Classic Poem

Elegy to the Daughter of Owen

Daughter of Owen! behold my grief!
Look soft pity's dear relief!
Oh! let the beams of those life-giving eyes
Bid my fainting heart arise,
And, from the now opening grave,
Thy faithful lover save!

Snatch from death his dire decree!
What is impossible to thee?
Star of my life's soul-cheering light!
Beam of mildness, soft as bright!
Do not, like others of thy sex,
Delight the wounded heart to vex!

But hear, O hear thy lover's sighs,
And with true pity, hither turn thine eyes!
Still, tho' wasted with despair,
And pale with pining care,
Still, O soft maid! this form may meet thy sight,
No object yet of horror, or affright.

Long unregarded have I sigh'd,
Love's soft return deny'd!
No mutual heart, no faithful fair,
No sympathy to soothe my care!
O thou, to every bosom dear!
Universal charmer! — hear! —
No more sweet pity's gentle power withstand!
Reach the dear softness of thy hand!
O let it be the beauteous pledge of peace,
To bless my love, and bid my sorrows cease!

Haste, haste! — no more the kind relief delay!
Come, speak, and look, and smile my woes away!
O haste, e'er pity be too late!
Haste, and intercept my fate!
Or soon behold life, love, and sorrow end,
And see me to an early tomb descend! —
For, ah, what med'cine can my cure impart,
Or what physician heal a broken heart?

'Tis thine alone the sovereign balm to give,
Bind the soul's wound, and bid the dying live!
'Tis thine, of right, my anguish to assuage,
If love can move, or gratitude engage!
For thee alone, all others I forsake!
For thee alone, my cares, my wishes wake,
O locks of Beauty's bright redundant flow,
Where waving softness, curling fragrance grow!

Thine is the sway of soul-subduing charms,
That every breast of all defence disarms!
With thee my will, enamour'd, hugs its chain,
And Love's dear ardours own thy potent reign!
Take then the heart my constant passion gave,
Cherish its faith, and from its anguish save!
Take the poor trembler to thy gentle breast,
And hush its fears, and soothe its cares to rest!

For all I have, in timid silence borne,
For all the pangs that have this bosom torn,
Speak now the word, and heal my pain,
Nor be my sufferings vain!
For now, on life itself their anguish preys,
And heavy on my heart the burden weighs!

O first, and fairest of thy sex!
Thou whose bright form the sun of beauty decks!
Once more let Love that gentle bosom sway,
O give the dear enchantment way!
Raise, — fondly raise those snowy arms,
Thou branch of blooming charms!
Again for me thy fragrance breathe,
And thy fair tendrils round me wreath!

Again be soft affection's pow'r display'd,
While sweetly wand'ring in the secret shade:
Reach forth thy lip, — the honey'd kiss bestow!
Reach forth thy lip, where balmy odours grow!
Thy lip, whose sounds such rapture can impart,
Whose words of sweetness sink into the heart!

Again, at gentle Love's command,
Reach forth thy snowy hand!
Soft into mine its whiteness steal,
And its dear pressure let me feel!
Unveil the bashful radiance of thine eyes,
(Bright trembling gems!) and let me see them rise.
Lift the fair lids where their soft glories roll,
And send their secret glances to my soul!

O what delight, thus hand in hand to rove!
To breathe fond vows of mutual love!
To see thee sweet affection's balm impart,
And smile to health my almost broken heart!
Ah! let me give the dear idea scope!
Ah! check not yet the fondly-trembling hope! —
Spent is the rock by which my life was fed,
And spun by anguish to a sightless thread!
A little more, — and all in death will end,
And fruitless pity o'er my grave will bend!

When I am dead, shun thou my cruel fate,
Lest equal harms on equal perils wait.
Hear my last words, their fond request declare,
For even in death, thy safety is my care!
No more, O maid! thy polish'd glass invite,
To give that fatal beauty to thy sight!
Enough one life its dangers to inthrall!
Enough that I its hapless victim fall! —
O thou, more bright, more cheering to our eyes,
Than the young beams that warm the dawning skies!

Hast thou not heard the weeping muse relate
The mournful tale of young Narcissus' fate? —
How, as the Bards of ancient days have sung,
While fondly o'er the glassy stream he hung,
Enamour'd he his lovely form survey'd,
And dy'd, at length, the victim of a shade.

Sweet! do not thou a like misfortune prove!
O be not such thy fate, nor such thy love!
Let peril rather warn, and wisdom guide,
And from thyself thy own attractions hide!
No more on that bewitching beauty gaze,
Nor trust thy sight to meet its dazzling blaze!

Hide, hide that breast, so snowy fair!
Hide the bright tresses of thy hair!
And oh! those eyes of radiant ruin hide!
What heart their killing lustre can abide?
Slow while their soft and tender glances roll,
They steal its peace from the unwary soul!

Hide the twin berries of thy lip's perfume,
Their breathing fragrance, and their deepening bloom;
And those fair cheeks, that glow like radiant morn,
When sol's bright rays his blushing east adorn!
No more to thy incautious sight display'd,
Be that dear form, in tender grace array'd!
The rosy finger's tap'ring charms;
The slender hand, the snowy arms;
The little foot, so soft and fair;
The timid step, the modest air;
No more their graces let thine eyes pursue,
But hide, O hide the peril from thy view!

This done, — in safety may'st thou rest,
And peace possess thy breast,
For who can with thy charms compare,
And who but thee is worth a care? —
O! from thyself thine eyes, thy heart protect,
And none beside, thy quiet can affect.

For thee, while all the youths of Erin sigh,
And, struck beneath thine eye-beam, die;
Still peace within thy bosom reigns,
Unfelt by thee their pains!
O graceful meekness! ever new delight!
Sweet bashful charm of captivated sight!
Why, while my heart (fond subject!) bless'd thy sway,
Why did'st thou steal its vital soul away?
Ah! with the theft the life of life is fled,
And leaves me almost number'd with the dead!

While thus, in vain, my anguish I bewail,
Thy peace no fears assail;
None in my hapless cause will move;
Each partial heart is fetter'd to thy love!
Thou whose fair hand bids the soft harp complain,
Flies o'er the string, and wakes the tender strain,
Wilt thou not some — some kind return impart,
For my lost quiet, and my plunder'd heart?

O thou dear angel-smiling face!
Fair form of fascination grace!
Bright as the gentle moon's soft splendours rise,
To light her steps of beauty through the skies!
O turn! — on me those tender glances roll,
And dart their cheering lustre on my soul!
Be dear compassion in their beams exprest,
And heal with love the sorrows of my breast!EnglishO'Geran