Poems by Amelia Opie

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Stanzas to Cynthio

As o'er the sands the youthful Cynthio strayed,

Moist from the wave he saw a pebble shine,

While, with its borrowed lustre charmed, he said

"Henceforth this sparkling treasure shall be mine."

But when his hand had dried the glistening prize,

Wond'ring he found the pebble beamed no more!

Then, having viewed it with disdainful eyes,

He, frowning, whirled it to its native shore.

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by Amelia Opie

Yes, Mary Ann, I Freely Grant

Yes, Mary Ann, I freely grant,

The charms of Henry's eyes I see;

But while I gaze, I something want,

I want those eyes — to gaze on me.

And I allow, in Henry's heart

Not Envy's self a fault can see:

Yet still I must one wish impart,

I wish that heart — to sigh for me.

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by Amelia Opie

Lines Written in 1799

Hail to thy pencil! well its glowing art

Has traced those features painted on my heart;

Now, though in distant scenes she soon will rove,

Still here I behold the friend I love—

Still see that smile, "endearing, artless, kind,"

The eye's mild beam that speaks the candid mind,

Which, sportive oft, yet fearful to offend,

By humour charms, but never wounds a friend.

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by Amelia Opie

Song Written to a Hindoo Air

Ask not, whence springs my ceaseless sadness,

But let me still the secret keep:

Ask not, why thus in restless madness

Pass the long hours once given to sleep:

And strive not thus my looks to read:….

For 't is by certain fate decreed,

The cause that bids me rove forlorn,

If known, would only move thy scorn,

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by Amelia Opie

Ballad

Round youthful Henry's restless bed

His weeping friends and parents pressed;

But she who raised his languid head

He loved far more than all the rest.

Fond mutual love their bosoms fired;

And nearly dawned their bridal day,

When every hope at once expired,

For Henry on his death-bed lay.

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by Amelia Opie

Song "I am wearing away"

I am wearing away like the snow in the sun,

I am wearing away from the pain in my heart;

But ne'er shall he know, who my peace has undone,

How bitter, how lasting, how deep is my smart.

I know he would pity—so kind is his soul,

To him my affliction would agony be;

But never, while I can my feelings control,

The youth whom I love shall know sorrow through me.

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by Amelia Opie

To a Maniac

There was a time, poor phrensied maid,

When I could o'er thy grief have mourned,

And still with tears the tale repaid

Of sense by sorrow's sway o'erturned.

But now thy state my envy moves:

For thou art woe's unconscious prize;

Thy heart no sense of suffering proves,

No fruitless tears bedew thine eyes.

123

by Amelia Opie

Ode to Borrowdale

IN CUMBERLAND.

Hail , Derwent's beauteous pride!

Whose charms rough rocks in threatening grandeur guard,

Whose entrance seems to mortals barred,

But to the Genius of the storm thrown wide.

He on thy rock's dread height,

Reclined beneath his canopy of clouds,

His form in darkness shrouds,

by Amelia Opie

To Henry

Think not, while fairer nymphs invite

Thy feet, dear youth, to Pleasure's bowers,

My faded form shall meet thy sight,

And cloud my Henry's smiling hours.

Thou art the world's delighted guest,

And all that pride desires is thine;

Then I'll not wound thy generous breast,

By numbering o'er the woes of mine.

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by Amelia Opie

Love Elegy, to Henry

Then thou hast learnt the secret of my soul,

Officious Friendship has its trust betrayed;

No more I need the bursting sigh control,

Nor summon pride my struggling soul to aid.

But think not banished hope returns again,

Think not I write thy thankless heart to move;

The faded form that tells my tender pain

May win thy pity, but it can't thy love.

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by Amelia Opie

Secret Love

Not one kind look….one friendly word!

Wilt thou in chilling silence sit;

Nor through the social hour afford

One cheering smile, or beam of wit?

Yet still, absorbed in studious care,

Neglect to waste one look on me;

For then my happy eyes may dare

To gaze and dwell unchecked on thee.

125

by Amelia Opie

The Mad Wanderer

There came to Grasmere's pleasant vale

A stranger maid in tatters clad,

Whose eyes were wild, whose cheek was pale,

While oft she cried, "Poor Kate is mad!"

Four words were all she'd ever say,

Nor would she shelter in a cot;

And e'en in winter's coldest day

She still would cry, "My brain is hot."

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by Amelia Opie