« ElőzőTovább »
Fate with no heavier blow nor keener sting
Alas! I may not meet thee in the crowd,
But oh! the deadly pang, the freezing chili,
I cannot think that all our mutual dreams
Oh! visit not
Oh! come not, Maid !
Oh! weep not, Love!
Oh ! then, fair Maid !
BIRTH-DAY STANZAS TO MY CHILD.
My spirit revels deep in dreams to-day;
I dimly recognize the scenes around; For though thy fairy form is far away,
And still thy father treads this foreign ground, He sees thee in thy native fields at play,
And hears thy light laugh's sweet familiar sound Merry and musical as birds in May !
This is thy natal morn-a date how dear !
How many tender memories mark the time ! How oft thy prattle charmed a parent's ear,
And soothed his soul in this ungenial clime ! How oft, when impious discontent was near,
Thy sinless smile hath kindled hopes sublime, And made the gloom of exile seem less drear !
Though now in weary loneliness I learn
What countless miseries broken ties may bring, Though vainly to deserted rooms I turn
For one domestic charm, I will not fling A shade
this hour, nor idly yearn For pleasures passed on Time's too rapid wing ; Nor pine at Fate's decrees, however stern.
Dear Child ! to thee devoted is the day,
Thy brethren, (gentle twins,) and she who bears
The small white English cottage sweetly wears
Their tribute-praise, foretel thy future years,
And when the cheerful feast is nearly o'er,
The wine-cup shall be filled, and thy dear name
Regardful of the time; a pleasing shame
Of Birth-day gifts shall childhood's dreams inflame,
The sudden tears shall dim thy mother's eye,
Thy glittering gauds, and stand in silence by,
On England's happy shores to live or die,
But this blest day no cares shall shade my heart,
Save such as pass like clouds o'er summer skies ;
So now before thy memory sorrow flies;
Dear forms of home, that wake a sweet surprise,
Like visions raised by some enchanter's art ! Calcutta, Oct. 19, 1831.