TO A LADY, WHO FREQUENTLY WITHDREW FROM COMPANY. Susanna Blamire Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Blamire, Susanna, 1747-1794. The Poetical Works of Miss Susanna Blamire “The muse of Cumberland.” Now for the first time collected by Henry Lonsdale, M.D. with a preface, memoir, and notes by Patrick Maxwell, ... Edinburgh John Menzies, 61 Princes Street; R. Tyas, London; D. Robertson, Glasgow; and C. Thurnam, Carlisle. MDCCCXLII. 1842 pp. 52-53.

This e-text is part of the Works section of the Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive (ECPA).

XML created for the Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive (ECPA).

Typography, spelling, capitalization, and punctuation have been cautiously modernized. The source of the text is given and all significant editorial interventions have been recorded in textual notes. This text has been edited to conform to the recommendations found in Level 5 of the Best Practices for TEI in Libraries version 4.0.0.

Library of Congress Name Authority File (LCNAF) text-indent: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center; text-align: right; text-align: left; display: inline font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;
TO A LADY , WHO FREQUENTLY WITHDREW FROM COMPANY . WHEN you retire from every eye , Is it to breathe the secret sigh , Or drop the silent tear ? Does Fancy , to some former day , Start from the present hour away To meet Remembrance dear ? Remembrance ! — Ah ! my friend beware ; Thou dost not know the weeping Fair ; Clad in a robe that Night has wove , And spangl'd o'er with tears of love , She comes , with many a wither'd flower — With many a token from the hour ; On this she looks with streaming eye , On that she breathes the softest sigh ; But not the breath of purest morn , Nor the round dew-tear on the thorn , Could e'er again its bloom restore ; The flower once faded blooms no more . See , at the thought , she pensive stands , See , see ! she wrings her wither'd hands ; Too well she knows the hours we mourn Can never , never more return . Then , ah ! my friend , no more retire , This pensive Mourner ever shun ; If thou shalt hearken to her lyre Thy peace for ever is undone . Or if thy wayward fancy loves To meet her in the silent groves , When her wrapt eye is bound for flight Along the dreary vault of night ; And fixing , near some muffl'd star , Waits for the Day's triumphal car ; Or sees the Moon , by clouds oppress'd , Tear the wet mantle from her breast , This I allow : yet even here , E'en in the blissful lunar sphere , Amid the clouds of varying forms , In gilded pomp , or lowering storms , She still calls back the former hour , The future seems on thee to lower : No tree can wave his leafy head , Nor lilies slumbering on their bed , Nor fragrant roses blooming gay , Nor morning flow'ret droop away , But all have secret power to tell A tale of friends , ah ! lov'd too well . Shun , shun the " matron sage and holy , " Shun , shun such tearful melancholy ! Heed not the whisper of her sigh , Nor meet the pathos of her eye , Else shall the gayest scenes appear Veil'd in a thin translucent tear .