Elegiac sonnets. Volume 2 of 2

Elegiac sonnets. Volume 2 of 2
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ODE
TO THE POPPY.

WRITTEN BY A DECEASED FRIEND.

[Note:] ODE TO THE POPPY.
This and the following Poem were written (the first of them at my request, for a Novel) by a lady whose death in her thirty-sixth year was a subject of the deepest concern to all who knew her.
Would to God the last line which my regret on that loss, drew from me, had been prophetic — and that my heart had indeed been cold, instead of having suffered within the next twelve months after that line was written, a deprivation which has rendered my life a living death.

NOT for the promise of the labour'd field,
Not for the good the yellow harvests yield,
I bend at Ceres' shrine;
For dull, to humid eyes, appear
The gold glories of the year,
Alas! — a melancholy worship's mine.

I hail the goddess for her scarlet flower!
         Thou brilliant weed,
         That dost so far exceed
         The richest gifts gay Flora can bestow:
Heedless I pass'd thee, in life's morning hour,
         (Thou comforter of woe)
Till sorrow taught me to confess thy power.
In early days, when Fancy cheats,
         A varied wreath I wove
Of laughing Spring's luxuriant sweets,
         To deck ungrateful Love:
The rose, or thorn, my labours crown'd,
As Venus smiled, or Venue frown'd;

But Love, and Joy, and all their train, are flown;
E'en languid Hope no more is mine,
And I will sing of thee alone,
Unless, perchance, the attributes of Grief,
The cypress bud, and willow leaf,
Their pale funereal foliage blend with thine.
Hail, lovely blossom! — thou can'st ease
The wretched victims of Disease;
Can'st close those weary eyes in gentle sleep,
Which never open but to weep;
For, oh! thy potent charm
Can agonizing Pain disarm;
Expel imperious Memory from her feat,
And bid the throbbing heart forget to beat.

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Soul-soothing plant! that can such blessings give,
By thee the mourner bears to live!
         By thee the hopeless die!
         Oh! ever "friendly to despair,"
         Might Sorrow's pallid votary dare,
Without a crime, that remedy implore,
         Which bids the spirit from its bondage fly,
I'd court thy palliative aid no more;
         No more I'd sue that thou should'st spread,
         Thy spell around my aching head,
         But would conjure thee to impart
         Thy balsam for a broken heart;
And by thy soft Lethean power,
         (Inestimable flower)
Burst these terrestrial bonds, and other regions thy.

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