2/28/2006
Ahh… It’s been a while again since I’ve posted. =P
While reading a couple of magazines, I came across this book. It’s like one of those old Reader’s Digest compilations with the cover torn out; but that just made it more interesting. => I found out it was an anthology of works from Lord Byron. I did some research on this guy and he’s a kinda’ scary (the Michael Jackson kind! =P). He’s works are really nice though. I’ve got to admit that I had to laugh out those "thee" and "thy" words. Here’s a two that I like:
To a Beautiful Quaker
Sweet girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne’er forget;
And though we ne’er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain.
I would not say, "I love," but still
My senses struggle with my will:
In vain, to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt;
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies:
Perhaps this is not love, but yet
Our meeting I can ne’er forget.What though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke.
The toungue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale in never feels;
Deceit the guilty lips impart,
And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul’s interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint and scorn disguise.
As thus our glances oft conversed,
And all our bosoms felt, rehearsed,
No spirit, from within, reproved us,
Say rather, "’twas the spirit moved us."
Though what they utter’d I repress,
Yet I conceive thou’lt partly guess;
For as on thee my memory ponders,
Perchance to me thine also wanders.
This for myself, at least, I’ll say,
Thy form appears through night, through day:
Awake, with it my fancy teems;
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;
The vision charms the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora’s ray
For breaking slumbers of delight
Which make me wish for endless night:
Since, oh! whate’er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await,
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image I can ne’er forget.Alas! again no more we meet,
No more former looks repeat;
Then let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom’s care:
"May heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
That anguish never can o’ertake her;
That peace and virtue ne’er forsake her,
But bliss be aye her heart’s partaker!
Oh, may the happy mortal, fated
To be by dearest ties related,
For her each hour new joys discover,
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair bosom never know
What ‘t is to feel the restless woe
Which stings the soul with vain regret,
Of him who never can forget!"
Here’s the other one:
To mary, on receiving her picture
This faint resemblance of thy charms,
(Though strong as mortal art could give,)
My constant heart of fear disarms,
Revives my hopes, and bids me live.Here, I can trace the locks of gold
Which round thy snowy forehead wave;
The cheeks which sprung from Beauty’s mould,
The lips, which made me Beauty’s slave.Here I can trace—ah, no! that eye,
Whose azure floats in liquid fire,
Must all the painter’s art defy,
And bid him from the task retire.Here, I behold its beauteous hue;
But where’s the beam so sweetly straying,
Which gave a lustre to its blue,
Like Luna o’er the ocean playing?Sweet copy! far more dear to me,
Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,
Than all the living forms could be,
Save her who plac’d thee next my heart.She plac’d it, sad, with needless fear,
Lest time might shake my wavering soul,
Unconscious that her image there
Held every sense in fast control.Thro’ hours, thro’ years, thro’ time, ’twill cheer—
My hope, in gloomy moments, raise;
In life’s last conflict ’twill appear,
And meet my fond, expiring gaze.
