Lucretia Maria Davidson
(1808-1825)
The last flower of the garden
Lines, written under the promise of reward
Pleasure
On an Olian Harp
The Mermaid
The Sick-bed
To My Mother
Byron
Morning
TO Science
Let others in false Pleasure's court be found,But may I ne'er be whirled the giddy round;
Let me ascend with Genius' rapid flight,
Till the fair hill of Science meets my sight.
Blest with a pilot who my feet will guide,
Direct my way, whene'er I step aside;
May one bright ray of Science on me shine,
And be the gift of learning ever mine.
The last flower of the garden
The last flower of the garden was blooming alone,The last rays of the sun on its blushing leaves shone;
Still a glittering drop on its bosom reclined,
And a few half blown buds 'midst its leaves were entwined.
Say, lonely one, say, why ling'rest thou here?
And why on thy bosom reclines the bright tear?
'T is the tear of a zephyr -- for summer 't was shed,
And for all thy companions now withered and dead.
Why ling'rest thou here, when around thee are strown
The flowers once so lovely, by Autumn blast blown?
Say, why, sweetest flow'ret, the last of thy race,
Why ling'rest thou here the lone garden to grace?.
As I spoke, a rough blast, sent by Winter's own hand,
Whistled by me, and bent its sweet head to the sand;
I hastened to raise it -- the dew-drop had fled,
And the once lovely flower was withered and dead.
Lines, written under the promise of reward
Whene'er the muse pleases to grace my dull page,At the sight of reward , she flies off in a rage;
Prayers, threats, and entreaties I frequently try,
But she leaves me to scribble, to fret, and to sigh.
She torments me each moment, and bids me go write.
And when I obey her, she laughs at the sight;
The rhyme will not jingle, the verse has no sense,
And against all her insults I have no defence.
I advise all my friends, who wish me to write,
To keep their rewards and their praises from sight;
So that jealous Miss Muse won't be wounded in pride,
Nor Pegasus rear, till I've taken my ride.
Pleasure
Away! unstable, fleeting Pleasure,Thou troublesome and glided treasure;
When the false jewel changes hue,
There's naught, O man, that's left for you!
What many grasp at with such joy,
Is but her shade, a foolish toy;
She is not found at every court,
At every ball, and every sport,
But in that heart she loves to rest,
That's with a guiltless conscience blest.
On an Olian Harp
What heavenly music strikes my ravished ear,So soft, so melancholy, and so clear?
And do the tuneful Nine then touch the lyre,
To fill each bosom with poetic fire?
Or does some angel strike the sounding strings,
Catching from echo the wild note he sings?
But hark! another strain, how sweet, how wild!
Now rising high, now sinking low and mild.
And tell me now, ye spirits of the wind,
Oh, tell me where those artless notes to find!
So lofty now, so loud, so sweet, so clear,
That even angels might delighted hear!
But hark! those notes again majestic rise,
As though some spirit, banished from the skies,
Had hither fled to charm olus wild,
And teach him ether music sweet and mild.
Then hither fly, sweet mourner of the air,
Then hither fly, and to my harp repair;
At twilight chaunt the melancholy lay,
And charm the sorrows of thy soul away.
The Mermaid
Maid of the briny wave and raven lock,Whose bed's the sea-weed, and whose throne's the rock,
Tell me, what fate compels thee thus to ride
O'er the tempestuous ocean's foaming tide?
Art thou some naiad, who, at Neptune's nod,
Flies to obey the mandate of that god?
Art thou the syren, who, when night draws on,
Chauntest thy farewell to the setting sun?
Or, leaning on thy wave-encircled rock,
Twining with lily hand thy raven lock;
Dost thou, in accents wild, proclaim the storm,
Which soon shall wrap th' unwary sailor's form?
Or dost thou round the wild Charybdis play,
To warn the seaman from his dangerous way?
Or, shrieking midst the tempest, chaunt the dirge
Of shipwrecked sailors, buried in the surge?
Tell me, mysterious being, what you are?
So wild, so strange, so lonely, yet so fair!
Tell me, O tell me, why you sit alone,
Singing so sweetly on the wave-washed stone?
And tell me, that if e'er I find my grave,
Beneath the ocean's wildly troubled wave,
That thou with weeds wilt strew my watery bed,
And hush the roaring billows o'er my head.
The Sick-bed
O have you watched beside the bed,Where rests the weary, aching head?
And have you heard the long, deep groan,
The low-said prayer, in half-breathed tone?
O have you seen the fevered sleep,
Which speaks of agony within?
The eye which would, but cannot weep,
And wipe away the stains of sin?
O have you marked the struggling breath,
Which would but cannot leave its clay?.
And have you marked the hand of death
Unbind, and bid it haste away?
Then thou hast seen what thou shalt feel;
Then thou hast read thy future doom;
O pause, one moment, o'er death's seal,
There's no repentance in the tomb.
To My Mother
O thou whose care sustained my infant years,And taught my prattling lip each note of love;
Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears,
And round my brow hope's brightest garland wove;
To thee my lay is due, the simple song,
Which Nature gave me at life's opening day;
To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong,
Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay.
O say, amid this wilderness of life,
What bosom would have throbbed like thine for me?
Who would have smiled responsive? --who in grief,
Would e'er have felt, and, feeling, grieved like thee?
Who would have guarded, with a falcon eye,
Each trembling footstep or each sport of fear?
Who would have marked my bosom bounding high,
And clasped me to her heart, with love's bright tear?
Who would have hung around my sleepless couch,
And fanned, with anxious hand, my burning brow?
Who would have fondly pressed my fevered lip,
In all the agony of love and woe?
None but a mother -- none but one like thee,
Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watch;
Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery,
Whose form has felt disease's mildew touch.
Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life,
By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom --
Yes, thou hast wept so oft o'er every grief,
That woe hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom.
O then, to thee, this rude and simple song,
Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee,
To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong,
Whose life is spent in toil and care for me.
Byron
His faults were great, his virtues less,His mind a burning lamp of Heaven;
His talents were bestowed to bless,
But were as vainly lost as given.
His was a harp of heavenly sound,
The numbers wild, and bold, and clear;
But ah! some demon, hovering round,
Tuned its sweet chords to Sin and Fear.
His was a mind of giant mould,
Which grasped at all beneath the skies;
And his, a heart, so icy cold,
That virtue in its recess dies.
Morning
I come in the breath of the wakened breeze,I kiss the flowers, and I bend the trees;
And I shake the dew, which hath fallen by night,
From its throne, on the lily's pure bosom of white.
Awake thee, when bright from my couch in the sky,
I beam o'er the mountains, and come from on high;
When my gay purple banners are waving afar;
When my herald, gray dawn, hath extinguished each star;
When I smile on the woodlands, and bend o'er the lake,
Then awake thee, O maiden, I bid thee awake!
Thou mayst slumber when all the wide arches of Heaven
Glitter bright with the beautiful fire of even;
When the moon walks in glory, and looks from on high,
O'er the clouds floating far through the clear azure sky,
Drifting on like the beautiful vessels of Heaven,
To their far-away harbour, all silently driven,
Bearing on, in their bosoms, the children of light,
Who have fled from this dark world of sorrow and night;
When the lake lies in calmness and darkness, save where
The bright ripple curls, 'neath the smile of a star;
When all is in silence and solitude here,
Then sleep, maiden, sleep! without sorrow or fear!
But when I steal silently over the lake,
Awake thee then, maiden, awake! oh, awake!