Poems (Lewis)/On Sorrow

by Matthew Gregory Lewis

ON SORROW.

 

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[WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF A MUCH-VALUED FEMALE FRIEND.]

 

Yes! I'll away, and seek that kind relief,
Which rural scenes and Nature's smiles impart:
I am not of their kind, who cherish grief,
And love to fold it to a bleeding heart.

Deep is my wound! No time can e'er efface
The lines by anguish on my soul imprest;
But shall I strengthen still each painful trace,
And drive the poniard further in my breast?

Shall I reject kind Pleasure's smiles as snares,
Prolong with cruel art the embittered pain,
Neglect all friendly means to soothe my cares,
And "weep the more, because I weep in vain^[1]?"—

No! while Disease conducts with slow sure pangs
Some pale and lingering Victim to the Tomb,
Or while some Mother o'er her Darling hangs,
Destined to fall in pride of youthful bloom,

Then Sorrow claim me thine, thine wholly!—Ne'er
Shall Mirth's unfeeling smile my cheek prophane:
Each look, each thought shall sympathetic share
The sacred sadness of the House of Pain.

But when the Sufferer's ear is sealed with dust,
Each struggle past, and closed the tragic tale,
I'll weep no moment longer, than I must,
And check those sorrows, which no more avail.

God knows, could tears recall the Saint to life,
Make fell disease her bloom and strength restore,
Give the fond Husband back his faultless Wife,
And bid her mourning children mourn no more,

To weep should be my study, pleasure, pride!
From sounds of woe my lips should never rest;
I'd woo pale Sorrow as the loveliest Bride,
And kiss the hand, with which She stabbed my breast:

In charnel-vaults, with bones I'd form my bed,
There waste the sleepless night and joyless day,
Rest on that Dear-one's tomb my aching head,
And wear with ceaseless tears the stone away!

Vain wishes, vain regrets! Her thread of days
Is spun; The die is cast, the shaft is sped:
That name, which none e'er mentioned but with praise,
Swells the dark records of the virtuous dead:

By Her unheard these painful sighs ascend,
By Her unseen this bitter flood I pour:
Then why with fruitless grief my bosom rend?
Why dwell on blessings, which return no more?

Be calm, my soul! Fond rivers, cease to flow!
Hush the sad bell, remove the sable bier;
I loathe the pomp of ostentatious woe,
And blame the indulgence of one useless tear.

But come, ye Liberal Arts, and bring your train
Of bright Pursuits, calm Joys, and talents rare!
Come, Poesy, and waft me once again
To happier worlds, unknown to guilt or care.

Come, Painting; lift on high thy magic wand,
And pour enchantment on my dazzled sight!
Come, Music; wake the Lyre with raptured hand,
Soothe me to peace, or rouze me to delight!

Come, social Pleasure; with thy goblet steal
My thoughts from musing o'er Death's mournful Lists!
Come, Friendship; Let thy converse make me feel
The blest conviction—"Virtue still exists!"—

And "last, not least," Come, Love! It's pain to sooth,
Bid round my burning front thy pinions play;
With gentle hand my scattered tresses smooth,
And kiss with roseate lips my tears away:

And for that generous service, gracious Elf,
Through life I'll bless thee, whose benignant art
For one sweet moment stole me from myself,
And poured kind balsam on a wounded Heart.

 

1. Gray.