The Poetical Works of Miss Susanna Blamire (1842) - Gredos ...

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The Salamanca Corpus: The Poetical Works of Miss Susanna Blamire (1842) Uncover’d by delicate art; But still his rude manners unfold The vices that cling to the heart. And think not, ye nymphs of degree, That Peace from the gay scene retires; What is’t in a cot that ye see Which kindles such fanciful fires? Is’t the roof bending low to the head, And lattice just hinting at light? [88] MISS BLAMIRE S Hard labour can rest on a bed That would not your slumbers invite. Ah! no; trust the plain simple Muse, Whom Nature appoints as her scribe; Nor, tempted by day-dreams, refuse Those gifts which Contentment can bribe. ’Tis ease both of fortune and mind This smiling companion can gain; Tis a friend, as correcting as kind, And a heart wholly free from all stain! WRITTEN ON A GLOOMY DAY, IN SICKNESS. THACKWOOD, 4TH JUNE, 1786. THE gloomy lowering of the sky, The milky softness of the air, The hum of many a busy fly, Are things the cheerful well can spare; But, to the pensive, thoughtful mind, Those kindred glooms are truly dear, When in dark shades such wood-notes wind As woo and win Reflection s ear;— The birds that warble over head, The bees that visit every flower, The stream that murmurs o’er its bed, All aid the melancholy hour. [89] . Added to this, the wasting frames Through which life’s pulses slowly beat
The Salamanca Corpus: The Poetical Works of Miss Susanna Blamire (1842) Would fain persuade that nought’s the same As when health glow’d with genial heat. Where are the spirits, light as air, That self-amus’d, would carol loud? “Would find out pleasure everywhere, And all her paths with garlands strow’d? Nature’s the same: the Spring returns, The leaf again adorns the “tree; How tateless this to her who mourns— To her who droopsand fades like me No emblem for myself I find, Save what some dying plant bestows— Save where its drooping head I bind, And mark how strong the likeness grows. No more sweet Eve with drops distill’d Shall melt o’er thee in tender grief; Nor bid Aurora’s cup be fill’d With balmy dew from yonder leaf. What, though some seasons more had roll’d Their golden suns to glad thine eye! Yet as a flower of mortal mould [90] TO A LADY WHO WENT INTO THE COUNTRY IN APRIL. Go, sweet companion of the Spring, Go, plume the little songster’s wing; And, when it steals from every eye, Place thou the downy feather nigh; The softest moss he sure to lay Within the little builder’s way; Assist in deep domestic toil, And many a labouring hour beguile; Avert from hence unhallow’d feet, And guard like Peace the lone retreat: Whether in tangling brake conceal’d,
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