Poems by Matilda Betham Part 5

She knew--but why essay to trace her thought Through its wide range, describe her blooming youth, The heart whose feelings were so finely wrought, Its meek ambition, and its love of truth?

All that parental-vanity desires, All that the friend can muse upon and mourn, All that the lover's ardent vow inspires, In thee, Sophia! from the world was torn!

But still we yield thee to no stranger's care; No unknown foe our tender love bereaves; Thou goest the angels' hallow'd bliss to share, A Father thy exalted soul receives!

TO MISS ROUSE BOUGHTON,

NOW THE RIGHT HON. LADY ST. JOHN.

Aberystwith, July 5th, 17--

Louisa, while thy pliant fingers trace The solemn beauties of the prospect round, Or, on thy instrument, with touching grace, Awaken all the witcheries of sound:

Mild, as thy manners, do the colours rise, As soft and un.o.btrusive meet the view; And, when the varied notes the ear surprize, We own the harmony as strictly true.

Be thine the praise, alas! a gift how rare!

Artless, and unpretending, to excel!

Forget the envied charm of being fair, To learn the n.o.blest science,--acting well!

And let no world the seal of truth displace, Or spoil the heart's accordance with the face!

TO THE SAME,

ON RECEIVING FROM HER A FEW FLOWERS OUT OF A BOUQUET, FROM MELCHBOURNE, 1807.

Hail! sweet Louisa! o'er these votive flow'rs Friends.h.i.+p and Fancy weave the joyful song, Wing with fresh rose-leaves all the train of hours, That in the distant aether float along!

Like those fair flowrets given by thy hand, Like thy own beauty, blooming and serene, The vision of thy future life is plann'd, And forms a clear, a bright, and varied scene!

That countenance so gentle, and so kind, That heart, which never gave a harsh decree, Suit all the turns of thy harmonious mind, And must, perforce, with destiny agree.

This from the Sibyl's leaves affection drew, O, be the omen just! the promise true!

TO THE RIVER

WHICH SEPARATES ITSELF FROM THE DEE, AT BEDKELLERT.

July 19, 1799.

Let others hail the tranquil stream, Whose gla.s.sy waters smoothly flow, And, in the undulating gleam, Reflect another world below!

The yellow Conway as it raves, Demands my tributary song!

When, rus.h.i.+ng forth, resistless waves O'er rocky fragments foam along!

Like him, whose vigorous mind reviews The troubles which around him roll; The ceaseless warfare still pursues, And keeps a firm, undaunted soul.

Though sternly bent by toil and care, The brow hang darkly o'er his eye-- His features the fix'd meaning wear Of one who knows not how to sigh.

It is not apathy that reigns, O'erweening arrogance, or pride, For, in his warmly-flowing veins, The genial feelings all reside.

It is the breast-plate fort.i.tude Should still to injury oppose; It is the s.h.i.+eld with power imbu'd, To blunt the malice of his foes.

And should the savage country round, A more engaging aspect show, O Conway! it will then be found, How sweet and clear thy waters flow!

The birds will dip the taper wing-- The pilgrim there his thirst a.s.suage, The wandering minstrel sit and sing, Or muse upon a distant age!

Bold River! soon within the deep, Each weary strife and conflict o'er, Thy venerable waves shall sleep, And feel opposing rocks no more!

THE OLD MAN'S FAREWELL.

Farewell, my pilgrim guest, farewell, A few days since thou wert unknown, None shall thy future fortunes tell, But sweetly have the moments flown!

And kindness, like the sun on flowers, Soon chas'd away thy tender gloom; New-fledg'd the sable-pinion'd hours, And wove bright tints in Fancy's loom.

We sought no secrets to divine, Neither thy name nor lineage knew, Our hearts alone have question'd thine, And found that all was just and true.

Pa.s.s not with hasty step, I pray, Across the threshold of my door!

But pause awhile, with kind delay, We shall behold thy face no more!

Once only in a hundred years, The aloe's precious blossoms swell, So, in thy presence it appears, That Time has blossom'd, fare thee well![A]

[A] See Preface.

SONG.

DISTANCE FROM THE PLACE OF OUR NATIVITY.

Since I married Palemon, though happy my lot, Though my garden is pleasant, and lightsome my cot, Though love's smile, like a suns.h.i.+ne, I constantly see, Those blessings are all insufficient for me, I repine not at labour, I ask not for gold, But I want the sweet eyes of my friends to behold.

With Palemon I think o'er the world I could roam, Though he liv'd in a desert, would make it my home.