Poetry Archives

An Hour was before me, no creature more bright,
More airy, more joyous, e’er sprang on my sight.
To catch and to fetter I instantly tried,
And “thou art my slave, pretty vagrant,” I cried.

I had hold, and securely I thought, of its wing,
O! how I shall glory, so lovely a thing
To place by the cradle of friendship, and see,
With the aid of my captive, if I can be free.

Oh! while she is with me, some means may be found
To temper the air and to hallow the ground—
To make those entangling bind-weeds decay,
Drive Suspicion, who rear’d them, for ever away,
And leave all around, kind, and healthful, and gay!

When this can be compass’d, I’ll build me a bower,
And twine in the trellice each sweet-scented flower—
Rare, delicate plants, whose large, fresh leaves shall fling
Green shadows, where birds in the stillness may sing.

A place of repose, when the spirit is faint,
And the heart wants to utter a passing complaint:
Of safety; for pure and serene be the air,
And nothing unkind or unholy be there!

In this sacred retreat I my cares would confide,
And there my half-forming opinions should hide;
If true, gather strength for the brightness of day—
If false, in the shade, unreprov’d, die away!

How fondly I nourish’d these hopes, but in vain!
The calm and the stillness I could not retain;
My Hour fled away, every wish unfulfill’d,
And warm’d not the Friendship Suspicion had chill’d!