On the Approach of Autumn
Farewell gay Summer! now the changing wind
That Autumn brings commands thee to retreat;
It fades the roses which thy temples bind,
And the green sandals which adorn thy feet.
Now flies with thee the walk at eventide,
That favouring hour to rapt enthusiasts dear;
When most they love to seek the mountain side,
And mark the pomp of twilight hastening near.
Then fairy forms around the poet throng,
On every cloud a glowing charm he sees....
Sweet Evening, these delights to thee belong:....
But now, alas! comes Autumn's chilling breeze,
And early Night, attendant on its sway,
Bears in her envious veil sweet Fancy's hour away.
poem by Amelia Opie
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To Lorenzo
Go, distant shores and brighter conquests seek,
But my affection will your scorn survive!
For not from radiant eyes or crimson cheek
My fondness I, or you your power derive;--
Nor sprung the passion from your fancied love;
To me, your smiles no dear delusion caused;
I saw you tower my humble hopes above,
And, ere I loved, I shuddered, trembled, paused.
But I was formed to prize superior worth,
And felt 't was virtue you, with love, to see;
I hoped a choice so glorious might call forth
Merit like yours, Lorenzo, e'en in me.--
Then go, assured that mine's no transient flame,
For on your worth it feeds, and lives upon your fame.
poem by Amelia Opie
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Yes, thou art changed since first we met
YES, thou art changed since first we met,
But think not I shall e'er regret,
Though never can my heart forget,
The charms that once were thine:
For, Marian, well the cause I know
That stole the lustre from thine eye;
That proved thy beauty's secret foe,
And bade thy bloom and spirits fly:
What laid thy health, my Marian, low,
Was anxious care of mine.
O'er my sick couch I saw thee bend
The duteous wife, the tender friend,
And each capricious wish attend
With soft, incessant care.
Then trust me, love, that pallid face
Can boast a sweeter charm for me,
A truer, tenderer, dearer grace
Than blooming health bestowed on thee;....
For there thy well-tried love I see,
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poem by Amelia Opie
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To Lothario
Think not, Lothario, while I view
The bright expression of thy face,
And on thy cheek of crimson hue
Emotion's varying beauties trace,
That in my heart one feeling dwells,
But what the coldest must approve,
Nor think my conscious bosom swells
With aught resembling secret love.
No....still these eyes can fix on thine,
Nor fear their keenest glance to meet;
And when thou boldly searchest mine,
My quiet heart disdains to beat.
But, if by vain self-love misled,
Thou in my looks canst passion see;
And think, by weak illusions fed,
My towering hopes aspire to thee....
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poem by Amelia Opie
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Lines Written in 1799.
Hail to thy pencil! well its glowing art
Has traced those features painted on my heart;
Now, though in distant scenes she soon will rove,
Still here I behold the friend I love--
Still see that smile, "endearing, artless, kind,"
The eye's mild beam that speaks the candid mind,
Which, sportive oft, yet fearful to offend,
By humour charms, but never wounds a friend.
But in my breast contending feelings rise,
While this loved semblance fascinates my eyes;
Now, pleased I mark the painter's skilful line,
And now, rejoice the skill I mark is thine:
And while I prize the gift by thee bestow'd,
My heart proclaims, I'm of the giver proud.
Thus pride and friendship war with equal strife,
And now the friend exults, and now the wife.
poem by Amelia Opie
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Song Written to a Hindoo Air
Ask not, whence springs my ceaseless sadness,
But let me still the secret keep:
Ask not, why thus in restless madness
Pass the long hours once given to sleep:
And strive not thus my looks to read:....
For 't is by certain fate decreed,
The cause that bids me rove forlorn,
If known, would only move thy scorn,
And make with anger's lightnings shine
Those now soft-smiling eyes of thine.
But know, when I no more behold thee,
And to distant scenes remove;
Should e'er a mournful tale be told thee,
Of a youth who died for love,
Who, though unknown to rank and fame,
Dared to admire a high-born dame;
But, still averse to wound her pride,
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poem by Amelia Opie
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To Henry
Think not, while fairer nymphs invite
Thy feet, dear youth, to Pleasure's bowers,
My faded form shall meet thy sight,
And cloud my Henry's smiling hours.
Thou art the world's delighted guest,
And all that pride desires is thine;
Then I'll not wound thy generous breast,
By numbering o'er the woes of mine.
I will not say how well, how long
This faithful heart has sighed for thee;
But leave thee happier nymphs among,
Content if thou contented be.
But, Henry, should Misfortune's hand
Bid all thy youth's fond triumphs fly,
The crimson from thy lip command,
And force the lustre from thine eye,....
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poem by Amelia Opie
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Song.
I am wearing away like the snow in the sun,
I am wearing away from the pain in my heart;
But ne'er shall he know, who my peace has undone,
How bitter, how lasting, how deep is my smart.
I know he would pity-so kind is his soul,
To him my affliction would agony be;
But never, while I can my feelings control,
The youth whom I love shall know sorrow through me.
Though longing to weep, in his presence I'll smile,
Call the flush of my cheek the pure crimson of health;
His fears for my peace by my song I'll beguile,
Nor venture to gaze on his eyes but by stealth.
For conscious I am, by my glance is exprest
The passion that faithful as hopeless will be,
And he, whom, alas! I can ne'er render blest,
Shall never, no never, know sorrow through me.
poem by Amelia Opie
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Song
I am wearing away like the snow in the sun,
I am wearing away from the pain in my heart;
But ne'er shall he know, who my peace has undone,
How bitter, how lasting, how deep is my smart.
I know he would pity--so kind is his soul,
To him my affliction would agony be;
But never, while I can my feelings control,
The youth whom I love shall know sorrow through me.
Though longing to weep, in his presence I'll smile,
Call the flush of my cheek the pure crimson of health;
His fears for my peace by my song I'll beguile,
Nor venture to gaze on his eyes but by stealth.
For conscious I am, by my glance is exprest
The passion that faithful as hopeless will be,
And he, whom, alas! I can ne'er render blest,
Shall never, no never, know sorrow through me.
poem by Amelia Opie
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To Henry, Written to a Russian Air
How I hail this morn's appearing!
It will thee, my love, restore:
Safety danger past endearing,
Sure we meet to part no more!
Fame is thine, lo! crowds aver it,
And her smile is dear to thee;
But I charge thee, don't prefer it
E'er again to home and me.
Thou, thy country's call obeying,
Hast her battles nobly fought;
And, thy ready zeal repaying,
See, she gives the laurels sought.
But have I no claims, my rover?
Claims as fondly dear to thee?
Yes, O yes! and, wandering over,
Thou wilt rest with love and me.
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poem by Amelia Opie
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