(no subject)
"When o'er the cultur'd lawns and dreary wastes
Retiriing Autum flings her howling blasts,
Bends in tumultous waves the struggling woods,
And show'rs their leafy honours on the floods,
In with'ring heaps collects the flowery spoil,
And each chill insect sinks beaneath the soil:
Quick hears fair TULIPA the loud alarms,
And folds her infant closer in her arms;
Soft plays affection round her bosom's throne,
And guards its life, forgetful of her own.--
So wings the wounded deer her headlong flight,
Pierc'd by some ambush'd archer of the night,
Shoots to the woodlands with her bounding fawn,
And drops of blood bedew the conscious lawn;
There, hid in shades, she shuns the cheerful day,
Hangs o'er her young, and weeps her life away.--
So stood Eliza on the wood-crown'd height,
O'er Minden's plain, spectatress of the fight;
Sought with bold eye, amid the bloody strife,
Her dearer self, the partner of her life;
From hill to hill the rushing host pursu'd,
And view'd his banner, or believ'd she view'd.
Pleas'd with the distant roar with quicker tread,
Fast by her hand one lisping boy she led;
And one fair girl, amid the loud alarm,
Slept on her kerchief, cradled by her arm,
While round her brows bright beams of honour dart,
And love's warm eddies circle round her heart.
Near and more near th' intrepid beauty press'd,
Saw through the driving smoke his dancing crest;
Heard th' exulting shout, ' they run! they run!'
' Great God!' she cried, ' he's safe! the battle's won!'
A ball now hisses through the airy tides,
(Some fury wing'd it, and some dæmon guides,)
Parts the fine locks her graceful head that deck,
Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck:
The red stream, issuing from her azure veins,
Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains.
' Ah me!' she cried, and, sinking on the ground,
Kiss'd her dear babes, regardless of he wound:
' O cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn;
' Wait, gushing life, oh! wait my Love's return:
' Oh! spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age;
' On me, on me,' she cried, ' exhaust your rage.'
Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far,
The angel Pity shuns the walks of war.
Then with weak arms her weeping babes caress'd,
And, sighing, hid them in her blood-stain'd vest."
Darwin.
can't find anything about this poem.
Retiriing Autum flings her howling blasts,
Bends in tumultous waves the struggling woods,
And show'rs their leafy honours on the floods,
In with'ring heaps collects the flowery spoil,
And each chill insect sinks beaneath the soil:
Quick hears fair TULIPA the loud alarms,
And folds her infant closer in her arms;
Soft plays affection round her bosom's throne,
And guards its life, forgetful of her own.--
So wings the wounded deer her headlong flight,
Pierc'd by some ambush'd archer of the night,
Shoots to the woodlands with her bounding fawn,
And drops of blood bedew the conscious lawn;
There, hid in shades, she shuns the cheerful day,
Hangs o'er her young, and weeps her life away.--
So stood Eliza on the wood-crown'd height,
O'er Minden's plain, spectatress of the fight;
Sought with bold eye, amid the bloody strife,
Her dearer self, the partner of her life;
From hill to hill the rushing host pursu'd,
And view'd his banner, or believ'd she view'd.
Pleas'd with the distant roar with quicker tread,
Fast by her hand one lisping boy she led;
And one fair girl, amid the loud alarm,
Slept on her kerchief, cradled by her arm,
While round her brows bright beams of honour dart,
And love's warm eddies circle round her heart.
Near and more near th' intrepid beauty press'd,
Saw through the driving smoke his dancing crest;
Heard th' exulting shout, ' they run! they run!'
' Great God!' she cried, ' he's safe! the battle's won!'
A ball now hisses through the airy tides,
(Some fury wing'd it, and some dæmon guides,)
Parts the fine locks her graceful head that deck,
Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck:
The red stream, issuing from her azure veins,
Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains.
' Ah me!' she cried, and, sinking on the ground,
Kiss'd her dear babes, regardless of he wound:
' O cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn;
' Wait, gushing life, oh! wait my Love's return:
' Oh! spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age;
' On me, on me,' she cried, ' exhaust your rage.'
Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far,
The angel Pity shuns the walks of war.
Then with weak arms her weeping babes caress'd,
And, sighing, hid them in her blood-stain'd vest."
Darwin.
can't find anything about this poem.