Monday, 31 December 2012



No!—bid me not destroy my rustic lyre,
Though its rude notes may finer ears annoy;
For I have felt one “spark of Nature’s fire,”
And unto me that lyre hath been a joy:
Yea, I have loved the Muses from a boy; 5
And oft when Grief did on my spirit press,
And woman’s eye no smile had got for me,
And there were none to cheer me or caress,
I fled, my dearest Poësy! to thee;
For thou couldst always cheer my drooping heart, 10
And put Despair’s dark, hideous train to flight;
Anon, across my darken’d mind would dart
Inspiring thoughts and visions of delight,
Till my glad soul forgot Misfortune’s blight.

George Markham Tweddell
G. T.
[The last poem in Tweddell’s Yorkshire Miscellany, p. 400 October 1846. Later
used as Cleveland Sonnet No. XI in Tractates No 7. Also published in Turner,
J.Horsfall (undated 1890?) Yorkshire Genealogist, with which is incorporated
Yorkshire Bibliographer, Volume II (Idel, Bradford), p. 13]

No comments:

Post a Comment