The Power of Solitude/The disconsolate

THE DISCONSOLATE.

I am sad, what can now be the cause,
I complain, and I hardly know why;
If I speak 'tis with many a pause;
Perhaps it were best, I might die.

I was wont on the holiday eve,
To dance with the nymphs on the green;
So blithsome, you well may believe,
No swain in the hamlet was seen.

My pipe was right merry and gay,
And the girls flocked my cottage around;
"Come, Harry, you'll please us to play;"
So I played, while they danced to the sound.

But now they all ask with a sigh,
Poor Harry, the matter pray tell,
Why your pipe hangs neglectedly by;
I look, and my heart feels a swell.

If by chance I essay a light tune,
It dissolves e'er I carol half o'er;
Perhaps 'tis the spell of the moon,
Which haunts me in dreams evermore.

I remember, it shone sweetly bright,
When I walked near the streamlet with Jane,
And she looked so divinely that night,
That I kissed her again and again.

What wonders are hid in a kiss,
That it links every pleasure to pain;
For in truth I suspect it was this
First caused me to sigh and complain.

In this action so sure, as I speak,
No harm could I ever divine,
I caught a warm tear from her cheek,
And it mingled with many of mine.

Yet since that strange hour, when we meet,
Jane blushes and turns her awry
And my pulses with fever throbs beat,
If I catch but the glance of her eye.

If she smile, and it be not on me,
I talk, yet have nothing to say;
For somehow it hurts me to see
Her smiles not directed my way.

When she speaks, every accent I drink,
As honey distilled from the dews!
And it may not be true, but I think,
With delight my attention she views.

Her voice is more soft, than the note,
That steals from the harp of the breeze;
I have marked its sweet symphony float
Near the foot of her favorite trees.

Sometimes she will play a sad air,
And her lute lulls each passion to sleep;
While she breathes the deep notes of despair,
If she look, she will see, that I weep.

They tell me, that Jane too will sigh,
They declare, she is deeply in love;
If she loved half so earnest, as I,
Would she still my affection reprove?

They would urge me to speak to the fair,
What I feel is beyond all complaint;
If my passion my eyes don't declare,
I am sure, that no language can paint.

Some nymphs are more fair to the sight,
She is artless, and therefore divine;
Her eyes with expression flash bright,
Her locks with the jetty hue shine.

Her dress is simplicity's grace,
But her sympathy won my young heart;
In fancy her image I trace,
It only with life can depart.

Gentle maid, if some more artful swain
Should tell, what I fail to express,
His language your heart may obtain,
I am sure, he will love you much less.

Perhaps I ought not to desire,
Why you treat me so distant and cold;
Is the youth, who can merely admire,
More favored, because he's more bold?

Dear Jane, may you live and be blest,
With the transports, that love has in store;
It will shed a sweet calm o'er my breast,
Tho I never shall cease to adore.

And when all the sorrows have fled,
Which fear and despondency gave,
Let one tear o'er my hillock be shed,
It will hallow the peace of the grave.