Анна Сьюард (Anna Seward)

Song

FROM thy waves, stormy Llannon, I fly;
From thy rocks, that are lashed by their tide;
From the maid whose cold bosom, relentless as they,
Has wrecked my warm hopes by her pride!
Yet lonely and rude as the scene,
Her smile to that scene could impart
A charm that might rival the bloom of the vale,—
But away, thou fond dream of my heart!
      From thy rocks, stormy Llannon, I fly.

Now the blasts of the winter come on,
And the waters grow dark as they rise!
But ’t is well!—they resemble the sullen disdain
That has lowered in those insolent eyes.
Sincere were the sighs they represt,
But they rose in the days that are flown!
Ah, nymph! unrelenting and cold as thou art,
My spirit is proud as thine own!
      From thy rocks, stormy Llannon, I fly.

Lo! the wings of the sea-fowl are spread
To escape the loud storm by their flight;
And these caves will afford them a gloomy retreat
From the winds and the billows of night;
Like them, to the home of my youth,
Like them, to its shades I retire;
Receive me, and shield my vexed spirit, ye groves,
From the pangs of insulted desire!
      To thy rocks, stormy Llannon, adieu!

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