Joanna Baillie Poems

WHAT though I hear th' Agæan billows roar,
And eye the deep where Persia's navy rode,
What have I left except my native shore?
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WHEN last we parted, thou wert young and fair,
How beautiful let fond remembrance say!
Alas! since then, old time has stol'n away
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I KNOW thee not, bright creature, ne'er shall know;
Thy course and mine lie far and far away;
Yet heaven this once has given me to survey
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SPIRIT of evil, with which earth is rife,
Revenge, Revenge! thee all abjure and blame,
Yet, when their hour is come, invoke thy name.
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THE marks of death were on him, and he bore
In every feature that sharp, clear, cold look,
Which is not of this world; his weak frame shook,
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I'VE seen my day before its noon decline,
And dark is still the future, nor, alas!
Can Hope, with all the magic of her glass,
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What voice is this, thou evening gale!
That mingles with thy rising wail;
And, as it passes, sadly seems
The faint return of youthful dreams?
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THE features speak the warmest heart,
But not for me its ardour glows;
In that soft blush I have no part,
That mingles with her bosom's snows.
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YES , thou mayst walk in silk attire,
If thou'lt consent to be his bride,
Whose wealth can satiate each desire
That ministers to pride.
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WHEN hollow bursts the rushing winds,
And heavy beats the show'r,
This anxious, aching bosom finds
No comfort in its power.
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