The tedded hay, the first-fruits of the soil,
The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field,
Shew summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall
Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust,
Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark,
Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose
(In vain the darling of successful love)
Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years,
The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone.
Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk
By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side,
That blue and bright-eyed flowret of the brook,
Hope's gentle gem, the sweet FORGET-ME-NOT!*
So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline
With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk
Has work'd, (the flowers which most she knew I lov'd,)
And, more belov❜d than they, her auburn hair.
In the cool morning twilight, early waked
By her full bosom's joyless restlessness,
Leaving the soft bed to her sleeping sister,
Softly she rose, and lightly stole along,
Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower,
* One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris; a flower from six to twelve inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has the same name over the whole Empire of Germany (Vergissmein nicht), and we believe, in Denmark and Sweden.
Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze,
Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung,
Making a quiet image of disquiet
In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool.
There, in that bower where first she own'd her love,
And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy
From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretch'd
The silk upon the frame, and work'd her name
Between the Moss-ROSE and FORGET-ME-NOT-
Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair!
That forc'd to wander till sweet spring return,
I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look,
Her voice, (that even in her mirthful mood
Has made me wish to steal away and weep,)
Nor yet th' entrancement of that maiden kiss
With which she promis'd, that when spring return'd,
She would resign one half of that dear name,
And own thenceforth no other name but mine!
WITH FALKNER'S "SHIPWRECK."
Ah! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams,
In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice;
Nor while half-list'ning, mid delicious dreams,
To harp and song from lady's hand and voice;
Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood
On cliff, or cataract, in alpine dell;
Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strew'd,
Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell;
Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings,
And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, hark!
Now mounts, now totters on the Tempest's wings,
Now groans, and shivers, the replunging Bark!
"Cling to the shrowds!" In vain! The breakers roar— Death shrieks! With two alone of all his clan,
Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore,
No classic roamer, but a ship-wreck'd man!
Say then, what muse inspir'd these genial strains,
And lit his spirit to so bright a flame?
The elevating thought of suffer'd pains,
Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the name
Of Gratitude! Remembrances of Friend,
Or absent or no more! Shades of the Past,
Which Love makes Substance! Hence to thee I send, O dear as long as life and memory last!
I send with deep regards of heart and head,
Sweet maid, for friendship form'd! this work to thee: And thou, the while thou can'st not choose but shed A tear for FALKNER, wilt remember ME!
Besides, what vex'd us worse, we knew,
They have no need of such as you
In the place where you were going:
This World has angels all too few,
And Heaven is overflowing!
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