Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/267
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RONALD'S LAMENT.
249
He, too, because she fills his sight,
Each object falsely sees;
The pleasure that he has in her
Makes all things seem to please.
And this is love;—and it is life
They lead, that Indian and his wife.
Each object falsely sees;
The pleasure that he has in her
Makes all things seem to please.
And this is love;—and it is life
They lead, that Indian and his wife.
Ronald's Lament.
Copyright. Contributed to Carpenter's "Penny Readings," vol. iii., and inserted in this collection by permission.
"Oh! for a last look, before I die,
Of the sun that shines in my native sky!"
Of the sun that shines in my native sky!"
Hush! fair-haired stranger! the morning sun
The orient gates of the skies hath won;
Darkness and clouds have fled afar
Before the wheels of his burnished car;
Along the empyreal pavement borne,
His steeds career through the arch of morn;
And dewy gems he scatters around,
Like diamonds glittering on the ground:
Such beauty, such glory he never sent forth
'Mid the mountains and tempests and clouds of the North!
The orient gates of the skies hath won;
Darkness and clouds have fled afar
Before the wheels of his burnished car;
Along the empyreal pavement borne,
His steeds career through the arch of morn;
And dewy gems he scatters around,
Like diamonds glittering on the ground:
Such beauty, such glory he never sent forth
'Mid the mountains and tempests and clouds of the North!
"Though the hills of my sires be dark and grey,
And the sun sheds forth a sober ray,
Though tempests across his path be borne,
He rises in beauty and laughs them to scorn;
Ah! dearer the hills where the grey mist reposes,
Than all these bright landscapes and gardens of roses.
Oh! for one breath of the breezes again,
That moan through the woods of mine own lovely glen!"
And the sun sheds forth a sober ray,
Though tempests across his path be borne,
He rises in beauty and laughs them to scorn;
Ah! dearer the hills where the grey mist reposes,
Than all these bright landscapes and gardens of roses.
Oh! for one breath of the breezes again,
That moan through the woods of mine own lovely glen!"
The breeze of the morning is rich with perfume,
Stolen from the orange and citron bloom;
The scent of the mango's balmy tree
It bears on its wing, and breathes o'er thee:
Such odours as these were ne'er borne on the gale
That sighs 'mong the pines of thy desolate vale.
Stolen from the orange and citron bloom;
The scent of the mango's balmy tree
It bears on its wing, and breathes o'er thee:
Such odours as these were ne'er borne on the gale
That sighs 'mong the pines of thy desolate vale.
"The heather that blooms on my native hills,
To me a balmier scent distils;
Than orange and myrtle more fragrant to me
Is the sweet-brier rose and the hawthorn tree
In the land of my nativity.
To me a balmier scent distils;
Than orange and myrtle more fragrant to me
Is the sweet-brier rose and the hawthorn tree
In the land of my nativity.