Canzonet

How sweet, how delightful it is to remember Our first happy days when affection began, And Love, the gay truant, the roguish dissembler, Seemed sporting as lightly as spring breezes fan.

But soon that designer in strong finks had caught us, And smiled at our bondage ere we were aware Of the pleasing deception, the mischief he wrought us, In mingling together rich joy and deep care.

Then oft on our absence what sadness awaited, What hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, In varied succession, with thrill unabated, Till calmed by our meeting to gladness again.

But sweetest that season, when young Love had yielded To Hymen’s rich keeping his strength and his power, And the god on our passion smiled gaily, and sealed it In bonds of endurance to life’s latest hour.

Since then have we known the bright pleasures of living, That purest delight of heart beating with heart; When thoughts and affections, deep feelings, emotions In varied succession high rapture impart.

Of all the rich boons that to mortals are given, With wreaths of pure pleasure their brows to entwine; Ah! none can be dearer, more breathing of heaven Than the joy of true love in “for ever I’m thine!”

Here will we leave this soul-devoted pair, Their wedded days in happiness to spend; Nor bid again to vanish into air Visions and fancies that the muse hath penned; But let their brightness with our spirits blend And their clear moral elevate the heart. For now ’tis time this votive song had end, So poor in thought and music—pray impart Due pardon to my lyre that ill hath done its part!

When she had ceased, each heart around confessed She owned poetic powers, and that to her It was a labour of devoted love To weave the rhythm of the poet’s song, And frame his numbered melody. An ear, By close acquaintance with the lofty tones And modulations of the noble verse Of our great bards, may soon acquire the power And skill to versify; and likewise thought May be illumed by their poetic light, Until it shine with lustre, and give forth A seeming inbred poesy. The bard, The true and native bard, does more than this; There is within him a far deeper fount Of innate feeling; and his radiant mind Shines not with light reflected, but gives forth, When warmed by passions burning in his heart, Its own clear coruscations; like those stars Which flash across the sky, so swift and bright, We wonder whence they came. And so with her Was thought creative, and gave mystic birth To things and beings, lifeless hitherto. Now all are waiting for the last regale Which is to crown the whole, and bring to end This contest of sweet verse. A mother’s voice Would give it utterance, a mother’s heart Was its warm birth-place; and each one presaged A song that breathed affection. Oh how calm, How sweet she looked, amidst that family, Her mild cheek beaming with maternal love: How simple and how fair! her very dress, So plain and neat, to her appearance gave A saint-like aspect—not the gloomy saint Of ghostly superstition—but the true, The real, the bright, the one whose cheerful heart Adores the love of Heaven, and lets its love Flow freely o’er on all. And there she sat Close by the fire-side, in the place assigned To venerated guests. Yet none would take That antique chair, but with a general voice Awarded it to her; and said the joys And innocent pastimes could not be commenced Till she consented to retain that seat As her’s alone. And reverent she looked, And well she graced it, as the firelight played On her pure countenance, and silver hair Whose thin braids peeped beneath a seemly cap Of snowy whiteness. Such a holy calm Suffused her features, as can spring alone From peace of heart within. Her soul had known Dark trials on the earth, but they had wrought To purify and strengthen, till her faith Was bright and cheerful, and her hope serene. She now with retrospective eye beheld That Goodness was in all, and hence her life Was bright and beautiful, as golden skies That usher in the calm repose of night. Before attempting to impart her verse According to old promise, with a voice Of winning modesty she softly said She was no poetess, but merely brought Some thoughts and feelings from a mother’s heart In simple language rendered. She rejoiced With soul-felt gladness to behold around So many loving friends; and further still To see her sons and daughters glad and gay With native cheerfulness, and strong in health. For this her heart was thankful. But her ear— And whose is quicker than a mother’s ear— Had missed the gentle tones of one sweet voice From that glad Hall, which but two years ago, On the same festive night, with accents soft Mixed in gay concert there. She knew that none Had ’ere forgot her Edith, but that all Bore her in loved remembrance; and some thoughts Of sacred elevation well became The time and season; and she therefore brought Some simple lines in memory of her, As fittest tribute from a mother’s breast— A song she best could frame. With few words more Of preface, or apology she read—