WRITTEN ON A GLOOMY DAY, IN SICKNESS. THACKWOOD, 4TH JUNE, 1786. Susanna Blamire Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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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. 88-89.

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WRITTEN ON A GLOOMY DAY , IN SICKNESS . THACKWOOD , 4TH JUNE , 1786. THE gloomy lowering of the sky , The milky softness of the air , The hum of many a busy fly , Are things the cheerful well can spare ; But , to the pensive , thoughtful mind , Those kindred glooms are truly dear , When in dark shades such wood-notes wind As woo and win Reflection's ear ; — The birds that warble over head , The bees that visit every flower , The stream that murmurs o'er its bed , All aid the melancholy hour . Added to this , the wasting frame , Through which life's pulses slowly beat , Would fain persuade that nought's the same As when health glow'd with genial heat . Where are the spirits , light as air , That self-amus'd , would carol loud ? Would find out pleasure everywhere , And all her paths with garlands strow'd ? Nature's the same : the Spring returns , The leaf again adorns the tree ; How tasteless this to her who mourns — To her who droops and fades like me ! No emblem for myself I find , Save what some dying plant bestows — Save where its drooping head I bind , And mark how strong the likeness grows . No more sweet Eve with drops distill'd Shall melt o'er thee in tender grief ; Nor bid Aurora's cup be fill'd With balmy dew from yonder leaf . What , though some seasons more had roll'd Their golden suns to glad thine eye ! Yet as a flower of mortal mould 'Twas still thy lot — to bloom and die .