Читать книгу Tales and Legends of the English Lakes - Wilson Armistead - Страница 11

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"How soothing to the soul the shade

Which evening spreads around!

How bright the dewy gems that braid

The foliage of the ground.

No sound is heard thro' ether wide,

From hill or coppice green,

Save where the streamlet seems to chide

The stillness of the scene.

Contagion catches on the soul,

And lulls e'en grief to rest;

No more contending passions roll

Along the troubled breast.

I seem a moment to have lost

The sense of former pain;

As if my peace had ne'er been crost,

Or joy could spring again.

But ah! 'tis there!—the pang is there;

Maria breathes no more!

So fond, so constant, kind, and fair,

Her reign of love is o'er.

No more through scenes like these shall we

Together fondly stray;

Till night itself would seem to me

More genial than the day.

I feel the cold night's gathering gloom

Infect my throbbing breast;

It tells me that the friendly tomb

Alone can give me rest.

I then shall sleep the sleep serene,

Where she so long has slept;

Nor be the wretch I long have been,

Nor weep as I have wept."