The Captive Ladie/Introduction

Come, list thee, gentle one!—and whil'st the lyre
Breathes softer melody for thee, mine own!
I'll weave the sunny dreams, those eyes inspire,
In wreathes to consecrate to thee alone,—
Love's offering, gentle one!—to Beauty's queenly throne

'Tis sweet to gaze upon those eyes where Love
Has treasur’d all his rays of softest beam;—
'Tis sweet to see thee smile as from above
Some child of Light,—such as we often dream
Doth dwell on planet pale,—or star of golden gleam

The heart which once has sigh'd in solitude,
And yearn'd t' unlock the fount where softly lie
Its gentlest feelings,—well may shun the mood
Of grief—so cold—when thou, dear one! art nigh,
To sun it with thy smile,—Love's lustrous radiancy!

The home of youth, 'tis far,—oh! far away,—
The hopes of youth, they've fled and taught to weep,—
The friends of youth, e'en they,—oh! where are they?
Ask memory and the dreams which haunt in sleep,—
Wing'd messengers and sweet from, Past! thy Donjon keep!

But must I weep e'en now as once I wept,
'Midst life's gay—crowded scenes, unmark'd and lone,
Where bitterest thoughts of solitude oft crept
To chill the bosom's glow,—when thou, mine own!
Dost smile in tranquil joy like star on sapphire throne?

Yes,—like that star which, on the wilderness
Of vasty ocean, woos the anxious eye
Of lonely mariner,—and woos to bless,—
For there be Hope writ on her brow on high:
He recks not darkling waves,—nor fears the lightless sky!

Oh! beautiful as Inspiration, when
She fills the Poet's breast,—her fairy shrine—
Woo'd by melodious worship!—welcome then,—
Tho' ours the home of Want,—I ne'er repine,
Art thou not there—e'en thou—a priceless gem and mine?

Life hath its dreams to beautify its scene,—
And sun-light for its desart;—but there be
None softer in its store—of brighter sheen—
Than Love—than gentle Love; and thou to me
Art that sweet dream, mine own! in glad reality!

Though bitter be the echo of the tale
Of my youth's wither'd spring—I sigh not now;
For I am as a tree when some sweet gale
Doth sweep away the sere leaves from each bough,
And wake far greener charms to re-adorn its brow!

Then come and list thee to the minstrel-lyre
And Lay of Eld of this my father-land,
When first, as unchain'd demons, breathing fire,
Wild, stranger foe-men trod her sunny strand,
And pluckt her brightest gems with rude, unspairing hand.

The world's dark frowns may damp,—its coldness chill
The kindling altar which the Heart hath rear'd
For deep—devoted—life-long worship,—still
Be thine the soothing smile by Love endear'd:—
Eve's dew must heal the flow'r by day's hot breathings sear'd!