Then, my sweet Emma! thou shall move In many a heart more genuine love Than ever warm’d poetic line, Or sigh’d in any Valentine.
WRITTEN UPON SEEING A BLIND YOUNG WOMAN IN NORTH WALES,
Who supports herself, and an aged and infirm Mother, by selling Stockings and Gloves of her own Knitting, which she offers to Travellers as they pass by; in doing which she has been known to run close by the Side of a Carriage for several Miles.
The morning purple on the hill, The village spire, the ivy’d tow’r, The sparkling wheel of yonder mill, The grove, green field, and op’ning flow’r, Are lost to thee!
Dark child of Nature, as thou art! Yet thy poor bosom heaves no sigh; E’en now thy dimpling cheeks impart Their knowledge of some pleasure nigh:— ’Tis good for thee!
Thou seem’st to say “I’ve sunshine too; ’Tis beaming in a spotless breast; No shade of guilt obstructs the view, And there are many not so blest, Who day’s blush see.
“Dear are those eyes, by mine ne’er seen, Which I protect from many a tear; Kind stranger! ’tis on yonder green A mother’s aged form I rear: Oh! buy of me!”
_At one of the annual Banquets given in Guildhall_.
Gorgeous and splendid was the sight; From myriad lamps a fairy light Enshrin’d in wreaths the Gothic wall, And heav’nly music fill’d the hall!
But there was one—(alas! that I Had ever seen)—the melody Her voice surpassed, and brighter far Her eyes than ev’ry mimic star!
I gaz’d, until, oh! thought divine! I fancied she I saw was mine; But soon the beauteous vision flew— The stranger-form I lov’d withdrew.
Yet still she lives within my breast, There mem’ry has her form imprest:— Thus, when some minstrel’s strain is done, Sounds seem to breathe, for ever gone!
[These Lines were written for a Lady who set them to Music.]
My poor heart flutters like the sea Now heaving on the sandy shore; It seems to tell me you shall be Never again near Yarrimore.
Far, far beyond the waves, I bend Mine eyes, if I can land explore; But o’er the waves I find no end,— Yet there they say’s my Yarrimore.
The hut he built is standing still, Deck’d with the shells he cull’d from shore; Our bow’r is waving on the hill, But where, alas! is Yarrimore?
Within that bow’r I’ll sit and sigh, From dawn of day till day is o’er; And, as the wild winds o’er me fly, I’ll call on gentle Yarrimore!