NARCISSA.
39
How from the Summit of the Grove she fell,
And left it unharmonious! All its Charm
Extinguisht in the Wonders of her Song!
Her Song still vibrates in my ravisht Ear,
Still melting there, and with voluptuous Pain
(O to forget her!) thrilling thro' my Heart!
Song, Beauty, Youth, Love, Virtue, Joy! this Group
O bright Ideas, Flow'rs of Paradise,
As yet unforfeit! in one Blaze we bind,
Kneel, and present it to the Skies; as All
We guess of Heav'n: and these were all her own.
And she was mine; and I was—was most blest
Gay Title of the deepest Misery!
As Bodies grow more pond'rous, robb'd of Life;
Good lost weighs more in Grief, than gain'd, in Joy.
Like blossom'd Trees o'erturn'd by vernal Storm,
Lovely in Death the beauteous Ruin lay;
And if in Death still lovely, lovelier There;
Far lovelier! Pity swells the Tide of Love.
And will not the Severe excuse a Sigh?
Scorn the proud Man that is asham'd to weep;
Our Tears indulg'd indeed deserve our Shame.
Ye that e'er lost an Angel! pity me.
Soon as the Lustre languisht in her Eye,
Dawning a dimmer Day on human Sight;
And on her Cheek, the Residence of Spring,
Pale Omen sat; and scatter'd Fears around
On all that saw (and who would cease to gaze,
That once had seen?) with Haste, parental Haste,
I flew, I snatch'd her from the rigid North,
Her native Bed, on which bleak Boreas blew,
And bore her nearer to the Sun; the Sun
(As if the Sun could envy) checkt his Beam,
Deny'd his wonted Succour, or with more
And left it unharmonious! All its Charm
Extinguisht in the Wonders of her Song!
Her Song still vibrates in my ravisht Ear,
Still melting there, and with voluptuous Pain
(O to forget her!) thrilling thro' my Heart!
Song, Beauty, Youth, Love, Virtue, Joy! this Group
O bright Ideas, Flow'rs of Paradise,
As yet unforfeit! in one Blaze we bind,
Kneel, and present it to the Skies; as All
We guess of Heav'n: and these were all her own.
And she was mine; and I was—was most blest
Gay Title of the deepest Misery!
As Bodies grow more pond'rous, robb'd of Life;
Good lost weighs more in Grief, than gain'd, in Joy.
Like blossom'd Trees o'erturn'd by vernal Storm,
Lovely in Death the beauteous Ruin lay;
And if in Death still lovely, lovelier There;
Far lovelier! Pity swells the Tide of Love.
And will not the Severe excuse a Sigh?
Scorn the proud Man that is asham'd to weep;
Our Tears indulg'd indeed deserve our Shame.
Ye that e'er lost an Angel! pity me.
Soon as the Lustre languisht in her Eye,
Dawning a dimmer Day on human Sight;
And on her Cheek, the Residence of Spring,
Pale Omen sat; and scatter'd Fears around
On all that saw (and who would cease to gaze,
That once had seen?) with Haste, parental Haste,
I flew, I snatch'd her from the rigid North,
Her native Bed, on which bleak Boreas blew,
And bore her nearer to the Sun; the Sun
(As if the Sun could envy) checkt his Beam,
Deny'd his wonted Succour, or with more
Regret
