AT fond sixteen my roving heart
Was pierced by Love's delightful dart;
Keen transport throbbed through every vein,
I never felt so sweet a pain!
Where circling woods embowered the glade,
I met the dear romantic maid:
I stole her hand-it shrunk-but no;
I would not let my captive go.
With all the fervency of youth,
While passion told the tale of truth,
I marked my Hannah's downcast eye;
'Twas kind, but beautifully shy:
Not with a warmer, purer ray,
The sun, enamoured, wooes young May;
Nor May, with softer maiden grace,
Turns from the sun her blushing face.
But, swifter than the frighted dove,
Fled the gay morning of my love;
Ah! that so bright a morn, so soon
Should vanish in so dark a noon!
The angel of Affliction rose,
And in his grasp a thousand woes;
He poured his vial on my head,
And all the heaven of rapture fled.
Yet, in the glory of my pride
I stood, and all his wrath defied!
I stood, though whirlwinds shook my brain, And lightnings cleft my soul in twain.
I shunned my nymph; and knew not why
I durst not meet her gentle eye;
I shunned her, for I could not bear
To marry her to my despair.
Yet, sick at heart with hope delayed,
Oft the dear image of that maid
Glanced, like the rainbow, o'er my mind,
And promised happiness behind.
The storm blew o'er, and in my breast
The halcyon Peace rebuilt her nest:
The storm blew o'er, and clear and mild
The sea of Youth and Pleasure smiled.
'Twas on the merry morn of May,
To Hannah's cot I took my way:
My eager hopes were on the wing,
Like swallows sporting in the Spring.
Then as I climbed the mountains o'er,
I lived my wooing days once more;
And fancy sketched my marriage lot,
My wife, my children, and my cot.
I saw the village steeple rise,
My soul sprang, sparkling, in my eyes:
The rural bells rang sweet and clear,
My fond heart listened in mine ear.
I reached the hamlet: all was gay;
I love a rustic holiday:
I met a wedding, stepped aside;
It passed-my Hannah was the bride!
There is a grief that cannot feel;
It leaves a wound that will not heal;
My heart grew cold, it felt not then:
When shall it cease to feel again?
["Rural Tales, Ballads and Songs." 1802.]
A SPRING, o'erhung with many a flower,
The gray sand dancing in its bed,
Embanked beneath a hawthorn bower,
Sent forth its waters near my head:
A rosy lass approached my view;
I caught her blue eye's modest beam:
The stranger nodded "How-d' ye-do?"
And leaped across the infant stream.
The water heedless passed away:
With me her glowing image stayed:
I strove, from that auspicious day,
To meet and bless the lovely maid.
I met her where beneath our feet
Through downy moss the wild thyme grew; Nor moss elastic, flowers though sweet, Matched Hannah's cheek of rosy hue.
I met her where the dark woods wave,
And shaded verdure skirts the plain;
And when the pale moon rising gave
New glories to her rising train.
From her sweet cot upon the moor,
Our plighted vows to heaven are flown:
Truth made me welcome at her door,
And rosy Hannah is my own.
I rise, dear Mary, from the soundest rest,
A wandering, way-worn, musing, singing guest.
I claim the privilege of hill and plain;
Mine are the woods, and all that they contain;
The unpolluted gale, which sweeps the glade;
All the cool blessings of the solemn shade;
Health, and the flow of happiness sincere;
Yet there's one wish-I wish that thou wert here;
Free from the trammels of domestic care,
With me these dear autumnal sweets to share;
To share my heart's ungovernable joy,
And keep the birthday of our poor lame boy.
Ah! that's a tender string! Yet since I find
That scenes like these can soothe the harassed mind,
Trust me, 't would set thy jaded spirits free
To wander thus through vales and woods with me.
Thou know'st how much I love to steal away
From noise, from uproar, and the blaze of day;
With double transport would my heart rebound
To lead thee where the clustering nuts are found;
No toilsome efforts would our task demand,
For the brown treasure stoops to meet the hand.
Round the tall hazel beds of moss appear
In green swards nibbled by the forest deer,
Sun, and alternate shade; while o'er our heads
The cawing rook his glossy pinions spreads:
The noisy jay, his wild-woods dashing through ;
The ring-dove's chorus, and the rustling bough;
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