Poems (Campbell)/The Widow to her youthful Friend

by Dorothea Primrose Campbell

THE WIDOW TO HER YOUTHFUL FRIEND.

Oh! lovely maid! with youth and beauty bless'd, With riches, health, and pleasure in thy train,By friends admir'd, by partial friends caress'd— With pity listen to the widow's strain.

What contrast sad between thy fate and mine! Endearing friends surround thee morn and eve;'Tis mine, in hopeless anguish to repine, 'Tis mine, for ever to lament and grieve.

Thou see'st with smiles the op'ning dawn appears, The brilliant Sun seems rising from the sea;Morning hath shed around her dewy tears, And gayest blossoms hang on ev'ry tree.

Can I feel pleasure at the op'ning dawn? Can shed the Sun one beam of joy for me?Can peace come smiling from yon flow'ry lawn, Or can love blossom on life's with'ring tree?

The light of joy, alas! can never dawn, The sun of pleasure never smile on me;For fate my ev'ry solace has withdrawn, And lopt the branches from the parent tree.

Go, lovely maid! and pluck the rose of life; Soon will it droop and languish on its thorn;Smooth flow thy days, unvex'd by cares or strife, Thy ev'ning calm, and smiling as thy morn!

Of wives the happiest, most belov'd, was I, The envied mother of two lovely boys—But death, unheedful of affection's sigh, In one wide grave has buried all my joys.

Pale is my cheek, and blanch'd with many a tear, While thou art jocund as the summer's day;My form is faded, and my heart is drear, While health is thine, and beauty's bright array.

Oh, Julia! fair, and innocent as fair! May no ungentle sorrow blight thy bloom,When I, the victim of distress and care, Shall shroud my sorrows in the welcome tomb.

Nor can I wish to pour into thy breast Woes that might pierce a bosom hard as steel:—Go, go,—enjoy the moments that are blest, And leave me to the agonies I feel.

Enough, that now my sorrows touch thine ear, And win the gen'rous pity that is due;Enough, if Julia drop the friendly tear, And o'er my grave the simple flow'ret strew.

To that lone grave, where all my hopes are laid, Where mingling sleeps the dust of sire and son;Say, wilt thou see Louisa's form convey'd, And life's last honours to her ashes done?

For there at last shall blessed peace be giv'n, Stretch'd by my Arnold and each clay-cold boy;And when thou diest, we will stoop from heav'n, And greet thy spirit to the realms of joy.