Mary Tighe Poems

How wither'd, perish'd, seems the form
Of yon obscure unsightly root!
Yet from the blight of wintry storm
It hides secure the precious fruit.
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Oh happy you! who blest with present bliss
See not with fatal prescience future tears,
Nor the dear moment of enjoyment miss
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Preface.

Let not the rugged brow the rhymes accuse,
Which speak of gentle knights and ladies fair,
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Oh, who art thou who darest of Love complain?
He is a gentle spirit and injures none!
His foes are ours; from them the bitter pain,
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Delightful visions of my lonely hours!
Charm of my life and solace of my care!
Oh! would the muse but lend proportioned powers,
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When pleasure sparkles in the cup of youth,
And the gay hours on downy wing advance,
Oh! then ‘tis sweet to hear the lip of truth
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