by: Washington Allston (1779-1843)
- h me! how hard the task to bear
- The weight of ills we know!
- But harder still to dry the tear,
- That mourns a nameless wo.
- If by the side of Lucy's Wheel
- I sit to see her spin,
- My head around begins to reel,
- My heart to beat within.
- Or when on harvest holyday
- I lead the dance along,
- If Lucy chance to cross my way,
- So sure she leads me wrong.
- If I attempt to pipe to play,
- And catch my Lucy's eye,
- The trembling music dies away,
- And melts into a sigh.
- Where'er I go, where'er I turn,
- If Lucy there be found,
- I seem to shiver, yet I burn,
- My head goes swimming round.
- I cannot bear to see her smile,
- Unless she smile on me;
- And if she frown, I sigh the while,
- But know not whence it be.
- Ah, what have I to Lucy done
- To cause me so much stir?
- From rising to the setting sun
- I sigh, and think of her.
- In vain I strive to join the throng
- In social mirth and ease;
- Now lonely woods I stray among;
- For only woods can please.
- Ah, me! this restless heart I fear
- Will never be at rest,
- 'Till Lucy cease to live, or tear
- Her image from my breast.
MORE POEMS BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON
|"First Love" is reprinted from The Sylphs of the Season with Other Poems. Washington Allston. Boston: Cummings and Hillard, 1813.