earn'd praise, Unshar'd by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts could raise.
For my distracted mind
On whom for consolation shall I call?
Your kind assistance lend,
To bear the weight of this oppressive woe.
My dear departed love, so much was thine,
In every other grief,
Are now with your idea sadden'd all:
Each favourite author we together read
My tortur'd memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy
We were the happiest pair of human kind:
Another and another smiling came,
And saw our happiness unchang'd remain :
Harmonious Concord did our wishes bind:
That all this pleasing fabric Love had rais'd
On which e'en wanton Vice with envy gaz'd,
Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs stay;
With impious grief complain.
That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade,
Was his most righteous will-and be that will obey'd.
Would thy fond love his grace to her controul, And in these low abodes of sin and pain
Her pure exalted soul
Unjustly for thy partial good detain?
That heavenly radiance of eternal light,
Is every mortal bliss;
E'en Love itself, if rising by degrees Beyond the bounds of this imperfect state, Whose fleeting joys so soon must end, It does not to its sovereign good ascend. Rise then, my soul, with hope elate, And seek those regions of serene delight, Whose peaceful path and ever-open gate No feet but those of harden'd Guilt shall miss. There Death himself thy Lucy shall restore, There yield up all his power ne'er to divide you more.
THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.
Written in 1746.
MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn! Thy sons, for valour long renown'd, Lie slaughter'd on their native ground; Thy hospitable roofs no more
Invite the stranger to the door;
In smoky ruins sunk they lie,
The wretched owner sees afar
What boots it then, in every clime
The rural pipe and merry lay
O baneful cause! oh, fatal morn,
The pious mother, doom'd to death,
She views the shades of night descend,
While the warm blood bedews my veins,