Susanna Blamire

Omicron, in "Cumberland Poets" Gentleman's Magazine 90 (March 1820) 228-29.

Kellington, March 10


In addition to the list of living and deceased Poets, inserted in your last Supplement, p. 595, I would wish to subjoin the Rev. Francis Wrangham, 1790; and a few more names of persons, who, though their poems are, many of them, written in a provincial dialect, are by no means unworthy of a place in a catalogue of British Poets....

The late Miss Susan Blamire, of Thuckwood-nook, near Carlisle, from what I have seen of her compositions, appears to have been a Poetess of very superior rank. I am not conscious that any of her works were ever published: neither am I certain, (not having the book at hand to refer to) whether any account of her life is given in Hutchinson's Cumberland. The following copy of verses, written by her when in a declining state of health, and which is the only one which I have at present in my possession, may, perhaps, amuse some of your Readers.

How sweet to the heart is the thought of To-morrow,
When Hope's fairy pictures bright colours display;
How sweet, when we can from futurity borrow
A balm for the grief that afflicts us today!

When wearisome sickness has taught me to languish
For health and the comforts it bears on its wing,
Let me hope, oh! how soon would it lessen my anguish,
That To-morrow will ease and serenity bring.

When travelling alone, quite forlorn, unbefriended.
Sweet the hope that To-morrow my wanderings should cease;
Then at home, when with care sympathetic attended,
I should rest unmolested, and slumber in peace.

When six days of labour each other succeeding,
When hurry and toil have my spirits opprest;
What pleasure to think, as the last is receding,
To-morrow will be a sweet Sabbath of rest.

And when the vain shadows of time are retiring,
When life is fast fleeting, and death is in sight,
The Christian believing, exulting, expiring,
Beholds a To-morrow of endless delight.

The Infidel, then, sees no joyous To-morrow,
Yet he knows that his moments are hasting away;
Poor wretch can he feel without heartrending sorrow,
That his joys and his life will expire with To-morrow.

Yours, &c.