(Composed while wandering over a beautiful scene on the Banks of the Hunter.)
Oh, who would bear a lonely heart
'Mid nature's summer mirth?
Oh, who would walk from Love apart,
On this so lovely earth?
Though Fate should signalise our lot
With Glory's trumpet tone,
Yet, if some sweet soul mirror'd not
The sweetness of our own,
Even joy to madness were but kin,
And hope too like despair;
A weary, weary load within --
The burthen that I bear.
The hills are green, the stream is bright,
The azure heavens above
Bend ready to distil delight,
Where'er they bend o'er love:
But where its effluence may not flow
From woman's eyes the while,
To give all brightest shapes to glow
The brighter for her smile,
Even poesy is but a din,
And taste itself a care:
A weary, weary load within --
The burthen that I bear.
Yet love I crave not for the zest
It lends to passion's gust,
But that I might on nature's breast
Repose with blander trust;
That I might gaze with homlier mind
On all beneath the sun,
And love the whole of human kind
The more in loving One.
Then say not that it tastes of sin,
This fond -- this clinging care
To east the weary load within --
The burthen that I bear.
First published in The Australasian Chronicle, 4 February 1843
Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography
See also.
Oh, who would bear a lonely heart
'Mid nature's summer mirth?
Oh, who would walk from Love apart,
On this so lovely earth?
Though Fate should signalise our lot
With Glory's trumpet tone,
Yet, if some sweet soul mirror'd not
The sweetness of our own,
Even joy to madness were but kin,
And hope too like despair;
A weary, weary load within --
The burthen that I bear.
The hills are green, the stream is bright,
The azure heavens above
Bend ready to distil delight,
Where'er they bend o'er love:
But where its effluence may not flow
From woman's eyes the while,
To give all brightest shapes to glow
The brighter for her smile,
Even poesy is but a din,
And taste itself a care:
A weary, weary load within --
The burthen that I bear.
Yet love I crave not for the zest
It lends to passion's gust,
But that I might on nature's breast
Repose with blander trust;
That I might gaze with homlier mind
On all beneath the sun,
And love the whole of human kind
The more in loving One.
Then say not that it tastes of sin,
This fond -- this clinging care
To east the weary load within --
The burthen that I bear.
First published in The Australasian Chronicle, 4 February 1843
Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography
See also.
