English poem
To Emma
by Anonymous
Was it the SHUTTLE of the MORN That wove upon the Cobweb'd Thorn Thy airy Lay?—Or did it rise In thousand rich enamell'd dies, To greet the Noon-day Sun—and glow With brighter beams, than he can throw? Or, was it wafted by the AUSTRAL BREEZE, That bathes him in the wild perfume Of ev'ry Rose's liquid bloom— That hangs upon the Lily's lip— Her silken beverage to sip— Tell me—O TELL ME, EMMA, which of these?
How burst the Music on my ear! The only Music HENRY bears to hear! I felt it!—each strong nerve inflame! Like a new soul usurp my heart, And rage and burn in ev'ry part! Ah! sure, not even Death's cold spell Could the fierce fury of my passion quell! But springing from this earthly dross, Far, to the winds, my cares I'd toss, And swear, before the living Shrine Where Seraphs worship Truth Divine, That still I LOV'D BUT THEE—and THOU WERT STILL THE SAME.
Ah! wonder not, a STRANGER SONG Should cheat me thus—I own it wrong. Low, in the dust, my head I bow, As if, I COULD, HAVE FALSIFY'D MY VOW! Yes—banish from thy thoughts surprise— For, THOU art ever present to my eyes, At each successive, varying hour! THOU, whisper'st in the soft'ning show'r— The Linnet's trill—but tells of THEE! THOU, smil'st upon the Summer's Sea! And when "the Jolly Full Moon" laughs In her clear Zenith to behold The envious Stars, withdraw their gleams of gold, 'Tis to THY HEALTH, she stooping quaffs The Sapphire Cup that FAIRY ZEPHYRS bring, Which, gay, intoxicating BLISS With dewy glances paus'd to kiss, Where FROLIC LOVE has dipp'd his purple wing!
Then let the HARP thy mad touch prove, And SING—and SING AGAIN—of LOVE Sing—till FAINT EVENING drops to rest, On WEEPING TWILIGHT'S DOWNY BREAST; Till grey-hair'd MELANCHOLY DAWN, Culls the loose vapours from the Shadowy Lawn! And only check the rapture-breathing sound, When faithful HENRY at thy feet is found! YES, YES, I COME, wit lightning speed I fly, To meet the Enchantment of thy melting eye! To kneel before thee—to subdue thy blame, For still I LOVE BUT THEE—and THOU ART STILL THE SAME!
More by Anonymous
- To Delia, Wrote on a Leaf in Her Pocket-book
- To Della Crusca
- To Della Crusca
- To Edward Jenkinson, Esq a very young Gentleman, who writ a Poem on PEACE
- TO FIDELIO, Long absent on the great public Cause, which agitated all America, in 1776
- To her Friend, M. J
- To Him Who Will Understand It
- To His Excellency FRANCIS NICHOLSON