Samuel Kettell, ed. Specimens of American Poetry. 1829.
By DaphneHenry Pickering (1781–1838)
T
Pervades my shivering frame. The crisped leaves
Which lately waved in undulations soft,
To every genial breeze, and look’d so green,—
But now were wasted from the neighboring wood,
And cumber all my solitary paths.
Softly I tread the mazy labyrinth, lest
The rustling noise should interrupt the deep
And fearful stillness round. ’T is thus amid
The forest wilds, when Autumn crowns, as now,
The plenteous year, and the gay antler’d herds
Look sleek, the unwearied hunter threads his way,
And with a step, cautious as Guilt, pursues
The timid chase. But what shall I alarm
In these deserted haunts, where none of choice
Repair, save those whom wretchedness has taught,
After long toil, to seek for refuge here?
The mole has burrow’d deep, and heeds me not;
The bat has ta’en his headlong flight in search
Of gentler skies, or nestles in some lone
And cover’d nook; while at my feet sleep those,
Whom not the crash of worlds shall wake again!
Hah! is it so? and wilt not thou awake,
My dear, lamented Daphne? Shall that form,
That form so heavenly fair, ne’er bloom again?
Thy dust, alas! is not commingled here
With kindred dust; but doth it aught avail?
Lo! where repose the long forgotten race,
The lengthen’d line of thy progenitors:
Whilst thou, o’ercanopied by balmier heavens,
Beneath the tamarind and the orange tree
Fit resting place hast found! No winter there
Shivers the glories of the circling year,
Nor tarnishes the lustre of the groves:
Thy favorite myrtle there can never die—
There every gale wafts perfumes o’er thy grave!
Ah why, ’mid scenes thus fair, should man decay?
With lavish bounty nature there adorns
The wild, and bids the flowers perpetual bloom,
And yet to him a longer date denies,—
Nay, warns him thence before his custom’d time.
And such, my Daphne, was thy hapless lot!
And worse—for thou wast fated twice to die—
And twice in the full vernal bloom of youth—
The cup at parting bitterer than Death’s!
How wast thou torn, all lovely as thou wast,
And beauteous too as Maia’s self when flush’d
By genial beams of the young sun, from arms
Unwilling to be loosed from thine! How flow’d
Thy tears, when every tenderer tie which bound
Thee here, was sunder’d! And how throbb’d thy heart
When, in a last embrace, ’twas press’d to mine!
But years since that sad parting have gone by,
And years have flown since thou wast rapt to heaven!
Yet how can I forget or thou forgive?
True thou didst oft invite me to thy home,
Didst beckon me amid thy fragrant groves
To taste of golden fruits, and blissful breathe
Thy incensed air,—and, dearer far, enjoy
Thy converse sweet:—but, such my wayward mood,
I spurn’d the call (though softer not than thine
An angel’s voice) or thought, as worldlings do,
At fitting hour to come. Thus wisdom’s fool’d,
And thus was I infatuated too.
My Daphne! art thou then for ever fled?
O once again appear as thou wast wont!
Thou smilest in my dreams; and when I wake,
I pay thee with my late repentant tears:
Tears are thy due—ah, doubly due from one
On whom thy infant eyes beam’d only love—
Whom thou remember’dst to thy latest breath!