Joanna Baillie Poems

WHEN ev'ning listen'd to the dipping oar,
Forgetting the loud city's ceaseless roar,
By the green banks, where Thames, with conscious pride,
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BRACED in the sinewy vigour of thy breed,
In pride of generous strength, thou stately steed!
Thy broad chest to the battle's front is given,
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SWEET lake! while shades are closing round,
I love to haunt thy tranquil shore,
And mournful tread the hallow'd ground
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THOU last pale relic from yon widow'd tree,
Hovering awhile in air, as if to leave
Thy native sprig reluctant, how I grieve,
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Is there a man, that, from some lofty steep,
Views in his wide survey the boundless deep,
When its vast waters, lined with sun and shade,
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WHERE are the tamers of the deep,
The gallant and the brave?
Heaven's angry whirlwinds o'er them sweep,
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WHEN hope lies dead within the heart,
By secret sorrow long conceal'd,
We shrink lest looks or words impart
What may not be reveal'd.
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I've no sheep on the mountains
Nor boat on the lake Nor coin in my coffer
To keep me awake Nor corn in my garner,
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IN the sun's eye I sate, nor deem'd his ray
Too bright to gaze on, for the autumnal breeze,
Though gently whispering thro' the yet green trees,
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WHETHER thy locks in natural beauty stray,
Clust'ring like woodbind wild, or haply bound,
Like ivy wreath thy polish'd brows around;
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