Classic Poem

EFFUSION V.

THE Blackbird whistles from the pendant groves
That fringe thy varied banks, meandering Taff,
And every spray is vocal. Thro' thy vale
Smiles green Fertility; and, on thy heights,
Of hoar sublimity, in varied form,
Romantic Grandeur fits. Each object blends
(Wild wood, and cultur'd farm, and rocky bank
That mocks the hand of Labour) to adorn
The vary'd scene, cheering the lonely way —
If ought could now be cheerful. But in vain!
Mountain nor vale delight, nor cultur'd scene,
Nor Nature's wilder grace. In these sad eyes,
The vernal year is blasted: from the blight
That nipt my budding hopes in thee, Maria!
Never to be renew'd. That heavy woe
Hangs, like a cloud, upon my blunted sense,
That tracing heeds not; but, amid such scenes
As once to kindling ecstasy could wake
The bounding heart, calls for sepulchral gloom,
To my sad thoughts congenial: those sad thoughts
(Constant to anguish) that around thy tomb
(O! beauteous and beloved!) hover still,
Nor hope for: rest — but in such rest as thine!