EVANDER TO EMILLIA .
E MILLIA , thou art far away,
And languid creep the vacant hours;
Yet, when the last mild evening chased,
With yellow light, the recent showers,
Their wonted path my slow steps found,
The green and shady lanes among,
That wind around the sylvan cot,
The cot with ivy curtains hung.
Soft setting sun-beams gently glanced
O'er the young leaves a sweet farewell;
But ah! to these delightless eyes
How vacant seem'd the bloomy cell!
Tho' gilded by that vernal light,
Tho' linnets warbled in the gale,
A lone and wintry look it wore,
And silence seem'd to shroud the vale.
Thy little faithful dog I met,
Saw him the circling lanes explore,
Rush down the glades, then up the steps
Spring to thy closed and silent door;
With eager eye and plaintive whine,
Snuff thro' each chink the passing air;
Ah! little wretch, I mournful cried,
Thy lovely mistress is not there!
Slowly he walk'd away, and hung
His sullen head, — and nothing cared
How oft I call'd to tempt his stay,
And sooth the peevish grief I shared.
He left me near the silent door,
No more half-open'd to thy friend
When dull the clouds of Evening lour,
And fast her heavy dews descend;
Or drizzling rains, that often weep,
When winds no longer bend the spray,
The moist and early vanish'd sun,
That shrinks from April's wayward day.
Now, in that little hall's dear grace,
No social embers glow the while,
To us so kindly to disclose
The mutual glance, the tender smile.
Protecting walls! — asylum blest,
From every influence unkind!
The rigour of inclement skies,
The rigour of th' unfeeling mind;
From Pride and Avarice' taunting sneer,
Authority's yet dreaded frown,
Whose chidings loud the gentle voice
Of Love's persuasive pleadings drown.
That sylvan cottage is thine own,
A tender mother's kind bequest;
Far from thy haughty father's power,
'Twill give us shelter, food, and rest.
Till that was thine, thou know'st full well
I pleaded 'gainst my self to thee,
Opposing thy too generous love,
Which dared the last distress for me.
But now, that shelter, food, and rest,
May meet us in this ivy bower,
Come to these faithful longing arms,
And scorn the curbs of Pride and Power!
The busy bustling haunts of men,
Thy lover shall for thee resign;
For us the Winter's hearth shall glow,
For us the Summer sun will shine.
The great ones court thee for their bride;
With thee, in ceremonial glare,
They would the pomps of life divide,
For that the world proclaims thee fair.
Ah! it is vanity, not love,
That bids them prize thy matchless charms;
But love alone, and love like mine,
Deserves the heaven of those soft arms.
But can that tender yielding soul
Its generous warfare long maintain,
Defy constraint, and haste to seek
The shelter of these arms again?
O yes! while Memory's power remains,
Her glowing images shall prove,
In thy dear breast, the constant guards,
When Force would disunite our love.
E MILLIA , thou art far away,
And languid creep the vacant hours;
Yet, when the last mild evening chased,
With yellow light, the recent showers,
Their wonted path my slow steps found,
The green and shady lanes among,
That wind around the sylvan cot,
The cot with ivy curtains hung.
Soft setting sun-beams gently glanced
O'er the young leaves a sweet farewell;
But ah! to these delightless eyes
How vacant seem'd the bloomy cell!
Tho' gilded by that vernal light,
Tho' linnets warbled in the gale,
A lone and wintry look it wore,
And silence seem'd to shroud the vale.
Thy little faithful dog I met,
Saw him the circling lanes explore,
Rush down the glades, then up the steps
Spring to thy closed and silent door;
With eager eye and plaintive whine,
Snuff thro' each chink the passing air;
Ah! little wretch, I mournful cried,
Thy lovely mistress is not there!
Slowly he walk'd away, and hung
His sullen head, — and nothing cared
How oft I call'd to tempt his stay,
And sooth the peevish grief I shared.
He left me near the silent door,
No more half-open'd to thy friend
When dull the clouds of Evening lour,
And fast her heavy dews descend;
Or drizzling rains, that often weep,
When winds no longer bend the spray,
The moist and early vanish'd sun,
That shrinks from April's wayward day.
Now, in that little hall's dear grace,
No social embers glow the while,
To us so kindly to disclose
The mutual glance, the tender smile.
Protecting walls! — asylum blest,
From every influence unkind!
The rigour of inclement skies,
The rigour of th' unfeeling mind;
From Pride and Avarice' taunting sneer,
Authority's yet dreaded frown,
Whose chidings loud the gentle voice
Of Love's persuasive pleadings drown.
That sylvan cottage is thine own,
A tender mother's kind bequest;
Far from thy haughty father's power,
'Twill give us shelter, food, and rest.
Till that was thine, thou know'st full well
I pleaded 'gainst my self to thee,
Opposing thy too generous love,
Which dared the last distress for me.
But now, that shelter, food, and rest,
May meet us in this ivy bower,
Come to these faithful longing arms,
And scorn the curbs of Pride and Power!
The busy bustling haunts of men,
Thy lover shall for thee resign;
For us the Winter's hearth shall glow,
For us the Summer sun will shine.
The great ones court thee for their bride;
With thee, in ceremonial glare,
They would the pomps of life divide,
For that the world proclaims thee fair.
Ah! it is vanity, not love,
That bids them prize thy matchless charms;
But love alone, and love like mine,
Deserves the heaven of those soft arms.
But can that tender yielding soul
Its generous warfare long maintain,
Defy constraint, and haste to seek
The shelter of these arms again?
O yes! while Memory's power remains,
Her glowing images shall prove,
In thy dear breast, the constant guards,
When Force would disunite our love.