by Eliza Acton
To win, beloved Caroline from thee,
One thought, in years when we shall sever'd be-
-Sever'd, perchance, by those deep waves, which pour
Their billowy murmurs round our native shore,-
For this, I wander'd round the Bow'rs of Song,
A weary, and rejected suppliant long,
And of the Muses crav'd in humblest tone
From their rich wreaths, one simple bud alone:
They did but fling their wildest weeds at me,
And thus I twin'd them into verse for thee!
Oh! voiceless is the raptur'd feeling
Which passeth o'er me as I view,
The vesper-planet softly stealing,
Through heav'n's delightful depths of blue.
It comes in such sweet beauty beaming
When dark'ning shadows gather round,
That ever dear its gentle gleaming
To sad, or lonely hearts is found.
The crimson light which late was flushing
The Western wave, hath vanish'd then;
And ev'ning's silent spell is hushing
The murmurs, and the thoughts of men.
The hues, the freshness floating o'er us
In earlier hours have died away;
And cheeringly the path before us
Is brighten'd by that silvery ray.
'Tis thus, when life's delicious morning
On rapid wing hath fleeted by,
And each fair flow'r we view'd adorning
Our once gay path, droops witheringly.
When ev'ry tint which Joy was lending,
We see, by Sorrow touch'd, expire,
And ev'n seraphic Hope is bending
In mournful silence o'er her lyre.
Star of the soul, serenely tender,
Through darkness Mem'ry rises then,
Sheds o'er the past her dreamy splendour
And all we lov'd revives again!
Last updated January 14, 2019