John Anster Poems

Matilda.
Oh! think not that I mourn the lonely doom
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Hail to thy hues! thou lovely flower,
Still shed around thy soft perfume,
Still smile amid the wint'ry hour,
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Oh, deem not, though her spirit hath defied
Scandal, and Scorn, the taunts of lying lips,
That Pride hath clouded it with stern eclipse:--
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Well! with what art we labour to deceive
Our hearts, and nurse vain phantasies of Hope,
And swelling thoughts, that have no certain scope,
What te ...
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And must I perish thus?--a nameless tomb
Where few shall weep:--some days of writhing pain,
Ere yet I sink:--some hopes that still remain,
Though ...
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If I might chuse, where my tired limbs shall lie
When my task here is done, the Oak's green crest
Shall rise above my grave--a little mound
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On you I think, while lingering far away
From all I love, till streams the eye with tears,--
The fields are full of life--the groves are gay
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In vain--ah me!--in vain, with murmured charm
Of love--inwoven sounds, would I recall
The long--forgotten art--in vain implore
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Oh Fancy, hither bend thy flight,
Hither steer thy car of light,
Tho' its rainbow colours flee
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Oh, what a lovely silent spot!
'Mid such a scene the eremite would hope
To build his lowly cot,
Just where with easy slope
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