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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/10367-0.txt b/10367-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1883c66 --- /dev/null +++ b/10367-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4042 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10367 *** + +Poems + +by Sir John Carr + + +Non ulla Musis pagina gratior, +Quam quae severis ludicra jungere +Novit, fatigatamque nugis +Utilibus recreare mentem. + +1809. + + + + +POEMS. + +DEDICATION. + +TO +LADY WARREN, + +&c. &c. &c. + +_MADAM_, + +In dedicating the following Poems to your Ladyship, I cannot help +regretting that they are not more worthy of such an honour; that I +might consequently have used it as an humble mode of expressing my +sense of the happy and enlightened hours which I have passed in your +Ladyship’s society, and of the polite attentions which I have at +various times received from you, and the gallant object of your +connubial affection, particularly at the House of British Embassy at +Petersburgh, where you afforded to the Ladies of the North a just +representation of the dignified virtue, cultivated mind, and attractive +beauty, of the higher order of females of your own country. + +I have the honour to remain, + +Madam, + +Your Ladyship’s + +Obedient faithful Servant, + +JOHN CARR. + +_Temple. June_ 1809 + + + + +PREFACE. + + +This Volume is submitted to the Public with all that diffidence which +ought to attend the publication of Verses, many of which were written +in the gay and happy era of boyhood, and others in subsequent periods +of maturer life, as a relief from more arduous pursuits. + +They lay no pretensions to the depth and solidity of the effusions of +the Muse in her elevated flights; they are the few wild notes of the +simple shepherd, and do not even affect to imitate the rich cadence of +the scientific musician. + +If the Author might, without the imputation of vanity, select for them +a place in the Temple of Poetry, he would endeavour to class them in +that niche which is appropriated for the reception of the light and +playful _Vers de Societé_. + +Should the Reader find them but little worthy of his approval, he will +not have reason at the same time to condemn their prolixity: their +brevity will, at least in some degree, atone for their want of fire and +fancy. + +It is thought proper to state that some of the following Poems have +appeared before at various times, in a fugitive shape; and that the +Poetry in the Author’s Tours is here collected. + + + + +POEMS, + +&c. &c. + + + + +VERSES + +WRITTEN IN A GROTTO + +_In a Wood on the Side of the River Dart_, + +IN DEVONSHIRE. + +Tell me, thou grotto! o’er whose brow are seen +Projecting plumes, and shades of deep’ning green,— +While not a sound disturbs thy stony hall, +While all thy dewy drops forget to fall,— +Why canst thou not thy soothing charms impart, +And shed thy quiet o’er this beating heart? +Tell me, thou richly-painted river! tell, +That on thy mirror’d plane dost mimic well +Each pendent tree and every distant hill, +Tipp’d with red lustre, beauteous, bright, and still,— +Can I not, gazing on thy tranquil tide, +Shed ev’ry grief upon thy rocky side? +Or must I rove thy margin, calm and clear, +The only agitated object near? +Oh! tell me, too, thou babbling cold cascade! +Whose waters, falling thro’ successive shade, +Unspangled by the brightness of the sky, +Awake each echo to a soft reply,— +Say, canst thou not my bosom-grief befriend, +And bid one drop upon my heart descend? +When all thy songsters soothe themselves to sleep. +Ah! must these aching eyes for ever weep? +And must their frequent waters, like thine own, +Drop, idly drop, on unimpressive stone? +Or, when my beauteous fair shall deign to grace +The humid foliage of thy mossy base, +Canst thou not tell how many a rock below +Impedes to kiss thy waters as they flow? +In _her_ mind canst thou not the feeling rear +To stop, or thus caress, each genuine tear? +Teach her, oh! teach her, then, thou cold cascade! +Pour all thy lessons for the lovely maid! +And thou, bless’d grotto! let thy silence prove +Her mute consenting answer to my love! +And thou, bright river! as thou roll’st along, +Bear on thy wand’ring wave a lover’s song! +Strong as thy current, as thy waters pure, +Teach her to feel the passion I endure! + + + + +LINES TO THE MEMORY OF MY DEAR BROTHER, + +W.T.P. CARR, ESQ. + +—manibus date lilia plenis: +Purpureos spargam flores. + +_Aeneid_, lib. vi. + +Tho’ no funereal grandeur swell my song, +Nor genius, eagle-plum’d, the strain prolong,— +Tho’ Grief and Nature here alone combine +To weep, my William! o’er a fate like thine,— +Yet thy fond pray’r, still ling’ring on my ear, +Shall force its way thro’ many a gushing tear: +The Muse, that saw thy op’ning beauties spread, +That lov’d thee living, shall lament thee dead! +Ye graceful Virtues! while the note I breathe, +Of sweetest flow’rs entwine a fun’ral wreath,— +Of virgin flow’rs, and place them round his tomb, +To bud, like him, and perish in their bloom! +Ah! when these eyes saw thee serenely wait +The last long separating stroke of Fate,— +When round thy bed a kindred weeping train +Call’d on thy voice to greet them, but in vain,— +When o’er thy lips we watch’d thy fault’ring breath— +When louder grief proclaim’d th’approach of death,— +Thro’ ev’ry vein an icy horror chill’d, +Colder than marble ev’ry bosom thrill’d. +Unsettled still, tho’ exercis’d to grieve, +Scarce would my mind the alter’d sight believe; +Familiar scenes a transient calm inspire, +Poor flutt’ring Fancy fann’d the vain desire, +’Till with sad proof thy wasted relics rise, +And restless Nature pours uncall’d-for sighs. +Ah! long, my William! shall thy picture rest, +Time shall not wear it, imag’d in my breast; +Yes, thou shall live while fond remembrance lives, +’Till he who mourns thee asks the line he gives. +No common joy, no fugitive delight, +Regret like this could in my breast excite; +For then my sorrow had been less severe, +And tears less copious had bedew’d the bier. +From the same breast our milky food we drew, +Entwin’d affection strengthen’d as we grew; +Why further trace? The flatt’ring dream is o’er— +Thy transient joys and sorrows are no more! +All, all are fled!—And, ah! where’er I turn, +Insulting Death directs me to thy urn, +Throws his cold shadows round me while I sing. +Damps ev’ry nerve, and slackens ev’ry string. +So, when the Moon trims up her waning fire, +Sweep the night-breezes o’er th’Aeolian lyre; +Ling’ring, perchance, some wild pathetic sound +Lulls the lorn ear, and dies along the ground. +Ye kindred train! who, o’er the parting grave, +Have mourn’d the virtues which ye could not save. +Ye know how Mem’ry, with excursive pow’r, +Extracts a sweet from ev’ry faded hour;— +From scenes long past, regardless of repose, +She feeds her tears, and treasures up her woes. +Thou tuneful, mute, companion[1] of my care! +Where now thy notes, that linger’d in the air? +That linger still!—Vain thy harmonious store,— +Thy sweet persuasive triumphs are no more. +Thy mournful image strikes my wand’ring eye; +Sad, near thy silent strings, I sit and sigh. +Cold is that band which Music form’d her own, +When ev’ry chord resign’d its sweetest tone. +Ah! long, fair source of rapture, shall thou rest, +Silent and sad, neglected and unprest, +’Till years, lov’d shade! superior pow’rs resign, +Or raise one note more eloquent than thine. +Tho’ with’ring Sickness mark’d thee in the womb, +And form’d thy cradle but to form thy tomb, +Yet, like a flow’r, she bade thee reach thy prime, +The fairer victim for the stroke of Time. +When fond Invention vainly sought thine ease, +The wave salubrious and the morning breeze,— +When even Sleep, sweet Sleep! refus’d thy call, +Sleep! that with sweet refreshment smiles on all,— +When, till the morn, thine eyes, unclos’d and damp, +Trac’d thy sad semblance in the glimm’ring lamp,— +When from thy face Health’s latest relic fled, +Where Hope might flatter, with reluctant tread,— +Still, darting forward from the weight of woe, +Thy soul with all its energy would glow; +Still with the purest passion wouldst thou prove +The glow of friendship and the warmth of love. +And ah! to sacred Memory ever nigh, +Thy wit and humour claim the passing sigh: +When, thro’ the hour, with unresisted skill, +I’ve seen thee mould each feature to thy will,— +When friends drew round thee with attentive ear, +Pleas’d with the raill’ry which they could not fear. +Oh! how I’ve heard thee, with concealing art, +Join in the song, tho’ sorrow rent thy heart; +How have I seen thee too, with venial guile, +O’er many an anguish force the faithless smile,— +Seen suffering Nature check each sigh, each fear, +To rob maternal fondness of a tear! +Alas! those scenes are past!—Vain was the pray’r +That ask’d of Fate to soften and to spare; +Ah! vain, if wit and virtue could not save +Thy youthful honours from an early grave. +But yet, if here my warm fraternal love +May claim alliance with the realms above; +If kindred Nature, with perpetual bloom, +Transplanted springs, and lives beyond the tomb; +Thy pitying soul shall smile upon my grief, +Shall feel a pang that wishes not relief; +In visions still shall shield me as I go, +Along this gloomy wilderness of woe; +Shall still regard me with peculiar pride, +On earth my brother, and in heav’n my guide! +Methinks I see thee reach th’ empyrean shore, +And heav’n’s full chorus hails one angel more; +While ’mid the seraph-forms that round thee fly, +Thy father meets thee with ecstatic eye! +He springs exulting from his throne of rest, +Extends his arms, and clasps thee to his breast! + + [1] The piano-forte, on which he excelled. + + + + +PARODY + +ON + +“_The Golden Days of good Queen Bess_.” + +To my Muse give attention, and deem it not a mystery +If I jumble up together music, poetry, and history, +To sing of the vices of wicked Queen Bess, sir, +Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir, + Detested be the memory of wicked Queen Bess, sir, + Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir. + +In saying she would die a maid, she, England! did amuse ye. +But what she did, and what she died—I hope you will excuse me: +A gallant Earl a miracle of passion for her fed, sir; +She kiss’d him, and she clos’d the scene by striking off his head, sir! + Detested be, &c. + +Oh! rude ungrateful Scotland! had thy desolated Queen, sir, +No blue eyes ever known, nor had she beauteous been, sir, +The envy of our old rival hag she might have baffled, sir, +Nor with her guiltless blood have crimson’d o’er the scaffold, sir. + Detested be, &c. + +She dress’d just like a porcupine, and din’d just like a pig, sir, +And an over-running butt of sack she swallow’d at a swig, sir! +Her brawny maids of honour ate and drank confounded hard, sir, +And droves of oxen daily bled within her palace-yard, sir! + Detested be, &c. + +In ruling she was wonderous tyrannical and surly; +If a patriot only touch’d on the Queen or Master Burleigh, +She’d send a file of soldiers in less than half an hour, sir, +Just to bid him make his speeches to the prisons of the Tow’r, sir! + Detested be, &c. + + + + +REBECCA, + +_A Ballad_. + +Rebecca was the fairest maid +That on the Danube’s borders play’d; +And many a handsome nobleman +For her in tilt and tourney ran; +While fair Rebecca wish’d to see +What youth her husband was to be. + +Rebecca heard the gossips say, +“Alone from dusk till midnight stay +Within the church-porch drear and dark, +Upon the vigil of Saint Mark, +And, lovely maiden! you shall see +What youth your husband is to be.” + +Rebecca, when the night grew dark, +Upon the vigil of Saint Mark, +(Observ’d by Paul, a roguish scout, +Who guess’d the task she went about,) +Stepp’d to St Stephen’s Church to see +What youth her husband was to be. + +Rebecca heard the screech-owl cry, +And saw the black bat round her fly; +She sat, ’till, wild with fear, at last +Her blood ran cold, her pulse beat fast; +And yet, rash maid! she stopp’d to see +What youth her husband was to be. + +Rebecca heard the midnight chime +Ring out the yawning peal of time, +When shrouded Paul, unlucky knave! +Rose like a spectre from the grave; +And cried, “Fair maiden, come with me. +For I your bridegroom am to be.” + +Rebecca turn’d her head aside, +Sent forth a hideous shriek, and died! +While Paul confess’d himself, in vain, +Rebecca never spoke again! +Ah! little, hapless maid! did she +Think Death her bridegroom was to be. + +Rebecca! may thy story long +Instruct the giddy and the young. +Fright not, fond youths! the timid fair; +And you too, gentle maids! beware; +Nor seek by lawless arts to see +What youths your husbands are to be. + + + + +LINES + +TO AN AURICULA, BELONGING TO ——. + +Thou rear’st thy beauteous head, sweet flow’r +Gemm’d by the soft and vernal show’r; + Its drops still round thee shine: +The florist views thee with delight; +And, if so precious in _his_ sight, + Oh! what art thou in _mine_? + +For she, who nurs’d thy drooping form +When Winter pour’d her snowy storm, + Has oft consol’d me too; +For me a fost’ring tear has shed,— +She has reviv’d my drooping head, + And bade me bloom anew. + +When adverse Fortune bade us part, +And grief depress’d my aching heart, + Like yon reviving ray, +She from behind the cloud would move, +And with a stolen look of love + Would melt my cares away. + +Sweet flow’r! supremely dear to me, +Thy lovely mistress blooms in thee, + For, tho’ the garden’s pride, +In beauty’s grace and tint array’d, +Thou seem’st to court the secret shade, + Thy modest form to hide. + +Oh! crown’d with many a roseate year, +Bless’d may she be who plac’d thee here, + Until the tear of love +Shall tremble in the eye to find +Her spirit, spotless and refin’d, + Borne to the realms above! + +And oft for thee, sweet child of spring! +The Muse shall touch her tend’rest string; + And, as thou rear’st thine head, +She shall invoke the softest air, +Or ask the chilling storm to spare, + And bless thy humble bed. + + + + +LINES + +TO LADY WARREN, + +_On the Departure of Sir John Borlase Warren, K.B_. + +TO TAKE THE COMMAND OF A SQUADRON. + +Oh! why does sorrow shade thy face, +Where mind and beauty vie with grace? +Say, dost thou for thy hero weep, +Who gallantly, upon the deep, +Is gone to tell the madd’ning foe, +Tho’ vict’ry laid our Nelson low, +We still have chiefs as greatly brave, +Proudly triumphant on the wave? +Dear to thy Country shalt thou be, +Fair mourner! and her sympathy +Is thine; for, in the war’s alarms, +Thou gav’st thine hero from thine arms; +And only ask’d to sigh alone, +To look to heav’n, and weep him gone. +Oh! soon shall all thy sorrow cease, +And, to thine aching bosom, peace +Shall quick return;—another tear +To love and joy, supremely dear, +Shall give thy gen’rous mind relief— +That tear shall gem the laurel leaf. + + + + +LINES + +TO MISS ——, +ACCOMPANIED BY A ROSE AND A LILY. + +I look’d the fragrant garden round + For what I thought would picture best + Thy beauty and thy modesty; +A lily and a rose I found,— + With kisses on their leaves imprest, + I send the beauteous pair to thee. + + + + +SONG. + +Nature’s imperfect child, to whom +The world is wrapt in viewless gloom, +Can unresisted still impart +The fondest wishes of his heart. + +And he, to whose impervious ear + The sweetest sounds no charms dispense, +Can bid his inmost soul appear + In clear, tho’ silent, eloquence. + +But we, my Julia, not so blest, + Are doom’d a diff’rent fate to prove,— +To feel each joy and hope supprest + That flow from pure, but hidden, love. + + + + +IMPROMPTU LINES, + +UPON ANACREON MOORE’S SAYING THAT HE DISLIKED SINGING TO MEN. + +By Beauty’s caresses, like Cupid, half-spoil’d, +Thus Music’s and Poesy’s favourite child +Exclaim’d,—“’Tis, by Heaven! a terrible thing +Before a _he_-party to sit and to sing!” +“By my shoul! Master Moore, you there may be right,” +Said a son of green Erin; “tho’ dear to my sight +Are all the sweet cratures, call’d women, I swear, +Yet I think we can feel just as well as the fair: +Tho’ you’d bribe us with songs, blood and ’ounds! let me say, +I’d not be a woman for one in your way.” + + + + +LINES TO JULIA. + +Tho’, Julia, we are doom’d to part, +Tho’ unknown pangs invade this heart, +For thee the light of love shall burn, +To thee my soul in secret turn: +Upon this bosom, swell’d with care, +The thought of thee shall tremble there +’Till Time shall close these weeping eyes, +And close the soothing source of sighs. +So, in the silence of the night, +Shines on the wave the lunar light; +With its soft image, bright, imprest, +It heaves, and seems to know no rest: +Its agitation soon is o’er; +It sighs, and dies along the shore! + + + + +LINES + +_To the Memory of Mrs. A.H. Holdsworth_, + +LATE OF MOUNT GALPIN, DEVONSHIRE. + +Tyrant of all our loves and friendships here, + Behold thy beauteous victim!—Ah! tis thine +To rend fond hearts, and start the tend’rest tear + Where joy should long in cloudless radiance shine. + +Alas! the mourning Muse in vain would paint, + Blest shade! how purely pass’d thy life away, +Or, with the meekness of a favour’d saint, + How rose thy spirit to the realms of day. + +’Twas thine to fill each part that gladdens life, + Such as approving angels smile upon;— +The faultless daughter, parent, friend, and wife,— + Virtues short-lived! they set just as they shone. + +Thus, in the bosom of some winding grove, + Where oft the pensive melodist retires, +From his sweet instrument, the note of love, + Charms the rapt ear, but, as it charms, expires. + +Farewell, pure spirit! o’er thine early grave + Oblivion ne’er shall spread her freezing shade; +Nature shall bid her richest foliage wave + Where her reposing fav’rite child is laid. + +There widow’d fondness oft, when summers bloom. + Shall with thy infant pledge of love repair; +Oft shall they kneel beside thy mossy tomb, + And tears shall dew the flow’rs that blossom there. + + + + +LINES + +_Written upon a Watch-String_, + +MADE AND PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ——. + +Say, lovely Charlotte! will you let me prove +What diff’rent thoughts thy taste and beauty move? +This woven chain, which graceful skill displays, + Leads me to think of time, and heave a sigh; +But when on thee and on thy charms I gaze, + Time unremember’d moves, or seems to die. + + + + +LINES + +_Upon a Diamond Cross_, + +WORN ON HER BOSOM BY MISS C.M. + +Well on that neck, sweet Kitty! may you wear + The sparkling cross, with hopes to soften Heaven; +For trust me, tho’ so very young and fair, + Thou hast some little sins to be forgiven:— +For all the hopes which wit and grace can spread, + For all the sighs which countless charms can move, +Fall, lovely Kitty! on thy youthful head; + Yet fall they gently—for the crime is love. + + + + +LINES TO FORTUNE, + +Occasioned by a very amiable and generous Friend of mine munificently +presenting Miss E.S. with a Donation of Fifteen Thousand Pounds. + +Oh, Fortune! I have seen thee shed + A plenteous show’r of treasure down +On many a weak and worthless head, + On those who but deserv’d thy frown. + +And I have heard, in lonely shade, + Her sorrows hapless Merit pour; +And thou hast pass’d the drooping maid, + To give some pamper’d fav’rite more. + +But tho’ so cold, or strangely wild, + It seems that worth can sometimes move; +Thou hast on gentle Emma smil’d, + And thou hast smil’d where all approve:— + +For Nature form’d her gen’rous heart + With ev’ry virtue, pure, refin’d; +And wit and taste, and grace and art, + United to illume her mind. + +So dew-drops fall on some rare flow’r, + That merits all their fost’ring care, +As tho’ they knew that, by their pow’r, + Grateful ’twould wider scent the air. + + + + +A SONG. + +THE LOVER +THE LUTE OF HIS DECEASED MISTRESS. + +Alas! but like a summer’s dream + All the delight I felt appears, +While mis’ry’s weeping moments seem + A ling’ring age of tears. + +Then breathe my sorrows, plaintive lute! + And pour thy soft consoling tone, +While I, a list’ning mourner mute, + Will call each tender grief my own. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN IN A COTTAGE BY THE SEA-SIDE + +(_In which the Author had taken Shelter during a violent Storm_), + +UPON SEEING AN IDIOTIC YOUTH SEATED IN THE CHIMNEY-CORNER, CARESSING A +BROOM. + +’Twas on a night of wildest storms, + When loudly roar’d the raving main,— +When dark clouds shew’d their shapeless forms, + And hail beat hard the cottage pane,— + +Tom Fool sat by the chimney-side, + With open mouth and staring eyes; +A batter’d broom was all his pride,— + It was his wife, his child, his prize! + +Alike to him if tempests howl, + Or summer beam its sweetest day; +For still is pleas’d the silly soul, + And still he laughs the hours away. + +Alas! I could not stop the sigh, + To see him thus so wildly stare,— +To mark, in ruins, Reason lie, + Callous alike to joy and care. + +God bless thee, thoughtless soul! I cried; + Yet are thy wants but very few: +The world’s hard scenes thou ne’er hast tried; + Its cares and crimes to thee are new. + +The hoary hag[2], who cross’d thee so, + Did not unkindly vex thy brain; +Indeed she could not be thy foe, + To snatch thee thus from grief and pain. + +Deceit shall never wring thy heart, + And baffled hope awake no sighs; +And true love, harshly forc’d to part, + Shall never swell with tears thine eyes. + +Then long enjoy thy batter’d broom, + Poor merry fool! and laugh away +’Till Fate shall bid thy reason bloom + In blissful scenes of brighter day. + + [2] It is generally believed by the peasants of Devonshire that + idiotcy is produced by the influence of a witch. + + + + +LINES + +_To a Laurel-Leaf_, + +SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ——. + +Tho’ unknown is the hand that bestow’d thee on me, + Sweet leaf! ev’ry fibre I’ll warm with a kiss: +With the fame of her beauty thou well dost agree, + Whose presence shews conquest, whose triumph is bliss! + + + + +LINES + +OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF LIEUTENANT J——, + +_Who was killed by a Pistol-Shot_, + +ACCIDENTALLY DISCHARGED BY HIS FRIEND, +CAPTAIN B——. + +With horror dumb, tho’ guiltless, stood + Beside his dying friend, +The hapless wretch who made the blood + Sad from his side descend! + +“Give me thy hand; lov’d friend, adieu!” + The gen’rous suff’rer cried! +“I do forgive and bless thee too;” + And, having said it, died! + +And Pity, who stood trembling near + Knew not for which to shed, +So claim’d by both, her saddest tear— + The living or the dead! + + + + +LINES + +TO AN ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY, + +Whose Timidity frequently agitated her, when pressed to gratify her +Friends by her Musical Talents. + +’Tis said (and I believe it too) + That genuine merit seeks the shade; +Blushing to think what is her due, + As of her own sweet pow’rs afraid:— + +Thus, lovely maid! on fluttering wings, + Thy pow’rs a thousand fears pursue, +Which, like thy own harmonious strings, + When press’d _enchant_, and _tremble_ too! + +The pity, which we give, you owe, + For mutual fears on both attend; +While anxious thus you joy bestow, + We fear too soon that joy will end! + + + + +LINES + +TO MISS L—— D——. + +When Heav’n, sweet Laura! form’d thy mind, +With genius and with taste refin’d, + As if the union were too bright, +It spread the veil of diffidence, +That ev’ry ray, at first intense, + Might shine as soft as lunar light. + +To frame a form then Nature strove, +And call’d on Beauty and on Love, + To lodge the mind they priz’d so well: +Completed was the fair design; +Thus blended dew-drops mildly shine + Within the lily’s spotless bell! + + + + +LINES[3] + +_Written in a beautiful Spot_, + +THE FAVOURITE RETREAT OF DELIA. + +Streams ever limpid, fresh, and clear, +Where Delia’s charms renew’d appear, +Ye flow’rs that touch’d her snowy breast, +Ye trees whereon she lov’d to rest, +Ye scenes adorn’d where’er she flies, +If grief shall close these woe-worn eyes, +May some kind form, with hand benign, +My body with this earth enshrine, +That, when the fairest nymph shall deign +To visit this delightful plain, +That, when she views my silent shade, +And marks the change her love has made, +The tear may tremble down her face, +As show’rs the lily’s leaves embrace; +Then, like the infant at the breast, +That feels a sorrow unexprest, +That pang shall gentle Delia know, +And silent treasure up her woe. + + [3] I am indebted to Petrarch for some of the imagery contained in + these Lines. + + + + +VALENTINE VERSES, + +_Sent to my young Friend, Miss Emma Trevelyan_, + +OF WALLINGTON-HOUSE, NORTHUMBERLAND. + +Emma! ’tis early time for thee +To hear the sounds of minstrelsy, +That breathe around the rosy shrine +Of honest old Saint Valentine. + +Too young art thou for strains of love; +’Tis not thy passion I would move; +Instead of lover’s strains, I send +The cordial wishes of a friend. + +Nobly has Nature done her duty, +To give thee of thy mother’s beauty +So large a share—oh! then be thine +The mental charms that in her shine! + +And may thy father’s taste refin’d +Still add new graces to thy mind; +And may’st thou to each charm impart +The gen’rous frankness of his heart. + +Then, my sweet Emma! thou shall move +In many a heart more genuine love +Than ever warm’d poetic line, +Or sigh’d in any Valentine. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN UPON SEEING A BLIND YOUNG WOMAN IN NORTH WALES, + +Who supports herself, and an aged and infirm Mother, by selling +Stockings and Gloves of her own Knitting, which she offers to +Travellers as they pass by; in doing which she has been known to run +close by the Side of a Carriage for several Miles. + +POOR BLIND BET. + +The morning purple on the hill, + The village spire, the ivy’d tow’r, +The sparkling wheel of yonder mill, + The grove, green field, and op’ning flow’r, + Are lost to thee! + +Dark child of Nature, as thou art! + Yet thy poor bosom heaves no sigh; +E’en now thy dimpling cheeks impart + Their knowledge of some pleasure nigh:— + ’Tis good for thee! + +Thou seem’st to say “I’ve sunshine too; + ’Tis beaming in a spotless breast; +No shade of guilt obstructs the view, + And there are many not so blest, + Who day’s blush see. + +“Dear are those eyes, by mine ne’er seen, + Which I protect from many a tear; +Kind stranger! ’tis on yonder green + A mother’s aged form I rear: + Oh! buy of me!” + + + + +LINES + +UPON SEEING —— + +_At one of the annual Banquets given in Guildhall_. + +Gorgeous and splendid was the sight; +From myriad lamps a fairy light +Enshrin’d in wreaths the Gothic wall, +And heav’nly music fill’d the hall! + +But there was one—(alas! that I +Had ever seen)—the melody +Her voice surpassed, and brighter far +Her eyes than ev’ry mimic star! + +I gaz’d, until, oh! thought divine! +I fancied she I saw was mine; +But soon the beauteous vision flew— +The stranger-form I lov’d withdrew. + +Yet still she lives within my breast, +There mem’ry has her form imprest:— +Thus, when some minstrel’s strain is done, +Sounds seem to breathe, for ever gone! + + + + +YARRIMORE. + +[These Lines were written for a Lady who set them to Music.] + +My poor heart flutters like the sea + Now heaving on the sandy shore; +It seems to tell me you shall be + Never again near Yarrimore. + +Far, far beyond the waves, I bend + Mine eyes, if I can land explore; +But o’er the waves I find no end,— + Yet there they say’s my Yarrimore. + +The hut he built is standing still, + Deck’d with the shells he cull’d from shore; +Our bow’r is waving on the hill, + But where, alas! is Yarrimore? + +Within that bow’r I’ll sit and sigh, + From dawn of day till day is o’er; +And, as the wild winds o’er me fly, + I’ll call on gentle Yarrimore! + + + + +LINES TO MISS ——, + +Upon her appearing at a Ball in an elegant Plaid Dress, + +AND HAVING REPEATEDLY BEFORE EXPRESSED HER PREFERENCE OF THE SCOTISH +NATION. + +Is it that plaided thus you wish to prove +How northern is the region of your love? +Ah, Mary! tho’, within that far-fam’d clime, +Deeds have been done that mock the wreck of Time; +Tho’ there the brave have bled, or, o’er the wave, +On distant shores have found a glorious grave; +Tho’ there the mountain-nymph of song has pour’d +Her loftiest strain, to bless the hero’s sword; +Still, lovely wand’rer, with a jealous eye, +O’er Scotia’s hills we see thy fancy fly; +For _here_ the warrior oft has rais’d his sword, +The patriot too his noble blood has pour’d; +_Here_ too the sweet Recorder of the brave +Has sat and sung upon her hero’s grave. +Then cease, romantic maid! ah, cease to rove; +The very wood-dove loves its native grove: +Oh! then, let Nature bid thy guileless heart +Here shed its love, and all its warmth impart; +And on the land that gave thee birth bestow +The fondness which it claims, and treasures too. + + + + +A SONG. + +TO THE MOON. + +Thou, lamp! the gods benignly gave, + To light a lover on his way; +Thou, Moon! along the silv’ry wave, + Ah! safe this flutt’ring heart convey:— + +Sweet is thy light, and sweet thy shade, + The _guide_ and _guardian_ of our bliss, +A lover’s panting lips to lead, + Or veil him in the ravish’d kiss. + +Her white robe floats upon the air; + + My Lyra hears the dashing oar: +Ye floods, oh! speed me to my fair! + My soul is with her long before. + +Oh! lightly haste, thy lover view, + And ev’ry anxious fear resign; +Ye tow’rs, no longer fear’d, adieu! + The treasure which ye held is mine! + + + + +LINES + +_Upon the Death of the Lady of Lieutenant-Colonel Adams_, + +WHO LATELY DIED OF A DECLINE IN THE EAST INDIES. + +When Time a mellowing tint has thrown + O’er many a scene to mem’ry dear. +It scatters round a charm, unknown + When first th’ impression rested there. + +But, oh! should distance intervene, + Should Ocean’s wave, should changeful clime, +Divide—how sweeter far the scene! + How richer ev’ry tint of time! + +E’en thus with those (a treasur’d few) + Who gladden’d life with many a smile, +Tho’ long has pass’d the sad adieu, + In thought we love to dwell awhile. + +Then with keen eye, and beating heart, + The anxious mind still seeks relief +From those who can the tale impart, + How pass their day, in joy or grief. + +If haply health and fortune bless, + We feel as if on us they shone; +If sickness and if sorrow press, + Then feeling makes their woes our own. + +’Twas thus of Mira oft I thought, + Oft dwelt upon the scenes she grac’d: +Her form in beauty’s mould was wrought, + Her mind the seat of sense and taste. + +Long, hov’ring o’er her fleeting breath, + Love kept his watch in silent gloom; +He saw her meekly yield to Death, + And knelt a mourner at her tomb. + +When the night-breeze shall softly blow, + When the bright moon upon the flood +Shall spread her beams (a silv’ry show), + And dark be many a waving wood,— + +When, dimly[4] seen, in robes of white, + A mournful train along the grove +Shall bear the lamp of sacred light, + To deck the turf of those they love,— + +Then shall the wood-dove quit its bow’r, + And seek the spot were she is laid; +Its wild and mournful notes shall pour + A requiem to her hallow’d shade. + +And Friendship oft shall raise the veil + Time shall have drawn o’er pleasures past, +And Fancy shall repeat the tale + Of happy hours, too sweet to last! + +But when she mourns o’er Mira’s bier, + And when the fond illusion ends, +Oh! then shall fall the genuine tear + That drops for dear departed friends! + + [4] Mr. Hodges, in his Travels in India, page 28, mentions, that + between Banglepoor and Mobgheir, it is the custom of the women of the + family to attend the tombs of their friends after sun-set; and + observes, “it is both affecting and curious to see them proceeding in + groups, carrying lamps in their hands, which they place at the head of + the tomb.” + + + + +LINES + +TO MISS C. + +_On her leaving the Country_. + +Since Friendship soon must bid a fond adieu, +And, parting, wish your charms she never knew, +Dear Laura hear one genuine thought express’d, +Warm from the heart, and to the heart address’d:— +Much do I wish you all your soul holds dear, +To sooth and sweeten ev’ry trouble here; +But heav’n has yielded such an ample store, +You cannot ask, nor can I wish you, more; +Bless’d with a sister’s love, whose gentle mind, +Still pure tho’ polish’d, virtuous and refin’d, +Will aid your tend’rer years and innocence +Beneath the shelter of her riper sense. +Charm’d with the bright example may you move, +And, loving, richly copy what you love. +Adieu! and blame not if an artless pray’r +Should, self-directed, ask one moment’s care:— +When years and absence shall their shade extend, +Reflect who sighs adieu, and call him—friend. + + + + +LINES + +TO A ROBIN. + +_Written during a severe Winter_. + +Why, trembling, silent, wand’rer! why, +From me and Pity do you fly? +Your little heart against your plumes +Beats hard—ah! dreary are these glooms! +Famine has chok’d the note of joy +That charm’d the roving shepherd-boy. +Why, wand’rer, do you look so shy? +And why, when I approach you, fly? +The crumbs which at your feet I strew +Are only meant to nourish you; +They are not thrown with base decoy, +To rob you of one hour of joy. +Come, follow to my silent mill, +That stands beneath yon snow-clad hill; +There will I house your trembling form, +There shall your shiv’ring breast be warm: +And, when your little heart grows strong, +I’ll ask you for your simple song; +And, when you will not tarry more, +Open shall be my wicket-door; +And freely, when you chirp “adieu,” +I’ll wish you well, sweet warbler! too; +I’ll wish you many a summer-hour +On top of tree, or abbey-tow’r. +When Spring her wasted form retrieves, +And gives your little roof its leaves, +May you (a happy lover) find +A kindred partner to your mind: +And when, amid the tangled spray, +The sun shall shoot a parting ray, +May all within your mossy nest +Be safe, be merry, and be blest. + + + + +LINES TO DELIA, + +ON HER WEARING A MUSLIN VEIL. + +Say, Delia, why, in muslin shade, + Ah! say, dost thou conceal those eyes? +Such little stars were never made, + I’m sure, to shine thro’ misty skies. + +Say, are they wrapt in so much shade, + That they may more successful rise, +Starting from such soft ambuscade, + To catch and kill us by surprise? + +Or, of their various pow’rs afraid, + Is it in mercy to our sighs, +Lest love, o’er many a heart betray’d, + Should sob “a faithful vot’ry dies”? + +Then, oh! remove the envious shade; + Let others wear, who want, disguise: +We all had sooner die, sweet maid, + To see, than live without, those eyes. + + + + +VERSES + +TO THE TOMB OF A FRIEND. + +Dearer to me, thou pile of dust! + Tho’ with the wild flow’r simply crown’d, +Than the vast dome or beauteous bust, + By genius form’d, by wit renown’d. + +Wave, thou wild flow’r! for ever wave, + O’er my lov’d relic of delight; +My tears shall bathe her green-rob’d grave + More than the dews of heav’n by night. + +Methinks my Delia bids me go, + Says, “Florio, dry that fruitless tear! +Feed not a wild flow’r with thy woe, + Thy long-lov’d Delia is not here. + +“No drop of feeling from her eye + Now starts to hear thy sorrows speak; +And, did thy bosom know one joy, + No smile would bloom upon her cheek. + +“Pale, wan, and torpid, droops that cheek, + Whereon thy lip impress’d its red; +Those eyes, which Florio taught to speak, + Unnotic’d close amid the dead!” + +True, true, too idly mourns this heart; + Why, Mem’ry, dost thou paint the past? +Why say you saw my Delia part, + Still press’d, still lov’d her, to the last? + +Then, thou wild flow’r, for ever wave! + To thee this parting tear is given; +The sigh I offer at her grave + Shall reach my sainted love in heaven! + + + + +TIME AND THE LOVER. + +Oh, Time! thy merits who can know? + Thy real nature who discover? +The absent lover calls thee slow,— + “Too rapid,” says the happy lover. + +With bloom thy cheeks are now refin’d, + Now to thine eye the tear is given; +At once too cruel and too kind,— + A little hell, a little heaven. + +Go then, thou charming myst’ry, go!— + Yes, tho’ thou often dost amuse me, +Tho’ many a joy to thee I owe, + At once I thank thee and abuse thee. + + + + +A ROUNDELAY. + +Wide thro’ the azure blue and bright +Serenely floats the lamp of night; +The sleeping waves forget to move, +And silent is the cedar grove; +Each breeze suspended seems to say— +“Now, Leline, for thy Roundelay!” + +My Delia’s lids are clos’d in rest; +Ah! were her pillow but my breast! +Go, dreams! one gentle word impart, +In whispers place me by her heart; +While near her door I’ll fondly stray, +And sooth her with my Roundelay. + +But, ah! the Night draws in her shade, +And glimm’ring stars reluctant fade: +Yet sleep, my love! nor may’st thou feel +The pangs which griefs like mine reveal: +Adieu! for Morning’s on his way, +And bids me close my Roundelay. + + + + +FAREWELL LINES + +TO +_BRISTOL HOT WELLS_. + +Bristol! in vain thy rocks attempt the sky, + The wild woods waving on their giddy brow; +And vainly, devious Avon! vainly sigh + Thy waters, winding thro’ the vales below;— + +In vain, upon thy glassy bosom borne, + Th’ expected vessel proudly glides along, +While, ’mid thy echoes, at the break of morn + Is heard the homeward ship-boy’s happy song;— + +For, ah! amid thy sweet romantic shade, + By Friendship led, fair drooping Beauty moves; +Thy hallow’d cup of health affords no aid, + Nor charm thy birds, that chant their woodland loves. + +Each morn I view her thro’ thy wave-girt grove, + Her white robe flutt’ring round her sinking form; +O’er the sweet ruin shine those eyes of love, + As bright stars beaming thro’ a midnight storm. + +Here sorrowing Love seeks a sequester’d bow’r. + Calls on thy spring to calm his troubled breast; +Bright Hope alights not on his pensive hour, + Nor can thy favour’d fountains yield him rest. + +Despair across his joys now intervenes, + And sternly bids the little cherub fly; +While his eyes close amid thy beauteous scenes. + His last sighs bless the form that bids him die. + +Farewell, then, Bristol! thou canst yield no joy, + Thy woods look darken’d with funereal gloom, +Sickness and Sorrow on thy green banks sigh, + And all thy form is but a beauteous tomb. + +Ah! may each future suff’rer, hov’ring near, + Rais’d by thy genial wave, delighted view +Returning joy and health, supremely dear, + Long lost to him who sadly sighs adieu! + + + + +A SONG. + +These shades were made for Love alone,— + Here only smiles and kisses sweet +Shall play around his flow’ry throne, + And doves shall sentinel the seat. + +Come, Delia! ’tis a genial day; + It bids us to his bow’r repair:— +“But what will little Cupid say?”— + “Say! sweet?—why, give a welcome there.” + +There not a tell-tale beam shall peep + Upon thy beauty’s rich display,— +There not a breeze shall dare to sweep + The leaves, to whisper what we say. + + + + +LINES + +ON LADY W—— APPEARING AT THE EXHIBITION. + +When lovely Delphine sought the crowded scene, + The painter’s mimic pow’r no longer mov’d; +All turn’d to gaze upon her beauteous mien, + None envied her, for, as they look’d, they lov’d. + +Amid the proud display of forms so fair, + Of each fine tint the pencil can impart, +Nature with rapture seem’d to lead her there, + To prove how she could triumph over Art. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN AT BRIGHTON. + +From Mirth’s bright circle, from the giddy throng, + How sweet it is to steal away at eve, +To listen to the homeward fisher’s song, + Whilst dark the waters of the ocean heave;— + +And on the sloping beach to hear the spray + Dash ’gainst some hoary vessel’s broken side; +Whilst, far illumin’d by the parting ray, + The distant sail is faintly seen to glide. + +Yes, ’tis Reflection’s chosen hour; for then, + With pensive pleasure mingling o’er the scene, +Th’ erratic mind treads over life again, + And gazes on the past with eye serene. + +Those stormy passions which bedimm’d the soul, + That oft have bid the joys it treasur’d fly, +Now, like th’ unruffled waves of Ocean, roll + With gentle lapse—their only sound a sigh. + +The galling wrong no longer knits the brow, + Ambition feels the folly of her aim; +And Pity, from the heart expanding, now + Pants to extend relief to ev’ry claim. + +Thus, as I sit beside the murm’ring sea, + And o’er its darkness trace light’s parting streak, +I feel, O Nature! that serenity + Which vainly poetry like mine can speak! + +O’er the drear tract of Time, Remembrance views + Some dear, some long-departed, pleasure gleam;— +So o’er the dark expanse the eye pursues + Upon the wat’ry edge a transient beam. + +The spot fraternal love has sacred made, + Solemn, yet sweet, like groves in twilight gloom, +Mem’ry revisits, and beneath its shade + Faintly it sees each faded joy re-bloom. + +By Fancy led, from Death’s cold bed of stone, + Lovely, tho’ wan, what cherish’d form appears? +Oh! gentle Anna[5]! at thy name alone, + Genius, and Grace, and Virtue, smile in tears. + +Half-wrapp’d in mist I see thy figure move, + O’er thy pale cheek appears its wonted smile; +With lunar lustre beam those looks of love, + That once could life of ev’ry care beguile: + +Faintly I hear thy angel-voice again; + There’s music in the sweet and dying sound; +Like Philomela’s soft and echo’d strain, + It spreads a soothing consolation round. + +Adieu, bless’d shade!—Imagination roves + To distant regions, o’er th’ Atlantic wave; +Ah! not to genial skies, or fragrant groves, + To drop a tear upon a kindred grave. + +Hard was thy fate, Eliza[6]!—It was thine, + Tho’ wit thy mind, tho’ beauty grac’d thy form, +Behind Affliction’s weeping cloud to shine, + With star-like radiance, in a night of storm. + +Fierce from the sun the fiery fever flew, + And bade the burning sand become thy tomb! +O’er thee no willow drops its mourning dew, + Nor spotless lilies o’er thy bosom bloom! + +Oh! when we stood around our brother’s bier, + And wept in life’s full bloom to see him torn, +Ah! little did ye think that such a tear + As then ye shed so soon your fate would mourn. + +Farewell, dear shades! accept this mournful song, + At once the tribute of my grief and love; +Fain would it try your virtues to prolong, + Here priz’d and honour’d, and now bless’d above. + + [5] Mrs. Hodges, a sister of the author. + + [6] Mrs Fountaine, another sister of the author, who accompanied her + husband to Africa, and died at the Government-house, in one of the + British settlements on that coast, where she survived but a short time + the death of three of her children. + + + + +ECHO. + +Echo! thou sweet enchantress of the grove! +Oh! cease to answer to the tones of love; +Or teach my Delia in thine art divine, +Thou loveliest nymph! to hear and answer mine! + + + + +OCCASIONAL LINES + +_Repeated at an elegant Entertainment_ + +GIVEN BY LIEUTENANT-COLONEL D—— TO HIS FRIENDS +IN THE RUINS OF BERRY CASTLE, DEVONSHIRE.[7] + +By your permission, Ladies! I address ye, +And for the boon you grant, my Muse shall bless ye. +I do not mean in solemn verse to tell +What fate the race of Pomeroy befell; +To trace the castle-story of each year, +To learn how many owls have hooted here; +What was the weight of stone, which form’d this pile, +Will on your lovely cheeks awake no smile: +Such antiquarian sermons suit not me, +Nor any soul who loves festivity. +Past times I heed not; be the present hour +In life, while yet it blooms, my chosen flow’r, +For well I know, what Time cannot disown, +Amidst this mossy pile of mould’ring stone, +That Hospitality was never seen +To spread more social joy upon the green; +Or, when its noble and capacious hall +Rang with the gambol gay, or graceful ball, +More beauty never charm’d its ancient beaux +Than what its honour’d ruins now enclose. +Thanks to the clouds, which from the soaking show’r +Preserve the vot’ries of the present hour; +For, strange to tell, beneath the chilling storm, +Lately the rose reclin’d her frozen form; +Yet since, beneath the favour of the weather, +We are (a laughing group) conven’d together, +Pray let the Muse pursue her merry route, +To shew what pass’d before we all set out. +To some fair damsel, who, intent to charm, +Declares she thinks the weather fine and warm, +Such words as these address her trembling ear— +“I really think we shall have rain, my dear; +Pray do not go, my love,” cries soft mama; +“You shall not go, that’s flat,” cries stern papa. +A lucky sunbeam shines on the discourse, +The parents soften, and Miss mounts her horse. +Each tickled with some laugh-inspiring notion, +Behold the jocund party all in motion: +Some by a rattling buggy are befriended, +Some mount the cart—but not to be suspended. +The mourning-coach[8] is wisely counter-order’d +(The very thought on impious rashness border’d), +Because the luckless vehicle, one night, +Put all its merry mourners in a fright, +Who, to conduct them to the masquerade, +Sought from its crazy wheels their moving aid. +Us’d to a soleme pace, the creaking load +Bounded unwillingly along the road; +Down came the whole—oh! what a sight was there! +O’er a blind Fiddler roll’d a Flow’r-Nymph fair; +A glitt’ring Spaniard, who had lost his nose, +Roar’d out, “Oh! d—n it, take away your toes;” +A blooming Nun fell plump upon a Jew, +Still to the good old cause of traffic true, +Buried in clothes, exclaim’d the son of barter, +“Got blesh my shoul! you’ll shell this pretty garter?” +Here let me pause;—the Muse, in sad affright, +Turns from the dire disasters of that night; +Quite panic-struck she drops her trembling plumes, +And thus a moralizing theme assumes:— +Know, gentle Ladies, once these shapeless walls, +O’er whose grey wreck the shading ivy crawls, +Compos’d a graceful mansion, whose fair mould +Led from the road the trav’ller, to behold. +Oft, when the morning ting’d the redd’ning skies, +Far off the spiral smoke was seen to rise; +At noon the hospitable board was spread, +Then nappy ale made light the weary head; +And when grey eve appear’d, in shadows damp, +Each casement glitter’d with th’ enliv’ning lamp; +Here the laugh titter’d, there the lute of Love +Fill’d with its melody the moon-light grove: +All, all are fled!—Time ruthless stalks around, +And bends the crumbling ruin to the ground: +Time, Ladies, too (I know you do not like him, +And, if a fan could end him, you would strike him), +Will with as little gallantry devour +From your fair faces their bewitching pow’r; +Then, like these ruins, beauteous in decay, +Still shall you charm, and men shall still obey: +Then, with remembrance soft, and tender smile, +Perchance you’ll think upon this mossy pile; +And, with a starting tear of joy declare, +“Oh! how we laugh’d, how merry were we there!” + + [7] The manor of Berry was given by William the Conqueror to one of + his Normans, Ralph de la Pomerai, who built on it the castle which + still bears his name, and in whose family it continued till the reign + of Edward VI. when it was sold by Sir Thomas Pomeroy to Edward + Seymour, Duke of Somerset, from whom it has descended to the present + Duke. + The castle is seated upon a rock, which rises almost + perpendicularly from a narrow valley; through this valley winds a + small stream of water, which drives the mill seen through the + foliage of the surrounding woods from the turrets of the castle. + In approaching the castle from the south, the path leads down the + side of a hill through a thick wood; and on the north side of the + valley, opposite the rock on which the castle stands, is a high + ridge, partly covered with oak: these hills completely shut in the + ruins on both sides. The valley stretches a considerable way both + to the east and west, and opens a view at either end into the + adjacent country. + From the ivy-covered ruins of the fortress which now remain, it is + scarcely possible to say what was its ancient form; but it is most + generally supposed to have been quadrangular, having only one + entrance, a large double portcullis, at the west end of the + southern front, turreted and embattled, as was the whole of the + front, with a tower at its eastern end, corresponding with that on + the west. This front, with its gateway and turrets, are perhaps the + only remains of the original structure. Winding steps, now almost + worn away, lead to what once was a chapel, over the portcullis, and + thence to the top of the turrets. + In more modern times a magnificent building was erected within the + walls of the castle by the Seymour family; but, although upwards of + £20,000 were said to have been expended on it, it was never + finished, and now the whole forms one common ruin, which, as it + totters on it base, the spectator contemplates with awe, while he + sighs over the remains of fallen grandeur. + + [8] A party from Totness went to Lord Courtenay’s masquerade in this + way, there being no other conveyance to be had, and met with the + ridiculous accident here alluded to. + + + + +LINES + +TO SIR ROBERT KER PORTER, +KNIGHT OF THE IMPERIAL ORDER OF ST. JOACHIM, + +_Upon his approaching Nuptials with the Princess Shebatoff_. + +To save the credit of the dame, + Poets and painters all agree + That Mistress Fortune cannot see, +And on her bandage cast the blame; + +When honours on th’ unworthy wait, + When riches to the wealthy flow, + When high desert, oppress’d by woe, +Is left to struggle on with Fate. + +But, Porter! when on thee she smil’d, + The fillet from her eyes she mov’d, + To view the merit all approv’d— +A mind inform’d, a heart unsoil’d. + +She saw thy virtues bright appear; + A son that mothers seldom know, + A brother with affection’s glow, +The soldier brave[9], the friend sincere. + +With honours then thy name she grac’d, + And call’d on Love to bless thy arms + With princely rank, with Virtue’s charms, +And all the pow’rs of wit and taste. + + [9] Sir R.K. Porter was attached to the staff in the late campaign in + Spain, and was in nearly every engagement with the enemy. + + + + +THE FOLLOWING LINES IN FRENCH, + +_Are inscribed upon the Pedestal of a Statue of Cupid_, + +IN A GARDEN AT UTRECHT. + +_ORIGINAL_. + + N’offrant qu’un cœur à la Beauté, + Nud comme la Verité, + Sans armes comme l’Innocence, + Sans aîles comme la Constance, + Tel fut l’Amour dans le siecle d’or, +On ne le trouve plus, quoiqu’on le cherche encore. + +_TRANSLATION_. + +To Beauty give your heart, your sighs, +No other off’ring will she prize; +As Truth should unadorn’d appear, +Behold! the god is naked here! +Like Innocence, he has no arms +But those of sweet, of native, charms; +No wish or pow’r has he to fly, +Like thy pure spirit, Constancy! +Such in the golden age was Love; +But now, oh! whither does he rove? + + + + +THE RHINGAU SONG. + +This is the favourite Song with the Inhabitants of the vine-covered +Region of the Rhingau, an extensive District along the Banks of the +Rhine, where the finest Wines are produced. + +_ORIGINAL_. + +Bekrantzt mit laub den liebe vollen becher, + Und trinkt ihn frölich leer; +In Gauz Europa ihr herren zecher, + Ist solch, ein wein micht mehr. + +Ihn bringt das vaterland aus seiner fulle, + Wie wär er sonst so gut? +Wie wär er sonst so edel, stille, + Und doch voll kraft und muth? + +Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsre reben: + Gesegnet sey der Rhein! +Da wachsen sie am ufer hin, und geben + Uns diesen labe wein. + +So trinkt ihn dann, und lasst uns alle wege + Uns freun, und frölich seyn; +Und wüsten wir, wo jemand traurig läge, + Wir gaben ihm den wein. + +_TRANSLATION_. + +With wine-leaves crown the jovial cup, + For, search all Europe round, +You’ll say, as pleas’d you drink it up, + Such wine was never found. + Such wine, &c. + +Our fathers’ land this vine supplies; + What soil can e’er produce +But this, tho’ warm’d with genial skies, + Such mild, such gen’rous juice? + Such mild, &c. + +Then shall the Rhine our smiles receive, + For on its banks alone +Can e’er be found a wine to give + The soul its proper tone. + The soul, &c. + +Come, put the jovial cup around, + Our joys it will enhance, +If any one is mournful found, + One sip shall make him dance. + One sip, &c. + + + + +LINES TO HEALTH, + +_Upon the Recovery of a Friend from a dangerous Illness_. + +Sweet guardian of the rosy cheek! + Whene’er to thee I raise my hands +Upon the mountain’s breezy peak, + Or on the yellow winding sands, + +If thou hast deign’d, by Pity mov’d, + This fev’rish phantom to prolong, +I’ve touch’d my lute, for ever lov’d, + And bless’d thee with its earliest song! + +And oh! if in thy gentle ear + Its simple notes have sounded sweet, +May the soft breeze, to thee so dear, + Now bear them to thy rose-wreath’d seat! + +For thou hast dried the dew of grief, + And Friendship feels new ecstacy: +To Pollio thou hast stretch’d relief, + And, raising him, hast cherish’d me. + +So, whilst some treasur’d plant receives + Th’ admiring florist’s partial show’r, +The drops that tremble from its leaves + Oft feed some near uncultur’d flow’r. + +For late connubial Fondness hung + Mute o’er the couch where Pollio lay; +Love, Hope, and Sorrow, fixed her tongue, + Thro’ sable night till morning grey. + +There, too, by drooping Pollio’s side, + Stood Modesty, a mourner meek, +Whilst Genius, mov’d by grief and pride, + Increas’d the blush which grac’d her cheek; + +For much the maiden he reprov’d + For having spread her veil of snow +Upon the mind he form’d and lov’d, + Till she was seen to mourn it too. + +O Health! when thou art fled, how vain + The witchery of earth and skies, +Love’s look, or music’s sweetest strain, + Or Ocean’s softest lullabies! + +Oh! ever hover near his bow’r, + There let thy fav’rite sylphs repair; +Fence it with ev’ry sweet-lipp’d flow’r, + That Sickness find no entrance there. + +So shall his lyre, untouch’d so long, + The tone with which it charm’d regain; +Sweet spirit! thou shall teach his song, + With mine, to breathe the grateful strain. + + + + +AN IRISH SONG + +Poor Molly O’Flannagan (Lord rest her soul!) +Drank so deeply of whiskey, ’twas thought she would die; +Her fond lover, Pat, from her _nate_ cabin stole, +And stepp’d into Dublin to buy her a pie. + Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan! + +Tho’ chin-deep in sorrow, yet fun he lov’d well; +A pie-man pass’d near, crying “Pies” at his _aise_; +“Here are pies of all sorts.”—“Oh! if all sorts you sell, +Then a _twopenny magpie_ for me, if you _plaise_!” + Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan! + + + + +THE SONG OF GRIEF + +By the walk of the willows I pour’d out my theme, +The breath of the evening scarce dimpled the stream; +By the waters I stood, like an image of Woe, +And my tears, like the tide, seem’d to tremble and flow. + +Ye green scatter’d reeds, that half lean to the wave, +In your plaintive, your musical, sighs, could ye save +But one note of my charmer, to soften my doom, +I would stay till these willows should arch me a tomb! + +For ye know, when I pour’d out my soul on the lute, +How she hung down her head, so expressively mute! +From my hand she would take it, still breathing my pain; +She would touch it—return it—and smile at the strain. + +Ye wild blooming flow’rs, that enamel this brink, +Like me could ye feel, and like me could ye think, +How sadly would droop ev’ry beautiful leaf! +How soon would your sweetness be wasted with grief! + +She is gone, in a cloud, like the star of the night! +She has left me, heart-broken, to mourn at her flight,— +To think of the hours she endear’d by her love. +To sigh till again I shall join her above! + + + + +LINES + +UPON HEARING MISS —— SING AT AN EVENING PARTY. + +THE NIGHTINGALE’S COMPLAINT. + +The Moon had bespangled the murmuring wave, +The dew-drop had moisten’d the moss of the cave, +The summer night-breeze, like a sigh, was just heard, +When thus flow’d the strains of the dark-warbling bird: + +“I hear a strange melody breathe thro’ the grove, +Now swelling with joy, and now melting with love; +Tho’ sweet is the sound, yet it should not invade, +Unbidden, my lonely dominion of shade. + +“As long as the stars that now twinkle shall shine, +This willow’s my throne, and all nature is mine: +Perchance ’tis the breeze on your desolate lute; +Its strings are now sighing, so long that were mute. + +“Ah! no, silly bird that I am! shall I grieve? +Shall Envy alarm, and shall Folly deceive? +’Tis the voice of Eliza! I hear it again, +Enraptur’d I hear it, nor envy the strain.” +Then Philomel flutter’d with tremulous wing +To Eliza—more happy to listen than sing! + + + + +LOVE AND THE SPRING-FLOWER. + +’Tis pity, ev’ry maiden knows, +Just as she cools, Love warmer grows; +But, if the chill be too severe, +Trust me, he’ll wither in a tear. + +Thus will the spring-flow’r bud and blow, +Wrapp’d round in many a fold of snow; +But, if an ice-wind pierce the sky, +’Twill drop upon its bed, and die! + + + + +LINES + +UPON THE REV. MR. C——’S IMPROMPTU COMPOSITIONS +OF SOME OF BOWLES’S SONNETS. + +No sweeter verse did e’er inspire +A kindred Muse with all its fire; +Nor sweeter strains could Music lend, +To sooth the sorrows of her friend. + +Associate Genius bids them flow +With sounds that give a charm to woe; +We weep as tho’ it were our own, +As if our hearts were play’d upon. + + + + +SONNET. + +The leaves are flutter’d by no tell-tale gales, + Clear melts the azure in the rosy west, +Scarce heard, the river winds along the vales, + And Eve has lull’d the vocal grove to rest. + +To yon thick elms, my Delia! let us rove, + As slow the glories of the day retire; +There to thy lute breathe dulcet notes of love, + While thro’ the vale they linger and expire. + +Those honey’d tones, that melt upon the tongue,— + Thy looks, serener than the scenes I sing,— +Thy chaste desires, which angels might have sung, + Alone can quiet in this bosom bring, +Which burns for thee, and, kindled by thine eyes, + Bears a pure flame—the flame that never dies! + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN AT KILKENNY, +ON THE THEATRICALS OF THAT CITY. + +Amid the ruins of monastic gloom, + Where Nore’s meand’ring waters wind along, +Genius and Wealth have rais’d the tasteful dome, + Yet not alone for Fashion’s brilliant throng;— + +In Virtue’s cause they take a noble aim; + ’Tis theirs in sweetest harmony to blend +Wit with Compassion, Sympathy with Fame, + Pleasure the means, Beneficence the end[10]. + +There, if on Beauty’s cheek the tear appears + (Form’d by the mournful Muse’s mimic sigh), +Fast as it falls, a kindred drop it bears, + More sadly shed from genuine Misery. + +Nor, if the laughter-loving Nymph delight, + Does the reviving transport perish there; +Still, still, with Pity’s radiance doubly bright, + Its smiles shed sunshine on the cheek of Care. + +So, if Pomona’s golden fruit descend, + Shook by some breeze, into the lake below, +Quick will the dimple, which it forms, extend, + Till all around the joyous circles flow. + +Bless’d be the liberal mind, th’ undaunted zeal, + That bade loud Folly from the Stage retire; +That teach us how to think, and how to feel, + And once again our godlike Bard admire! + +Thus aided, see his rescued genius spring; + Again he pours the phrenzy of his song; +With EV’RY FEATHER[11] in his eagle wing, + Once more in majesty he soars along. + +Oft, deck’d with smiles, his spirit shall explore, + Erin! thy beauteous vales and classic ground; +And ev’ry ripple of thy winding Nore + To him shall sweetly as his Avon’s sound. + +22_d Oct._ 1805. + + [10] The theatricals of Kilkenny are supported by gentlemen of rank + and fashion in Ireland, and the profits are applied to charitable + purposes. + + [11] Alluding to several fine passages of Shakspeare, which have been + long omitted in representation, but restored at the theatricals of + Kilkenny. + + + + +EPIGRAM, + +UPON SEEING THE DILAPIDATED STATE OF +_BETHLEM HOSPITAL_. + +Well with the _purpose_ does the _place_ agree; +For e’en the very house is _crack’d_, you see. + + + + +EPIGRAM + +ON THE GRAVE OF ROBESPIERRE. + +_ORIGINAL_. + +Passant, ne pleure point son sort; +Car, s’il vivait, tu serais mort. + +_TRANSLATION_. + +Nay, passenger, don’t mourn his lot; +If he had liv’d, why you had not. + + + + +AN INDIAN MASSACRE-SONG. + +See, the waves clasp the Sun, as he sinks from our sight, +And Despair sullen rides on the wings of the night; +Lo! he comes, and reproaches our arms with delay,— +Then arise, let us go where Revenge points the way! + +In the deed should we fall, (since who’ll e’er breathe a slave?) +Our free souls shall repose in the realms of the brave; +In the song we shall live, and fresh heroes inspire, +While the son shall exult in the fate of his sire. + +Then know, ye white race! ye too long shake the rod; +By this arm ye shall soon be dismiss’d to your God! +Then demand, if he bade ye torment, why he gave +All the soul of a man to the breast of a slave? + +Then prepare; know our hatchets atone for our wrong, +And our hearts, like our hatchets, are stubborn and strong: +Sleep your last! ye no more shall the morning survey, +Nor shall sorrow arise with the break of the day. + +Yes, remember the lashes that pierc’d thro’ our flesh! +See the wounds of our fathers; they open afresh! +In the winds, hark! blue Avrin attends to our call; +I, your chief, will be first in your glories, or fall! + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN ON DELIA, LISTENING TO HER CANARY-BIRD. + +When thoughtless Delia unconcern’d surveys + Her plumy captive, as he leans to sing, +Lo! while she smiles, the fascination stays + The little heaven of its airy wing. + +Ah! so she tastes the sorrows I impart, + Smiles at the sound, but never feels my pain; +And many a glance deludes my captive heart + To sigh in numbers, tho’ I sigh in vain! + + + + +THE HECTIC. + +Upon the breezy cliff’s impending brow, + With trembling step, the Hectic paus’d awhile; +As round his wasted form the sea-breeze blew, + His flush’d cheek brighten’d with a transient smile: + +Refresh’d and cherish’d by its balmy breath, + He dreamt of future bliss, of years to come; +Whilst, with a look of woe, the spectre, Death, + Oft shook his head, and pointed to his tomb. + +Such sounds as these escap’d his lab’ring breast:— + “Sweet Health! thou wilt revisit this sad frame; +Slumber shall bid these aching eyelids rest, + And I shall live for love, perchance for fame.” +Ah! poor enthusiast!—in the day’s decline +A mournful knell was heard, and it was thine! + + + + +VERSES TO MISS M. G——, + +ACCOMPANIED WITH A DRIED HELIOTROPE, + +_Which she had presented to the Author a Year before_. + +Time, since thou gav’st this flow’r to me, + Has often turn’d his glass of sand; +Perchance ’tis now unknown to thee + That once its breath perfum’d thy hand. + +Oh, lovely maid! that thou may’st see + How much thy gifts my care engage, +I’ve sent the cherish’d flow’r to thee + Without a blemish, but from age. + +Kiss but its leaves;—one kiss from thee, + And all its sweetness ’twill regain; +And, if I live in memory + Thus honour’d, send it back again! + + + + +LINES + +TO MRS. B——, AT BRISTOL HOT WELLS + +Tho’ nought, amid these darkened groves, + But various groups of death appear, +Scar’d at the sight, tho’ fly the Loves, + And Sickness saddens all the year, + +Yet, Clara, where you deign to stay, + Your sense and manners charm us so, +E’en sick’ning Sorrow’s self looks gay, + And smiles amid the wreck of woe. + + + + +LINES + +TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH, +UPON THE PRINTS + +_From her beautiful Drawings of the Birth and Triumph of Cupid_. + +Once, for a palace, Painting left her grove, + And taught her royal fav’rite’s hand to trace +A beauteous maiden’s tale of little Love, + His silken wings, soft limbs, and laughing face! + +Then Nature wept o’er each expressive line, + To think the sweet creation so confin’d, +That such a boy, so fair, and so divine, + Was but the playful prattler of her mind; + +And had he near the royal easel flown, + And seen the features of this mimic brother, +He would have known the portrait for his own, + And claim’d the beauteous painter for his mother. + + + + +EPITAPH + +TO THE MEMORY OF A WORTHY MAN, +_THE REV. MR. SLEEP_, +CURATE OF KINGSWEAR CHURCH, DEVON, + +_Whose devotional Elocution was remarkably impregnated with soporific +Qualities_. + +Reader! since Parson Sleep is gone, +And lies beneath yon humble stone, +Whene’er to Kingswear Church we go, + Holy the sabbath-day to keep +(Indeed ’tis right it should be so), + We never more shall go to _sleep_. + + + + +LINES, + +SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A FEMALE FRIEND, + +_Upon an Infant recommended to her Care by its dying Mother_. + +Bless’d be thy slumbers, little love! + Unconscious of the ills so near; +May no rude noise thy dreams remote, + Or prompt the artless early tear;— + +For she who gave thee life is gone, + Whose trust it was thy life to rear, +Now in the cold and mould’ring stone + Calls for that artless early tear. + +Sleep on, thou little dreamer! sleep; + For, long as I shall tarry here, +I’ll soothe thee; thou shalt never weep, + Tho’ flows for thee the tend’rest tear. + +Then be thy gentle visions blest, + Nor e’er thy bosom know that fear, +Which thro’ the night disturbs my rest, + And prompts Affection’s trembling tear. + + + + +LINES + +ON THE CALEDONIAN HARP BEING SUCCEEDED +BY THE HIGHLAND BAGPIPES. + +In days that long have glided by, +Beneath keen Scotia’s weeping sky, +On many a hill of purple heath, +In many a gloomy glen beneath, +The wand’ring Lyrist once was known +To pour his harp’s entrancing tone. +Then, when the castle’s rocky form +Rose ’mid the dark surrounding storm, +The Harper had a sacred seat, +Whence he might breathe his wild notes sweet. +Oh! then, when many a twinkling star +Shone in the azure vault afar, +And mute was ev’ry mountain-bird, +Soft music from the harp was heard; +And when the morning’s blushes shed +On hill, or tow’r, their varying red, +Oh! then the harp was heard to cheer, +With earliest sound, th’ enraptur’d ear; +Then many a lady fair was known, +With snowy hand, to wake its tone; +And infant fingers press’d the string, +And back recoil’d, to hear it sing. +Sweet instrument! such was thy pow’r, +’Twas thine to gladden ev’ry hour; +The young and old then honour’d thee, +And smil’d to hear thy melody. + + Alas! as Time has turn’d to dust +The temple fair, the beauteous bust, +Thou too hast mark’d his frowning brow; +No Highland echo knows thee now: +A savage has usurp’d thy place, +Once fill’d by thee with ev’ry grace; +Th’ inflated Pipe, with swinish drone, +Calls forth applauses once thine own. + + + + +A SONG. + +When stormy show’rs from Heav’n descend, +And with their weight the lily bend, +The Sun will soon his aid bestow, +And drink the drops that laid it low. + +Oh! thus, when sorrow wrings the heart, +A sigh may rise, a tear may start; +Pity shall soon the face impress +With all its looks of happiness. + + + + +VERSES + +ON AN AUTUMNAL LEAF. + +Think not, thou pride of Summer’s softest strain! + Sweet dress of Nature, in her virgin bloom! +That thou hast flutter’d to the breeze in vain, + Or unlamented found thy native tomb. + +The Muse, who sought thee in the whisp’ring shade, + When scarce one roving breeze was on the wing, +With tones of genuine grief beholds thee fade, + And asks thy quick return in earliest Spring. + +I mark’d the victim of the wintry hour, + I heard the winds breathe sad a fun’ral sigh, +When the lone warbler, from his fav’rite bow’r, + Pour’d forth his pensive song to see thee die;— + +When, in his little temple, colder grown, + He saw its sides of green to yellow grow, +And mourn’d his little roof, around him blown, + Or toss’d in beauteous ruin on the snow; + +And vow’d, throughout the dreary day to come, + (More sad by far than summer’s gloomiest night), +That not one note should charm the leafless gloom, + But silent Sorrow should attend thy flight. + + + + +SONG. + +THE WORDS ADAPTED TO “THE COSSAKA,” + +_One of the most ancient of the Russ Airs_. + +Has Time a changeling made of thee? +Oh! no; and thou art all to me: +He bares the forest, but his pow’rs + Impair not love like ours. + +Tho’ sever’d from each other’s sight, +When once we meet we shall unite, +As dew-drops down the lily run, + And, touching, blend in one. + +For thee this bosom learnt to grieve, +Another never made it heave; +When present, oh! it was thy throne, + And, absent, thine alone. + +Then may my trembling pilgrim feet +In safety find thy lov’d retreat! +And, if I’m doom’d to drop with care, + Still let me perish there! + + + + +TO MISS ATKINSON, + +ON THE EXTREME DIFFIDENCE WHICH SHE +DISPLAYS TO STRANGERS. + +Just as a fawn, in forest shade, + Trembling to meet th’ admiring eye, +I’ve seen thee try to hide, sweet maid! + Thy charms behind thy modesty. + +Thus too I’ve seen at midnight steal + A fleecy cloud before the wind, +And veil, tho’ it could not conceal, + The brilliant light that shone behind. + + + + +LINES + +Upon reading the Journal of a Friend’s Tour into Scotland, in which the +picturesque Scenery and the Character of the People are fairly and +liberally stated. + +Much injur’d, Scotia! was thy genuine worth, +When late the[12] surly Rambler wandered forth + In brown[13] surtout, with ragged staff, + Enough to make a savage laugh! +And sent the faithless legend from his hand, +That Want and Famine scour’d thy bladeless land, + +That with thee Nature wore a wrinkled face, +That not a leaf e’er shed its sylvan grace, + But, harden’d by their northern wind, + Rude, deceitful, and unkind, +Thy half-cloth’d sons their oaten cake denied, +Victims at once of penury and pride. + +Happy for thee! a lib’ral Briton here, +Gentle yet shrewd, tho’ learned not severe. + Fairly thy merit dares impart, + Asserts thy hospitable heart, +Proves that luxuriance smiles upon thy plains, +And wit and valour grace thy hardy swains. + + [12] Dr. Johnson, author of the Rambler. + + [13] Alluding to his dress, as described by Mr. Boswell. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN UPON A HILL, + +_On leaving the Country_. + +Ah! sweet romantic spot, adieu! +Ere your green fields again I view, +These looks may change their youthful hue. + +Dependence sternly bids me part +From all that ye, lov’d scenes! impart, +Far from my treasure and my heart. + +Tho’ winter shall your bloom invade, +Fancy may visit ev’ry shade, +Each bow’r shall kiss the wand’ring maid. + +To busier scenes of life I fly, +Where many smile, where many sigh, +As Chance, not Worth, turns up the die. + + + + +BANKRUPTCY RENDERED EASY. + +The Cit, relying on his trade, +Which, like all other things, may fade, + Longs for a curricle and villa: +This Hatchet splendidly supplies, +The other Cock’ril builds, or buys, + To charm himself and Miss Hautilla. + +Then swift, O London! he retires, +To be, from all thy smoke and spires, + From Saturday till Sunday, merry: +On Sunday crowds of friends attend; +His house and garden some commend, + And all admire his port and sherry. + +His mistress urg’d him now to play, +And cut to wealth a shorter way, + Now as a bride she heads his table; +But still our Cit observ’d his time. +Returning at St. Cripple’s chime, + At least as near as he was able. + +But soon _she_ could not bear the sight +Of town; for walls with bow’rs unite, + As well as smoke with country breezes; +Without the keenest grief and pride +_He_ could not quit his _mares_, and _bride_: + We yield as soon as passion seizes. + +The clock no more his herald prov’d; +Tuesday, nay Wednesday, morn have mov’d, + Ere trembling shopmen saw their master: +Observing neighbours whisper’d round, +That ease might do, with plenty crown’d; + If not, that ruin came the faster. + +His cash grew scarce, his business still, +At variance were his books and till + (For wolves devour when shepherds slumber); +His creditors around him pour, +Seize all his horses, household store, + And only give him up the lumber! + + + + +LINES + +_Written at the Sea-Side in Devonshire_, + +IN THE MONTH OF NOVEMBER, +WHEN THE SHIPS FROM NEWFOUNDLAND RETURN. + +Still Summer lingers on these peaceful shores, + Nor yet she quits her rose-erected bow’r; +Tho’ oft in many a dew-drop she explores + Her beauties fading in each passing hour! + +Tho’ Winter’s boist’rous child, November, strays + Amid those scenes that wak’d the poet’s lyre, +Shakes his green canopy, and loves to raise, + Of sapless leaves, an altar for his sire. + +Soon shall his wild and stormy sway be o’er; + These lovely scenes shall feel his shortest reign; +And thou, sweet Summer! charming as before, + Shall but retire to dress thyself again. + +Yet Heaven guides, full provident and kind, + With sweet economy, the source of joy, +From grief extracts some comfort for the mind, + And fresh hopes flatter ere the lost annoy. + +See where Connubial Love yon rock ascends, + To hail each sail, while fav’ring breezes blow; +There many an hour she o’er the margin bends, + Her bosom trembling like the floods below. + +Nearer the ocean’s graceful burden glides; + Cleav’d by its prow, the lines of water yield: +While adverse mountains, with protective sides, + The Heav’n-directed wand’ring seaman shield. + +The anchor dropp’d, he springs upon the shore, + His wife and children press to meet his kiss; +Half-told, a thousand things they prattle o’er, + And, safe at home, renew their former bliss. + + + + +EPIGRAM, + +ON WINNING A YOUNG LADY’S MONEY AT CARDS. + +How fairly Fortune all her gifts imparts; +We win your money, Ann, and you our hearts. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN IN A FINE WINTER’S DAY, + +_At the Shooting-Box of my Friend, W. Cope, Esq_. + +NEAR ORPINGTON, KENT. + +Tho’ leafless are the woods, tho’ flow’rs no more, +In beauty blushing, spread their fragrant store, +Yet still ’tis sweet to quit the crowded scene, +And rove with Nature, tho’ no longer green; +For Winter bids her winds so softly blow, +That, cold and famine scorning, even now +The feather’d warblers still delight the ear, +And all of Summer, but her leaves, is here. +Here, on this winding garden’s sloping bound, +’Tis sweet to listen to each rustic sound, +The distant dog-bark, and the rippling rill, +Or catch the sparkling of the water-mill. +The tranquil scene each tender feeling moves; +As the eye rests on Holwood’s naked groves, +A tear bedims the sight for Chatham’s son, +For him whose god-like eloquence could stun, +Like some vast cat’ract, Faction’s clam’rous tongue, +Or by its sweetness charm, like Virgil’s song, +For him, whose mighty spirit rous’d afar +Europe’s plum’d legions to the hallow’d war; +But who, ah! hapless tale! could not inspire +Their recreant chiefs with his heroic fire; +Who, as _they_ pass’d the tyrant Conqu’ror’s yoke, +Felt, as the bolt of Heav’n, the ruthless stroke; +And having long, in vain, the tempest brav’d, +Could breathe no longer in a world enslav’d. + + + + +LINES ON A LITTLE BIRD + +_Singing at the Window of the Author_, + +SOON AFTER THE DEATH OF A BELOVED SISTER. + +Go, little flutt’rer! seek thy feather’d loves, + And leave a wretched mourner to his woe; +Seek out the bow’rs of bliss, seek happier groves, + Nor here unheeded let thy music flow. + +Yet think me not ungrateful for thy song, + If meant to cheer me in my lone retreat; +Ah! not to thee, my little friend! belong + The pow’rs to soothe the pangs of adverse fate. + +Fly, then! the window of the wretched, fly! + And be thy harmless life for ever blest; +I only can reward thee with a sigh, + And wish that joys may crown thy peaceful nest. + + + + +EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. + +By painful sickness long severely prest, +Here sinks, on Nature’s sacred lap of rest, +A friend, who, in a life too short, display’d +A mind in virtue bright, without one shade. +Hence with unusual grief is Fondness mov’d, +Hence more than Pity’s sighs for one belov’d; +Unshaken Honour sheds a manly tear, +And weeping Virtue stops, a mourner here. + + + + +LINES + +TO THE MEMORY OF AN AMIABLE YOUTH, +OF GREAT PROMISE, + +Whose afflicted Parents received the Intelligence of his having been +drowned, at the very time when his Arrival was expected from abroad. + +Dire were the horrors of that ruthless storm, + That for young Lycid form’d a wat’ry grave; +Oh! many wept to see his fainting form + Unaided sink beneath th’ o’erwhelming wave. + +Ah! hapless youth! yet, tho’ the billowy waste + Has thus, with ruthless fury, snatch’d away +Thy various charms, thy genius, wit, and taste, + From those who fondly watch’d their rich display,— + +Their cherish’d, lov’d, impression still shall last; + Mem’ry shall ride triumphant o’er the storm, +Shall shield thy gen’rous virtues from the blast, + And Fancy animate again thy form. + +Yes, gentle youth! to her, tho’ little known, + Save by the rich effusions of thy lyre, +Th’ admiring Muse shall breathe a mournful tone, + And sounds of grief shall o’er the floods expire. + +But, far more grateful to thy pensive shade, + Parental Fondness mourns her Lycid gone, +Lycid! who to her bosom oft convey’d + The liveliest joys to tend’rest feelings known. + +For her the lustre of the dawning day, + With all its charms, no longer yields delight; +And silent sorrow marks its parting ray, + And saddens ev’ry vision of the night. + +Oh! what ecstatic joys inspir’d her breast, + When, fast advancing to thy native shore, +She thought she saw thee in the bay at rest, + And now in fancy heard th’ approaching oar. + +Oh! sad reverse! The dire delusive wind, + Which promis’d fair to bring thee to her breast, +Thy youthful honours to the wave consign’d, + And bore thy spirit to the realms of rest + +Ah! had the song of ancient Bard been true, + Had Genius still the pow’r to soothe the storm, +Harmless had been each blast that round thee blew, + And safe and sacred, ’midst its rage, thy form. + +What tho’ no marble urn thy relics hold, + Where grief at midnight hour may sit and sigh, +Like gem in amber, Fancy shall enfold + Thy relics in each wave that murmurs by. + +Still shall she listen to thy glowing song, + And dwell with rapture on each vivid line, +Shall round thy lyre, neglected and unstrung, + Of sweetest flow’rs a fun’ral wreath entwine. + +Ah! since thy tuneful song no more shall flow, + Nor here again thy op’ning virtues shine, +May those who, Lycid! lov’d thee living, know + To bear the sorrows of a loss like thine! + +And, while they linger yet another hour + On life’s extended, tempest-beaten, strand, +Waiting the gale that shall convey them o’er, + To hail their Lycid in a happier land, + +Oh! may religion lull each sigh to rest, + Teach them a God, in mercy rob’d, to praise, +To know that ev’ry act of his is best, + And, tho’ mysterious, still to prize his ways! + + + + +EPIGRAM + +ON THE AUTHOR AND ELIZA FREQUENTLY DIFFERING IN OPINION. + +To such extremes were I and Bet + Perpetually driven, +We quarrell’d every time we met, + To kiss, and be forgiven. + + + + +LINES + +TO MY MOTHER, + +_On her attaining her 70th Year_. + +Oh! with what genuine pleasure do I trace +Each line of that long-lov’d, accustom’d, face, +Where Time, as if enchanted, and imprest +With all the virtues of thy peaceful breast, +Tho’ sev’nty varied years have roll’d away, +Still loves to linger, and, with soft decay, +Permits thy cheek to wear a healthy bloom, +In all the grace of age, without its gloom. + + So on some sacred temple’s mossy walls, +With feath’ry force, the snow of winter falls! +Yes, venerable parent! may I long +Thus happy hail thee with an annual song. +Till, having clos’d thine eyes in such soft rest +As infants feel when to the bosom prest, +Angels shall bear thy spotless soul away +To realms of pure delight and endless day! + + + + +LINES TO SELINA + +’Twas when the leaves were yellow turn’d, + Selina, with the gentlest sigh, +Exclaim’d, “For you I long have burn’d, + For you alone, my love! I’ll die.” + +Unthinking youth! I thought her true, + And, when the trees grew white with snow, +The wint’ry wind with music blew, + So did her love upon me grow. + +The Spring had scarce unlock’d her store, + When lo! in much ungentle strain, +She bade me think of her no more, + She bade me never love again. + +Then did my heart at once reply, + “If you are false, who can be true? +There’s nothing here deserves a sigh, + Take this, the last, ’tis heav’d for you.” + +Ah! fickle fair! amid the scene + That giddy pleasure may prepare, +A pensive thought shall intervene, + And touch your wand’ring heart with care. + +And when, alone, at eve you rove, + Where arm in arm we oft have mov’d, +Each Zephyr in the well-known grove + Shall whisper that we once have lov’d. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE, +AT DRONNINGAARD, NEAR COPENHAGEN. + +Delicious gloom! asylum of repose! + Within your verdant shades, your tranquil bound, +A wretched fugitive[14], oppress’d by woes, + The balm of peace, that long had left him, found. + +Ne’er does the trump of war disturb this grove; + Throughout its deep recess the warbling bird +Discourses sweetly of its happy lore, + Or distant sounds of rural joy are heard. + +Life’s checquer’d scene is softly pictur’d here; + Here the proud moss-rose spreads its transient pride; +Close by, the willow drops a dewy tear, + And gaudy flow’rs the modest lily hide. + +Alas! poor Hermit! happy had it been + For thee, if in these shades thy days had past, +If, well contented with the happy scene, + Thou ne’er again had fac’d life’s stormy blast! + +And Pity oft shall shed the gen’rous tear + O’er the sad moral which thy days disclose; +There view how restless is our nature here, + How strangely hostile to its own repose. + + [14] Dronningaard is the first private residence in Denmark: it + belongs to the wealthy family of the De Conincks. The grounds, which + are very extensive, and tastefully laid out, slope down to a noble + lake, twelve English miles in circumference, which is skirted with + fine woods and romantic country-houses. At the end of a beautiful walk + is an elegant marble column, with a tablet, on which is inscribed by + Mr. D.C. “This monument is erected in gratitude to a mild and + beneficent Government, under whose auspices I enjoy the blessings that + surround me.” In another part of the grounds, in a spot of deep + seclusion, are the ruins of a Hermitage; and a little further, in a + nook, an open grave and tombstone. The story connected with this + retired spot deserves to be mentioned:—Time has shed many snows upon + the romantic beauties of Dronningaard, since one, who, weary of the + pomp of courts and the tumult of camps, in the prime of life, covered + with honours and with fortune, sought from its hospitable owner + permission to raise a sequestered cell, in which he might pass the + remainder of his days in all the austerities and privations of an + Anchorite. This singular man had, long previously to the revolution in + Holland, distinguished himself at the head of his regiment, when, in + an unhappy moment, the love of aggrandizement took possession of his + heart, and, marrying under its influence, misery soon followed; and + here, in a little wood of tall firs, he raised this simple fabric: + moss warmed it within, and the bark of the birch defended it without; + a stream of rock-water once flowed in a bed of pebbles before the + door, in which the young willow dipped its leaves; and, at a little + distance from a bed of wild roses, the labernum gracefully rose, and + suspended her yellow flowers; and adjoining was a spot which the + Recluse had selected for his grave, of which, like the monks of La + Trappe, he dug a small portion every day until he had finished it. He + composed his Epitaph in French, and had it inscribed on a stone. If + the reader is as much interested as I was in the history of the poor + Hermit, he will be pleased with the translation of it, which follows, + from the pen of my respected and distinguished friend, William Hayley, + Esq. In this solitude he passed several years, when the plan of his + life became suddenly reversed by a letter of recall, which he received + from his Prince, containing the most flattering expressions of regard. + He obeyed the summons, returned to Holland, and at the head of his + regiment most gallantly fought and fell. + +THE HERMIT’S EPITAPH. + +Here may he rest, who, shunning scenes of strife, +Enjoy’d at Dronningaard a Hermit’s life: +The faithless splendour of a court he knew, + And all the ardour of the tented field, +Soft Passion’s idler charm, not less untrue, + And all that listless Luxury can yield. +He tasted, tender Love! thy chatter sweet; +Thy promis’d happiness prov’d mere deceit. +To Hymen’s hallow’d fane by Reason led, + He deem’d the path he trod the path of bliss; +Oh! ever-mourn’d mistake! from int’rest bred, + Its dupe was plung’d in misery’s abyss: +But Friendship offer’d him, benignant pow’r! +Her cheering hand, in trouble’s darkest hour: +Beside this shaded stream, her soothing voice +Bade the disconsolate again rejoice: + Peace in his heart revives, serenely sweet; +The calm content, so sought for as his choice, + Quits him no more in this belov’d retreat. + + + + +LINES TO MISS E. ATKINSON, + +ON HER PRESENTING THE AUTHOR WITH AN IRISH PEBBLE. + +Oft does the lucid pebble shine, + Just cover’d by the murm’ring sea; +Thus precious, thus conceal’d, it shews, + Fair maid! thy mind and modesty. + +If searching eyes the stone discern, + Quick will the hand of Art remove +Each ruder part, till, brilliant grown, + It seals the fond record of love. + +And here the sweet connexion ends, + + Eliza! ’twixt the gem and thee; +For thou wast polish’d from the first, + By Nature’s hand, more happily! + + + + +THE WATER-NYMPH OF THE ROCK. + +[The French is by Bosquillon, which I translated as under, in a +beautiful Swedish island in the Baltic, as I sat by the side of a fine +clear stream of rock-water.] + +_ORIGINAL_. + +La nymphe qui donne de cette eau +Au plus creux de rocher se cache, +Suivez un example si beau: +Donnez sans vouloir qu’on le sache. + +_TRANSLATION_. + +The nymph, to whom this stream you owe, + Conceals herself in caves of stone: +Like her your benefits bestow; + Give, without wishing to be known. + + + + +LINES + +UPON MADEMOISELLE DELPHINE SAULOT + +_Singing some equisite Airs_ + +IN THE GARDENS OF MOUSSEAU, NEAR PARIS. + +In Mousseau’s sweet Arcadian dale + Fair Delphine pours the plaintive strain; +She charms the list’ning nightingale, + And seems th’ enchantress of the plain. + +Bless’d be those lips, to music dear; + Sweet songstress! never may they move +But with such sounds, to soothe the ear, + And melt the yielding heart to love. + +May sorrow never bid them pour + From the torn heart one suff’ring sigh; +But be thy life a fragrant flow’r, + Blooming beneath a cloudless sky! + + + + +IMPROMPTU TO MADAME C—— + +WRITTEN AT PARIS, + +Upon her appearing equally modestly and elegantly dressed, amidst the +Semi-Nakedness of the Rest of the Female Fashionables. + +Whilst, in a dress that one might swear +The whole was made of woven air, +Pert Fashion spreads her senseless sway +Over the giddy and the gay +(Who think, by showing all their charms, +Lovers will fly into their arms), +In thee shall Wit and Virtue find +A friend more genial to their mind; +And Modesty shall gain in thee +A surer, chaster, victory. + + + + +SONNET + +UPON A SWEDISH COTTAGE, + +_Written on the Road_, + +WITHIN A FEW MILES OF STOCKHOLM. + +Here, far from all the pomp Ambition seeks, + Much sought, but only whilst untasted prais’d, +Content and Innocence, with rosy cheeks, + Enjoy the simple shed their hands have rais’d. + +On a gray rock it stands, whose fretted base + The distant cat’ract’s murm’ring waters lave, +Whilst o’er its mossy roof, with varying grace, + The slender branches of the white birch wave. + +Around the forest-fir is heard to sigh, + On which the pensive ear delights to dwell, +Whilst, as the gazing trav’ller passes by, + The gray goat, starting, sounds his tinkling bell. +Oh! in my native land, ere life’s decline, +May such a spot, so wild, so sweet, be mine! + + + + +LINES + +TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. B—— + +Ah, stranger! if thy pilgrim footsteps love, + By meditation led, to wander here, +A suff’ring husband may thy pity move, + Who weeps the loss of all his soul holds dear! + +Cold as this mourning marble is that heart, + Which Virtue warm’d with pure and gen’rous heat, +Which to each checquer’d scene could joy impart, + Nor ceas’d to love until it ceas’d to beat. + +Yet, gentle spirit! o’er thine early grave + Shall Consolation, like a seraph, prove, +When Sickness clos’d thy faultless life, she gave + Another angel to the realms above! + + + + +STATE TRICKS + +_Or a Peep into the Cabinet of the Premier Consul_, + +AT ST. CLOUD, + +ON THE NIGHT OF THE 26th OCT. 1803. + +—“they show an outward hideousness, +And speak off half a dozen dang’rous words, +How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst; +And this is all.” + +MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, Act V. Scene 4. + +FIRST CONSUL. + +My dear Talleyrand! I am sorry to send +For you out of your bed; but you know you’re my friend: +No secret I hide from your generous breast; +This invasion is always _invading my rest_: +My soldiers, poor devils! are ready to start, +But to stay where I am is the wish of my heart; +And yet I have sworn at their head to appear: +I am puzzl’d to act ’twixt my threats and my fear; +If I go, I am lost!—say, what shall I do? + +TALLEYRAND. + +Why I think I’ve a snug little project in view: +I have felt for you long, and have ransack’d my brain +To relieve you from so much embarrassing pain. +To-morrow our principal tools shall repair +To this spot, to implore you to stay where you are: +Little Jancourt, you know, has a tear at command, +The rest shall have muslin-wrapp’d onions in hand; +An expedient which you, my good Consul, must try, +For a drop never yet wag observ’d in your eye! +And therefore I think ’twould be better for you +The largest to pluck from the beds of St Cloud. +When these fellows appear, they shall fall at your feet, +Portalis shall pen a few words to repeat; +He shall state ’tis the nation’s imperial will +That you do not your _dangerous promise_ fulfil; +But snug in this closet put all into motion, +Nor hazard your life with these sons of the ocean. +_You_ shall say, “I have sworn by my glory to go;” } +_They_ shall all of them blubber out “No, no, no, no!} +It must not, thou world’s second saviour! be so. } +If you go, mighty Chieftain! and should not escape, +All Gallia, the world, will be cover’d with crape[15]! +Oh! stay where you are; on our knees we implore!” +Then, apparently chok’d, they shall utter no more. +When thrice sixty seconds have nearly expir’d +(Now mind, my dear Consul, and do as desir’d), +You must mimic some hero you’ve seen at the play, +Of the tragical cast, when his soul melts away +(And, without any compliment ’twixt you and I, +You re’lly have talents and pow’rs very high, +To make the most striking tragedian alive). +But now to the point. You must tenderly strive +To raise these sweet prostrates; then, heaving a sigh, +And wiping the drops that shall stand in each eye, +Like one sorely cross’d, you shall, weeping, exclaim, +“Oh! why do you tear me from conquest and fame? +But still, if the nation commands me, ’tis fit” +(Your breast thumping hard) “that its Chief should submit.” +Then you see, if the army of England should sail, +And the schemes of this cursed armada should fail, +In the _Moniteur’s_ faithful official page, +I can humbug the people, and soften their rage; +I will tell them, that, had but the nation permitted +Her Chief to have gone, we had ne’er been outwitted; +That merely the terrible glance of his eye +Would have made all those shop-keeping islanders fly; +This will quiet our friends, and, to harass our foes, +A second invasion I’ll slyly propose, +In which, in the van, Buonaparte shall pour +His vengeance divine on that mercantile shore. +Not that I, my dear Premier! conceive ’twould be right +To renew with these cursed tough fellows the fight; +But our people ’twill please, until some new occasion +Shall call from this project the eye of the nation. + +FIRST CONSUL. + +It will do, it will do, my dear Tally! thy brain +Has my terrors remov’d, and “a man I’m again.” +I will rise with the dawn, for this scene to prepare; +Denon, with his crayons, so swift shall be there; +The Parisians the subject with rapture will trace +In my Nosegay[16]; I’ll hang it up full in their face. +I embrace thee, my dear little Tal! with delight; +_Ca ira! Ca ira_! Thy hand, and good night. + +[The First Consul is said to have enjoyed half an hour’s uninterrupted +repose that night. What followed, the next day, all Europe knows, and +all Europe laughs at.] + + [15] Black crape and the bolt of Heaven are the favourite rhetorical + figures of Napoleon the First. + + [16] “Nosegay”—The anti-chamber of the Hall of the Arts in the Louvre, + in which there are many fine paintings, is called, by the Parisians, + Buonaparte’s Nosegay. + + + + +LINES + +TO MISS CHINNERY, OF GILLWELL-HOUSE, + +_Upon her appearing in a Dress_ + +WITH MAY-FLOWERS AND LEAVES TASTEFULLY DISPLAYED. + +Tell me what taught thee to display + A choice so sweet, and yet so rare, +To prize the modest buds of May + Beyond the diamond’s prouder glare? + +Say, was the grateful pref’rence paid + To Nature, since, with skill divine, +So many fairy charms she made, + To grace her fav’rite Caroline? + +Or was it Taste that bade thee try + How soon the richest gem must yield, +In beauty and attractive die, + To this wild blossom of the field? + +Whate’er the cause, in Nature’s glow + Well does the choice thyself pourtray; +Thine innocence the blossoms show, + Thy youth the green leaves well display. + + + + +SONG. + +Ah! if my voice is heard in vain, + This fond, this falling, tear +May yet thy dire intent restrain, + May yet dissolve my fear. + +Th’ unsparing wound that lays thee low + Will bend thy Julia too: +Could she survive the fatal blow + Who only lives in you? + + + + +LINES + +TO MRS. A. CLARKE. + +Within his cold and cheerless cell, +I heard the sighing Censor tell + That ev’ry charm of life was gone, +That ev’ry noble virtue long +Had ceas’d to wake the Minstrel’s song, + And Vice triumphant stood alone. + +“Poor gloomy reas’ner! come with me; +Smooth each dark frown, and thou shall see + Thy tale is but a mournful dream; +I’ll show thee scenes to yield delight, +I’ll show thee forms in Virtue bright, + Illum’d by Heav’n’s unclouded beam. + +“See Clarke, with ev’ry goodness grac’d, +Her mind the seat of Wit and Taste; + Tho’ Wealth invites to Pleasure’s bow’r, +See her the haunts of Woe descend; +Of many a friendless wretch the friend, + Pleas’d she exerts sweet Pity’s pow’r. + +“See her, with parent patriot care, +The infant orphan-mind prepare, + Assur’d, without Instruction’s aid, +The proudest nation soon will show +A wasted form, a hectic glow, + A robb’d, diseas’d, revolting, shade. + +“See her with Prince-like spirit pour +On genuine worth her ample store[17]; + See her, by ev’ry gentle art, +Protect the plant she loves to rear, +And, as she bathes it with a tear, + Grateful it twines around her heart. + +“And there are more, of kindred mind;”— +When, with a face more bland and kind, + The Sage, in soften’d tone, replied: +“’Twas Error made to me the den +More grateful than the haunts of men; + Henceforth mankind shall be my pride.” + + [17] This alludes to a munificent donation of a very handsome fortune, + which this Lady presented, without any claim of consanguinity or + connexion, to a young Lady of great merit. + + + + +LINES + +_To the Tune of “Oh! Lady fair! where art thou going_?” + +Sing, bird of grief! still eve descending, +And soothe a mind with sorrow rending; +Ne’er may I see the blush of morrow, +But close this night the sigh of sorrow; + +Then, if some wand’rer here directed +Shall find my mossy grave neglected, +May he replace the weed that’s growing +With the nearest flow’r that’s blowing! + + + + +IMPROMPTU LINES + +UPON A VERY HANDSOME WOMAN + +_Keeping the Hotel de Lion Blanc, at Dantzig_. + +The sign of the house should be chang’d, I’ll be sworn, + Where enchanted we find so much beauty and grace; +Then quick from the door let the _lion_ be torn, + And an _angel_ expand her white wings in his place. + + + + +LINES + +UPON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL INFANT SLEEPING ON THE BOSOM OF ITS MOTHER. + +Upon its native pillow dear, + The little slumb’rer finds repose; +His fragrant breath eludes the ear— + A zephyr passing o’er a rose. + +Yet soon from that pure spot of rest + + (Love’s little throne!) shalt thou be torn; +Time hovers o’er thy downy nest, + To crown thy baby-brow with thorn. + +Ah! thoughtless! couldst thou now but see + On what a world thou soon must move, +Or taste the cup prepar’d for thee + Of grief, lost hopes, or widow’d love, + +Ne’er from that breast thou’d’st raise thine head, + But thou would’st breathe to Heav’n a pray’r +To let thee, ere thy blossom fade, + In one fond sigh exhale thee there. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN AT FREDENSBORG, + +_The deserted Palace of the late Queen Dowager Juliana Maria_[18]. + + Bless’d are the steps of Virtue’s queen! + Where’er she moves fresh roses bloom; +And, when she droops, kind Nature pours +Her genuine tears in gentle show’rs, + That love to dew the willow green + That over-canopies her tomb. + + But, ah! no willing mourner here + Attends to tell the tale of woe: +Why is yon statue prostrate thrown? +Why has the grass green’d o’er the stone? + Why, ’gainst the spider’d casement drear, + So sullen seems the wind to blow? + + How mournful was the lonely bird, + Within yon dark neglected grove! +Say, was it fancy? From its throat +Issu’d a strange and cheerless note; + ’Twas not so sad as grief I heard, + Nor yet so wildly sweet as love. + + In the deep gloom of yonder dell + Ambition’s blood-stain’d victims sigh’d; +While Time beholds, without a tear, +Fell Desolation hov’ring near, + Whose angry blushes seem to tell. + Here Juliana shudd’ring died! + + [18] This palace, called the Mansion of Peace, is in the road and near + to Elsineur; it was the retreat of the ambitious and remorseless + Juliana Maria, the mother-in-law of Christian VII. whose intrigues and + jealousy sent Brandt and Struensee to the scaffold, and drove the + unhappy Matilda, the mother of the present King of Denmark, from her + throne, and the arms of her royal husband. Juliana died here. The + palace and grounds, parts of which are beautiful, were, when I visited + them in 1804, much neglected. + + + + +SONG + +Upon the Admiration of the Valour and amiable Qualities of Lord Nelson, +expressed by Junot, now Duke of Abrantes, who, by the Chances of War, +was for a short Time the British Hero’s Prisoner. + +A wreath from an immortal bough +Should deck that gen’rous victor’s brow, +Who hears his captive’s grateful praise +Augment the thanks his country pays; +For him the minstrel’s song shall flow, +The canvass breathe, the marble glow. + + + + +LINES + +UPON A LADY DYING + +_Soon after she had been wrecked on the Cornish Coast_, + +LEAVING A LITTLE INFANT BEHIND HER. + +Sweet stranger! tho’ the merc’less storm +Here sternly cast thy fainting form, +What tho’ no kindred hand was near +To wipe away Affliction’s tear, + +Yet shall thy gentle spirit own, +Amidst these sea-girt shores unknown, +That Pity pour’d her balmy store, +And kindred hands could do no more. + +Ne’er shall that pang disturb thy rest, +That moves the parted mother’s breast; +The object of thy dying fear +Shall want no father’s fondness here. + +Oft shall his little lips proclaim, +With April-tears, thy treasur’d name; +His little hands, when summers bloom, +Shall gather flow’rs to deck thy tomb. + + + + +JEU D’ESPRIT + +UPON A VERY PRETTY WOMAN ASKING THE AUTHOR HIS OPINION OF BEAUTY. + +Madam! you ask what marks for beauty pass: +Require them rather from your looking-glass! + + + + +LINES + +TO THE MEMORY OF ERASMUS, +BY OUDAAN, + +Inscribed on the Pedestal of the Statue raised in Honour of the former, +in Rotterdam. + +[_The Original in Dutch_.] + +_ORIGINAL_. + +Hier rees die groote zon, en ging te Bazel onder! + De Rykstad eer’ en vier’ dien Heilig in zyn grav; + Dit tweede leeven geevt, die’t eerste leeven gav: +Maar ’t ligt der taalen, ’t zout der zeden, ’t heerlyk wonder. + +Waar met de Lievde, en Vreede, en Godgeleerdheid praald, +Word met geen grav gëerd nog met zeen beeld betaald: +Dies moet hier’t lugtgewele Erasmus overdekken, +Nadien geen mind’re plaats zyn tempel kan verstrekken! + +_TRANSLATION_. + +Erasmus, here, the eloquent and wise, + That Sun of Learning! rose, and spread his beam +O’er a benighted world, thro’ low’ring skies, + And shed on Basil’s tow’rs his parting gleam. + +There his great relics lie: he bless’d the place: + No proud preserver of his fame shall prove +The Parian pile, tho’ fraught with sculptur’d grace: + Reader! his mausoleum is above. + + + + +THE FOLLOWING TWO SONGS + +Were written during a Period when it was confidently believed that the +French would invade our Country. + +SONG. + +_To the Tune of “Ye Gentlemen of England_.” + +No gentleman of England now sits at home at ease, +But emulates on shore the heroes of the seas; +A common cause unites them, to meet the daring foe, +All they wish, all they ask, is a fav’ring wind to blow. + +Oh! let them come along, and may no tempests low’r, +But fairly may we try our valour and our pow’r, +That Hist’ry may not say, should these robbers be laid low, +To the storm ’tis alone the victory we owe. + +Soon shall these infidels the dreadful diff’rence prove, +’Twixt slaves impell’d by fear, and freemen bound by love; +Our foes shall never rise again, when once they are laid low, +On the sea, on the shore, for justice strikes the blow. + +SONG. + + When storms on the ocean + Create high emotion, + It pleases the wish + Of the monarch of fish, +For he gambols and sports in the motion. + + Should a shoal of small fry + Attempt to draw nigh, + With a flap of his tail, + Th’ imperial whale +Makes them pay for their rashness, and die. + + Oh! thus, on the seas, + Just with the same ease, + Should the enemy come, + In ship, boat, or bomb, +We will knock them about as we please; + + Till at last they shall cry, + “We are the small fry, + And Britannia’s the whale, + By a flap of whose tail, +If we dare to approach her we die.” + + + + +SONNET, + +Occasioned by reading an Inscription on the Tombstone of Captain +Christensen, of Krajore, in Norway, who died in consequence of the Bite +of his Dog, when it was mad. + +Ah! hapless stranger! who, without a tear, + Can this sad record of thy fate survey? +No angry tempest laid thee breathless here, + Nor hostile sword, nor Nature’s mild decay. + +The fond companion of thy pilgrim feet, + Who watch’d thee in thy sleep, who moan’d if miss’d, +And sprung with such delight his Lord to greet, + Imbu’d with death the hand he oft had kiss’d. + +And here, remov’d from Love’s lamenting eye, + Far from thy native cat’racts’ awful sound, +Far from thy dusky forests’ pensive sigh, + Thy poor remains repose on alien ground; +Yet Pity oft shall sit beside thy stone, +And sigh as tho’ she mourn’d a brother gone. + + + + +IMPROMPTU, + +IN REPLY TO A LADY, + +_Who asked the Author what Childhood resembled_. + +How like is childhood to the lucid tide + That calmly wanders thro’ the mossy dell, +Sweeps o’er the lily by the margin’s side, + And, as it kisses, murmurs out, Farewell! + + + + +LINES + +ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY IN GERMANY, + +_Who, until her Sister, honoured the Author by walking with him in the +Evening_. + +Adieu! dear girl! if we are doom’d to part, +Take with thee, take, the blessing of this heart, +Due to thy gentle mind, and cultur’d sense; +Perhaps ’twill please, but, sure, can’t give offence. +Tho’, when we met, the solar ray was gone, +And on our steps the moon-beam only shone, +Yet well I mark’d thy form and native grace, +And all the sweet expression of thy face; +And pleas’d I listen’d as thy accents fell, +Accents that spoke a feeling mind so well +Lo, when the birds repose at ev’ning hour, +The sweetest of them carols from her bow’r! +So, when the dews the garden’s fragrance close, +The night-flow’r[19] blooms, the rival of the rose! + + [19] One of the creeping cereuses, usually known by the name of the + night-flower, is said to be as grand and as beautiful as any in the + vegetable system. It begins to open in the evening, about seven + o’clock; is in perfection about eleven, perfuming the air to a + considerable distance, and fades about four in the morning. + + + + +LINES TO STUDY. + +O Study! while thy lovers raise +Thy name with all the pow’r of praise, +Frown not, thou nymph with piercing mind! +If in this bosom thou should’st find +That all thy deep, thy brilliant, lore, +Which charm’d it once, now charms no more: +Frown not, if, on thy classic line, +One strange, uncall’d-for, tear should shine; +Frown not, if, when a smile should start, +A sigh should heave an aching heart: +If Mem’ry, roving far away, +Should an unmeaning homage pay, +Should ask thee for thy golden fruit, +And, when thou deign’st to hear her suit, +Should turn her from the proffer’d food, +To tread the shades of Solitude: +Frown not, if, in the humble line, +Ungrac’d by any thought of thine, +Should but that gentle name appear, +Fond cause of ev’ry joy and fear; +I love, tho’ rude, I love it more, +Than all thy piles of letter’d lore: +Frown not if ev’ry airy word, +Which Beauty breathes, or Love has heard, +More rich, more eloquently, flow, +To Mem’ry gives a warmer glow, +Than all by thee so much approv’d, +The wit of age on age improv’d. +Go, then! and, since it is denied +That thou shalt be my radiant guide! +Leave me to sigh, to weep, to prove +How little Learning is to Love. + + + + +SONG. + +Wilt thou, because thy Florio loves, + Forsake the giddy glitt’ring throng, +With him to dwell in peaceful groves, + With him to hear the shepherd’s song? + +Can’st thou, without a sigh, resign + The homage by thy charms inspir’d? +To one, oh! say, can’st thou confine + What oft so many have admir’d? + +Sweet maid! oh! bless’d shall be our love, + Till time shall bid it cease to flow; +With thee shall ev’ry moment prove + A little heaven form’d below! + + + + +THE FURY OF DISCORD + +In a chariot of fire, thro Hell’s flaming arch, + The Fury of Discord appear’d; +A myriad of demons attended her march, + And in Gallia her standard she rear’d. + +Thy name, so enchanting, sweet Freedom! she took, + But in vain did she try to assume +Thy smile of content, thy enlivening look, + And thy roseate mountainous bloom. + +For wan was her visage, and phrensied her eye, + At her girdle a poniard she wore; +Her bosom and limbs were expos’d to the sky, + And her robe was besprinkled with gore. + +Nature shudder’d, and sigh’d as the wild rabble past, + Each flow’r droop’d its beautiful head; +The groves became dusky, and moan’d in the blast, + And Virtue and Innocence fled. + +She rose from her car ’midst the yell of her crew; + Emblazon’d, a scroll she unfurl’d, +And on it the dreams of Philosophy drew; + “’Tis the Charter, she cried, of the World.” + +Plunder, keen-ey’d and lean, rang with plaudits the sky, + Murder grinn’d as he whetted his steel; +While Blasphemy swore the Redeemer on high + Was the creature of Folly and Zeal. + +The scaffold grew red with the blood of the brave, + Kings turn’d pale on their thrones at her nod; +While Loyalty fled to the gloom of the cave, + And Piety knelt to her God. + +At length, after changing her chiefs at her will, + As their mischievous zeal grew remiss, +She sought a fresh fav’rite, with dexterous skill, + From Obscurity’s darkest abyss. + +The pow’rs of her monstrous adoption to try, + ’Midst, Syria! thy waterless waste, +She bade him the blast of thy desert outvie, + And defile all thy relics of taste. + +The chieftain obey’d: with a merciful air + He wrung from thy natives a tear; +But the justice and valour of Britain, e’en there, + Shook his legions, recoiling with fear. + +Well-pleas’d with his crimes, the Fury, with flight, + To her empire safe wafted him o’er; +Whilst the spectres of Jaffa, with ghastly delight, + The murd’rer pursued to the shore. + +Arriv’d, for his brow, lo! a turban she made, + Bright with gems pluck’d from Gallia’s crown; +To give him a name, she Rome’s hist’ry survey’d, + In the days of her early renown. + +To embellish his guilt, or to soften its shade, + The Arts mournful captives she kept; +And the plund’rer and plunder of Europe display’d + To the wand’rer, who wonder’d and wept. + +To support this apostate imperial shade, + This impious mock’ry of good, +She rais’d a banditti, to whom she convey’d + His spirit for plunder and blood. + +The chiefs of the earth in a panic beheld + The flash of his sabre afar; +They enter’d, but pensively mov’d from the field, + And bow’d to this idol of war. + +Till, fum’d with the incense of slavish applause, + O’er the globe’s fairest portion he trod; +And, spurning its liberty, spirit, and laws, + Conceiv’d himself rais’d to a god. + +But England disdain’d to the Tyrant to bend; + Still erect, undismay’d, she was found; +Infuriate, he swore that “his bolt should descend,” + And her temples should fall to the ground. + +Yes, here, if his banner is destin’d to wave, + It shall float o’er her temples laid low, +O’er piles of her children, who, loyal and brave, + Such a victory never will know. + +Oh! banish the thought; for, learn ’tis in vain, + Thus, thou maniac Tyrant, to boast; +As soon shall her base be remov’d by the main, + As her empire by thee and thy host. + +The sound is gone forth, ’tis recorded above, + To the mountain it spread from the vale; +“Our God, and our King, and our Country, we love, + And for them we will die or prevail.” + +Then hasten the day, if thy threat be sincere, + Let the winds blow thy myriads along; +Then soon may thy boasted armada appear, + And our rocks catch thy death-breathing song. + +Thy guardian, foul deity! hideous with crime, + Shall view, as she moves to our shore, +The Genius of Britain, mild, brave, and sublime, + And shall boast her achievements no more. + +Oh! direful and strange will the contest appear, + Big with freedom to nations afar; +The good, who confide, and the guilty, who fear, + Shall join in the conflict of war. + +In Heaven, with smiles, shall the happy and blest + Lean over its bright-beaming walls, +To guide and support to the regions of rest + The soul of the patriot who falls. + +Britannia! thy Muse, on a rock high and steep, + The fate of the fight shall proclaim; +The strings of her lyre Inspiration shall sweep, + Recording each hero by name. + +The world to its centre shall shake with delight, + As thus she announces their fall; +“They sink! our invaders submit to our might, + The ocean has buried them all!” + + + + +LINES TO ANNETTE. + +Canst thou, Annette, thy lover see? + His trembling love unfolded hear? + And mark the while th’ impassion’d tear, +Th’ impassion’d tear of agony? + +Adown his anxious features steal, +Nor then one burst of pity feel? +But, as bereav’d of ev’ry sense, +Look on with cold indifference. +Go, then, Annette, in all thy charms, +Go bless some gayer, happier, arms; +Go, rest secure, thy fear give o’er, +These eyes shall follow thee no more; +And never shall these lips impart +One thought of all that rends my heart. + +Yet, since will burst the frequent sigh, + And since the tear will ever fall, +From thee and from the world I’ll fly; + Deserts shall hide, shall silence, all. + + + + +LINES + +SENT WITH SOME INDIAN ROUGE TO MISS W——. + +Go, faithless bloom! on Delia’s cheek + Your boasted captivations try; +Alas! o’er Nature would you seek + To gain one moment’s victory? +Her softer tint, sweet look, and gentle air, +Shall prove you’re but a vain intruder there. + +But go, display your charms and taste; + Soon shall you blush a richer red, +To find your mimic pow’r surpass’d; + And, whilst upon her cheek you spread +Your vermeil hue, tell her ingenuous heart, +’Tis the first time she ever practis’d art. + + + + +MISS W—— RETURNED THE ROUGE + +_With the following elegant Lines_. + +When men exert their utmost pow’rs, +To while away the tedious hours, + With soothing Flatt’ry’s art, +When ev’ry art and work well skill’d, +And ev’ry look with poison fill’d, + Assail a woman’s heart, + +Tho’ ardently she’d wish to be +Proof ’gainst the charms of Flattery, + The task is hard, I ween; +Self-love will whisper “’Tis quite true, +Who can there be more fair than you? + Who more admir’d, when seen?” + +Then take this tempting gift of thine, +Nor e’er again wish me to shine + In any borrow’d bloom: +Nor rouge, nor compliments, can charm; +Full well I know they both will harm; + Truth is my only plume. + + + + +LINES TO A YOUNG LADY, + +OCCASIONED BY HER DECLINING AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE + +_Made her by a very accomplished Friend of the Author_. + +Oh! form’d to prompt the smile or tear, +At once so sweet, yet so severe! +As much for you as him I grieve; +Ah! thoughtless! if you thus can leave +A mind with wit and learning bright, +Where Temper sheds its cloudless light; +Where manly honour, taste refin’d, +With ev’ry virtue, are combin’d; +If you can quit a heart so true, +Which has so often throbb’d for you, +I’ll pity, tho’ I can’t reprove; +And did I, such is Florio’s love, +Eager he’d fly to take thy part, +E’en in a war against his heart. + + + + +THE MUSHROOM. + +Awake, my Muse! awake each slumb’ring string, +And (mighty subject!) of a Mushroom sing, +Fair to the eye, and pleasant to the taste; +Charm’d by the note, a pigmy group, in haste, +Lay down their grainy loads, as slow they move +Thro’ lanes of reed and grass, to them a grove! +As if an Orpheus thou, they gather round, +Erect their tiny ears, and drink the sound. +Gray was the sky, save where the eastern ray +O’er fragrant hills proclaim’d th’ approaching day; +Rurilla, loveliest virgin of the plain, +With spirits light, and mind without a stain, +Rose from her simple bed, refresh’d with rest; +Ah, Sleep! with marble finger had’st thou prest +Her lovely eyelids till a later hour, +And by a blissful vision’s fairy pow’r +Hadst thou impress’d her mind with forms of love, +The walk at eve, the kiss, the murm’ring dove, +The little nymph had never sought the plain, +Nor fill’d with one romantic thought this brain. +In russet gown, with sweet and simple air, +She issued forth, like Hebe, young and fair, +To neighb’ring field, fresh as the rosy dawn; +Nor stile oppos’d her; like a bounding fawn +Graceful she sprang: so prankish was the air, +Had but the love-sick Daphanel been there, +He would have sigh’d: alas! poor love-sick fool! +Thou rather Zephyr dost inflame than cool! +And now, my Muse, the fatal spot disclose, +Where, bath’d with dew, the modest Mushroom rose. +Less fair the swan, by Richmond’s flow’ry side, +That in the river views herself with pride, +As, gazing on her, some their stay prolong, +To see her sail in majesty along. +Ill-fated child of earth! thy charms so fair, +As oft with youthful beauty, prove thy snare: +Now, as with dewy-spangled feet is seen +The lovely maid to trace each ringlet green, +Not distant far thy skin of velvet white +She views, and to thee presses with delight +Oh! might some deity, with potent arm, +Arrest her flight, and alter ev’ry charm; +Like Niobe dissolve into a tear, +Or like the Delian virgin, when with fear +She fled!—See on each beauteous limb appear +Soft leaves and flow’rs, the sweetest of the year; +And, taking root, spread round her fragrant breath +O’er the fair form that now she dooms to death: +But, ah! in vain, the pray’r no goddess hears; } +She bends—she plucks—and, bath’d in purple tears,} +The much-priz’d victim in her lap she bears! } +Tears that, preserv’d in crystal, will prolong, +And paint its worth beyond this simple song. + + + + +LINES + +Written _en badinage_, after visiting a Paper-Mill near +Tunbridge-Wells, in consequence of the lovely Miss W——, who excels in +Drawing, requesting the Author to describe the Process of making Paper, +in Verse. + +Reader! I do not wish to brag; + But, to display Eliza’s skill, +I’d proudly be the vilest rag + That ever went to paper-mill. + +Content in pieces to be cut; + Tho’ sultry were the summer-skies, +Pleas’d between flannel I’d be put, + And after bath’d in jellied size. + +Tho’ to be squeez’d and hang’d I hate, + For thee, sweet girl! upon my word, +When the stout press had forc’d me flat, + I’d be suspended on a cord. + +And then, when dried and fit for use, + Eliza! I would pray to thee, +If with thy pen thou would’st amuse, + That thou would’st deign to write on me. + +Gad’s bud! how pleasant it would prove + Her pretty chit-chat to convey, +P’rhaps be the record of her love, + Told in some coy enchanting way. + +Or, if her pencil she would try, + On me, oh! may she still imprint +Those forms that fix th’ admiring eye, + Each graceful line, each glowing tint! + +Then shall I reason have to brag, + For thus, to high importance grown, +The world will see a simple rag + Become a treasure rarely known. + + + + +LINES + +TO A PROMISING YOUNG ARTIST. + +These bays be thine; and, tho’ not form’d to shine +Clear as thy colour, faultless as thy line, +Yet shall the Muse essay, in humble verse, +Thy merits, lovely Painting! to rehearse. +As when the demon of the winter storm +Robs each sweet flow’ret of its beauteous form, +The Spirit of the stream, in crystal wave, +Sleeps whilst the chilling blasts above him rave, +Till the Sun spreads his animating fires, +And sullen Darkness from the scene retires, +Then mountain-nymphs discard their robes of snow, +And in green mantles smile in roseate glow, +And rivers, loosen’d from their icy chain, +Spread joy and richness thro’ the verdant plain, +Thus, in those climes where skies are ever fair, +Each infant Science breath’d a genial air, +Climes where the Earth her stores to all resign’d, +Nor left one selfish passion to the mind; +On her green lap the swain reclin’d his head, +And found his banquet where he found his bed. +Then Painting grew, and from the shades of flow’rs[20] +There first essay’d her imitative pow’rs, +When, urg’d by plunder, with the torrent’s might, +Nerv’d by the storm, and harden’d in the fight, +A race barbarian left their forests wild, +And sought the spot where Love and Learning smil’d. +By Taste unsoften’d, these relentless droves +Burst, fair Italia! thro’ thy sacred groves, +Laid ev’ry flow’r of Art and Fancy waste, +And pour’d a winter o’er the realms of Taste, +Each Science trembled at the ruffian sound, +Forsook her shades, and fled her classic ground; +The lofty column prostrate in the dust, +Defac’d the arch, o’erthrown the matchless bust; +The shatter’d fresco animates no more, +And ruthless winds thro’ clefted temples roar! +Florence beheld the scene with sad surprise, +And bade the prostrate pile in grandeur rise. +Then, oh! thou truly “Father of the Art[21]!” +’Twas thine superior vigour to impart; +Illustrious Cimabue! it was thine +To soar beyond Example’s bounded line, +And, as the Heav’n-directed sceptre’s shock, +Produc’d full torrents from the flinty rock, +So streams of taste obey’d thy pencil’s call, +And Nature seem’d to start from out the wall. +Hail, beauteous art! oh! that in equal lay +Could but my Muse thy various pow’rs convey! +’Tis thine with silent eloquence to shew +Passion’s strong image, Beauty’s rapt’rous glow, +To soothe the parted lover’s anxious care, +Who owns thee fairest of thy sisters fair; +When waves divide him, still thro’ thee to trace +The dear resemblance of that cherish’d face, +Which he so oft with trembling lips has prest, +So often gaz’d upon, so often blest! +Thine too it is to seek the verdant plains +Where Peace resides, where Rustic Beauty reigns; +Or bid the torrent on thy canvass roar, +Or calmly spread the yellow winding shore; +Or show, from some vast cliff’s extremest verge, +The frail bark combating the angry surge. +Oft too on some lone turret wilt thou stand, +To trace the fury of th’ embattled band, +To darken with the clouds of death the skies, +And bid the scenes of blood and havoc rise! +Such, and far more, thy pow’rs, bless’d art! to thee +Inferior far descriptive Poesy; +And tho’ sweet Music, when she strikes the strings, +When thro’ the grove with seraph-voice she sings, +The soul, enraptur’d with the thrilling stream, +Would hail the Maid of Harmony supreme! +Yet, while her dulcet sounds enchant, they die;} +So shooting stars illume the midnight sky, } +And, as we wonder, vanish from the eye. } +But when resistless Death, in mournful hour, +Withdraws the drooping painter’s mimic pow’r, +Improv’d by time, his works still charm the sight, +And thro’ successive ages yield delight +Greece early bade the painter’s pencil trace +Each form with force; to force she added grace: +For this her Zeuxis she a garland wove, +For[22] that Apelles won her grateful love. +Chiefly she called on Painting’s magic powers +To deck the guardians of her lofty tow’rs; +Here[23] Jove in lightning show’d his awful mien. +There Venus with her doves was smiling seen! +Till ruthless Time, with unabating flight, +O’er Grecian grandeur flung the shades of night +Long did they settle o’er the darken’d world. +Till Raphael’s hand the sable curtain furl’d; +A pious calm, an elevated grace, +Then on the canvass mark’d th’ Apostle’s face; +Devout applauses ev’ry feature drew, +E’en[24] such as graceful Sculpture never knew. +In nearer times, and on a neighb’ring shore, +Painting but feebly shone, obscur’d by pow’r. +See Rubens’ soul indignantly advance, +Press’d by the pride and vanity of France; +Behold,[25] in fulsome allegory spread, +The gaudy iris o’er the victor’s head! +See Genius, deaf to Nature’s nobler call, +Waste all its strength upon the banner’d hall! +E’en now, tho’ Gallia, in her blood-stain’d car, +Spreads over Europe all the woes of war, +Still with consummate craft she tries to prove +How much the peaceful charms engage her love: +Treasures of art in lengthen’d gall’ries glow, +And[26] Europe’s plunder Europe’s plund’rers show! +Yet of her living artists few can claim +Half the mix’d praise that waits on David’s fame. +Thrice happy Britain! in thy favour’d isle +The sister Arts in health and beauty smile! +Tho’ no Imperial Gall’ries grace thy shores, +Tho’ wealth the public bounty seldom pours, +Yet private taste rewards thy painter’s toil, +And bids his genius grace his native soil. +Bless’d country! here thy artists can supply +Abundant charms to fix th’ admiring eye: +In furtive splendour ne’er art thou array’d, +No plunder’d country mourns thy ruthless blade, +Sees its transported treasures torn away, +To grace a fierce ambitious Tyrant’s sway. +Long in this isle, where Freedom finds repose, +Whilst, raving round her, loud the tempest blows, +Oh! long befriended, may the Arts excel, +And bless the sacred spot they love so well! + + [20] “_Then painting grew, and from the shades_,” &c.—The shadows of + plants, and indeed of every object in Nature, must, at a very early + period, have furnished ideas of imitation. + + [21] _“Then, oh! thou_,” &c.—After the ravages of the northern + barbarians, painting was revived in Italy, about the fourteenth + century, by Cimabue, who was hence styled the Father of Painting. + + [22] “_For that Apelles_,” &c.—Painting attained so great a perfection + amongst the Greeks, under Zeuxis, that Apelles found nothing wanting + but grace, which in those times he bestowed upon the art, as Corregio + did after Raphael. + + [23] “_Here Jove in_,” &c.—The Greeks excelled in the delineation of + their deities, to whom they attributed all the human passions: their + Jupiter they elevated to the highest degree of majesty, their Venus to + the utmost pitch of human beauty. + + [24] “_E’en such as graceful Sculpture_,” &c.—From Cimabue to Raphael, + the painters were employed by the church; and they gave a character to + the Prophets, Apostles, and our Saviour, which was never known to the + ancient sculptors. The power which the former possessed of uniting + dignity to humility is without a parallel. + + [25] “_Behold, in fulsome allegory_,” &c.—As long as the French school + adhered to the principles of the Italian school, it produced many + great masters; however, the art certainly degenerated after Raphael, + by being employed in adulatory allegory, in honour of Princes, as is + to be seen in the works of Rubens and Le Brun at Paris, artists of + great talents, which they were led to misapply, through the supreme + vanity of Louis the Fourteenth. + + [26] “_And Europe’s plunder_,” &c.—Those who have visited the Napoleon + Gallery at Paris can attest the truth of this observation, as those + who are acquainted with the modern state of painting in France well + know, and, knowing, cannot but be surprised at, the small number of + French painters of any tolerable celebrity. + +FINIS. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10367 *** diff --git a/10367-h/10367-h.htm b/10367-h/10367-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9888e05 --- /dev/null +++ b/10367-h/10367-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4621 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems, by Sir John Carr</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +sup { vertical-align: top; font-size: 0.6em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10367 ***</div> + +<h1>Poems</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Sir John Carr</h2> + +<p class="letter"> +Non ulla Musis pagina gratior,<br/> +Quam quae severis ludicra jungere<br/> +Novit, fatigatamque nugis<br/> +Utilibus recreare mentem. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +1809.</p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>POEMS.</h2> + +<h3>DEDICATION.</h3> + +<h5>TO<br/> +LADY WARREN,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +&c. &c. &c.</p> + +<p class="letter"> +<i>MADAM</i>, +</p> + +<p>In dedicating the following Poems to your Ladyship, I cannot help +regretting that they are not more worthy of such an honour; that I +might consequently have used it as an humble mode of expressing +my sense of the happy and enlightened hours which I have passed in +your Ladyship’s society, and of the polite attentions which I +have at various times received from you, and the gallant object of +your connubial affection, particularly at the House of British Embassy +at Petersburgh, where you afforded to the Ladies of the North a just +representation of the dignified virtue, cultivated mind, and +attractive beauty, of the higher order of females of your own country.</p> + +<p>I have the honour to remain,</p> + +<p>Madam,</p> + +<p>Your Ladyship’s</p> + +<p>Obedient faithful Servant,</p> + +<h5>JOHN CARR.</h5> + +<p><i>Temple. June</i> 1809</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>PREFACE.</h2> + +<p>This Volume is submitted to the Public with all that diffidence which +ought to attend the publication of Verses, many of which were written +in the gay and happy era of boyhood, and others in subsequent periods +of maturer life, as a relief from more arduous pursuits.</p> + +<p>They lay no pretensions to the depth and solidity of the effusions of +the Muse in her elevated flights; they are the few wild notes of the +simple shepherd, and do not even affect to imitate the rich cadence of +the scientific musician.</p> + +<p>If the Author might, without the imputation of vanity, select for them +a place in the Temple of Poetry, he would endeavour to class them in +that niche which is appropriated for the reception of the light and +playful <i>Vers de Societé</i>.</p> + +<p>Should the Reader find them but little worthy of his approval, he will +not have reason at the same time to condemn their prolixity: their +brevity will, at least in some degree, atone for their want of fire +and fancy.</p> + +<p>It is thought proper to state that some of the following Poems have +appeared before at various times, in a fugitive shape; and that the +Poetry in the Author’s Tours is here collected.</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>POEMS,</h2> + +<p class="center"> +&c. &c.</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>VERSES</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN IN A GROTTO</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>In a Wood on the Side of the River Dart</i>,</p> + +<p class="center"> +IN DEVONSHIRE. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Tell me, thou grotto! o’er whose brow are seen<br/> +Projecting plumes, and shades of deep’ning green,—<br/> +While not a sound disturbs thy stony hall,<br/> +While all thy dewy drops forget to fall,—<br/> +Why canst thou not thy soothing charms impart,<br/> +And shed thy quiet o’er this beating heart?<br/> +Tell me, thou richly-painted river! tell,<br/> +That on thy mirror’d plane dost mimic well<br/> +Each pendent tree and every distant hill,<br/> +Tipp’d with red lustre, beauteous, bright, and still,—<br/> +Can I not, gazing on thy tranquil tide,<br/> +Shed ev’ry grief upon thy rocky side?<br/> +Or must I rove thy margin, calm and clear,<br/> +The only agitated object near?<br/> +Oh! tell me, too, thou babbling cold cascade!<br/> +Whose waters, falling thro’ successive shade,<br/> +Unspangled by the brightness of the sky,<br/> +Awake each echo to a soft reply,—<br/> +Say, canst thou not my bosom-grief befriend,<br/> +And bid one drop upon my heart descend?<br/> +When all thy songsters soothe themselves to sleep.<br/> +Ah! must these aching eyes for ever weep?<br/> +And must their frequent waters, like thine own,<br/> +Drop, idly drop, on unimpressive stone?<br/> +Or, when my beauteous fair shall deign to grace<br/> +The humid foliage of thy mossy base,<br/> +Canst thou not tell how many a rock below<br/> +Impedes to kiss thy waters as they flow?<br/> +In <i>her</i> mind canst thou not the feeling rear<br/> +To stop, or thus caress, each genuine tear?<br/> +Teach her, oh! teach her, then, thou cold cascade!<br/> +Pour all thy lessons for the lovely maid!<br/> +And thou, bless’d grotto! let thy silence prove<br/> +Her mute consenting answer to my love!<br/> +And thou, bright river! as thou roll’st along,<br/> +Bear on thy wand’ring wave a lover’s song!<br/> +Strong as thy current, as thy waters pure,<br/> +Teach her to feel the passion I endure! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO THE MEMORY OF MY DEAR BROTHER,</h2> + +<h5>W.T.P. CARR, ESQ.</h5> + +<p class="letter"> +—manibus date lilia plenis:<br/> +Purpureos spargam flores.</p> + +<p class="letter"><i>Aeneid</i>, lib. vi.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Tho’ no funereal grandeur swell my song,<br/> +Nor genius, eagle-plum’d, the strain prolong,—<br/> +Tho’ Grief and Nature here alone combine<br/> +To weep, my William! o’er a fate like thine,—<br/> +Yet thy fond pray’r, still ling’ring on my ear,<br/> +Shall force its way thro’ many a gushing tear:<br/> +The Muse, that saw thy op’ning beauties spread,<br/> +That lov’d thee living, shall lament thee dead!<br/> +Ye graceful Virtues! while the note I breathe,<br/> +Of sweetest flow’rs entwine a fun’ral wreath,—<br/> +Of virgin flow’rs, and place them round his tomb,<br/> +To bud, like him, and perish in their bloom!<br/> +Ah! when these eyes saw thee serenely wait<br/> +The last long separating stroke of Fate,—<br/> +When round thy bed a kindred weeping train<br/> +Call’d on thy voice to greet them, but in vain,—<br/> +When o’er thy lips we watch’d thy fault’ring breath—<br/> +When louder grief proclaim’d th’approach of death,—<br/> +Thro’ ev’ry vein an icy horror chill’d,<br/> +Colder than marble ev’ry bosom thrill’d.<br/> +Unsettled still, tho’ exercis’d to grieve,<br/> +Scarce would my mind the alter’d sight believe;<br/> +Familiar scenes a transient calm inspire,<br/> +Poor flutt’ring Fancy fann’d the vain desire,<br/> +’Till with sad proof thy wasted relics rise,<br/> +And restless Nature pours uncall’d-for sighs.<br/> +Ah! long, my William! shall thy picture rest,<br/> +Time shall not wear it, imag’d in my breast;<br/> +Yes, thou shall live while fond remembrance lives,<br/> +’Till he who mourns thee asks the line he gives.<br/> +No common joy, no fugitive delight,<br/> +Regret like this could in my breast excite;<br/> +For then my sorrow had been less severe,<br/> +And tears less copious had bedew’d the bier.<br/> +From the same breast our milky food we drew,<br/> +Entwin’d affection strengthen’d as we grew;<br/> +Why further trace? The flatt’ring dream is o’er—<br/> +Thy transient joys and sorrows are no more!<br/> +All, all are fled!—And, ah! where’er I turn,<br/> +Insulting Death directs me to thy urn,<br/> +Throws his cold shadows round me while I sing.<br/> +Damps ev’ry nerve, and slackens ev’ry string.<br/> +So, when the Moon trims up her waning fire,<br/> +Sweep the night-breezes o’er th’Aeolian lyre;<br/> +Ling’ring, perchance, some wild pathetic sound<br/> +Lulls the lorn ear, and dies along the ground.<br/> +Ye kindred train! who, o’er the parting grave,<br/> +Have mourn’d the virtues which ye could not save.<br/> +Ye know how Mem’ry, with excursive pow’r,<br/> +Extracts a sweet from ev’ry faded hour;—<br/> +From scenes long past, regardless of repose,<br/> +She feeds her tears, and treasures up her woes.<br/> +Thou tuneful, mute, companion<a href="#fn1" name="fnref1" id="fnref1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> of my care!<br/> +Where now thy notes, that linger’d in the air?<br/> +That linger still!—Vain thy harmonious store,—<br/> +Thy sweet persuasive triumphs are no more.<br/> +Thy mournful image strikes my wand’ring eye;<br/> +Sad, near thy silent strings, I sit and sigh.<br/> +Cold is that band which Music form’d her own,<br/> +When ev’ry chord resign’d its sweetest tone.<br/> +Ah! long, fair source of rapture, shall thou rest,<br/> +Silent and sad, neglected and unprest,<br/> +’Till years, lov’d shade! superior pow’rs resign,<br/> +Or raise one note more eloquent than thine.<br/> +Tho’ with’ring Sickness mark’d thee in the womb,<br/> +And form’d thy cradle but to form thy tomb,<br/> +Yet, like a flow’r, she bade thee reach thy prime,<br/> +The fairer victim for the stroke of Time.<br/> +When fond Invention vainly sought thine ease,<br/> +The wave salubrious and the morning breeze,—<br/> +When even Sleep, sweet Sleep! refus’d thy call,<br/> +Sleep! that with sweet refreshment smiles on all,—<br/> +When, till the morn, thine eyes, unclos’d and damp,<br/> +Trac’d thy sad semblance in the glimm’ring lamp,—<br/> +When from thy face Health’s latest relic fled,<br/> +Where Hope might flatter, with reluctant tread,—<br/> +Still, darting forward from the weight of woe,<br/> +Thy soul with all its energy would glow;<br/> +Still with the purest passion wouldst thou prove<br/> +The glow of friendship and the warmth of love.<br/> +And ah! to sacred Memory ever nigh,<br/> +Thy wit and humour claim the passing sigh:<br/> +When, thro’ the hour, with unresisted skill,<br/> +I’ve seen thee mould each feature to thy will,—<br/> +When friends drew round thee with attentive ear,<br/> +Pleas’d with the raill’ry which they could not fear.<br/> +Oh! how I’ve heard thee, with concealing art,<br/> +Join in the song, tho’ sorrow rent thy heart;<br/> +How have I seen thee too, with venial guile,<br/> +O’er many an anguish force the faithless smile,—<br/> +Seen suffering Nature check each sigh, each fear,<br/> +To rob maternal fondness of a tear!<br/> +Alas! those scenes are past!—Vain was the pray’r<br/> +That ask’d of Fate to soften and to spare;<br/> +Ah! vain, if wit and virtue could not save<br/> +Thy youthful honours from an early grave.<br/> +But yet, if here my warm fraternal love<br/> +May claim alliance with the realms above;<br/> +If kindred Nature, with perpetual bloom,<br/> +Transplanted springs, and lives beyond the tomb;<br/> +Thy pitying soul shall smile upon my grief,<br/> +Shall feel a pang that wishes not relief;<br/> +In visions still shall shield me as I go,<br/> +Along this gloomy wilderness of woe;<br/> +Shall still regard me with peculiar pride,<br/> +On earth my brother, and in heav’n my guide!<br/> +Methinks I see thee reach th’ empyrean shore,<br/> +And heav’n’s full chorus hails one angel more;<br/> +While ’mid the seraph-forms that round thee fly,<br/> +Thy father meets thee with ecstatic eye!<br/> +He springs exulting from his throne of rest,<br/> +Extends his arms, and clasps thee to his breast! +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn1" id="fn1"></a> <a href="#fnref1">[1]</a> +The piano-forte, on which he excelled. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>PARODY</h2> + +<h5>ON</h5> + +<p class="center"> +“<i>The Golden Days of good Queen Bess</i>.”</p> + +<p>To my Muse give attention, and deem it not a mystery<br/> +If I jumble up together music, poetry, and history,<br/> +To sing of the vices of wicked Queen Bess, sir,<br/> +Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir,<br/> + Detested be the memory of wicked Queen Bess, sir,<br/> + Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir. +</p> + +<p>In saying she would die a maid, she, England! did amuse ye.<br/> +But what she did, and what she died—I hope you will excuse me:<br/> +A gallant Earl a miracle of passion for her fed, sir;<br/> +She kiss’d him, and she clos’d the scene by striking off his head, sir!<br/> + Detested be, &c. +</p> + +<p>Oh! rude ungrateful Scotland! had thy desolated Queen, sir,<br/> +No blue eyes ever known, nor had she beauteous been, sir,<br/> +The envy of our old rival hag she might have baffled, sir,<br/> +Nor with her guiltless blood have crimson’d o’er the scaffold, sir.<br/> + Detested be, &c. +</p> + +<p>She dress’d just like a porcupine, and din’d just like a pig, sir,<br/> +And an over-running butt of sack she swallow’d at a swig, sir!<br/> +Her brawny maids of honour ate and drank confounded hard, sir,<br/> +And droves of oxen daily bled within her palace-yard, sir!<br/> + Detested be, &c. +</p> + +<p>In ruling she was wonderous tyrannical and surly;<br/> +If a patriot only touch’d on the Queen or Master Burleigh,<br/> +She’d send a file of soldiers in less than half an hour, sir,<br/> +Just to bid him make his speeches to the prisons of the Tow’r, sir!<br/> + Detested be, &c. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>REBECCA,</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>A Ballad</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Rebecca was the fairest maid<br/> +That on the Danube’s borders play’d;<br/> +And many a handsome nobleman<br/> +For her in tilt and tourney ran;<br/> +While fair Rebecca wish’d to see<br/> +What youth her husband was to be.<br/> +<br/> +Rebecca heard the gossips say,<br/> +“Alone from dusk till midnight stay<br/> +Within the church-porch drear and dark,<br/> +Upon the vigil of Saint Mark,<br/> +And, lovely maiden! you shall see<br/> +What youth your husband is to be.”<br/> +<br/> +Rebecca, when the night grew dark,<br/> +Upon the vigil of Saint Mark,<br/> +(Observ’d by Paul, a roguish scout,<br/> +Who guess’d the task she went about,)<br/> +Stepp’d to St Stephen’s Church to see<br/> +What youth her husband was to be.<br/> +<br/> +Rebecca heard the screech-owl cry,<br/> +And saw the black bat round her fly;<br/> +She sat, ’till, wild with fear, at last<br/> +Her blood ran cold, her pulse beat fast;<br/> +And yet, rash maid! she stopp’d to see<br/> +What youth her husband was to be.<br/> +<br/> +Rebecca heard the midnight chime<br/> +Ring out the yawning peal of time,<br/> +When shrouded Paul, unlucky knave!<br/> +Rose like a spectre from the grave;<br/> +And cried, “Fair maiden, come with me.<br/> +For I your bridegroom am to be.”<br/> +<br/> +Rebecca turn’d her head aside,<br/> +Sent forth a hideous shriek, and died!<br/> +While Paul confess’d himself, in vain,<br/> +Rebecca never spoke again!<br/> +Ah! little, hapless maid! did she<br/> +Think Death her bridegroom was to be.<br/> +<br/> +Rebecca! may thy story long<br/> +Instruct the giddy and the young.<br/> +Fright not, fond youths! the timid fair;<br/> +And you too, gentle maids! beware;<br/> +Nor seek by lawless arts to see<br/> +What youths your husbands are to be. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO AN AURICULA, BELONGING TO ——.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Thou rear’st thy beauteous head, sweet flow’r<br/> +Gemm’d by the soft and vernal show’r;<br/> + Its drops still round thee shine:<br/> +The florist views thee with delight;<br/> +And, if so precious in <i>his</i> sight,<br/> + Oh! what art thou in <i>mine</i>?<br/> +<br/> +For she, who nurs’d thy drooping form<br/> +When Winter pour’d her snowy storm,<br/> + Has oft consol’d me too;<br/> +For me a fost’ring tear has shed,—<br/> +She has reviv’d my drooping head,<br/> + And bade me bloom anew.<br/> +<br/> +When adverse Fortune bade us part,<br/> +And grief depress’d my aching heart,<br/> + Like yon reviving ray,<br/> +She from behind the cloud would move,<br/> +And with a stolen look of love<br/> + Would melt my cares away.<br/> +<br/> +Sweet flow’r! supremely dear to me,<br/> +Thy lovely mistress blooms in thee,<br/> + For, tho’ the garden’s pride,<br/> +In beauty’s grace and tint array’d,<br/> +Thou seem’st to court the secret shade,<br/> + Thy modest form to hide.<br/> +<br/> +Oh! crown’d with many a roseate year,<br/> +Bless’d may she be who plac’d thee here,<br/> + Until the tear of love<br/> +Shall tremble in the eye to find<br/> +Her spirit, spotless and refin’d,<br/> + Borne to the realms above!<br/> +<br/> +And oft for thee, sweet child of spring!<br/> +The Muse shall touch her tend’rest string;<br/> + And, as thou rear’st thine head,<br/> +She shall invoke the softest air,<br/> +Or ask the chilling storm to spare,<br/> + And bless thy humble bed. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO LADY WARREN,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>On the Departure of Sir John Borlase Warren, K.B</i>.</p> + +<h5>TO TAKE THE COMMAND OF A SQUADRON.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Oh! why does sorrow shade thy face,<br/> +Where mind and beauty vie with grace?<br/> +Say, dost thou for thy hero weep,<br/> +Who gallantly, upon the deep,<br/> +Is gone to tell the madd’ning foe,<br/> +Tho’ vict’ry laid our Nelson low,<br/> +We still have chiefs as greatly brave,<br/> +Proudly triumphant on the wave?<br/> +Dear to thy Country shalt thou be,<br/> +Fair mourner! and her sympathy<br/> +Is thine; for, in the war’s alarms,<br/> +Thou gav’st thine hero from thine arms;<br/> +And only ask’d to sigh alone,<br/> +To look to heav’n, and weep him gone.<br/> +Oh! soon shall all thy sorrow cease,<br/> +And, to thine aching bosom, peace<br/> +Shall quick return;—another tear<br/> +To love and joy, supremely dear,<br/> +Shall give thy gen’rous mind relief—<br/> +That tear shall gem the laurel leaf. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO MISS ——,<br/> +ACCOMPANIED BY A ROSE AND A LILY.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +I look’d the fragrant garden round<br/> + For what I thought would picture best<br/> + Thy beauty and thy modesty;<br/> +A lily and a rose I found,—<br/> + With kisses on their leaves imprest,<br/> + I send the beauteous pair to thee. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>SONG.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Nature’s imperfect child, to whom<br/> +The world is wrapt in viewless gloom,<br/> +Can unresisted still impart<br/> +The fondest wishes of his heart.<br/> +<br/> +And he, to whose impervious ear<br/> + The sweetest sounds no charms dispense,<br/> +Can bid his inmost soul appear<br/> + In clear, tho’ silent, eloquence.<br/> +<br/> +But we, my Julia, not so blest,<br/> + Are doom’d a diff’rent fate to prove,—<br/> +To feel each joy and hope supprest<br/> + That flow from pure, but hidden, love. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>IMPROMPTU LINES,</h2> + +<h5>UPON ANACREON MOORE’S SAYING THAT HE DISLIKED +SINGING TO MEN.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +By Beauty’s caresses, like Cupid, half-spoil’d,<br/> +Thus Music’s and Poesy’s favourite child<br/> +Exclaim’d,—“’Tis, by Heaven! a terrible thing<br/> +Before a <i>he</i>-party to sit and to sing!”<br/> +“By my shoul! Master Moore, you there may be right,”<br/> +Said a son of green Erin; “tho’ dear to my sight<br/> +Are all the sweet cratures, call’d women, I swear,<br/> +Yet I think we can feel just as well as the fair:<br/> +Tho’ you’d bribe us with songs, blood and ’ounds! let me say,<br/> +I’d not be a woman for one in your way.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO JULIA.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Tho’, Julia, we are doom’d to part,<br/> +Tho’ unknown pangs invade this heart,<br/> +For thee the light of love shall burn,<br/> +To thee my soul in secret turn:<br/> +Upon this bosom, swell’d with care,<br/> +The thought of thee shall tremble there<br/> +’Till Time shall close these weeping eyes,<br/> +And close the soothing source of sighs.<br/> +So, in the silence of the night,<br/> +Shines on the wave the lunar light;<br/> +With its soft image, bright, imprest,<br/> +It heaves, and seems to know no rest:<br/> +Its agitation soon is o’er;<br/> +It sighs, and dies along the shore! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>To the Memory of Mrs. A.H. Holdsworth</i>,</p> + +<h5>LATE OF MOUNT GALPIN, DEVONSHIRE.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Tyrant of all our loves and friendships here,<br/> + Behold thy beauteous victim!—Ah! tis thine<br/> +To rend fond hearts, and start the tend’rest tear<br/> + Where joy should long in cloudless radiance shine.<br/> +<br/> +Alas! the mourning Muse in vain would paint,<br/> + Blest shade! how purely pass’d thy life away,<br/> +Or, with the meekness of a favour’d saint,<br/> + How rose thy spirit to the realms of day.<br/> +<br/> +’Twas thine to fill each part that gladdens life,<br/> + Such as approving angels smile upon;—<br/> +The faultless daughter, parent, friend, and wife,—<br/> + Virtues short-lived! they set just as they shone.<br/> +<br/> +Thus, in the bosom of some winding grove,<br/> + Where oft the pensive melodist retires,<br/> +From his sweet instrument, the note of love,<br/> + Charms the rapt ear, but, as it charms, expires.<br/> +<br/> +Farewell, pure spirit! o’er thine early grave<br/> + Oblivion ne’er shall spread her freezing shade;<br/> +Nature shall bid her richest foliage wave<br/> + Where her reposing fav’rite child is laid.<br/> +<br/> +There widow’d fondness oft, when summers bloom.<br/> + Shall with thy infant pledge of love repair;<br/> +Oft shall they kneel beside thy mossy tomb,<br/> + And tears shall dew the flow’rs that blossom there. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Written upon a Watch-String</i>,</p> + +<h5>MADE AND PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ——.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Say, lovely Charlotte! will you let me prove<br/> +What diff’rent thoughts thy taste and beauty move?<br/> +This woven chain, which graceful skill displays,<br/> + Leads me to think of time, and heave a sigh;<br/> +But when on thee and on thy charms I gaze,<br/> + Time unremember’d moves, or seems to die. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Upon a Diamond Cross</i>,</p> + +<h5>WORN ON HER BOSOM BY MISS C.M.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Well on that neck, sweet Kitty! may you wear<br/> + The sparkling cross, with hopes to soften Heaven;<br/> +For trust me, tho’ so very young and fair,<br/> + Thou hast some little sins to be forgiven:—<br/> +For all the hopes which wit and grace can spread,<br/> + For all the sighs which countless charms can move,<br/> +Fall, lovely Kitty! on thy youthful head;<br/> + Yet fall they gently—for the crime is love. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO FORTUNE,</h2> + +<p class="letter"> +Occasioned by a very amiable and generous Friend of mine +munificently presenting Miss E.S. with a Donation of +Fifteen Thousand Pounds. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Oh, Fortune! I have seen thee shed<br/> + A plenteous show’r of treasure down<br/> +On many a weak and worthless head,<br/> + On those who but deserv’d thy frown.<br/> +<br/> +And I have heard, in lonely shade,<br/> + Her sorrows hapless Merit pour;<br/> +And thou hast pass’d the drooping maid,<br/> + To give some pamper’d fav’rite more.<br/> +<br/> +But tho’ so cold, or strangely wild,<br/> + It seems that worth can sometimes move;<br/> +Thou hast on gentle Emma smil’d,<br/> + And thou hast smil’d where all approve:—<br/> +<br/> +For Nature form’d her gen’rous heart<br/> + With ev’ry virtue, pure, refin’d;<br/> +And wit and taste, and grace and art,<br/> + United to illume her mind.<br/> +<br/> +So dew-drops fall on some rare flow’r,<br/> + That merits all their fost’ring care,<br/> +As tho’ they knew that, by their pow’r,<br/> + Grateful ’twould wider scent the air. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>A SONG.</h2> + +<h5>THE LOVER<br/> +THE LUTE OF HIS DECEASED MISTRESS.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Alas! but like a summer’s dream<br/> + All the delight I felt appears,<br/> +While mis’ry’s weeping moments seem<br/> + A ling’ring age of tears.<br/> +<br/> +Then breathe my sorrows, plaintive lute!<br/> + And pour thy soft consoling tone,<br/> +While I, a list’ning mourner mute,<br/> + Will call each tender grief my own. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN IN A COTTAGE BY THE SEA-SIDE</h5> + +<p class="center"> +(<i>In which the Author had taken Shelter during a violent Storm</i>), +</p> + +<h5>UPON SEEING AN IDIOTIC YOUTH SEATED IN THE CHIMNEY-CORNER, CARESSING A +BROOM.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +’Twas on a night of wildest storms,<br/> + When loudly roar’d the raving main,—<br/> +When dark clouds shew’d their shapeless forms,<br/> + And hail beat hard the cottage pane,—<br/> +<br/> +Tom Fool sat by the chimney-side,<br/> + With open mouth and staring eyes;<br/> +A batter’d broom was all his pride,—<br/> + It was his wife, his child, his prize!<br/> +<br/> +Alike to him if tempests howl,<br/> + Or summer beam its sweetest day;<br/> +For still is pleas’d the silly soul,<br/> + And still he laughs the hours away.<br/> +<br/> +Alas! I could not stop the sigh,<br/> + To see him thus so wildly stare,—<br/> +To mark, in ruins, Reason lie,<br/> + Callous alike to joy and care.<br/> +<br/> +God bless thee, thoughtless soul! I cried;<br/> + Yet are thy wants but very few:<br/> +The world’s hard scenes thou ne’er hast tried;<br/> + Its cares and crimes to thee are new.<br/> +<br/> +The hoary hag<a href="#fn2" name="fnref2" id="fnref2"><sup>[2]</sup></a>, who cross’d thee so,<br/> + Did not unkindly vex thy brain;<br/> +Indeed she could not be thy foe,<br/> + To snatch thee thus from grief and pain.<br/> +<br/> +Deceit shall never wring thy heart,<br/> + And baffled hope awake no sighs;<br/> +And true love, harshly forc’d to part,<br/> + Shall never swell with tears thine eyes.<br/> +<br/> +Then long enjoy thy batter’d broom,<br/> + Poor merry fool! and laugh away<br/> +’Till Fate shall bid thy reason bloom<br/> + In blissful scenes of brighter day. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn2" id="fn2"></a> <a href="#fnref2">[2]</a> +It is generally believed by the peasants of Devonshire +that idiotcy is produced by the influence of a witch. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>To a Laurel-Leaf</i>,</p> + +<h5>SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ——.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Tho’ unknown is the hand that bestow’d thee on me,<br/> + Sweet leaf! ev’ry fibre I’ll warm with a kiss:<br/> +With the fame of her beauty thou well dost agree,<br/> + Whose presence shews conquest, whose triumph is bliss! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF LIEUTENANT J——,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Who was killed by a Pistol-Shot</i>,</p> + +<h5>ACCIDENTALLY DISCHARGED BY HIS FRIEND,<br/> +CAPTAIN B——.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +With horror dumb, tho’ guiltless, stood<br/> + Beside his dying friend,<br/> +The hapless wretch who made the blood<br/> + Sad from his side descend!<br/> +<br/> +“Give me thy hand; lov’d friend, adieu!”<br/> + The gen’rous suff’rer cried!<br/> +“I do forgive and bless thee too;”<br/> + And, having said it, died!<br/> +<br/> +And Pity, who stood trembling near<br/> + Knew not for which to shed,<br/> +So claim’d by both, her saddest tear—<br/> + The living or the dead! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO AN ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +Whose Timidity frequently agitated her, when pressed to gratify her<br/> +Friends by her Musical Talents. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +’Tis said (and I believe it too)<br/> + That genuine merit seeks the shade;<br/> +Blushing to think what is her due,<br/> + As of her own sweet pow’rs afraid:—<br/> +<br/> +Thus, lovely maid! on fluttering wings,<br/> + Thy pow’rs a thousand fears pursue,<br/> +Which, like thy own harmonious strings,<br/> + When press’d <i>enchant</i>, and <i>tremble</i> too!<br/> +<br/> +The pity, which we give, you owe,<br/> + For mutual fears on both attend;<br/> +While anxious thus you joy bestow,<br/> + We fear too soon that joy will end! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO MISS L—— D——.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +When Heav’n, sweet Laura! form’d thy mind,<br/> +With genius and with taste refin’d,<br/> + As if the union were too bright,<br/> +It spread the veil of diffidence,<br/> +That ev’ry ray, at first intense,<br/> + Might shine as soft as lunar light.<br/> +<br/> +To frame a form then Nature strove,<br/> +And call’d on Beauty and on Love,<br/> + To lodge the mind they priz’d so well:<br/> +Completed was the fair design;<br/> +Thus blended dew-drops mildly shine<br/> + Within the lily’s spotless bell! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES<a href="#fn3" name="fnref3" id="fnref3"><sup>[3]</sup></a></h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Written in a beautiful Spot</i>,</p> + +<h5>THE FAVOURITE RETREAT OF DELIA.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Streams ever limpid, fresh, and clear,<br/> +Where Delia’s charms renew’d appear,<br/> +Ye flow’rs that touch’d her snowy breast,<br/> +Ye trees whereon she lov’d to rest,<br/> +Ye scenes adorn’d where’er she flies,<br/> +If grief shall close these woe-worn eyes,<br/> +May some kind form, with hand benign,<br/> +My body with this earth enshrine,<br/> +That, when the fairest nymph shall deign<br/> +To visit this delightful plain,<br/> +That, when she views my silent shade,<br/> +And marks the change her love has made,<br/> +The tear may tremble down her face,<br/> +As show’rs the lily’s leaves embrace;<br/> +Then, like the infant at the breast,<br/> +That feels a sorrow unexprest,<br/> +That pang shall gentle Delia know,<br/> +And silent treasure up her woe. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn3" id="fn3"></a> <a href="#fnref3">[3]</a> +I am indebted to Petrarch for some of the imagery +contained in these Lines.</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>VALENTINE VERSES,</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Sent to my young Friend, Miss Emma Trevelyan</i>,</p> + +<h5>OF WALLINGTON-HOUSE, NORTHUMBERLAND.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Emma! ’tis early time for thee<br/> +To hear the sounds of minstrelsy,<br/> +That breathe around the rosy shrine<br/> +Of honest old Saint Valentine.<br/> +<br/> +Too young art thou for strains of love;<br/> +’Tis not thy passion I would move;<br/> +Instead of lover’s strains, I send<br/> +The cordial wishes of a friend.<br/> +<br/> +Nobly has Nature done her duty,<br/> +To give thee of thy mother’s beauty<br/> +So large a share—oh! then be thine<br/> +The mental charms that in her shine!<br/> +<br/> +And may thy father’s taste refin’d<br/> +Still add new graces to thy mind;<br/> +And may’st thou to each charm impart<br/> +The gen’rous frankness of his heart.<br/> +<br/> +Then, my sweet Emma! thou shall move<br/> +In many a heart more genuine love<br/> +Than ever warm’d poetic line,<br/> +Or sigh’d in any Valentine. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN UPON SEEING A BLIND YOUNG WOMAN IN NORTH WALES,</h5> + +<p class="letter"> +Who supports herself, and an aged and infirm Mother, by selling Stockings and +Gloves of her own Knitting, which she offers to Travellers as they pass by; in +doing which she has been known to run close by the Side of a Carriage for +several Miles. +</p> + +<h5>POOR BLIND BET.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +The morning purple on the hill,<br/> + The village spire, the ivy’d tow’r,<br/> +The sparkling wheel of yonder mill,<br/> + The grove, green field, and op’ning flow’r,<br/> + Are lost to thee!<br/> +<br/> +Dark child of Nature, as thou art!<br/> + Yet thy poor bosom heaves no sigh;<br/> +E’en now thy dimpling cheeks impart<br/> + Their knowledge of some pleasure nigh:—<br/> + ’Tis good for thee!<br/> +<br/> +Thou seem’st to say “I’ve sunshine too;<br/> + ’Tis beaming in a spotless breast;<br/> +No shade of guilt obstructs the view,<br/> + And there are many not so blest,<br/> + Who day’s blush see.<br/> +<br/> +“Dear are those eyes, by mine ne’er seen,<br/> + Which I protect from many a tear;<br/> +Kind stranger! ’tis on yonder green<br/> + A mother’s aged form I rear:<br/> + Oh! buy of me!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>UPON SEEING ——</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>At one of the annual Banquets given in Guildhall</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Gorgeous and splendid was the sight;<br/> +From myriad lamps a fairy light<br/> +Enshrin’d in wreaths the Gothic wall,<br/> +And heav’nly music fill’d the hall!<br/> +<br/> +But there was one—(alas! that I<br/> +Had ever seen)—the melody<br/> +Her voice surpassed, and brighter far<br/> +Her eyes than ev’ry mimic star!<br/> +<br/> +I gaz’d, until, oh! thought divine!<br/> +I fancied she I saw was mine;<br/> +But soon the beauteous vision flew—<br/> +The stranger-form I lov’d withdrew.<br/> +<br/> +Yet still she lives within my breast,<br/> +There mem’ry has her form imprest:—<br/> +Thus, when some minstrel’s strain is done,<br/> +Sounds seem to breathe, for ever gone! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>YARRIMORE.</h2> + +<p class="center"> +[These Lines were written for a Lady who set them to Music.]</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +My poor heart flutters like the sea<br/> + Now heaving on the sandy shore;<br/> +It seems to tell me you shall be<br/> + Never again near Yarrimore.<br/> +<br/> +Far, far beyond the waves, I bend<br/> + Mine eyes, if I can land explore;<br/> +But o’er the waves I find no end,—<br/> + Yet there they say’s my Yarrimore.<br/> +<br/> +The hut he built is standing still,<br/> + Deck’d with the shells he cull’d from shore;<br/> +Our bow’r is waving on the hill,<br/> + But where, alas! is Yarrimore?<br/> +<br/> +Within that bow’r I’ll sit and sigh,<br/> + From dawn of day till day is o’er;<br/> +And, as the wild winds o’er me fly,<br/> + I’ll call on gentle Yarrimore! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO MISS ——,</h2> + +<p class="center"> +Upon her appearing at a Ball in an elegant Plaid Dress,</p> + +<h5>AND HAVING REPEATEDLY BEFORE EXPRESSED HER PREFERENCE +OF THE SCOTISH NATION.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Is it that plaided thus you wish to prove<br/> +How northern is the region of your love?<br/> +Ah, Mary! tho’, within that far-fam’d clime,<br/> +Deeds have been done that mock the wreck of Time;<br/> +Tho’ there the brave have bled, or, o’er the wave,<br/> +On distant shores have found a glorious grave;<br/> +Tho’ there the mountain-nymph of song has pour’d<br/> +Her loftiest strain, to bless the hero’s sword;<br/> +Still, lovely wand’rer, with a jealous eye,<br/> +O’er Scotia’s hills we see thy fancy fly;<br/> +For <i>here</i> the warrior oft has rais’d his sword,<br/> +The patriot too his noble blood has pour’d;<br/> +<i>Here</i> too the sweet Recorder of the brave<br/> +Has sat and sung upon her hero’s grave.<br/> +Then cease, romantic maid! ah, cease to rove;<br/> +The very wood-dove loves its native grove:<br/> +Oh! then, let Nature bid thy guileless heart<br/> +Here shed its love, and all its warmth impart;<br/> +And on the land that gave thee birth bestow<br/> +The fondness which it claims, and treasures too. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>A SONG.</h2> + +<h5>TO THE MOON.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Thou, lamp! the gods benignly gave,<br/> + To light a lover on his way;<br/> +Thou, Moon! along the silv’ry wave,<br/> + Ah! safe this flutt’ring heart convey:—<br/> +<br/> +Sweet is thy light, and sweet thy shade,<br/> + The <i>guide</i> and <i>guardian</i> of our bliss,<br/> +A lover’s panting lips to lead,<br/> + Or veil him in the ravish’d kiss.<br/> +<br/>Her white robe floats upon the air;<br/> + + My Lyra hears the dashing oar:<br/> +Ye floods, oh! speed me to my fair!<br/> + My soul is with her long before.<br/> +<br/> +Oh! lightly haste, thy lover view,<br/> + And ev’ry anxious fear resign;<br/> +Ye tow’rs, no longer fear’d, adieu!<br/> + The treasure which ye held is mine! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Upon the Death of the Lady of Lieutenant-Colonel Adams</i>,</p> + +<h5>WHO LATELY DIED OF A DECLINE IN THE EAST INDIES.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +When Time a mellowing tint has thrown<br/> + O’er many a scene to mem’ry dear.<br/> +It scatters round a charm, unknown<br/> + When first th’ impression rested there.<br/> +<br/> +But, oh! should distance intervene,<br/> + Should Ocean’s wave, should changeful clime,<br/> +Divide—how sweeter far the scene!<br/> + How richer ev’ry tint of time!<br/> +<br/> +E’en thus with those (a treasur’d few)<br/> + Who gladden’d life with many a smile,<br/> +Tho’ long has pass’d the sad adieu,<br/> + In thought we love to dwell awhile.<br/> +<br/> +Then with keen eye, and beating heart,<br/> + The anxious mind still seeks relief<br/> +From those who can the tale impart,<br/> + How pass their day, in joy or grief.<br/> +<br/> +If haply health and fortune bless,<br/> + We feel as if on us they shone;<br/> +If sickness and if sorrow press,<br/> + Then feeling makes their woes our own.<br/> +<br/> +’Twas thus of Mira oft I thought,<br/> + Oft dwelt upon the scenes she grac’d:<br/> +Her form in beauty’s mould was wrought,<br/> + Her mind the seat of sense and taste.<br/> +<br/> +Long, hov’ring o’er her fleeting breath,<br/> + Love kept his watch in silent gloom;<br/> +He saw her meekly yield to Death,<br/> + And knelt a mourner at her tomb.<br/> +<br/> +When the night-breeze shall softly blow,<br/> + When the bright moon upon the flood<br/> +Shall spread her beams (a silv’ry show),<br/> + And dark be many a waving wood,—<br/> +<br/> +When, dimly<a href="#fn4" name="fnref4" id="fnref4"><sup>[4]</sup></a> seen, in robes of white,<br/> + A mournful train along the grove<br/> +Shall bear the lamp of sacred light,<br/> + To deck the turf of those they love,—<br/> +<br/> +Then shall the wood-dove quit its bow’r,<br/> + And seek the spot were she is laid;<br/> +Its wild and mournful notes shall pour<br/> + A requiem to her hallow’d shade.<br/> +<br/> +And Friendship oft shall raise the veil<br/> + Time shall have drawn o’er pleasures past,<br/> +And Fancy shall repeat the tale<br/> + Of happy hours, too sweet to last!<br/> +<br/> +But when she mourns o’er Mira’s bier,<br/> + And when the fond illusion ends,<br/> +Oh! then shall fall the genuine tear<br/> + That drops for dear departed friends! +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn4" id="fn4"></a> <a href="#fnref4">[4]</a> +Mr. Hodges, in his Travels in India, page 28, mentions, +that between Banglepoor and Mobgheir, it is the custom of the women of +the family to attend the tombs of their friends after sun-set; and +observes, “it is both affecting and curious to see them proceeding in +groups, carrying lamps in their hands, which they place at the head of +the tomb.”</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO MISS C.</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>On her leaving the Country</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Since Friendship soon must bid a fond adieu,<br/> +And, parting, wish your charms she never knew,<br/> +Dear Laura hear one genuine thought express’d,<br/> +Warm from the heart, and to the heart address’d:—<br/> +Much do I wish you all your soul holds dear,<br/> +To sooth and sweeten ev’ry trouble here;<br/> +But heav’n has yielded such an ample store,<br/> +You cannot ask, nor can I wish you, more;<br/> +Bless’d with a sister’s love, whose gentle mind,<br/> +Still pure tho’ polish’d, virtuous and refin’d,<br/> +Will aid your tend’rer years and innocence<br/> +Beneath the shelter of her riper sense.<br/> +Charm’d with the bright example may you move,<br/> +And, loving, richly copy what you love.<br/> +Adieu! and blame not if an artless pray’r<br/> +Should, self-directed, ask one moment’s care:—<br/> +When years and absence shall their shade extend,<br/> +Reflect who sighs adieu, and call him—friend. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO A ROBIN.</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Written during a severe Winter</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Why, trembling, silent, wand’rer! why,<br/> +From me and Pity do you fly?<br/> +Your little heart against your plumes<br/> +Beats hard—ah! dreary are these glooms!<br/> +Famine has chok’d the note of joy<br/> +That charm’d the roving shepherd-boy.<br/> +Why, wand’rer, do you look so shy?<br/> +And why, when I approach you, fly?<br/> +The crumbs which at your feet I strew<br/> +Are only meant to nourish you;<br/> +They are not thrown with base decoy,<br/> +To rob you of one hour of joy.<br/> +Come, follow to my silent mill,<br/> +That stands beneath yon snow-clad hill;<br/> +There will I house your trembling form,<br/> +There shall your shiv’ring breast be warm:<br/> +And, when your little heart grows strong,<br/> +I’ll ask you for your simple song;<br/> +And, when you will not tarry more,<br/> +Open shall be my wicket-door;<br/> +And freely, when you chirp “adieu,”<br/> +I’ll wish you well, sweet warbler! too;<br/> +I’ll wish you many a summer-hour<br/> +On top of tree, or abbey-tow’r.<br/> +When Spring her wasted form retrieves,<br/> +And gives your little roof its leaves,<br/> +May you (a happy lover) find<br/> +A kindred partner to your mind:<br/> +And when, amid the tangled spray,<br/> +The sun shall shoot a parting ray,<br/> +May all within your mossy nest<br/> +Be safe, be merry, and be blest. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO DELIA,</h2> + +<h5>ON HER WEARING A MUSLIN VEIL.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Say, Delia, why, in muslin shade,<br/> + Ah! say, dost thou conceal those eyes?<br/> +Such little stars were never made,<br/> + I’m sure, to shine thro’ misty skies.<br/> +<br/> +Say, are they wrapt in so much shade,<br/> + That they may more successful rise,<br/> +Starting from such soft ambuscade,<br/> + To catch and kill us by surprise?<br/> +<br/> +Or, of their various pow’rs afraid,<br/> + Is it in mercy to our sighs,<br/> +Lest love, o’er many a heart betray’d,<br/> + Should sob “a faithful vot’ry dies”?<br/> +<br/> +Then, oh! remove the envious shade;<br/> + Let others wear, who want, disguise:<br/> +We all had sooner die, sweet maid,<br/> + To see, than live without, those eyes. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>VERSES</h2> + +<h5>TO THE TOMB OF A FRIEND.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Dearer to me, thou pile of dust!<br/> + Tho’ with the wild flow’r simply crown’d,<br/> +Than the vast dome or beauteous bust,<br/> + By genius form’d, by wit renown’d.<br/> +<br/> +Wave, thou wild flow’r! for ever wave,<br/> + O’er my lov’d relic of delight;<br/> +My tears shall bathe her green-rob’d grave<br/> + More than the dews of heav’n by night.<br/> +<br/> +Methinks my Delia bids me go,<br/> + Says, “Florio, dry that fruitless tear!<br/> +Feed not a wild flow’r with thy woe,<br/> + Thy long-lov’d Delia is not here.<br/> +<br/> +“No drop of feeling from her eye<br/> + Now starts to hear thy sorrows speak;<br/> +And, did thy bosom know one joy,<br/> + No smile would bloom upon her cheek.<br/> +<br/> +“Pale, wan, and torpid, droops that cheek,<br/> + Whereon thy lip impress’d its red;<br/> +Those eyes, which Florio taught to speak,<br/> + Unnotic’d close amid the dead!”<br/> +<br/> +True, true, too idly mourns this heart;<br/> + Why, Mem’ry, dost thou paint the past?<br/> +Why say you saw my Delia part,<br/> + Still press’d, still lov’d her, to the last?<br/> +<br/> +Then, thou wild flow’r, for ever wave!<br/> + To thee this parting tear is given;<br/> +The sigh I offer at her grave<br/> + Shall reach my sainted love in heaven! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>TIME AND THE LOVER.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Oh, Time! thy merits who can know?<br/> + Thy real nature who discover?<br/> +The absent lover calls thee slow,—<br/> + “Too rapid,” says the happy lover.<br/> +<br/> +With bloom thy cheeks are now refin’d,<br/> + Now to thine eye the tear is given;<br/> +At once too cruel and too kind,—<br/> + A little hell, a little heaven.<br/> +<br/> +Go then, thou charming myst’ry, go!—<br/> + Yes, tho’ thou often dost amuse me,<br/> +Tho’ many a joy to thee I owe,<br/> + At once I thank thee and abuse thee. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>A ROUNDELAY.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Wide thro’ the azure blue and bright<br/> +Serenely floats the lamp of night;<br/> +The sleeping waves forget to move,<br/> +And silent is the cedar grove;<br/> +Each breeze suspended seems to say—<br/> +“Now, Leline, for thy Roundelay!”<br/> +<br/> +My Delia’s lids are clos’d in rest;<br/> +Ah! were her pillow but my breast!<br/> +Go, dreams! one gentle word impart,<br/> +In whispers place me by her heart;<br/> +While near her door I’ll fondly stray,<br/> +And sooth her with my Roundelay.<br/> +<br/> +But, ah! the Night draws in her shade,<br/> +And glimm’ring stars reluctant fade:<br/> +Yet sleep, my love! nor may’st thou feel<br/> +The pangs which griefs like mine reveal:<br/> +Adieu! for Morning’s on his way,<br/> +And bids me close my Roundelay. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>FAREWELL LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO<br/> +<i>BRISTOL HOT WELLS</i>.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Bristol! in vain thy rocks attempt the sky,<br/> + The wild woods waving on their giddy brow;<br/> +And vainly, devious Avon! vainly sigh<br/> + Thy waters, winding thro’ the vales below;—<br/> +<br/> +In vain, upon thy glassy bosom borne,<br/> + Th’ expected vessel proudly glides along,<br/> +While, ’mid thy echoes, at the break of morn<br/> + Is heard the homeward ship-boy’s happy song;—<br/> +<br/> +For, ah! amid thy sweet romantic shade,<br/> + By Friendship led, fair drooping Beauty moves;<br/> +Thy hallow’d cup of health affords no aid,<br/> + Nor charm thy birds, that chant their woodland loves.<br/> +<br/> +Each morn I view her thro’ thy wave-girt grove,<br/> + Her white robe flutt’ring round her sinking form;<br/> +O’er the sweet ruin shine those eyes of love,<br/> + As bright stars beaming thro’ a midnight storm.<br/> +<br/> +Here sorrowing Love seeks a sequester’d bow’r.<br/> + Calls on thy spring to calm his troubled breast;<br/> +Bright Hope alights not on his pensive hour,<br/> + Nor can thy favour’d fountains yield him rest.<br/> +<br/> +Despair across his joys now intervenes,<br/> + And sternly bids the little cherub fly;<br/> +While his eyes close amid thy beauteous scenes.<br/> + His last sighs bless the form that bids him die.<br/> +<br/> +Farewell, then, Bristol! thou canst yield no joy,<br/> + Thy woods look darken’d with funereal gloom,<br/> +Sickness and Sorrow on thy green banks sigh,<br/> + And all thy form is but a beauteous tomb.<br/> +<br/> +Ah! may each future suff’rer, hov’ring near,<br/> + Rais’d by thy genial wave, delighted view<br/> +Returning joy and health, supremely dear,<br/> + Long lost to him who sadly sighs adieu! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>A SONG.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +These shades were made for Love alone,—<br/> + Here only smiles and kisses sweet<br/> +Shall play around his flow’ry throne,<br/> + And doves shall sentinel the seat.<br/> +<br/> +Come, Delia! ’tis a genial day;<br/> + It bids us to his bow’r repair:—<br/> +“But what will little Cupid say?”—<br/> + “Say! sweet?—why, give a welcome there.”<br/> +<br/> +There not a tell-tale beam shall peep<br/> + Upon thy beauty’s rich display,—<br/> +There not a breeze shall dare to sweep<br/> + The leaves, to whisper what we say. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>ON LADY W—— APPEARING AT THE EXHIBITION.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +When lovely Delphine sought the crowded scene,<br/> + The painter’s mimic pow’r no longer mov’d;<br/> +All turn’d to gaze upon her beauteous mien,<br/> + None envied her, for, as they look’d, they lov’d.<br/> +<br/> +Amid the proud display of forms so fair,<br/> + Of each fine tint the pencil can impart,<br/> +Nature with rapture seem’d to lead her there,<br/> + To prove how she could triumph over Art. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN AT BRIGHTON.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +From Mirth’s bright circle, from the giddy throng,<br/> + How sweet it is to steal away at eve,<br/> +To listen to the homeward fisher’s song,<br/> + Whilst dark the waters of the ocean heave;—<br/> +<br/> +And on the sloping beach to hear the spray<br/> + Dash ’gainst some hoary vessel’s broken side;<br/> +Whilst, far illumin’d by the parting ray,<br/> + The distant sail is faintly seen to glide.<br/> +<br/> +Yes, ’tis Reflection’s chosen hour; for then,<br/> + With pensive pleasure mingling o’er the scene,<br/> +Th’ erratic mind treads over life again,<br/> + And gazes on the past with eye serene.<br/> +<br/> +Those stormy passions which bedimm’d the soul,<br/> + That oft have bid the joys it treasur’d fly,<br/> +Now, like th’ unruffled waves of Ocean, roll<br/> + With gentle lapse—their only sound a sigh.<br/> +<br/> +The galling wrong no longer knits the brow,<br/> + Ambition feels the folly of her aim;<br/> +And Pity, from the heart expanding, now<br/> + Pants to extend relief to ev’ry claim.<br/> +<br/> +Thus, as I sit beside the murm’ring sea,<br/> + And o’er its darkness trace light’s parting streak,<br/> +I feel, O Nature! that serenity<br/> + Which vainly poetry like mine can speak!<br/> +<br/> +O’er the drear tract of Time, Remembrance views<br/> + Some dear, some long-departed, pleasure gleam;—<br/> +So o’er the dark expanse the eye pursues<br/> + Upon the wat’ry edge a transient beam.<br/> +<br/> +The spot fraternal love has sacred made,<br/> + Solemn, yet sweet, like groves in twilight gloom,<br/> +Mem’ry revisits, and beneath its shade<br/> + Faintly it sees each faded joy re-bloom.<br/> +<br/> +By Fancy led, from Death’s cold bed of stone,<br/> + Lovely, tho’ wan, what cherish’d form appears?<br/> +Oh! gentle Anna<a href="#fn5" name="fnref5" id="fnref5"><sup>[5]</sup></a>! at thy name alone,<br/> + Genius, and Grace, and Virtue, smile in tears.<br/> +<br/> +Half-wrapp’d in mist I see thy figure move,<br/> + O’er thy pale cheek appears its wonted smile;<br/> +With lunar lustre beam those looks of love,<br/> + That once could life of ev’ry care beguile:<br/> +<br/> +Faintly I hear thy angel-voice again;<br/> + There’s music in the sweet and dying sound;<br/> +Like Philomela’s soft and echo’d strain,<br/> + It spreads a soothing consolation round.<br/> +<br/> +Adieu, bless’d shade!—Imagination roves<br/> + To distant regions, o’er th’ Atlantic wave;<br/> +Ah! not to genial skies, or fragrant groves,<br/> + To drop a tear upon a kindred grave.<br/> +<br/> +Hard was thy fate, Eliza<a href="#fn6" name="fnref6" id="fnref6"><sup>[6]</sup></a>!—It was thine,<br/> + Tho’ wit thy mind, tho’ beauty grac’d thy form,<br/> +Behind Affliction’s weeping cloud to shine,<br/> + With star-like radiance, in a night of storm.<br/> +<br/> +Fierce from the sun the fiery fever flew,<br/> + And bade the burning sand become thy tomb!<br/> +O’er thee no willow drops its mourning dew,<br/> + Nor spotless lilies o’er thy bosom bloom!<br/> +<br/> +Oh! when we stood around our brother’s bier,<br/> + And wept in life’s full bloom to see him torn,<br/> +Ah! little did ye think that such a tear<br/> + As then ye shed so soon your fate would mourn.<br/> +<br/> +Farewell, dear shades! accept this mournful song,<br/> + At once the tribute of my grief and love;<br/> +Fain would it try your virtues to prolong,<br/> + Here priz’d and honour’d, and now bless’d above. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn5" id="fn5"></a> <a href="#fnref5">[5]</a> +Mrs. Hodges, a sister of the author.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn6" id="fn6"></a> <a href="#fnref6">[6]</a> +Mrs Fountaine, another sister of the author, who +accompanied her husband to Africa, and died at the Government-house, +in one of the British settlements on that coast, where she survived +but a short time the death of three of her children.</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>ECHO.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Echo! thou sweet enchantress of the grove!<br/> +Oh! cease to answer to the tones of love;<br/> +Or teach my Delia in thine art divine,<br/> +Thou loveliest nymph! to hear and answer mine! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>OCCASIONAL LINES</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Repeated at an elegant Entertainment</i></p> + +<h5>GIVEN BY LIEUTENANT-COLONEL D—— TO HIS FRIENDS<br/> +IN THE RUINS OF BERRY CASTLE, DEVONSHIRE.<a href="#fn7" name="fnref7" id="fnref7"><sup>[7]</sup></a></h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +By your permission, Ladies! I address ye,<br/> +And for the boon you grant, my Muse shall bless ye.<br/> +I do not mean in solemn verse to tell<br/> +What fate the race of Pomeroy befell;<br/> +To trace the castle-story of each year,<br/> +To learn how many owls have hooted here;<br/> +What was the weight of stone, which form’d this pile,<br/> +Will on your lovely cheeks awake no smile:<br/> +Such antiquarian sermons suit not me,<br/> +Nor any soul who loves festivity.<br/> +Past times I heed not; be the present hour<br/> +In life, while yet it blooms, my chosen flow’r,<br/> +For well I know, what Time cannot disown,<br/> +Amidst this mossy pile of mould’ring stone,<br/> +That Hospitality was never seen<br/> +To spread more social joy upon the green;<br/> +Or, when its noble and capacious hall<br/> +Rang with the gambol gay, or graceful ball,<br/> +More beauty never charm’d its ancient beaux<br/> +Than what its honour’d ruins now enclose.<br/> +Thanks to the clouds, which from the soaking show’r<br/> +Preserve the vot’ries of the present hour;<br/> +For, strange to tell, beneath the chilling storm,<br/> +Lately the rose reclin’d her frozen form;<br/> +Yet since, beneath the favour of the weather,<br/> +We are (a laughing group) conven’d together,<br/> +Pray let the Muse pursue her merry route,<br/> +To shew what pass’d before we all set out.<br/> +To some fair damsel, who, intent to charm,<br/> +Declares she thinks the weather fine and warm,<br/> +Such words as these address her trembling ear—<br/> +“I really think we shall have rain, my dear;<br/> +Pray do not go, my love,” cries soft mama;<br/> +“You shall not go, that’s flat,” cries stern papa.<br/> +A lucky sunbeam shines on the discourse,<br/> +The parents soften, and Miss mounts her horse.<br/> +Each tickled with some laugh-inspiring notion,<br/> +Behold the jocund party all in motion:<br/> +Some by a rattling buggy are befriended,<br/> +Some mount the cart—but not to be suspended.<br/> +The mourning-coach<a href="#fn8" name="fnref8" id="fnref8"><sup>[8]</sup></a> is wisely counter-order’d<br/> +(The very thought on impious rashness border’d),<br/> +Because the luckless vehicle, one night,<br/> +Put all its merry mourners in a fright,<br/> +Who, to conduct them to the masquerade,<br/> +Sought from its crazy wheels their moving aid.<br/> +Us’d to a soleme pace, the creaking load<br/> +Bounded unwillingly along the road;<br/> +Down came the whole—oh! what a sight was there!<br/> +O’er a blind Fiddler roll’d a Flow’r-Nymph fair;<br/> +A glitt’ring Spaniard, who had lost his nose,<br/> +Roar’d out, “Oh! d—n it, take away your toes;”<br/> +A blooming Nun fell plump upon a Jew,<br/> +Still to the good old cause of traffic true,<br/> +Buried in clothes, exclaim’d the son of barter,<br/> +“Got blesh my shoul! you’ll shell this pretty garter?”<br/> +Here let me pause;—the Muse, in sad affright,<br/> +Turns from the dire disasters of that night;<br/> +Quite panic-struck she drops her trembling plumes,<br/> +And thus a moralizing theme assumes:—<br/> +Know, gentle Ladies, once these shapeless walls,<br/> +O’er whose grey wreck the shading ivy crawls,<br/> +Compos’d a graceful mansion, whose fair mould<br/> +Led from the road the trav’ller, to behold.<br/> +Oft, when the morning ting’d the redd’ning skies,<br/> +Far off the spiral smoke was seen to rise;<br/> +At noon the hospitable board was spread,<br/> +Then nappy ale made light the weary head;<br/> +And when grey eve appear’d, in shadows damp,<br/> +Each casement glitter’d with th’ enliv’ning lamp;<br/> +Here the laugh titter’d, there the lute of Love<br/> +Fill’d with its melody the moon-light grove:<br/> +All, all are fled!—Time ruthless stalks around,<br/> +And bends the crumbling ruin to the ground:<br/> +Time, Ladies, too (I know you do not like him,<br/> +And, if a fan could end him, you would strike him),<br/> +Will with as little gallantry devour<br/> +From your fair faces their bewitching pow’r;<br/> +Then, like these ruins, beauteous in decay,<br/> +Still shall you charm, and men shall still obey:<br/> +Then, with remembrance soft, and tender smile,<br/> +Perchance you’ll think upon this mossy pile;<br/> +And, with a starting tear of joy declare,<br/> +“Oh! how we laugh’d, how merry were we there!” +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn7" id="fn7"></a> <a href="#fnref7">[7]</a> +The manor of Berry was given by William the Conqueror to +one of his Normans, Ralph de la Pomerai, who built on it the castle +which still bears his name, and in whose family it continued till the +reign of Edward VI. when it was sold by Sir Thomas Pomeroy to Edward +Seymour, Duke of Somerset, from whom it has descended to the present +Duke.<br/> + The castle is seated upon a rock, which rises almost perpendicularly +from a narrow valley; through this valley winds a small stream of +water, which drives the mill seen through the foliage of the +surrounding woods from the turrets of the castle.<br/> + In approaching the castle from the south, the path leads down the +side of a hill through a thick wood; and on the north side of the +valley, opposite the rock on which the castle stands, is a high ridge, +partly covered with oak: these hills completely shut in the ruins on +both sides. The valley stretches a considerable way both to the east +and west, and opens a view at either end into the adjacent country.<br/> + From the ivy-covered ruins of the fortress which now remain, it is +scarcely possible to say what was its ancient form; but it is most +generally supposed to have been quadrangular, having only one +entrance, a large double portcullis, at the west end of the southern +front, turreted and embattled, as was the whole of the front, with a +tower at its eastern end, corresponding with that on the west. This +front, with its gateway and turrets, are perhaps the only remains of +the original structure. Winding steps, now almost worn away, lead to +what once was a chapel, over the portcullis, and thence to the top of +the turrets.<br/> + In more modern times a magnificent building was erected within the +walls of the castle by the Seymour family; but, although upwards of +£20,000 were said to have been expended on it, it was never finished, +and now the whole forms one common ruin, which, as it totters on it +base, the spectator contemplates with awe, while he sighs over the +remains of fallen grandeur.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn8" id="fn8"></a> <a href="#fnref8">[8]</a> +A party from Totness went to Lord Courtenay’s masquerade +in this way, there being no other conveyance to be had, and met with +the ridiculous accident here alluded to.</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO SIR ROBERT KER PORTER,<br/> +KNIGHT OF THE IMPERIAL ORDER OF ST. JOACHIM,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Upon his approaching Nuptials with the Princess Shebatoff</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +To save the credit of the dame,<br/> + Poets and painters all agree<br/> + That Mistress Fortune cannot see,<br/> +And on her bandage cast the blame;<br/> +<br/> +When honours on th’ unworthy wait,<br/> + When riches to the wealthy flow,<br/> + When high desert, oppress’d by woe,<br/> +Is left to struggle on with Fate.<br/> +<br/> +But, Porter! when on thee she smil’d,<br/> + The fillet from her eyes she mov’d,<br/> + To view the merit all approv’d—<br/> +A mind inform’d, a heart unsoil’d.<br/> +<br/> +She saw thy virtues bright appear;<br/> + A son that mothers seldom know,<br/> + A brother with affection’s glow,<br/> +The soldier brave<a href="#fn9" name="fnref9" id="fnref9"><sup>[9]</sup></a>, the friend sincere.<br/> +<br/> +With honours then thy name she grac’d,<br/> + And call’d on Love to bless thy arms<br/> + With princely rank, with Virtue’s charms,<br/> +And all the pow’rs of wit and taste. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn9" id="fn9"></a> <a href="#fnref9">[9]</a> +Sir R.K. Porter was attached to the staff in the late +campaign in Spain, and was in nearly every engagement with the enemy. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>THE FOLLOWING LINES IN FRENCH,</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Are inscribed upon the Pedestal of a Statue of Cupid</i>,</p> + +<h5>IN A GARDEN AT UTRECHT.</h5> + +<h4><i>ORIGINAL</i>.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> + N’offrant qu’un cœur à la Beauté,<br/> + Nud comme la Verité,<br/> + Sans armes comme l’Innocence,<br/> + Sans aîles comme la Constance,<br/> + Tel fut l’Amour dans le siecle d’or,<br/> +On ne le trouve plus, quoiqu’on le cherche encore. +</p> + +<h4><i>TRANSLATION</i>.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> +To Beauty give your heart, your sighs,<br/> +No other off’ring will she prize;<br/> +As Truth should unadorn’d appear,<br/> +Behold! the god is naked here!<br/> +Like Innocence, he has no arms<br/> +But those of sweet, of native, charms;<br/> +No wish or pow’r has he to fly,<br/> +Like thy pure spirit, Constancy!<br/> +Such in the golden age was Love;<br/> +But now, oh! whither does he rove? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>THE RHINGAU SONG.</h2> + +<p class="letter"> +This is the favourite Song with the Inhabitants of the vine-covered +Region of the Rhingau, an extensive District along the Banks of the +Rhine, where the finest Wines are produced. +</p> + +<h4><i>ORIGINAL</i>.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> +Bekrantzt mit laub den liebe vollen becher,<br/> + Und trinkt ihn frölich leer;<br/> +In Gauz Europa ihr herren zecher,<br/> + Ist solch, ein wein micht mehr.<br/> +<br/> +Ihn bringt das vaterland aus seiner fulle,<br/> + Wie wär er sonst so gut?<br/> +Wie wär er sonst so edel, stille,<br/> + Und doch voll kraft und muth?<br/> +<br/> +Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsre reben:<br/> + Gesegnet sey der Rhein!<br/> +Da wachsen sie am ufer hin, und geben<br/> + Uns diesen labe wein.<br/> +<br/> +So trinkt ihn dann, und lasst uns alle wege<br/> + Uns freun, und frölich seyn;<br/> +Und wüsten wir, wo jemand traurig läge,<br/> + Wir gaben ihm den wein. +</p> + +<h4><i>TRANSLATION</i>.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> +With wine-leaves crown the jovial cup,<br/> + For, search all Europe round,<br/> +You’ll say, as pleas’d you drink it up,<br/> + Such wine was never found.<br/> + Such wine, &c.<br/> +<br/> +Our fathers’ land this vine supplies;<br/> + What soil can e’er produce<br/> +But this, tho’ warm’d with genial skies,<br/> + Such mild, such gen’rous juice?<br/> + Such mild, &c.<br/> +<br/> +Then shall the Rhine our smiles receive,<br/> + For on its banks alone<br/> +Can e’er be found a wine to give<br/> + The soul its proper tone.<br/> + The soul, &c.<br/> +<br/> +Come, put the jovial cup around,<br/> + Our joys it will enhance,<br/> +If any one is mournful found,<br/> + One sip shall make him dance.<br/> + One sip, &c. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO HEALTH,</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Upon the Recovery of a Friend from a dangerous Illness</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Sweet guardian of the rosy cheek!<br/> + Whene’er to thee I raise my hands<br/> +Upon the mountain’s breezy peak,<br/> + Or on the yellow winding sands,<br/> +<br/> +If thou hast deign’d, by Pity mov’d,<br/> + This fev’rish phantom to prolong,<br/> +I’ve touch’d my lute, for ever lov’d,<br/> + And bless’d thee with its earliest song!<br/> +<br/> +And oh! if in thy gentle ear<br/> + Its simple notes have sounded sweet,<br/> +May the soft breeze, to thee so dear,<br/> + Now bear them to thy rose-wreath’d seat!<br/> +<br/> +For thou hast dried the dew of grief,<br/> + And Friendship feels new ecstacy:<br/> +To Pollio thou hast stretch’d relief,<br/> + And, raising him, hast cherish’d me.<br/> +<br/> +So, whilst some treasur’d plant receives<br/> + Th’ admiring florist’s partial show’r,<br/> +The drops that tremble from its leaves<br/> + Oft feed some near uncultur’d flow’r.<br/> +<br/> +For late connubial Fondness hung<br/> + Mute o’er the couch where Pollio lay;<br/> +Love, Hope, and Sorrow, fixed her tongue,<br/> + Thro’ sable night till morning grey.<br/> +<br/> +There, too, by drooping Pollio’s side,<br/> + Stood Modesty, a mourner meek,<br/> +Whilst Genius, mov’d by grief and pride,<br/> + Increas’d the blush which grac’d her cheek;<br/> +<br/> +For much the maiden he reprov’d<br/> + For having spread her veil of snow<br/> +Upon the mind he form’d and lov’d,<br/> + Till she was seen to mourn it too.<br/> +<br/> +O Health! when thou art fled, how vain<br/> + The witchery of earth and skies,<br/> +Love’s look, or music’s sweetest strain,<br/> + Or Ocean’s softest lullabies!<br/> +<br/> +Oh! ever hover near his bow’r,<br/> + There let thy fav’rite sylphs repair;<br/> +Fence it with ev’ry sweet-lipp’d flow’r,<br/> + That Sickness find no entrance there.<br/> +<br/> +So shall his lyre, untouch’d so long,<br/> + The tone with which it charm’d regain;<br/> +Sweet spirit! thou shall teach his song,<br/> + With mine, to breathe the grateful strain. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>AN IRISH SONG</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Poor Molly O’Flannagan (Lord rest her soul!)<br/> +Drank so deeply of whiskey, ’twas thought she would die;<br/> +Her fond lover, Pat, from her <i>nate</i> cabin stole,<br/> +And stepp’d into Dublin to buy her a pie.<br/> + Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan!<br/> +<br/> +Tho’ chin-deep in sorrow, yet fun he lov’d well;<br/> +A pie-man pass’d near, crying “Pies” at his <i>aise</i>;<br/> +“Here are pies of all sorts.”—“Oh! if all sorts you sell,<br/> +Then a <i>twopenny magpie</i> for me, if you <i>plaise</i>!”<br/> + Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>THE SONG OF GRIEF</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +By the walk of the willows I pour’d out my theme,<br/> +The breath of the evening scarce dimpled the stream;<br/> +By the waters I stood, like an image of Woe,<br/> +And my tears, like the tide, seem’d to tremble and flow.<br/> +<br/> +Ye green scatter’d reeds, that half lean to the wave,<br/> +In your plaintive, your musical, sighs, could ye save<br/> +But one note of my charmer, to soften my doom,<br/> +I would stay till these willows should arch me a tomb!<br/> +<br/> +For ye know, when I pour’d out my soul on the lute,<br/> +How she hung down her head, so expressively mute!<br/> +From my hand she would take it, still breathing my pain;<br/> +She would touch it—return it—and smile at the strain.<br/> +<br/> +Ye wild blooming flow’rs, that enamel this brink,<br/> +Like me could ye feel, and like me could ye think,<br/> +How sadly would droop ev’ry beautiful leaf!<br/> +How soon would your sweetness be wasted with grief!<br/> +<br/> +She is gone, in a cloud, like the star of the night!<br/> +She has left me, heart-broken, to mourn at her flight,—<br/> +To think of the hours she endear’d by her love.<br/> +To sigh till again I shall join her above! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>UPON HEARING MISS —— SING AT AN EVENING PARTY.</h5> + +<h5>THE NIGHTINGALE’S COMPLAINT.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +The Moon had bespangled the murmuring wave,<br/> +The dew-drop had moisten’d the moss of the cave,<br/> +The summer night-breeze, like a sigh, was just heard,<br/> +When thus flow’d the strains of the dark-warbling bird:<br/> +<br/> +“I hear a strange melody breathe thro’ the grove,<br/> +Now swelling with joy, and now melting with love;<br/> +Tho’ sweet is the sound, yet it should not invade,<br/> +Unbidden, my lonely dominion of shade.<br/> +<br/> +“As long as the stars that now twinkle shall shine,<br/> +This willow’s my throne, and all nature is mine:<br/> +Perchance ’tis the breeze on your desolate lute;<br/> +Its strings are now sighing, so long that were mute.<br/> +<br/> +“Ah! no, silly bird that I am! shall I grieve?<br/> +Shall Envy alarm, and shall Folly deceive?<br/> +’Tis the voice of Eliza! I hear it again,<br/> +Enraptur’d I hear it, nor envy the strain.”<br/> +Then Philomel flutter’d with tremulous wing<br/> +To Eliza—more happy to listen than sing! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LOVE AND THE SPRING-FLOWER.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +’Tis pity, ev’ry maiden knows,<br/> +Just as she cools, Love warmer grows;<br/> +But, if the chill be too severe,<br/> +Trust me, he’ll wither in a tear.<br/> +<br/> +Thus will the spring-flow’r bud and blow,<br/> +Wrapp’d round in many a fold of snow;<br/> +But, if an ice-wind pierce the sky,<br/> +’Twill drop upon its bed, and die! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>UPON THE REV. MR. C——’S IMPROMPTU COMPOSITIONS<br/> +OF SOME OF BOWLES’S SONNETS.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +No sweeter verse did e’er inspire<br/> +A kindred Muse with all its fire;<br/> +Nor sweeter strains could Music lend,<br/> +To sooth the sorrows of her friend.<br/> +<br/> +Associate Genius bids them flow<br/> +With sounds that give a charm to woe;<br/> +We weep as tho’ it were our own,<br/> +As if our hearts were play’d upon. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>SONNET.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +The leaves are flutter’d by no tell-tale gales,<br/> + Clear melts the azure in the rosy west,<br/> +Scarce heard, the river winds along the vales,<br/> + And Eve has lull’d the vocal grove to rest.<br/> +<br/> +To yon thick elms, my Delia! let us rove,<br/> + As slow the glories of the day retire;<br/> +There to thy lute breathe dulcet notes of love,<br/> + While thro’ the vale they linger and expire.<br/> +<br/> +Those honey’d tones, that melt upon the tongue,—<br/> + Thy looks, serener than the scenes I sing,—<br/> +Thy chaste desires, which angels might have sung,<br/> + Alone can quiet in this bosom bring,<br/> +Which burns for thee, and, kindled by thine eyes,<br/> + Bears a pure flame—the flame that never dies! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN AT KILKENNY,<br/> +ON THE THEATRICALS OF THAT CITY.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Amid the ruins of monastic gloom,<br/> + Where Nore’s meand’ring waters wind along,<br/> +Genius and Wealth have rais’d the tasteful dome,<br/> + Yet not alone for Fashion’s brilliant throng;—<br/> +<br/> +In Virtue’s cause they take a noble aim;<br/> + ’Tis theirs in sweetest harmony to blend<br/> +Wit with Compassion, Sympathy with Fame,<br/> + Pleasure the means, Beneficence the end<a href="#fn10" name="fnref10" id="fnref10"><sup>[10]</sup></a>.<br/> +<br/> +There, if on Beauty’s cheek the tear appears<br/> + (Form’d by the mournful Muse’s mimic sigh),<br/> +Fast as it falls, a kindred drop it bears,<br/> + More sadly shed from genuine Misery.<br/> +<br/> +Nor, if the laughter-loving Nymph delight,<br/> + Does the reviving transport perish there;<br/> +Still, still, with Pity’s radiance doubly bright,<br/> + Its smiles shed sunshine on the cheek of Care.<br/> +<br/> +So, if Pomona’s golden fruit descend,<br/> + Shook by some breeze, into the lake below,<br/> +Quick will the dimple, which it forms, extend,<br/> + Till all around the joyous circles flow.<br/> +<br/> +Bless’d be the liberal mind, th’ undaunted zeal,<br/> + That bade loud Folly from the Stage retire;<br/> +That teach us how to think, and how to feel,<br/> + And once again our godlike Bard admire!<br/> +<br/> +Thus aided, see his rescued genius spring;<br/> + Again he pours the phrenzy of his song;<br/> +With <small>EV’RY FEATHER</small><a href="#fn11" name="fnref11" id="fnref11"><sup>[11]</sup></a> in his eagle wing,<br/> + Once more in majesty he soars along.<br/> +<br/> +Oft, deck’d with smiles, his spirit shall explore,<br/> + Erin! thy beauteous vales and classic ground;<br/> +And ev’ry ripple of thy winding Nore<br/> + To him shall sweetly as his Avon’s sound. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +22<i>d Oct.</i> 1805.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn10" id="fn10"></a> <a href="#fnref10">[10]</a> +The theatricals of Kilkenny are supported by gentlemen of +rank and fashion in Ireland, and the profits are applied to charitable +purposes.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn11" id="fn11"></a> <a href="#fnref11">[11]</a> +Alluding to several fine passages of Shakspeare, which +have been long omitted in representation, but restored at the +theatricals of Kilkenny.</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>EPIGRAM,</h2> + +<h5>UPON SEEING THE DILAPIDATED STATE OF<br/> +<i>BETHLEM HOSPITAL</i>.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Well with the <i>purpose</i> does the <i>place</i> agree;<br/> +For e’en the very house is <i>crack’d</i>, you see. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>EPIGRAM</h2> + +<h5>ON THE GRAVE OF ROBESPIERRE.</h5> + +<h4><i>ORIGINAL</i>.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> +Passant, ne pleure point son sort;<br/> +Car, s’il vivait, tu serais mort. +</p> + +<h4><i>TRANSLATION</i>.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> +Nay, passenger, don’t mourn his lot;<br/> +If he had liv’d, why you had not. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>AN INDIAN MASSACRE-SONG.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +See, the waves clasp the Sun, as he sinks from our sight,<br/> +And Despair sullen rides on the wings of the night;<br/> +Lo! he comes, and reproaches our arms with delay,—<br/> +Then arise, let us go where Revenge points the way!<br/> +<br/> +In the deed should we fall, (since who’ll e’er breathe a slave?)<br/> +Our free souls shall repose in the realms of the brave;<br/> +In the song we shall live, and fresh heroes inspire,<br/> +While the son shall exult in the fate of his sire.<br/> +<br/> +Then know, ye white race! ye too long shake the rod;<br/> +By this arm ye shall soon be dismiss’d to your God!<br/> +Then demand, if he bade ye torment, why he gave<br/> +All the soul of a man to the breast of a slave?<br/> +<br/> +Then prepare; know our hatchets atone for our wrong,<br/> +And our hearts, like our hatchets, are stubborn and strong:<br/> +Sleep your last! ye no more shall the morning survey,<br/> +Nor shall sorrow arise with the break of the day.<br/> +<br/> +Yes, remember the lashes that pierc’d thro’ our flesh!<br/> +See the wounds of our fathers; they open afresh!<br/> +In the winds, hark! blue Avrin attends to our call;<br/> +I, your chief, will be first in your glories, or fall! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN ON DELIA, LISTENING TO HER CANARY-BIRD.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +When thoughtless Delia unconcern’d surveys<br/> + Her plumy captive, as he leans to sing,<br/> +Lo! while she smiles, the fascination stays<br/> + The little heaven of its airy wing.<br/> +<br/> +Ah! so she tastes the sorrows I impart,<br/> + Smiles at the sound, but never feels my pain;<br/> +And many a glance deludes my captive heart<br/> + To sigh in numbers, tho’ I sigh in vain! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>THE HECTIC.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Upon the breezy cliff’s impending brow,<br/> + With trembling step, the Hectic paus’d awhile;<br/> +As round his wasted form the sea-breeze blew,<br/> + His flush’d cheek brighten’d with a transient smile:<br/> +<br/> +Refresh’d and cherish’d by its balmy breath,<br/> + He dreamt of future bliss, of years to come;<br/> +Whilst, with a look of woe, the spectre, Death,<br/> + Oft shook his head, and pointed to his tomb.<br/> +<br/> +Such sounds as these escap’d his lab’ring breast:—<br/> + “Sweet Health! thou wilt revisit this sad frame;<br/> +Slumber shall bid these aching eyelids rest,<br/> + And I shall live for love, perchance for fame.”<br/> +Ah! poor enthusiast!—in the day’s decline<br/> +A mournful knell was heard, and it was thine! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>VERSES TO MISS M. G——,</h2> + +<h5>ACCOMPANIED WITH A DRIED HELIOTROPE,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Which she had presented to the Author a Year before</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Time, since thou gav’st this flow’r to me,<br/> + Has often turn’d his glass of sand;<br/> +Perchance ’tis now unknown to thee<br/> + That once its breath perfum’d thy hand.<br/> +<br/>Oh, lovely maid! that thou may’st see<br/> + How much thy gifts my care engage,<br/> +I’ve sent the cherish’d flow’r to thee<br/> + Without a blemish, but from age.<br/> +<br/> +Kiss but its leaves;—one kiss from thee,<br/> + And all its sweetness ’twill regain;<br/> +And, if I live in memory<br/> + Thus honour’d, send it back again! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO MRS. B——, AT BRISTOL HOT WELLS</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Tho’ nought, amid these darkened groves,<br/> + But various groups of death appear,<br/> +Scar’d at the sight, tho’ fly the Loves,<br/> + And Sickness saddens all the year,<br/> +<br/> +Yet, Clara, where you deign to stay,<br/> + Your sense and manners charm us so,<br/> +E’en sick’ning Sorrow’s self looks gay,<br/> + And smiles amid the wreck of woe. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH,<br/> +UPON THE PRINTS</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>From her beautiful Drawings of the Birth and Triumph of Cupid</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Once, for a palace, Painting left her grove,<br/> + And taught her royal fav’rite’s hand to trace<br/> +A beauteous maiden’s tale of little Love,<br/> + His silken wings, soft limbs, and laughing face!<br/> +<br/> +Then Nature wept o’er each expressive line,<br/> + To think the sweet creation so confin’d,<br/> +That such a boy, so fair, and so divine,<br/> + Was but the playful prattler of her mind;<br/> +<br/> +And had he near the royal easel flown,<br/> + And seen the features of this mimic brother,<br/> +He would have known the portrait for his own,<br/> + And claim’d the beauteous painter for his mother. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>EPITAPH</h2> + +<h5>TO THE MEMORY OF A WORTHY MAN,<br/> +<i>THE REV. MR. SLEEP</i>,<br/> +CURATE OF KINGSWEAR CHURCH, DEVON,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Whose devotional Elocution was remarkably impregnated with +soporific Qualities</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Reader! since Parson Sleep is gone,<br/> +And lies beneath yon humble stone,<br/> +Whene’er to Kingswear Church we go,<br/> + Holy the sabbath-day to keep<br/> +(Indeed ’tis right it should be so),<br/> + We never more shall go to <i>sleep</i>. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES,</h2> + +<h5>SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A FEMALE FRIEND,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Upon an Infant recommended to her Care by its dying Mother</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Bless’d be thy slumbers, little love!<br/> + Unconscious of the ills so near;<br/> +May no rude noise thy dreams remote,<br/> + Or prompt the artless early tear;—<br/> +<br/> +For she who gave thee life is gone,<br/> + Whose trust it was thy life to rear,<br/> +Now in the cold and mould’ring stone<br/> + Calls for that artless early tear.<br/> +<br/> +Sleep on, thou little dreamer! sleep;<br/> + For, long as I shall tarry here,<br/> +I’ll soothe thee; thou shalt never weep,<br/> + Tho’ flows for thee the tend’rest tear.<br/> +<br/> +Then be thy gentle visions blest,<br/> + Nor e’er thy bosom know that fear,<br/> +Which thro’ the night disturbs my rest,<br/> + And prompts Affection’s trembling tear. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>ON THE CALEDONIAN HARP BEING SUCCEEDED<br/> +BY THE HIGHLAND BAGPIPES.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +In days that long have glided by,<br/> +Beneath keen Scotia’s weeping sky,<br/> +On many a hill of purple heath,<br/> +In many a gloomy glen beneath,<br/> +The wand’ring Lyrist once was known<br/> +To pour his harp’s entrancing tone.<br/> +Then, when the castle’s rocky form<br/> +Rose ’mid the dark surrounding storm,<br/> +The Harper had a sacred seat,<br/> +Whence he might breathe his wild notes sweet.<br/> +Oh! then, when many a twinkling star<br/> +Shone in the azure vault afar,<br/> +And mute was ev’ry mountain-bird,<br/> +Soft music from the harp was heard;<br/> +And when the morning’s blushes shed<br/> +On hill, or tow’r, their varying red,<br/> +Oh! then the harp was heard to cheer,<br/> +With earliest sound, th’ enraptur’d ear;<br/> +Then many a lady fair was known,<br/> +With snowy hand, to wake its tone;<br/> +And infant fingers press’d the string,<br/> +And back recoil’d, to hear it sing.<br/> +Sweet instrument! such was thy pow’r,<br/> +’Twas thine to gladden ev’ry hour;<br/> +The young and old then honour’d thee,<br/> +And smil’d to hear thy melody.<br/> +<br/> + Alas! as Time has turn’d to dust<br/> +The temple fair, the beauteous bust,<br/> +Thou too hast mark’d his frowning brow;<br/> +No Highland echo knows thee now:<br/> +A savage has usurp’d thy place,<br/> +Once fill’d by thee with ev’ry grace;<br/> +Th’ inflated Pipe, with swinish drone,<br/> +Calls forth applauses once thine own. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>A SONG.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +When stormy show’rs from Heav’n descend,<br/> +And with their weight the lily bend,<br/> +The Sun will soon his aid bestow,<br/> +And drink the drops that laid it low.<br/> +<br/> +Oh! thus, when sorrow wrings the heart,<br/> +A sigh may rise, a tear may start;<br/> +Pity shall soon the face impress<br/> +With all its looks of happiness. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>VERSES</h2> + +<h5>ON AN AUTUMNAL LEAF.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Think not, thou pride of Summer’s softest strain!<br/> + Sweet dress of Nature, in her virgin bloom!<br/> +That thou hast flutter’d to the breeze in vain,<br/> + Or unlamented found thy native tomb.<br/> +<br/> +The Muse, who sought thee in the whisp’ring shade,<br/> + When scarce one roving breeze was on the wing,<br/> +With tones of genuine grief beholds thee fade,<br/> + And asks thy quick return in earliest Spring.<br/> +<br/> +I mark’d the victim of the wintry hour,<br/> + I heard the winds breathe sad a fun’ral sigh,<br/> +When the lone warbler, from his fav’rite bow’r,<br/> + Pour’d forth his pensive song to see thee die;—<br/> +<br/> +When, in his little temple, colder grown,<br/> + He saw its sides of green to yellow grow,<br/> +And mourn’d his little roof, around him blown,<br/> + Or toss’d in beauteous ruin on the snow;<br/> +<br/> +And vow’d, throughout the dreary day to come,<br/> + (More sad by far than summer’s gloomiest night),<br/> +That not one note should charm the leafless gloom,<br/> + But silent Sorrow should attend thy flight. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>SONG.</h2> + +<h5>THE WORDS ADAPTED TO “THE COSSAKA,”</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>One of the most ancient of the Russ Airs</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Has Time a changeling made of thee?<br/> +Oh! no; and thou art all to me:<br/> +He bares the forest, but his pow’rs<br/> + Impair not love like ours.<br/> +<br/> +Tho’ sever’d from each other’s sight,<br/> +When once we meet we shall unite,<br/> +As dew-drops down the lily run,<br/> + And, touching, blend in one.<br/> +<br/> +For thee this bosom learnt to grieve,<br/> +Another never made it heave;<br/> +When present, oh! it was thy throne,<br/> + And, absent, thine alone.<br/> +<br/> +Then may my trembling pilgrim feet<br/> +In safety find thy lov’d retreat!<br/> +And, if I’m doom’d to drop with care,<br/> + Still let me perish there! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>TO MISS ATKINSON,</h2> + +<h5>ON THE EXTREME DIFFIDENCE WHICH SHE<br/> +DISPLAYS TO STRANGERS.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Just as a fawn, in forest shade,<br/> + Trembling to meet th’ admiring eye,<br/> +I’ve seen thee try to hide, sweet maid!<br/> + Thy charms behind thy modesty.<br/> +<br/> +Thus too I’ve seen at midnight steal<br/> + A fleecy cloud before the wind,<br/> +And veil, tho’ it could not conceal,<br/> + The brilliant light that shone behind. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<p class="letter"> +Upon reading the Journal of a Friend’s Tour into Scotland, in which +the picturesque Scenery and the Character of the People are fairly +and liberally stated.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Much injur’d, Scotia! was thy genuine worth,<br/> +When late the<a href="#fn12" name="fnref12" id="fnref12"><sup>[12]</sup></a> surly Rambler wandered forth<br/> + In brown<a href="#fn13" name="fnref13" id="fnref13"><sup>[13]</sup></a> surtout, with ragged staff,<br/> + Enough to make a savage laugh!<br/> +And sent the faithless legend from his hand,<br/> +That Want and Famine scour’d thy bladeless land,<br/> +<br/> +That with thee Nature wore a wrinkled face,<br/> +That not a leaf e’er shed its sylvan grace,<br/> + But, harden’d by their northern wind,<br/> + Rude, deceitful, and unkind,<br/> +Thy half-cloth’d sons their oaten cake denied,<br/> +Victims at once of penury and pride.<br/> +<br/> +Happy for thee! a lib’ral Briton here,<br/> +Gentle yet shrewd, tho’ learned not severe.<br/> + Fairly thy merit dares impart,<br/> + Asserts thy hospitable heart,<br/> +Proves that luxuriance smiles upon thy plains,<br/> +And wit and valour grace thy hardy swains. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn12" id="fn12"></a> <a href="#fnref12">[12]</a> +Dr. Johnson, author of the Rambler. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn13" id="fn13"></a> <a href="#fnref13">[13]</a> +Alluding to his dress, as described by Mr. Boswell. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN UPON A HILL,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>On leaving the Country</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Ah! sweet romantic spot, adieu!<br/> +Ere your green fields again I view,<br/> +These looks may change their youthful hue.<br/> +<br/> +Dependence sternly bids me part<br/> +From all that ye, lov’d scenes! impart,<br/> +Far from my treasure and my heart.<br/> +<br/> +Tho’ winter shall your bloom invade,<br/> +Fancy may visit ev’ry shade,<br/> +Each bow’r shall kiss the wand’ring maid.<br/> +<br/> +To busier scenes of life I fly,<br/> +Where many smile, where many sigh,<br/> +As Chance, not Worth, turns up the die. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>BANKRUPTCY RENDERED EASY.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +The Cit, relying on his trade,<br/> +Which, like all other things, may fade,<br/> + Longs for a curricle and villa:<br/> +This Hatchet splendidly supplies,<br/> +The other Cock’ril builds, or buys,<br/> + To charm himself and Miss Hautilla.<br/> +<br/> +Then swift, O London! he retires,<br/> +To be, from all thy smoke and spires,<br/> + From Saturday till Sunday, merry:<br/> +On Sunday crowds of friends attend;<br/> +His house and garden some commend,<br/> + And all admire his port and sherry.<br/> +<br/> +His mistress urg’d him now to play,<br/> +And cut to wealth a shorter way,<br/> + Now as a bride she heads his table;<br/> +But still our Cit observ’d his time.<br/> +Returning at St. Cripple’s chime,<br/> + At least as near as he was able.<br/> +<br/> +But soon <i>she</i> could not bear the sight<br/> +Of town; for walls with bow’rs unite,<br/> + As well as smoke with country breezes;<br/> +Without the keenest grief and pride<br/> +<i>He</i> could not quit his <i>mares</i>, and <i>bride</i>:<br/> + We yield as soon as passion seizes.<br/> +<br/> +The clock no more his herald prov’d;<br/> +Tuesday, nay Wednesday, morn have mov’d,<br/> + Ere trembling shopmen saw their master:<br/> +Observing neighbours whisper’d round,<br/> +That ease might do, with plenty crown’d;<br/> + If not, that ruin came the faster.<br/> +<br/> +His cash grew scarce, his business still,<br/> +At variance were his books and till<br/> + (For wolves devour when shepherds slumber);<br/> +His creditors around him pour,<br/> +Seize all his horses, household store,<br/> + And only give him up the lumber! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Written at the Sea-Side in Devonshire</i>,</p> + +<h5>IN THE MONTH OF NOVEMBER,<br/> +WHEN THE SHIPS FROM NEWFOUNDLAND RETURN.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Still Summer lingers on these peaceful shores,<br/> + Nor yet she quits her rose-erected bow’r;<br/> +Tho’ oft in many a dew-drop she explores<br/> + Her beauties fading in each passing hour!<br/> +<br/> +Tho’ Winter’s boist’rous child, November, strays<br/> + Amid those scenes that wak’d the poet’s lyre,<br/> +Shakes his green canopy, and loves to raise,<br/> + Of sapless leaves, an altar for his sire.<br/> +<br/> +Soon shall his wild and stormy sway be o’er;<br/> + These lovely scenes shall feel his shortest reign;<br/> +And thou, sweet Summer! charming as before,<br/> + Shall but retire to dress thyself again.<br/> +<br/> +Yet Heaven guides, full provident and kind,<br/> + With sweet economy, the source of joy,<br/> +From grief extracts some comfort for the mind,<br/> + And fresh hopes flatter ere the lost annoy.<br/> +<br/> +See where Connubial Love yon rock ascends,<br/> + To hail each sail, while fav’ring breezes blow;<br/> +There many an hour she o’er the margin bends,<br/> + Her bosom trembling like the floods below.<br/> +<br/> +Nearer the ocean’s graceful burden glides;<br/> + Cleav’d by its prow, the lines of water yield:<br/> +While adverse mountains, with protective sides,<br/> + The Heav’n-directed wand’ring seaman shield.<br/> +<br/> +The anchor dropp’d, he springs upon the shore,<br/> + His wife and children press to meet his kiss;<br/> +Half-told, a thousand things they prattle o’er,<br/> + And, safe at home, renew their former bliss. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>EPIGRAM,</h2> + +<h5>ON WINNING A YOUNG LADY’S MONEY AT CARDS.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +How fairly Fortune all her gifts imparts;<br/> +We win your money, Ann, and you our hearts. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN IN A FINE WINTER’S DAY,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>At the Shooting-Box of my Friend, W. Cope, Esq</i>.</p> + +<h5>NEAR ORPINGTON, KENT.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Tho’ leafless are the woods, tho’ flow’rs no more,<br/> +In beauty blushing, spread their fragrant store,<br/> +Yet still ’tis sweet to quit the crowded scene,<br/> +And rove with Nature, tho’ no longer green;<br/> +For Winter bids her winds so softly blow,<br/> +That, cold and famine scorning, even now<br/> +The feather’d warblers still delight the ear,<br/> +And all of Summer, but her leaves, is here.<br/> +Here, on this winding garden’s sloping bound,<br/> +’Tis sweet to listen to each rustic sound,<br/> +The distant dog-bark, and the rippling rill,<br/> +Or catch the sparkling of the water-mill.<br/> +The tranquil scene each tender feeling moves;<br/> +As the eye rests on Holwood’s naked groves,<br/> +A tear bedims the sight for Chatham’s son,<br/> +For him whose god-like eloquence could stun,<br/> +Like some vast cat’ract, Faction’s clam’rous tongue,<br/> +Or by its sweetness charm, like Virgil’s song,<br/> +For him, whose mighty spirit rous’d afar<br/> +Europe’s plum’d legions to the hallow’d war;<br/> +But who, ah! hapless tale! could not inspire<br/> +Their recreant chiefs with his heroic fire;<br/> +Who, as <i>they</i> pass’d the tyrant Conqu’ror’s yoke,<br/> +Felt, as the bolt of Heav’n, the ruthless stroke;<br/> +And having long, in vain, the tempest brav’d,<br/> +Could breathe no longer in a world enslav’d. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES ON A LITTLE BIRD</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Singing at the Window of the Author</i>,</p> + +<h5>SOON AFTER THE DEATH OF A BELOVED SISTER.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Go, little flutt’rer! seek thy feather’d loves,<br/> + And leave a wretched mourner to his woe;<br/> +Seek out the bow’rs of bliss, seek happier groves,<br/> + Nor here unheeded let thy music flow.<br/> +<br/> +Yet think me not ungrateful for thy song,<br/> + If meant to cheer me in my lone retreat;<br/> +Ah! not to thee, my little friend! belong<br/> + The pow’rs to soothe the pangs of adverse fate.<br/> +<br/> +Fly, then! the window of the wretched, fly!<br/> + And be thy harmless life for ever blest;<br/> +I only can reward thee with a sigh,<br/> + And wish that joys may crown thy peaceful nest. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +By painful sickness long severely prest,<br/> +Here sinks, on Nature’s sacred lap of rest,<br/> +A friend, who, in a life too short, display’d<br/> +A mind in virtue bright, without one shade.<br/> +Hence with unusual grief is Fondness mov’d,<br/> +Hence more than Pity’s sighs for one belov’d;<br/> +Unshaken Honour sheds a manly tear,<br/> +And weeping Virtue stops, a mourner here. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO THE MEMORY OF AN AMIABLE YOUTH,<br/> +OF GREAT PROMISE,</h5> + +<p class="letter"> +Whose afflicted Parents received the Intelligence of his having been +drowned, at the very time when his Arrival was expected from +abroad.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Dire were the horrors of that ruthless storm,<br/> + That for young Lycid form’d a wat’ry grave;<br/> +Oh! many wept to see his fainting form<br/> + Unaided sink beneath th’ o’erwhelming wave.<br/> +<br/> +Ah! hapless youth! yet, tho’ the billowy waste<br/> + Has thus, with ruthless fury, snatch’d away<br/> +Thy various charms, thy genius, wit, and taste,<br/> + From those who fondly watch’d their rich display,—<br/> +<br/> +Their cherish’d, lov’d, impression still shall last;<br/> + Mem’ry shall ride triumphant o’er the storm,<br/> +Shall shield thy gen’rous virtues from the blast,<br/> + And Fancy animate again thy form.<br/> +<br/> +Yes, gentle youth! to her, tho’ little known,<br/> + Save by the rich effusions of thy lyre,<br/> +Th’ admiring Muse shall breathe a mournful tone,<br/> + And sounds of grief shall o’er the floods expire.<br/> +<br/> +But, far more grateful to thy pensive shade,<br/> + Parental Fondness mourns her Lycid gone,<br/> +Lycid! who to her bosom oft convey’d<br/> + The liveliest joys to tend’rest feelings known.<br/> +<br/> +For her the lustre of the dawning day,<br/> + With all its charms, no longer yields delight;<br/> +And silent sorrow marks its parting ray,<br/> + And saddens ev’ry vision of the night.<br/> +<br/> +Oh! what ecstatic joys inspir’d her breast,<br/> + When, fast advancing to thy native shore,<br/> +She thought she saw thee in the bay at rest,<br/> + And now in fancy heard th’ approaching oar.<br/> +<br/> +Oh! sad reverse! The dire delusive wind,<br/> + Which promis’d fair to bring thee to her breast,<br/> +Thy youthful honours to the wave consign’d,<br/> + And bore thy spirit to the realms of rest<br/> +<br/> +Ah! had the song of ancient Bard been true,<br/> + Had Genius still the pow’r to soothe the storm,<br/> +Harmless had been each blast that round thee blew,<br/> + And safe and sacred, ’midst its rage, thy form.<br/> +<br/> +What tho’ no marble urn thy relics hold,<br/> + Where grief at midnight hour may sit and sigh,<br/> +Like gem in amber, Fancy shall enfold<br/> + Thy relics in each wave that murmurs by.<br/> +<br/> +Still shall she listen to thy glowing song,<br/> + And dwell with rapture on each vivid line,<br/> +Shall round thy lyre, neglected and unstrung,<br/> + Of sweetest flow’rs a fun’ral wreath entwine.<br/> +<br/> +Ah! since thy tuneful song no more shall flow,<br/> + Nor here again thy op’ning virtues shine,<br/> +May those who, Lycid! lov’d thee living, know<br/> + To bear the sorrows of a loss like thine!<br/> +<br/> +And, while they linger yet another hour<br/> + On life’s extended, tempest-beaten, strand,<br/> +Waiting the gale that shall convey them o’er,<br/> + To hail their Lycid in a happier land,<br/> +<br/> +Oh! may religion lull each sigh to rest,<br/> + Teach them a God, in mercy rob’d, to praise,<br/> +To know that ev’ry act of his is best,<br/> + And, tho’ mysterious, still to prize his ways! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>EPIGRAM</h2> + +<h5>ON THE AUTHOR AND ELIZA FREQUENTLY DIFFERING +IN OPINION.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +To such extremes were I and Bet<br/> + Perpetually driven,<br/> +We quarrell’d every time we met,<br/> + To kiss, and be forgiven. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO MY MOTHER,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>On her attaining her 70th Year</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Oh! with what genuine pleasure do I trace<br/> +Each line of that long-lov’d, accustom’d, face,<br/> +Where Time, as if enchanted, and imprest<br/> +With all the virtues of thy peaceful breast,<br/> +Tho’ sev’nty varied years have roll’d away,<br/> +Still loves to linger, and, with soft decay,<br/> +Permits thy cheek to wear a healthy bloom,<br/> +In all the grace of age, without its gloom.<br/> +<br/> + So on some sacred temple’s mossy walls,<br/> +With feath’ry force, the snow of winter falls!<br/> +Yes, venerable parent! may I long<br/> +Thus happy hail thee with an annual song.<br/> +Till, having clos’d thine eyes in such soft rest<br/> +As infants feel when to the bosom prest,<br/> +Angels shall bear thy spotless soul away<br/> +To realms of pure delight and endless day! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO SELINA</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +’Twas when the leaves were yellow turn’d,<br/> + Selina, with the gentlest sigh,<br/> +Exclaim’d, “For you I long have burn’d,<br/> + For you alone, my love! I’ll die.”<br/> +<br/> +Unthinking youth! I thought her true,<br/> + And, when the trees grew white with snow,<br/> +The wint’ry wind with music blew,<br/> + So did her love upon me grow.<br/> +<br/> +The Spring had scarce unlock’d her store,<br/> + When lo! in much ungentle strain,<br/> +She bade me think of her no more,<br/> + She bade me never love again.<br/> +<br/> +Then did my heart at once reply,<br/> + “If you are false, who can be true?<br/> +There’s nothing here deserves a sigh,<br/> + Take this, the last, ’tis heav’d for you.”<br/> +<br/> +Ah! fickle fair! amid the scene<br/> + That giddy pleasure may prepare,<br/> +A pensive thought shall intervene,<br/> + And touch your wand’ring heart with care.<br/> +<br/> +And when, alone, at eve you rove,<br/> + Where arm in arm we oft have mov’d,<br/> +Each Zephyr in the well-known grove<br/> + Shall whisper that we once have lov’d. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE,<br/> +AT DRONNINGAARD, NEAR COPENHAGEN.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Delicious gloom! asylum of repose!<br/> + Within your verdant shades, your tranquil bound,<br/> +A wretched fugitive<a href="#fn14" name="fnref14" id="fnref14"><sup>[14]</sup></a>, oppress’d by woes,<br/> + The balm of peace, that long had left him, found.<br/> +<br/> +Ne’er does the trump of war disturb this grove;<br/> + Throughout its deep recess the warbling bird<br/> +Discourses sweetly of its happy lore,<br/> + Or distant sounds of rural joy are heard.<br/> +<br/> +Life’s checquer’d scene is softly pictur’d here;<br/> + Here the proud moss-rose spreads its transient pride;<br/> +Close by, the willow drops a dewy tear,<br/> + And gaudy flow’rs the modest lily hide.<br/> +<br/> +Alas! poor Hermit! happy had it been<br/> + For thee, if in these shades thy days had past,<br/> +If, well contented with the happy scene,<br/> + Thou ne’er again had fac’d life’s stormy blast!<br/> +<br/> +And Pity oft shall shed the gen’rous tear<br/> + O’er the sad moral which thy days disclose;<br/> +There view how restless is our nature here,<br/> + How strangely hostile to its own repose. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn14" id="fn14"></a> <a href="#fnref14">[14]</a> +Dronningaard is the first private residence in Denmark: +it belongs to the wealthy family of the De Conincks. The grounds, +which are very extensive, and tastefully laid out, slope down to a +noble lake, twelve English miles in circumference, which is skirted +with fine woods and romantic country-houses. At the end of a +beautiful walk is an elegant marble column, with a tablet, on which +is inscribed by Mr. D.C. “This monument is erected in gratitude to a +mild and beneficent Government, under whose auspices I enjoy the +blessings that surround me.” In another part of the grounds, in a +spot of deep seclusion, are the ruins of a Hermitage; and a little +further, in a nook, an open grave and tombstone. The story connected +with this retired spot deserves to be mentioned:—Time has shed many +snows upon the romantic beauties of Dronningaard, since one, who, +weary of the pomp of courts and the tumult of camps, in the prime of +life, covered with honours and with fortune, sought from its +hospitable owner permission to raise a sequestered cell, in which he +might pass the remainder of his days in all the austerities and +privations of an Anchorite. This singular man had, long previously to +the revolution in Holland, distinguished himself at the head of his +regiment, when, in an unhappy moment, the love of aggrandizement took +possession of his heart, and, marrying under its influence, misery +soon followed; and here, in a little wood of tall firs, he raised this +simple fabric: moss warmed it within, and the bark of the birch +defended it without; a stream of rock-water once flowed in a bed of +pebbles before the door, in which the young willow dipped its leaves; +and, at a little distance from a bed of wild roses, the labernum +gracefully rose, and suspended her yellow flowers; and adjoining was a +spot which the Recluse had selected for his grave, of which, like the +monks of La Trappe, he dug a small portion every day until he had +finished it. He composed his Epitaph in French, and had it inscribed +on a stone. If the reader is as much interested as I was in the +history of the poor Hermit, he will be pleased with the translation of +it, which follows, from the pen of my respected and distinguished +friend, William Hayley, Esq. In this solitude he passed several years, +when the plan of his life became suddenly reversed by a letter of +recall, which he received from his Prince, containing the most +flattering expressions of regard. He obeyed the summons, returned to +Holland, and at the head of his regiment most gallantly fought and +fell.</p> + +<h5>THE HERMIT’S EPITAPH.</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Here may he rest, who, shunning scenes of strife,<br/> +Enjoy’d at Dronningaard a Hermit’s life:<br/> +The faithless splendour of a court he knew,<br/> + And all the ardour of the tented field,<br/> +Soft Passion’s idler charm, not less untrue,<br/> + And all that listless Luxury can yield.<br/> +He tasted, tender Love! thy chatter sweet;<br/> +Thy promis’d happiness prov’d mere deceit.<br/> +To Hymen’s hallow’d fane by Reason led,<br/> + He deem’d the path he trod the path of bliss;<br/> +Oh! ever-mourn’d mistake! from int’rest bred,<br/> + Its dupe was plung’d in misery’s abyss:<br/> +But Friendship offer’d him, benignant pow’r!<br/> +Her cheering hand, in trouble’s darkest hour:<br/> +Beside this shaded stream, her soothing voice<br/> +Bade the disconsolate again rejoice:<br/> + Peace in his heart revives, serenely sweet;<br/> +The calm content, so sought for as his choice,<br/> + Quits him no more in this belov’d retreat. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO MISS E. ATKINSON,</h2> + +<h5>ON HER PRESENTING THE AUTHOR WITH AN IRISH PEBBLE.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Oft does the lucid pebble shine,<br/> + Just cover’d by the murm’ring sea;<br/> +Thus precious, thus conceal’d, it shews,<br/> + Fair maid! thy mind and modesty.<br/> +<br/> +If searching eyes the stone discern,<br/> + Quick will the hand of Art remove<br/> +Each ruder part, till, brilliant grown,<br/> + It seals the fond record of love.<br/> +<br/>And here the sweet connexion ends,<br/> + + Eliza! ’twixt the gem and thee;<br/> +For thou wast polish’d from the first,<br/> + By Nature’s hand, more happily! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>THE WATER-NYMPH OF THE ROCK.</h2> + +<p class="letter"> +[The French is by Bosquillon, which I translated as under, in a +beautiful Swedish island in the Baltic, as I sat by the side of a fine +clear stream of rock-water.]</p> + +<h4><i>ORIGINAL</i>.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> +La nymphe qui donne de cette eau<br/> +Au plus creux de rocher se cache,<br/> +Suivez un example si beau:<br/> +Donnez sans vouloir qu’on le sache. +</p> + +<h4><i>TRANSLATION</i>.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> +The nymph, to whom this stream you owe,<br/> + Conceals herself in caves of stone:<br/> +Like her your benefits bestow;<br/> + Give, without wishing to be known. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>UPON MADEMOISELLE DELPHINE SAULOT</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Singing some equisite Airs</i></p> + +<h5>IN THE GARDENS OF MOUSSEAU, NEAR PARIS.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +In Mousseau’s sweet Arcadian dale<br/> + Fair Delphine pours the plaintive strain;<br/> +She charms the list’ning nightingale,<br/> + And seems th’ enchantress of the plain.<br/> +<br/> +Bless’d be those lips, to music dear;<br/> + Sweet songstress! never may they move<br/> +But with such sounds, to soothe the ear,<br/> + And melt the yielding heart to love.<br/> +<br/> +May sorrow never bid them pour<br/> + From the torn heart one suff’ring sigh;<br/> +But be thy life a fragrant flow’r,<br/> + Blooming beneath a cloudless sky! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>IMPROMPTU TO MADAME C——</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN AT PARIS,</h5> + +<p class="letter"> +Upon her appearing equally modestly and elegantly dressed, amidst the +Semi-Nakedness of the Rest of the Female Fashionables. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Whilst, in a dress that one might swear<br/> +The whole was made of woven air,<br/> +Pert Fashion spreads her senseless sway<br/> +Over the giddy and the gay<br/> +(Who think, by showing all their charms,<br/> +Lovers will fly into their arms),<br/> +In thee shall Wit and Virtue find<br/> +A friend more genial to their mind;<br/> +And Modesty shall gain in thee<br/> +A surer, chaster, victory. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>SONNET</h2> + +<h5>UPON A SWEDISH COTTAGE,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Written on the Road</i>,</p> + +<h5>WITHIN A FEW MILES OF STOCKHOLM.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Here, far from all the pomp Ambition seeks,<br/> + Much sought, but only whilst untasted prais’d,<br/> +Content and Innocence, with rosy cheeks,<br/> + Enjoy the simple shed their hands have rais’d.<br/> +<br/> +On a gray rock it stands, whose fretted base<br/> + The distant cat’ract’s murm’ring waters lave,<br/> +Whilst o’er its mossy roof, with varying grace,<br/> + The slender branches of the white birch wave.<br/> +<br/> +Around the forest-fir is heard to sigh,<br/> + On which the pensive ear delights to dwell,<br/> +Whilst, as the gazing trav’ller passes by,<br/> + The gray goat, starting, sounds his tinkling bell.<br/> +Oh! in my native land, ere life’s decline,<br/> +May such a spot, so wild, so sweet, be mine! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. B——</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Ah, stranger! if thy pilgrim footsteps love,<br/> + By meditation led, to wander here,<br/> +A suff’ring husband may thy pity move,<br/> + Who weeps the loss of all his soul holds dear!<br/> +<br/> +Cold as this mourning marble is that heart,<br/> + Which Virtue warm’d with pure and gen’rous heat,<br/> +Which to each checquer’d scene could joy impart,<br/> + Nor ceas’d to love until it ceas’d to beat.<br/> +<br/> +Yet, gentle spirit! o’er thine early grave<br/> + Shall Consolation, like a seraph, prove,<br/> +When Sickness clos’d thy faultless life, she gave<br/> + Another angel to the realms above! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>STATE TRICKS</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Or a Peep into the Cabinet of the Premier Consul</i>,</p> + +<h5>AT ST. CLOUD,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +ON THE NIGHT OF THE 26th OCT. 1803.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +—“they show an outward hideousness,<br/> +And speak off half a dozen dang’rous words,<br/> +How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst;<br/> +And this is all.” +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, Act V. Scene 4.</p> + +<h4>FIRST CONSUL.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> +My dear Talleyrand! I am sorry to send<br/> +For you out of your bed; but you know you’re my friend:<br/> +No secret I hide from your generous breast;<br/> +This invasion is always <i>invading my rest</i>:<br/> +My soldiers, poor devils! are ready to start,<br/> +But to stay where I am is the wish of my heart;<br/> +And yet I have sworn at their head to appear:<br/> +I am puzzl’d to act ’twixt my threats and my fear;<br/> +If I go, I am lost!—say, what shall I do? +</p> + +<h5>TALLEYRAND.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Why I think I’ve a snug little project in view:<br/> +I have felt for you long, and have ransack’d my brain<br/> +To relieve you from so much embarrassing pain.<br/> +To-morrow our principal tools shall repair<br/> +To this spot, to implore you to stay where you are:<br/> +Little Jancourt, you know, has a tear at command,<br/> +The rest shall have muslin-wrapp’d onions in hand;<br/> +An expedient which you, my good Consul, must try,<br/> +For a drop never yet wag observ’d in your eye!<br/> +And therefore I think ’twould be better for you<br/> +The largest to pluck from the beds of St Cloud.<br/> +When these fellows appear, they shall fall at your feet,<br/> +Portalis shall pen a few words to repeat;<br/> +He shall state ’tis the nation’s imperial will<br/> +That you do not your <i>dangerous promise</i> fulfil;<br/> +But snug in this closet put all into motion,<br/> +Nor hazard your life with these sons of the ocean.<br/> +<i>You</i> shall say, “I have sworn by my glory to go;” }<br/> +<i>They</i> shall all of them blubber out “No, no, no, no!}<br/> +It must not, thou world’s second saviour! be so. }<br/> +If you go, mighty Chieftain! and should not escape,<br/> +All Gallia, the world, will be cover’d with crape<a href="#fn15" name="fnref15" id="fnref15"><sup>[15]</sup></a>!<br/> +Oh! stay where you are; on our knees we implore!”<br/> +Then, apparently chok’d, they shall utter no more.<br/> +When thrice sixty seconds have nearly expir’d<br/> +(Now mind, my dear Consul, and do as desir’d),<br/> +You must mimic some hero you’ve seen at the play,<br/> +Of the tragical cast, when his soul melts away<br/> +(And, without any compliment ’twixt you and I,<br/> +You re’lly have talents and pow’rs very high,<br/> +To make the most striking tragedian alive).<br/> +But now to the point. You must tenderly strive<br/> +To raise these sweet prostrates; then, heaving a sigh,<br/> +And wiping the drops that shall stand in each eye,<br/> +Like one sorely cross’d, you shall, weeping, exclaim,<br/> +“Oh! why do you tear me from conquest and fame?<br/> +But still, if the nation commands me, ’tis fit”<br/> +(Your breast thumping hard) “that its Chief should submit.”<br/> +Then you see, if the army of England should sail,<br/> +And the schemes of this cursed armada should fail,<br/> +In the <i>Moniteur’s</i> faithful official page,<br/> +I can humbug the people, and soften their rage;<br/> +I will tell them, that, had but the nation permitted<br/> +Her Chief to have gone, we had ne’er been outwitted;<br/> +That merely the terrible glance of his eye<br/> +Would have made all those shop-keeping islanders fly;<br/> +This will quiet our friends, and, to harass our foes,<br/> +A second invasion I’ll slyly propose,<br/> +In which, in the van, Buonaparte shall pour<br/> +His vengeance divine on that mercantile shore.<br/> +Not that I, my dear Premier! conceive ’twould be right<br/> +To renew with these cursed tough fellows the fight;<br/> +But our people ’twill please, until some new occasion<br/> +Shall call from this project the eye of the nation. +</p> + +<h5>FIRST CONSUL.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +It will do, it will do, my dear Tally! thy brain<br/> +Has my terrors remov’d, and “a man I’m again.”<br/> +I will rise with the dawn, for this scene to prepare;<br/> +Denon, with his crayons, so swift shall be there;<br/> +The Parisians the subject with rapture will trace<br/> +In my Nosegay<a href="#fn16" name="fnref16" id="fnref16"><sup>[16]</sup></a>; I’ll hang it up full in their face.<br/> +I embrace thee, my dear little Tal! with delight;<br/> +<i>Ca ira! Ca ira</i>! Thy hand, and good night. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +[The First Consul is said to have enjoyed half an hour’s uninterrupted +repose that night. What followed, the next day, all Europe +knows, and all Europe laughs at.]</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn15" id="fn15"></a> <a href="#fnref15">[15]</a> +Black crape and the bolt of Heaven are the favourite +rhetorical figures of Napoleon the First.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn16" id="fn16"></a> <a href="#fnref16">[16]</a> +“Nosegay”—The anti-chamber of the Hall of the Arts in +the Louvre, in which there are many fine paintings, is called, by the +Parisians, Buonaparte’s Nosegay.</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO MISS CHINNERY, OF GILLWELL-HOUSE,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Upon her appearing in a Dress</i></p> + +<h5>WITH MAY-FLOWERS AND LEAVES TASTEFULLY DISPLAYED.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Tell me what taught thee to display<br/> + A choice so sweet, and yet so rare,<br/> +To prize the modest buds of May<br/> + Beyond the diamond’s prouder glare?<br/> +<br/> +Say, was the grateful pref’rence paid<br/> + To Nature, since, with skill divine,<br/> +So many fairy charms she made,<br/> + To grace her fav’rite Caroline?<br/> +<br/> +Or was it Taste that bade thee try<br/> + How soon the richest gem must yield,<br/> +In beauty and attractive die,<br/> + To this wild blossom of the field?<br/> +<br/> +Whate’er the cause, in Nature’s glow<br/> + Well does the choice thyself pourtray;<br/> +Thine innocence the blossoms show,<br/> + Thy youth the green leaves well display. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>SONG.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Ah! if my voice is heard in vain,<br/> + This fond, this falling, tear<br/> +May yet thy dire intent restrain,<br/> + May yet dissolve my fear.<br/> +<br/> +Th’ unsparing wound that lays thee low<br/> + Will bend thy Julia too:<br/> +Could she survive the fatal blow<br/> + Who only lives in you? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO MRS. A. CLARKE.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Within his cold and cheerless cell,<br/> +I heard the sighing Censor tell<br/> + That ev’ry charm of life was gone,<br/> +That ev’ry noble virtue long<br/> +Had ceas’d to wake the Minstrel’s song,<br/> + And Vice triumphant stood alone.<br/> +<br/> +“Poor gloomy reas’ner! come with me;<br/> +Smooth each dark frown, and thou shall see<br/> + Thy tale is but a mournful dream;<br/> +I’ll show thee scenes to yield delight,<br/> +I’ll show thee forms in Virtue bright,<br/> + Illum’d by Heav’n’s unclouded beam.<br/> +<br/> +“See Clarke, with ev’ry goodness grac’d,<br/> +Her mind the seat of Wit and Taste;<br/> + Tho’ Wealth invites to Pleasure’s bow’r,<br/> +See her the haunts of Woe descend;<br/> +Of many a friendless wretch the friend,<br/> + Pleas’d she exerts sweet Pity’s pow’r.<br/> +<br/> +“See her, with parent patriot care,<br/> +The infant orphan-mind prepare,<br/> + Assur’d, without Instruction’s aid,<br/> +The proudest nation soon will show<br/> +A wasted form, a hectic glow,<br/> + A robb’d, diseas’d, revolting, shade.<br/> +<br/> +“See her with Prince-like spirit pour<br/> +On genuine worth her ample store<a href="#fn17" name="fnref17" id="fnref17"><sup>[17]</sup></a>;<br/> + See her, by ev’ry gentle art,<br/> +Protect the plant she loves to rear,<br/> +And, as she bathes it with a tear,<br/> + Grateful it twines around her heart.<br/> +<br/> +“And there are more, of kindred mind;”—<br/> +When, with a face more bland and kind,<br/> + The Sage, in soften’d tone, replied:<br/> +“’Twas Error made to me the den<br/> +More grateful than the haunts of men;<br/> + Henceforth mankind shall be my pride.” +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn17" id="fn17"></a> <a href="#fnref17">[17]</a> +This alludes to a munificent donation of a very handsome +fortune, which this Lady presented, without any claim of consanguinity +or connexion, to a young Lady of great merit.</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>To the Tune of “Oh! Lady fair! where art thou going</i>?”</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Sing, bird of grief! still eve descending,<br/> +And soothe a mind with sorrow rending;<br/> +Ne’er may I see the blush of morrow,<br/> +But close this night the sigh of sorrow;<br/> +<br/> +Then, if some wand’rer here directed<br/> +Shall find my mossy grave neglected,<br/> +May he replace the weed that’s growing<br/> +With the nearest flow’r that’s blowing! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>IMPROMPTU LINES</h2> + +<h5>UPON A VERY HANDSOME WOMAN</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Keeping the Hotel de Lion Blanc, at Dantzig</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +The sign of the house should be chang’d, I’ll be sworn,<br/> + Where enchanted we find so much beauty and grace;<br/> +Then quick from the door let the <i>lion</i> be torn,<br/> + And an <i>angel</i> expand her white wings in his place. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>UPON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL INFANT SLEEPING ON THE +BOSOM OF ITS MOTHER.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Upon its native pillow dear,<br/> + The little slumb’rer finds repose;<br/> +His fragrant breath eludes the ear—<br/> + A zephyr passing o’er a rose.<br/> +<br/>Yet soon from that pure spot of rest<br/> + + (Love’s little throne!) shalt thou be torn;<br/> +Time hovers o’er thy downy nest,<br/> + To crown thy baby-brow with thorn.<br/> +<br/> +Ah! thoughtless! couldst thou now but see<br/> + On what a world thou soon must move,<br/> +Or taste the cup prepar’d for thee<br/> + Of grief, lost hopes, or widow’d love,<br/> +<br/> +Ne’er from that breast thou’d’st raise thine head,<br/> + But thou would’st breathe to Heav’n a pray’r<br/> +To let thee, ere thy blossom fade,<br/> + In one fond sigh exhale thee there. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN AT FREDENSBORG,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>The deserted Palace of the late Queen Dowager Juliana Maria</i><a href="#fn18" name="fnref18" id="fnref18"><sup>[18]</sup></a>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> + Bless’d are the steps of Virtue’s queen!<br/> + Where’er she moves fresh roses bloom;<br/> +And, when she droops, kind Nature pours<br/> +Her genuine tears in gentle show’rs,<br/> + That love to dew the willow green<br/> + That over-canopies her tomb.<br/> +<br/> + But, ah! no willing mourner here<br/> + Attends to tell the tale of woe:<br/> +Why is yon statue prostrate thrown?<br/> +Why has the grass green’d o’er the stone?<br/> + Why, ’gainst the spider’d casement drear,<br/> + So sullen seems the wind to blow?<br/> +<br/> + How mournful was the lonely bird,<br/> + Within yon dark neglected grove!<br/> +Say, was it fancy? From its throat<br/> +Issu’d a strange and cheerless note;<br/> + ’Twas not so sad as grief I heard,<br/> + Nor yet so wildly sweet as love.<br/> +<br/> + In the deep gloom of yonder dell<br/> + Ambition’s blood-stain’d victims sigh’d;<br/> +While Time beholds, without a tear,<br/> +Fell Desolation hov’ring near,<br/> + Whose angry blushes seem to tell.<br/> + Here Juliana shudd’ring died! +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn18" id="fn18"></a> <a href="#fnref18">[18]</a> +This palace, called the Mansion of Peace, is in the road +and near to Elsineur; it was the retreat of the ambitious and +remorseless Juliana Maria, the mother-in-law of Christian VII. whose +intrigues and jealousy sent Brandt and Struensee to the scaffold, and +drove the unhappy Matilda, the mother of the present King of Denmark, +from her throne, and the arms of her royal husband. Juliana died here. +The palace and grounds, parts of which are beautiful, were, when I +visited them in 1804, much neglected.</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>SONG</h2> + +<p class="letter"> +Upon the Admiration of the Valour and amiable Qualities of Lord +Nelson, expressed by Junot, now Duke of Abrantes, who, by the +Chances of War, was for a short Time the British Hero’s Prisoner. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +A wreath from an immortal bough<br/> +Should deck that gen’rous victor’s brow,<br/> +Who hears his captive’s grateful praise<br/> +Augment the thanks his country pays;<br/> +For him the minstrel’s song shall flow,<br/> +The canvass breathe, the marble glow. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>UPON A LADY DYING</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Soon after she had been wrecked on the Cornish Coast</i>,</p> + +<h5>LEAVING A LITTLE INFANT BEHIND HER.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Sweet stranger! tho’ the merc’less storm<br/> +Here sternly cast thy fainting form,<br/> +What tho’ no kindred hand was near<br/> +To wipe away Affliction’s tear,<br/> +<br/> +Yet shall thy gentle spirit own,<br/> +Amidst these sea-girt shores unknown,<br/> +That Pity pour’d her balmy store,<br/> +And kindred hands could do no more.<br/> +<br/> +Ne’er shall that pang disturb thy rest,<br/> +That moves the parted mother’s breast;<br/> +The object of thy dying fear<br/> +Shall want no father’s fondness here.<br/> +<br/> +Oft shall his little lips proclaim,<br/> +With April-tears, thy treasur’d name;<br/> +His little hands, when summers bloom,<br/> +Shall gather flow’rs to deck thy tomb. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>JEU D’ESPRIT</h2> + +<h5>UPON A VERY PRETTY WOMAN ASKING THE AUTHOR HIS +OPINION OF BEAUTY.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Madam! you ask what marks for beauty pass:<br/> +Require them rather from your looking-glass! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO THE MEMORY OF ERASMUS,<br/> +BY OUDAAN,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +Inscribed on the Pedestal of the Statue raised in Honour of the former, +in Rotterdam.</p> + +<p class="center"> +[<i>The Original in Dutch</i>.]</p> + +<h4><i>ORIGINAL</i>.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> +Hier rees die groote zon, en ging te Bazel onder!<br/> + De Rykstad eer’ en vier’ dien Heilig in zyn grav;<br/> + Dit tweede leeven geevt, die’t eerste leeven gav:<br/> +Maar ’t ligt der taalen, ’t zout der zeden, ’t heerlyk wonder.<br/> +<br/> +Waar met de Lievde, en Vreede, en Godgeleerdheid praald,<br/> +Word met geen grav gëerd nog met zeen beeld betaald:<br/> +Dies moet hier’t lugtgewele Erasmus overdekken,<br/> +Nadien geen mind’re plaats zyn tempel kan verstrekken! +</p> + +<h4><i>TRANSLATION</i>.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> +Erasmus, here, the eloquent and wise,<br/> + That Sun of Learning! rose, and spread his beam<br/> +O’er a benighted world, thro’ low’ring skies,<br/> + And shed on Basil’s tow’rs his parting gleam.<br/> +<br/> +There his great relics lie: he bless’d the place:<br/> + No proud preserver of his fame shall prove<br/> +The Parian pile, tho’ fraught with sculptur’d grace:<br/> + Reader! his mausoleum is above. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>THE FOLLOWING TWO SONGS</h2> + +<p class="center"> +Were written during a Period when it was confidently believed that the<br/> +French would invade our Country. +</p> + +<h4>SONG.</h4> + +<p class="center"> +<i>To the Tune of “Ye Gentlemen of England</i>.”</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +No gentleman of England now sits at home at ease,<br/> +But emulates on shore the heroes of the seas;<br/> +A common cause unites them, to meet the daring foe,<br/> +All they wish, all they ask, is a fav’ring wind to blow.<br/> +<br/> +Oh! let them come along, and may no tempests low’r,<br/> +But fairly may we try our valour and our pow’r,<br/> +That Hist’ry may not say, should these robbers be laid low,<br/> +To the storm ’tis alone the victory we owe.<br/> +<br/> +Soon shall these infidels the dreadful diff’rence prove,<br/> +’Twixt slaves impell’d by fear, and freemen bound by love;<br/> +Our foes shall never rise again, when once they are laid low,<br/> +On the sea, on the shore, for justice strikes the blow. +</p> + +<h4>SONG.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> + When storms on the ocean<br/> + Create high emotion,<br/> + It pleases the wish<br/> + Of the monarch of fish,<br/> +For he gambols and sports in the motion.<br/> +<br/> + Should a shoal of small fry<br/> + Attempt to draw nigh,<br/> + With a flap of his tail,<br/> + Th’ imperial whale<br/> +Makes them pay for their rashness, and die.<br/> +<br/> + Oh! thus, on the seas,<br/> + Just with the same ease,<br/> + Should the enemy come,<br/> + In ship, boat, or bomb,<br/> +We will knock them about as we please;<br/> +<br/> + Till at last they shall cry,<br/> + “We are the small fry,<br/> + And Britannia’s the whale,<br/> + By a flap of whose tail,<br/> +If we dare to approach her we die.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>SONNET,</h2> + +<p class="letter"> +Occasioned by reading an Inscription on the Tombstone of Captain +Christensen, of Krajore, in Norway, who died in consequence of +the Bite of his Dog, when it was mad.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Ah! hapless stranger! who, without a tear,<br/> + Can this sad record of thy fate survey?<br/> +No angry tempest laid thee breathless here,<br/> + Nor hostile sword, nor Nature’s mild decay.<br/> +<br/> +The fond companion of thy pilgrim feet,<br/> + Who watch’d thee in thy sleep, who moan’d if miss’d,<br/> +And sprung with such delight his Lord to greet,<br/> + Imbu’d with death the hand he oft had kiss’d.<br/> +<br/> +And here, remov’d from Love’s lamenting eye,<br/> + Far from thy native cat’racts’ awful sound,<br/> +Far from thy dusky forests’ pensive sigh,<br/> + Thy poor remains repose on alien ground;<br/> +Yet Pity oft shall sit beside thy stone,<br/> +And sigh as tho’ she mourn’d a brother gone. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>IMPROMPTU,</h2> + +<h5>IN REPLY TO A LADY,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Who asked the Author what Childhood resembled</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +How like is childhood to the lucid tide<br/> + That calmly wanders thro’ the mossy dell,<br/> +Sweeps o’er the lily by the margin’s side,<br/> + And, as it kisses, murmurs out, Farewell! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY IN GERMANY,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Who, until her Sister, honoured the Author by walking with him in +the Evening</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Adieu! dear girl! if we are doom’d to part,<br/> +Take with thee, take, the blessing of this heart,<br/> +Due to thy gentle mind, and cultur’d sense;<br/> +Perhaps ’twill please, but, sure, can’t give offence.<br/> +Tho’, when we met, the solar ray was gone,<br/> +And on our steps the moon-beam only shone,<br/> +Yet well I mark’d thy form and native grace,<br/> +And all the sweet expression of thy face;<br/> +And pleas’d I listen’d as thy accents fell,<br/> +Accents that spoke a feeling mind so well<br/> +Lo, when the birds repose at ev’ning hour,<br/> +The sweetest of them carols from her bow’r!<br/> +So, when the dews the garden’s fragrance close,<br/> +The night-flow’r<a href="#fn19" name="fnref19" id="fnref19"><sup>[19]</sup></a> blooms, the rival of the rose! +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn19" id="fn19"></a> <a href="#fnref19">[19]</a> +One of the creeping cereuses, usually known by the name +of the night-flower, is said to be as grand and as beautiful as any in +the vegetable system. It begins to open in the evening, about seven +o’clock; is in perfection about eleven, perfuming the air to a +considerable distance, and fades about four in the morning.</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO STUDY.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +O Study! while thy lovers raise<br/> +Thy name with all the pow’r of praise,<br/> +Frown not, thou nymph with piercing mind!<br/> +If in this bosom thou should’st find<br/> +That all thy deep, thy brilliant, lore,<br/> +Which charm’d it once, now charms no more:<br/> +Frown not, if, on thy classic line,<br/> +One strange, uncall’d-for, tear should shine;<br/> +Frown not, if, when a smile should start,<br/> +A sigh should heave an aching heart:<br/> +If Mem’ry, roving far away,<br/> +Should an unmeaning homage pay,<br/> +Should ask thee for thy golden fruit,<br/> +And, when thou deign’st to hear her suit,<br/> +Should turn her from the proffer’d food,<br/> +To tread the shades of Solitude:<br/> +Frown not, if, in the humble line,<br/> +Ungrac’d by any thought of thine,<br/> +Should but that gentle name appear,<br/> +Fond cause of ev’ry joy and fear;<br/> +I love, tho’ rude, I love it more,<br/> +Than all thy piles of letter’d lore:<br/> +Frown not if ev’ry airy word,<br/> +Which Beauty breathes, or Love has heard,<br/> +More rich, more eloquently, flow,<br/> +To Mem’ry gives a warmer glow,<br/> +Than all by thee so much approv’d,<br/> +The wit of age on age improv’d.<br/> +Go, then! and, since it is denied<br/> +That thou shalt be my radiant guide!<br/> +Leave me to sigh, to weep, to prove<br/> +How little Learning is to Love. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>SONG.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Wilt thou, because thy Florio loves,<br/> + Forsake the giddy glitt’ring throng,<br/> +With him to dwell in peaceful groves,<br/> + With him to hear the shepherd’s song?<br/> +<br/> +Can’st thou, without a sigh, resign<br/> + The homage by thy charms inspir’d?<br/> +To one, oh! say, can’st thou confine<br/> + What oft so many have admir’d?<br/> +<br/> +Sweet maid! oh! bless’d shall be our love,<br/> + Till time shall bid it cease to flow;<br/> +With thee shall ev’ry moment prove<br/> + A little heaven form’d below! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>THE FURY OF DISCORD</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +In a chariot of fire, thro Hell’s flaming arch,<br/> + The Fury of Discord appear’d;<br/> +A myriad of demons attended her march,<br/> + And in Gallia her standard she rear’d.<br/> +<br/> +Thy name, so enchanting, sweet Freedom! she took,<br/> + But in vain did she try to assume<br/> +Thy smile of content, thy enlivening look,<br/> + And thy roseate mountainous bloom.<br/> +<br/> +For wan was her visage, and phrensied her eye,<br/> + At her girdle a poniard she wore;<br/> +Her bosom and limbs were expos’d to the sky,<br/> + And her robe was besprinkled with gore.<br/> +<br/> +Nature shudder’d, and sigh’d as the wild rabble past,<br/> + Each flow’r droop’d its beautiful head;<br/> +The groves became dusky, and moan’d in the blast,<br/> + And Virtue and Innocence fled.<br/> +<br/> +She rose from her car ’midst the yell of her crew;<br/> + Emblazon’d, a scroll she unfurl’d,<br/> +And on it the dreams of Philosophy drew;<br/> + “’Tis the Charter, she cried, of the World.”<br/> +<br/> +Plunder, keen-ey’d and lean, rang with plaudits the sky,<br/> + Murder grinn’d as he whetted his steel;<br/> +While Blasphemy swore the Redeemer on high<br/> + Was the creature of Folly and Zeal.<br/> +<br/> +The scaffold grew red with the blood of the brave,<br/> + Kings turn’d pale on their thrones at her nod;<br/> +While Loyalty fled to the gloom of the cave,<br/> + And Piety knelt to her God.<br/> +<br/> +At length, after changing her chiefs at her will,<br/> + As their mischievous zeal grew remiss,<br/> +She sought a fresh fav’rite, with dexterous skill,<br/> + From Obscurity’s darkest abyss.<br/> +<br/> +The pow’rs of her monstrous adoption to try,<br/> + ’Midst, Syria! thy waterless waste,<br/> +She bade him the blast of thy desert outvie,<br/> + And defile all thy relics of taste.<br/> +<br/> +The chieftain obey’d: with a merciful air<br/> + He wrung from thy natives a tear;<br/> +But the justice and valour of Britain, e’en there,<br/> + Shook his legions, recoiling with fear.<br/> +<br/> +Well-pleas’d with his crimes, the Fury, with flight,<br/> + To her empire safe wafted him o’er;<br/> +Whilst the spectres of Jaffa, with ghastly delight,<br/> + The murd’rer pursued to the shore.<br/> +<br/> +Arriv’d, for his brow, lo! a turban she made,<br/> + Bright with gems pluck’d from Gallia’s crown;<br/> +To give him a name, she Rome’s hist’ry survey’d,<br/> + In the days of her early renown.<br/> +<br/> +To embellish his guilt, or to soften its shade,<br/> + The Arts mournful captives she kept;<br/> +And the plund’rer and plunder of Europe display’d<br/> + To the wand’rer, who wonder’d and wept.<br/> +<br/> +To support this apostate imperial shade,<br/> + This impious mock’ry of good,<br/> +She rais’d a banditti, to whom she convey’d<br/> + His spirit for plunder and blood.<br/> +<br/> +The chiefs of the earth in a panic beheld<br/> + The flash of his sabre afar;<br/> +They enter’d, but pensively mov’d from the field,<br/> + And bow’d to this idol of war.<br/> +<br/> +Till, fum’d with the incense of slavish applause,<br/> + O’er the globe’s fairest portion he trod;<br/> +And, spurning its liberty, spirit, and laws,<br/> + Conceiv’d himself rais’d to a god.<br/> +<br/> +But England disdain’d to the Tyrant to bend;<br/> + Still erect, undismay’d, she was found;<br/> +Infuriate, he swore that “his bolt should descend,”<br/> + And her temples should fall to the ground.<br/> +<br/> +Yes, here, if his banner is destin’d to wave,<br/> + It shall float o’er her temples laid low,<br/> +O’er piles of her children, who, loyal and brave,<br/> + Such a victory never will know.<br/> +<br/> +Oh! banish the thought; for, learn ’tis in vain,<br/> + Thus, thou maniac Tyrant, to boast;<br/> +As soon shall her base be remov’d by the main,<br/> + As her empire by thee and thy host.<br/> +<br/> +The sound is gone forth, ’tis recorded above,<br/> + To the mountain it spread from the vale;<br/> +“Our God, and our King, and our Country, we love,<br/> + And for them we will die or prevail.”<br/> +<br/> +Then hasten the day, if thy threat be sincere,<br/> + Let the winds blow thy myriads along;<br/> +Then soon may thy boasted armada appear,<br/> + And our rocks catch thy death-breathing song.<br/> +<br/> +Thy guardian, foul deity! hideous with crime,<br/> + Shall view, as she moves to our shore,<br/> +The Genius of Britain, mild, brave, and sublime,<br/> + And shall boast her achievements no more.<br/> +<br/> +Oh! direful and strange will the contest appear,<br/> + Big with freedom to nations afar;<br/> +The good, who confide, and the guilty, who fear,<br/> + Shall join in the conflict of war.<br/> +<br/> +In Heaven, with smiles, shall the happy and blest<br/> + Lean over its bright-beaming walls,<br/> +To guide and support to the regions of rest<br/> + The soul of the patriot who falls.<br/> +<br/> +Britannia! thy Muse, on a rock high and steep,<br/> + The fate of the fight shall proclaim;<br/> +The strings of her lyre Inspiration shall sweep,<br/> + Recording each hero by name.<br/> +<br/> +The world to its centre shall shake with delight,<br/> + As thus she announces their fall;<br/> +“They sink! our invaders submit to our might,<br/> + The ocean has buried them all!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO ANNETTE.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Canst thou, Annette, thy lover see?<br/> + His trembling love unfolded hear?<br/> + And mark the while th’ impassion’d tear,<br/> +Th’ impassion’d tear of agony?<br/> +<br/> +Adown his anxious features steal,<br/> +Nor then one burst of pity feel?<br/> +But, as bereav’d of ev’ry sense,<br/> +Look on with cold indifference.<br/> +Go, then, Annette, in all thy charms,<br/> +Go bless some gayer, happier, arms;<br/> +Go, rest secure, thy fear give o’er,<br/> +These eyes shall follow thee no more;<br/> +And never shall these lips impart<br/> +One thought of all that rends my heart.<br/> +<br/> +Yet, since will burst the frequent sigh,<br/> + And since the tear will ever fall,<br/> +From thee and from the world I’ll fly;<br/> + Deserts shall hide, shall silence, all. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>SENT WITH SOME INDIAN ROUGE TO MISS W——.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Go, faithless bloom! on Delia’s cheek<br/> + Your boasted captivations try;<br/> +Alas! o’er Nature would you seek<br/> + To gain one moment’s victory?<br/> +Her softer tint, sweet look, and gentle air,<br/> +Shall prove you’re but a vain intruder there.<br/> +<br/> +But go, display your charms and taste;<br/> + Soon shall you blush a richer red,<br/> +To find your mimic pow’r surpass’d;<br/> + And, whilst upon her cheek you spread<br/> +Your vermeil hue, tell her ingenuous heart,<br/> +’Tis the first time she ever practis’d art. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>MISS W—— RETURNED THE ROUGE</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>With the following elegant Lines</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +When men exert their utmost pow’rs,<br/> +To while away the tedious hours,<br/> + With soothing Flatt’ry’s art,<br/> +When ev’ry art and work well skill’d,<br/> +And ev’ry look with poison fill’d,<br/> + Assail a woman’s heart,<br/> +<br/> +Tho’ ardently she’d wish to be<br/> +Proof ’gainst the charms of Flattery,<br/> + The task is hard, I ween;<br/> +Self-love will whisper “’Tis quite true,<br/> +Who can there be more fair than you?<br/> + Who more admir’d, when seen?”<br/> +<br/> +Then take this tempting gift of thine,<br/> +Nor e’er again wish me to shine<br/> + In any borrow’d bloom:<br/> +Nor rouge, nor compliments, can charm;<br/> +Full well I know they both will harm;<br/> + Truth is my only plume. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO A YOUNG LADY,</h2> + +<h5>OCCASIONED BY HER DECLINING AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Made her by a very accomplished Friend of the Author</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Oh! form’d to prompt the smile or tear,<br/> +At once so sweet, yet so severe!<br/> +As much for you as him I grieve;<br/> +Ah! thoughtless! if you thus can leave<br/> +A mind with wit and learning bright,<br/> +Where Temper sheds its cloudless light;<br/> +Where manly honour, taste refin’d,<br/> +With ev’ry virtue, are combin’d;<br/> +If you can quit a heart so true,<br/> +Which has so often throbb’d for you,<br/> +I’ll pity, tho’ I can’t reprove;<br/> +And did I, such is Florio’s love,<br/> +Eager he’d fly to take thy part,<br/> +E’en in a war against his heart. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>THE MUSHROOM.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Awake, my Muse! awake each slumb’ring string,<br/> +And (mighty subject!) of a Mushroom sing,<br/> +Fair to the eye, and pleasant to the taste;<br/> +Charm’d by the note, a pigmy group, in haste,<br/> +Lay down their grainy loads, as slow they move<br/> +Thro’ lanes of reed and grass, to them a grove!<br/> +As if an Orpheus thou, they gather round,<br/> +Erect their tiny ears, and drink the sound.<br/> +Gray was the sky, save where the eastern ray<br/> +O’er fragrant hills proclaim’d th’ approaching day;<br/> +Rurilla, loveliest virgin of the plain,<br/> +With spirits light, and mind without a stain,<br/> +Rose from her simple bed, refresh’d with rest;<br/> +Ah, Sleep! with marble finger had’st thou prest<br/> +Her lovely eyelids till a later hour,<br/> +And by a blissful vision’s fairy pow’r<br/> +Hadst thou impress’d her mind with forms of love,<br/> +The walk at eve, the kiss, the murm’ring dove,<br/> +The little nymph had never sought the plain,<br/> +Nor fill’d with one romantic thought this brain.<br/> +In russet gown, with sweet and simple air,<br/> +She issued forth, like Hebe, young and fair,<br/> +To neighb’ring field, fresh as the rosy dawn;<br/> +Nor stile oppos’d her; like a bounding fawn<br/> +Graceful she sprang: so prankish was the air,<br/> +Had but the love-sick Daphanel been there,<br/> +He would have sigh’d: alas! poor love-sick fool!<br/> +Thou rather Zephyr dost inflame than cool!<br/> +And now, my Muse, the fatal spot disclose,<br/> +Where, bath’d with dew, the modest Mushroom rose.<br/> +Less fair the swan, by Richmond’s flow’ry side,<br/> +That in the river views herself with pride,<br/> +As, gazing on her, some their stay prolong,<br/> +To see her sail in majesty along.<br/> +Ill-fated child of earth! thy charms so fair,<br/> +As oft with youthful beauty, prove thy snare:<br/> +Now, as with dewy-spangled feet is seen<br/> +The lovely maid to trace each ringlet green,<br/> +Not distant far thy skin of velvet white<br/> +She views, and to thee presses with delight<br/> +Oh! might some deity, with potent arm,<br/> +Arrest her flight, and alter ev’ry charm;<br/> +Like Niobe dissolve into a tear,<br/> +Or like the Delian virgin, when with fear<br/> +She fled!—See on each beauteous limb appear<br/> +Soft leaves and flow’rs, the sweetest of the year;<br/> +And, taking root, spread round her fragrant breath<br/> +O’er the fair form that now she dooms to death:<br/> +But, ah! in vain, the pray’r no goddess hears; }<br/> +She bends—she plucks—and, bath’d in purple tears,}<br/> +The much-priz’d victim in her lap she bears! }<br/> +Tears that, preserv’d in crystal, will prolong,<br/> +And paint its worth beyond this simple song. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<p class="letter"> +Written <i>en badinage</i>, after visiting a Paper-Mill near +Tunbridge-Wells, in consequence of the lovely Miss W——, who excels +in Drawing, requesting the Author to describe the Process of making +Paper, in Verse. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Reader! I do not wish to brag;<br/> + But, to display Eliza’s skill,<br/> +I’d proudly be the vilest rag<br/> + That ever went to paper-mill.<br/> +<br/> +Content in pieces to be cut;<br/> + Tho’ sultry were the summer-skies,<br/> +Pleas’d between flannel I’d be put,<br/> + And after bath’d in jellied size.<br/> +<br/> +Tho’ to be squeez’d and hang’d I hate,<br/> + For thee, sweet girl! upon my word,<br/> +When the stout press had forc’d me flat,<br/> + I’d be suspended on a cord.<br/> +<br/> +And then, when dried and fit for use,<br/> + Eliza! I would pray to thee,<br/> +If with thy pen thou would’st amuse,<br/> + That thou would’st deign to write on me.<br/> +<br/> +Gad’s bud! how pleasant it would prove<br/> + Her pretty chit-chat to convey,<br/> +P’rhaps be the record of her love,<br/> + Told in some coy enchanting way.<br/> +<br/> +Or, if her pencil she would try,<br/> + On me, oh! may she still imprint<br/> +Those forms that fix th’ admiring eye,<br/> + Each graceful line, each glowing tint!<br/> +<br/> +Then shall I reason have to brag,<br/> + For thus, to high importance grown,<br/> +The world will see a simple rag<br/> + Become a treasure rarely known. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO A PROMISING YOUNG ARTIST.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +These bays be thine; and, tho’ not form’d to shine<br/> +Clear as thy colour, faultless as thy line,<br/> +Yet shall the Muse essay, in humble verse,<br/> +Thy merits, lovely Painting! to rehearse.<br/> +As when the demon of the winter storm<br/> +Robs each sweet flow’ret of its beauteous form,<br/> +The Spirit of the stream, in crystal wave,<br/> +Sleeps whilst the chilling blasts above him rave,<br/> +Till the Sun spreads his animating fires,<br/> +And sullen Darkness from the scene retires,<br/> +Then mountain-nymphs discard their robes of snow,<br/> +And in green mantles smile in roseate glow,<br/> +And rivers, loosen’d from their icy chain,<br/> +Spread joy and richness thro’ the verdant plain,<br/> +Thus, in those climes where skies are ever fair,<br/> +Each infant Science breath’d a genial air,<br/> +Climes where the Earth her stores to all resign’d,<br/> +Nor left one selfish passion to the mind;<br/> +On her green lap the swain reclin’d his head,<br/> +And found his banquet where he found his bed.<br/> +Then Painting grew, and from the shades of flow’rs<a href="#fn20" name="fnref20" id="fnref20"><sup>[20]</sup></a><br/> +There first essay’d her imitative pow’rs,<br/> +When, urg’d by plunder, with the torrent’s might,<br/> +Nerv’d by the storm, and harden’d in the fight,<br/> +A race barbarian left their forests wild,<br/> +And sought the spot where Love and Learning smil’d.<br/> +By Taste unsoften’d, these relentless droves<br/> +Burst, fair Italia! thro’ thy sacred groves,<br/> +Laid ev’ry flow’r of Art and Fancy waste,<br/> +And pour’d a winter o’er the realms of Taste,<br/> +Each Science trembled at the ruffian sound,<br/> +Forsook her shades, and fled her classic ground;<br/> +The lofty column prostrate in the dust,<br/> +Defac’d the arch, o’erthrown the matchless bust;<br/> +The shatter’d fresco animates no more,<br/> +And ruthless winds thro’ clefted temples roar!<br/> +Florence beheld the scene with sad surprise,<br/> +And bade the prostrate pile in grandeur rise.<br/> +Then, oh! thou truly “Father of the Art<a href="#fn21" name="fnref21" id="fnref21"><sup>[21]</sup></a>!”<br/> +’Twas thine superior vigour to impart;<br/> +Illustrious Cimabue! it was thine<br/> +To soar beyond Example’s bounded line,<br/> +And, as the Heav’n-directed sceptre’s shock,<br/> +Produc’d full torrents from the flinty rock,<br/> +So streams of taste obey’d thy pencil’s call,<br/> +And Nature seem’d to start from out the wall.<br/> +Hail, beauteous art! oh! that in equal lay<br/> +Could but my Muse thy various pow’rs convey!<br/> +’Tis thine with silent eloquence to shew<br/> +Passion’s strong image, Beauty’s rapt’rous glow,<br/> +To soothe the parted lover’s anxious care,<br/> +Who owns thee fairest of thy sisters fair;<br/> +When waves divide him, still thro’ thee to trace<br/> +The dear resemblance of that cherish’d face,<br/> +Which he so oft with trembling lips has prest,<br/> +So often gaz’d upon, so often blest!<br/> +Thine too it is to seek the verdant plains<br/> +Where Peace resides, where Rustic Beauty reigns;<br/> +Or bid the torrent on thy canvass roar,<br/> +Or calmly spread the yellow winding shore;<br/> +Or show, from some vast cliff’s extremest verge,<br/> +The frail bark combating the angry surge.<br/> +Oft too on some lone turret wilt thou stand,<br/> +To trace the fury of th’ embattled band,<br/> +To darken with the clouds of death the skies,<br/> +And bid the scenes of blood and havoc rise!<br/> +Such, and far more, thy pow’rs, bless’d art! to thee<br/> +Inferior far descriptive Poesy;<br/> +And tho’ sweet Music, when she strikes the strings,<br/> +When thro’ the grove with seraph-voice she sings,<br/> +The soul, enraptur’d with the thrilling stream,<br/> +Would hail the Maid of Harmony supreme!<br/> +Yet, while her dulcet sounds enchant, they die;}<br/> +So shooting stars illume the midnight sky, }<br/> +And, as we wonder, vanish from the eye. }<br/> +But when resistless Death, in mournful hour,<br/> +Withdraws the drooping painter’s mimic pow’r,<br/> +Improv’d by time, his works still charm the sight,<br/> +And thro’ successive ages yield delight<br/> +Greece early bade the painter’s pencil trace<br/> +Each form with force; to force she added grace:<br/> +For this her Zeuxis she a garland wove,<br/> +For<a href="#fn22" name="fnref22" id="fnref22"><sup>[22]</sup></a> that Apelles won her grateful love.<br/> +Chiefly she called on Painting’s magic powers<br/> +To deck the guardians of her lofty tow’rs;<br/> +Here<a href="#fn23" name="fnref23" id="fnref23"><sup>[23]</sup></a> Jove in lightning show’d his awful mien.<br/> +There Venus with her doves was smiling seen!<br/> +Till ruthless Time, with unabating flight,<br/> +O’er Grecian grandeur flung the shades of night<br/> +Long did they settle o’er the darken’d world.<br/> +Till Raphael’s hand the sable curtain furl’d;<br/> +A pious calm, an elevated grace,<br/> +Then on the canvass mark’d th’ Apostle’s face;<br/> +Devout applauses ev’ry feature drew,<br/> +E’en<a href="#fn24" name="fnref24" id="fnref24"><sup>[24]</sup></a> such as graceful Sculpture never knew.<br/> +In nearer times, and on a neighb’ring shore,<br/> +Painting but feebly shone, obscur’d by pow’r.<br/> +See Rubens’ soul indignantly advance,<br/> +Press’d by the pride and vanity of France;<br/> +Behold,<a href="#fn25" name="fnref25" id="fnref25"><sup>[25]</sup></a> in fulsome allegory spread,<br/> +The gaudy iris o’er the victor’s head!<br/> +See Genius, deaf to Nature’s nobler call,<br/> +Waste all its strength upon the banner’d hall!<br/> +E’en now, tho’ Gallia, in her blood-stain’d car,<br/> +Spreads over Europe all the woes of war,<br/> +Still with consummate craft she tries to prove<br/> +How much the peaceful charms engage her love:<br/> +Treasures of art in lengthen’d gall’ries glow,<br/> +And<a href="#fn26" name="fnref26" id="fnref26"><sup>[26]</sup></a> Europe’s plunder Europe’s plund’rers show!<br/> +Yet of her living artists few can claim<br/> +Half the mix’d praise that waits on David’s fame.<br/> +Thrice happy Britain! in thy favour’d isle<br/> +The sister Arts in health and beauty smile!<br/> +Tho’ no Imperial Gall’ries grace thy shores,<br/> +Tho’ wealth the public bounty seldom pours,<br/> +Yet private taste rewards thy painter’s toil,<br/> +And bids his genius grace his native soil.<br/> +Bless’d country! here thy artists can supply<br/> +Abundant charms to fix th’ admiring eye:<br/> +In furtive splendour ne’er art thou array’d,<br/> +No plunder’d country mourns thy ruthless blade,<br/> +Sees its transported treasures torn away,<br/> +To grace a fierce ambitious Tyrant’s sway.<br/> +Long in this isle, where Freedom finds repose,<br/> +Whilst, raving round her, loud the tempest blows,<br/> +Oh! long befriended, may the Arts excel,<br/> +And bless the sacred spot they love so well! +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn20" id="fn20"></a> <a href="#fnref20">[20]</a> +“<i>Then painting grew, and from the shades</i>,” +&c.—The shadows of plants, and indeed of every object in Nature, +must, at a very early period, have furnished ideas of imitation.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn21" id="fn21"></a> <a href="#fnref21">[21]</a> +<i>“Then, oh! thou</i>,” &c.—After the ravages of the +northern barbarians, painting was revived in Italy, about the +fourteenth century, by Cimabue, who was hence styled the Father of +Painting.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn22" id="fn22"></a> <a href="#fnref22">[22]</a> +“<i>For that Apelles</i>,” &c.—Painting attained so +great a perfection amongst the Greeks, under Zeuxis, that Apelles +found nothing wanting but grace, which in those times he bestowed upon +the art, as Corregio did after Raphael.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn23" id="fn23"></a> <a href="#fnref23">[23]</a> +“<i>Here Jove in</i>,” &c.—The Greeks excelled in the +delineation of their deities, to whom they attributed all the human +passions: their Jupiter they elevated to the highest degree of +majesty, their Venus to the utmost pitch of human beauty.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn24" id="fn24"></a> <a href="#fnref24">[24]</a> +“<i>E’en such as graceful Sculpture</i>,” &c.—From +Cimabue to Raphael, the painters were employed by the church; and they +gave a character to the Prophets, Apostles, and our Saviour, which was +never known to the ancient sculptors. The power which the former +possessed of uniting dignity to humility is without a parallel.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn25" id="fn25"></a> <a href="#fnref25">[25]</a> +“<i>Behold, in fulsome allegory</i>,” &c.—As long as +the French school adhered to the principles of the Italian school, it +produced many great masters; however, the art certainly degenerated +after Raphael, by being employed in adulatory allegory, in honour of +Princes, as is to be seen in the works of Rubens and Le Brun at Paris, +artists of great talents, which they were led to misapply, through the +supreme vanity of Louis the Fourteenth.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn26" id="fn26"></a> <a href="#fnref26">[26]</a> +“<i>And Europe’s plunder</i>,” &c.—Those who have +visited the Napoleon Gallery at Paris can attest the truth of this +observation, as those who are acquainted with the modern state of +painting in France well know, and, knowing, cannot but be surprised +at, the small number of French painters of any tolerable celebrity.</p> + +<h5>FINIS.</h5> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10367 ***</div> +</body> + +</html> diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8ee48b4 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #10367 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10367) diff --git a/old/10367-0.txt b/old/10367-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b07f530 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/10367-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4422 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems, by Sir John Carr + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Poems + +Author: Sir John Carr + +Release Date: December 2, 2003 [eBook #10367] +[Most recently updated: May 16, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: onathan Ingram, Josephine Paolucci and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + + + + +Poems + +by Sir John Carr + + +Non ulla Musis pagina gratior, +Quam quae severis ludicra jungere +Novit, fatigatamque nugis +Utilibus recreare mentem. + +1809. + + + + +POEMS. + +DEDICATION. + +TO +LADY WARREN, + +&c. &c. &c. + +_MADAM_, + +In dedicating the following Poems to your Ladyship, I cannot help +regretting that they are not more worthy of such an honour; that I +might consequently have used it as an humble mode of expressing my +sense of the happy and enlightened hours which I have passed in your +Ladyship’s society, and of the polite attentions which I have at +various times received from you, and the gallant object of your +connubial affection, particularly at the House of British Embassy at +Petersburgh, where you afforded to the Ladies of the North a just +representation of the dignified virtue, cultivated mind, and attractive +beauty, of the higher order of females of your own country. + +I have the honour to remain, + +Madam, + +Your Ladyship’s + +Obedient faithful Servant, + +JOHN CARR. + +_Temple. June_ 1809 + + + + +PREFACE. + + +This Volume is submitted to the Public with all that diffidence which +ought to attend the publication of Verses, many of which were written +in the gay and happy era of boyhood, and others in subsequent periods +of maturer life, as a relief from more arduous pursuits. + +They lay no pretensions to the depth and solidity of the effusions of +the Muse in her elevated flights; they are the few wild notes of the +simple shepherd, and do not even affect to imitate the rich cadence of +the scientific musician. + +If the Author might, without the imputation of vanity, select for them +a place in the Temple of Poetry, he would endeavour to class them in +that niche which is appropriated for the reception of the light and +playful _Vers de Societé_. + +Should the Reader find them but little worthy of his approval, he will +not have reason at the same time to condemn their prolixity: their +brevity will, at least in some degree, atone for their want of fire and +fancy. + +It is thought proper to state that some of the following Poems have +appeared before at various times, in a fugitive shape; and that the +Poetry in the Author’s Tours is here collected. + + + + +POEMS, + +&c. &c. + + + + +VERSES + +WRITTEN IN A GROTTO + +_In a Wood on the Side of the River Dart_, + +IN DEVONSHIRE. + +Tell me, thou grotto! o’er whose brow are seen +Projecting plumes, and shades of deep’ning green,— +While not a sound disturbs thy stony hall, +While all thy dewy drops forget to fall,— +Why canst thou not thy soothing charms impart, +And shed thy quiet o’er this beating heart? +Tell me, thou richly-painted river! tell, +That on thy mirror’d plane dost mimic well +Each pendent tree and every distant hill, +Tipp’d with red lustre, beauteous, bright, and still,— +Can I not, gazing on thy tranquil tide, +Shed ev’ry grief upon thy rocky side? +Or must I rove thy margin, calm and clear, +The only agitated object near? +Oh! tell me, too, thou babbling cold cascade! +Whose waters, falling thro’ successive shade, +Unspangled by the brightness of the sky, +Awake each echo to a soft reply,— +Say, canst thou not my bosom-grief befriend, +And bid one drop upon my heart descend? +When all thy songsters soothe themselves to sleep. +Ah! must these aching eyes for ever weep? +And must their frequent waters, like thine own, +Drop, idly drop, on unimpressive stone? +Or, when my beauteous fair shall deign to grace +The humid foliage of thy mossy base, +Canst thou not tell how many a rock below +Impedes to kiss thy waters as they flow? +In _her_ mind canst thou not the feeling rear +To stop, or thus caress, each genuine tear? +Teach her, oh! teach her, then, thou cold cascade! +Pour all thy lessons for the lovely maid! +And thou, bless’d grotto! let thy silence prove +Her mute consenting answer to my love! +And thou, bright river! as thou roll’st along, +Bear on thy wand’ring wave a lover’s song! +Strong as thy current, as thy waters pure, +Teach her to feel the passion I endure! + + + + +LINES TO THE MEMORY OF MY DEAR BROTHER, + +W.T.P. CARR, ESQ. + +—manibus date lilia plenis: +Purpureos spargam flores. + +_Aeneid_, lib. vi. + +Tho’ no funereal grandeur swell my song, +Nor genius, eagle-plum’d, the strain prolong,— +Tho’ Grief and Nature here alone combine +To weep, my William! o’er a fate like thine,— +Yet thy fond pray’r, still ling’ring on my ear, +Shall force its way thro’ many a gushing tear: +The Muse, that saw thy op’ning beauties spread, +That lov’d thee living, shall lament thee dead! +Ye graceful Virtues! while the note I breathe, +Of sweetest flow’rs entwine a fun’ral wreath,— +Of virgin flow’rs, and place them round his tomb, +To bud, like him, and perish in their bloom! +Ah! when these eyes saw thee serenely wait +The last long separating stroke of Fate,— +When round thy bed a kindred weeping train +Call’d on thy voice to greet them, but in vain,— +When o’er thy lips we watch’d thy fault’ring breath— +When louder grief proclaim’d th’approach of death,— +Thro’ ev’ry vein an icy horror chill’d, +Colder than marble ev’ry bosom thrill’d. +Unsettled still, tho’ exercis’d to grieve, +Scarce would my mind the alter’d sight believe; +Familiar scenes a transient calm inspire, +Poor flutt’ring Fancy fann’d the vain desire, +’Till with sad proof thy wasted relics rise, +And restless Nature pours uncall’d-for sighs. +Ah! long, my William! shall thy picture rest, +Time shall not wear it, imag’d in my breast; +Yes, thou shall live while fond remembrance lives, +’Till he who mourns thee asks the line he gives. +No common joy, no fugitive delight, +Regret like this could in my breast excite; +For then my sorrow had been less severe, +And tears less copious had bedew’d the bier. +From the same breast our milky food we drew, +Entwin’d affection strengthen’d as we grew; +Why further trace? The flatt’ring dream is o’er— +Thy transient joys and sorrows are no more! +All, all are fled!—And, ah! where’er I turn, +Insulting Death directs me to thy urn, +Throws his cold shadows round me while I sing. +Damps ev’ry nerve, and slackens ev’ry string. +So, when the Moon trims up her waning fire, +Sweep the night-breezes o’er th’Aeolian lyre; +Ling’ring, perchance, some wild pathetic sound +Lulls the lorn ear, and dies along the ground. +Ye kindred train! who, o’er the parting grave, +Have mourn’d the virtues which ye could not save. +Ye know how Mem’ry, with excursive pow’r, +Extracts a sweet from ev’ry faded hour;— +From scenes long past, regardless of repose, +She feeds her tears, and treasures up her woes. +Thou tuneful, mute, companion[1] of my care! +Where now thy notes, that linger’d in the air? +That linger still!—Vain thy harmonious store,— +Thy sweet persuasive triumphs are no more. +Thy mournful image strikes my wand’ring eye; +Sad, near thy silent strings, I sit and sigh. +Cold is that band which Music form’d her own, +When ev’ry chord resign’d its sweetest tone. +Ah! long, fair source of rapture, shall thou rest, +Silent and sad, neglected and unprest, +’Till years, lov’d shade! superior pow’rs resign, +Or raise one note more eloquent than thine. +Tho’ with’ring Sickness mark’d thee in the womb, +And form’d thy cradle but to form thy tomb, +Yet, like a flow’r, she bade thee reach thy prime, +The fairer victim for the stroke of Time. +When fond Invention vainly sought thine ease, +The wave salubrious and the morning breeze,— +When even Sleep, sweet Sleep! refus’d thy call, +Sleep! that with sweet refreshment smiles on all,— +When, till the morn, thine eyes, unclos’d and damp, +Trac’d thy sad semblance in the glimm’ring lamp,— +When from thy face Health’s latest relic fled, +Where Hope might flatter, with reluctant tread,— +Still, darting forward from the weight of woe, +Thy soul with all its energy would glow; +Still with the purest passion wouldst thou prove +The glow of friendship and the warmth of love. +And ah! to sacred Memory ever nigh, +Thy wit and humour claim the passing sigh: +When, thro’ the hour, with unresisted skill, +I’ve seen thee mould each feature to thy will,— +When friends drew round thee with attentive ear, +Pleas’d with the raill’ry which they could not fear. +Oh! how I’ve heard thee, with concealing art, +Join in the song, tho’ sorrow rent thy heart; +How have I seen thee too, with venial guile, +O’er many an anguish force the faithless smile,— +Seen suffering Nature check each sigh, each fear, +To rob maternal fondness of a tear! +Alas! those scenes are past!—Vain was the pray’r +That ask’d of Fate to soften and to spare; +Ah! vain, if wit and virtue could not save +Thy youthful honours from an early grave. +But yet, if here my warm fraternal love +May claim alliance with the realms above; +If kindred Nature, with perpetual bloom, +Transplanted springs, and lives beyond the tomb; +Thy pitying soul shall smile upon my grief, +Shall feel a pang that wishes not relief; +In visions still shall shield me as I go, +Along this gloomy wilderness of woe; +Shall still regard me with peculiar pride, +On earth my brother, and in heav’n my guide! +Methinks I see thee reach th’ empyrean shore, +And heav’n’s full chorus hails one angel more; +While ’mid the seraph-forms that round thee fly, +Thy father meets thee with ecstatic eye! +He springs exulting from his throne of rest, +Extends his arms, and clasps thee to his breast! + + [1] The piano-forte, on which he excelled. + + + + +PARODY + +ON + +“_The Golden Days of good Queen Bess_.” + +To my Muse give attention, and deem it not a mystery +If I jumble up together music, poetry, and history, +To sing of the vices of wicked Queen Bess, sir, +Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir, + Detested be the memory of wicked Queen Bess, sir, + Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir. + +In saying she would die a maid, she, England! did amuse ye. +But what she did, and what she died—I hope you will excuse me: +A gallant Earl a miracle of passion for her fed, sir; +She kiss’d him, and she clos’d the scene by striking off his head, sir! + Detested be, &c. + +Oh! rude ungrateful Scotland! had thy desolated Queen, sir, +No blue eyes ever known, nor had she beauteous been, sir, +The envy of our old rival hag she might have baffled, sir, +Nor with her guiltless blood have crimson’d o’er the scaffold, sir. + Detested be, &c. + +She dress’d just like a porcupine, and din’d just like a pig, sir, +And an over-running butt of sack she swallow’d at a swig, sir! +Her brawny maids of honour ate and drank confounded hard, sir, +And droves of oxen daily bled within her palace-yard, sir! + Detested be, &c. + +In ruling she was wonderous tyrannical and surly; +If a patriot only touch’d on the Queen or Master Burleigh, +She’d send a file of soldiers in less than half an hour, sir, +Just to bid him make his speeches to the prisons of the Tow’r, sir! + Detested be, &c. + + + + +REBECCA, + +_A Ballad_. + +Rebecca was the fairest maid +That on the Danube’s borders play’d; +And many a handsome nobleman +For her in tilt and tourney ran; +While fair Rebecca wish’d to see +What youth her husband was to be. + +Rebecca heard the gossips say, +“Alone from dusk till midnight stay +Within the church-porch drear and dark, +Upon the vigil of Saint Mark, +And, lovely maiden! you shall see +What youth your husband is to be.” + +Rebecca, when the night grew dark, +Upon the vigil of Saint Mark, +(Observ’d by Paul, a roguish scout, +Who guess’d the task she went about,) +Stepp’d to St Stephen’s Church to see +What youth her husband was to be. + +Rebecca heard the screech-owl cry, +And saw the black bat round her fly; +She sat, ’till, wild with fear, at last +Her blood ran cold, her pulse beat fast; +And yet, rash maid! she stopp’d to see +What youth her husband was to be. + +Rebecca heard the midnight chime +Ring out the yawning peal of time, +When shrouded Paul, unlucky knave! +Rose like a spectre from the grave; +And cried, “Fair maiden, come with me. +For I your bridegroom am to be.” + +Rebecca turn’d her head aside, +Sent forth a hideous shriek, and died! +While Paul confess’d himself, in vain, +Rebecca never spoke again! +Ah! little, hapless maid! did she +Think Death her bridegroom was to be. + +Rebecca! may thy story long +Instruct the giddy and the young. +Fright not, fond youths! the timid fair; +And you too, gentle maids! beware; +Nor seek by lawless arts to see +What youths your husbands are to be. + + + + +LINES + +TO AN AURICULA, BELONGING TO ——. + +Thou rear’st thy beauteous head, sweet flow’r +Gemm’d by the soft and vernal show’r; + Its drops still round thee shine: +The florist views thee with delight; +And, if so precious in _his_ sight, + Oh! what art thou in _mine_? + +For she, who nurs’d thy drooping form +When Winter pour’d her snowy storm, + Has oft consol’d me too; +For me a fost’ring tear has shed,— +She has reviv’d my drooping head, + And bade me bloom anew. + +When adverse Fortune bade us part, +And grief depress’d my aching heart, + Like yon reviving ray, +She from behind the cloud would move, +And with a stolen look of love + Would melt my cares away. + +Sweet flow’r! supremely dear to me, +Thy lovely mistress blooms in thee, + For, tho’ the garden’s pride, +In beauty’s grace and tint array’d, +Thou seem’st to court the secret shade, + Thy modest form to hide. + +Oh! crown’d with many a roseate year, +Bless’d may she be who plac’d thee here, + Until the tear of love +Shall tremble in the eye to find +Her spirit, spotless and refin’d, + Borne to the realms above! + +And oft for thee, sweet child of spring! +The Muse shall touch her tend’rest string; + And, as thou rear’st thine head, +She shall invoke the softest air, +Or ask the chilling storm to spare, + And bless thy humble bed. + + + + +LINES + +TO LADY WARREN, + +_On the Departure of Sir John Borlase Warren, K.B_. + +TO TAKE THE COMMAND OF A SQUADRON. + +Oh! why does sorrow shade thy face, +Where mind and beauty vie with grace? +Say, dost thou for thy hero weep, +Who gallantly, upon the deep, +Is gone to tell the madd’ning foe, +Tho’ vict’ry laid our Nelson low, +We still have chiefs as greatly brave, +Proudly triumphant on the wave? +Dear to thy Country shalt thou be, +Fair mourner! and her sympathy +Is thine; for, in the war’s alarms, +Thou gav’st thine hero from thine arms; +And only ask’d to sigh alone, +To look to heav’n, and weep him gone. +Oh! soon shall all thy sorrow cease, +And, to thine aching bosom, peace +Shall quick return;—another tear +To love and joy, supremely dear, +Shall give thy gen’rous mind relief— +That tear shall gem the laurel leaf. + + + + +LINES + +TO MISS ——, +ACCOMPANIED BY A ROSE AND A LILY. + +I look’d the fragrant garden round + For what I thought would picture best + Thy beauty and thy modesty; +A lily and a rose I found,— + With kisses on their leaves imprest, + I send the beauteous pair to thee. + + + + +SONG. + +Nature’s imperfect child, to whom +The world is wrapt in viewless gloom, +Can unresisted still impart +The fondest wishes of his heart. + +And he, to whose impervious ear + The sweetest sounds no charms dispense, +Can bid his inmost soul appear + In clear, tho’ silent, eloquence. + +But we, my Julia, not so blest, + Are doom’d a diff’rent fate to prove,— +To feel each joy and hope supprest + That flow from pure, but hidden, love. + + + + +IMPROMPTU LINES, + +UPON ANACREON MOORE’S SAYING THAT HE DISLIKED SINGING TO MEN. + +By Beauty’s caresses, like Cupid, half-spoil’d, +Thus Music’s and Poesy’s favourite child +Exclaim’d,—“’Tis, by Heaven! a terrible thing +Before a _he_-party to sit and to sing!” +“By my shoul! Master Moore, you there may be right,” +Said a son of green Erin; “tho’ dear to my sight +Are all the sweet cratures, call’d women, I swear, +Yet I think we can feel just as well as the fair: +Tho’ you’d bribe us with songs, blood and ’ounds! let me say, +I’d not be a woman for one in your way.” + + + + +LINES TO JULIA. + +Tho’, Julia, we are doom’d to part, +Tho’ unknown pangs invade this heart, +For thee the light of love shall burn, +To thee my soul in secret turn: +Upon this bosom, swell’d with care, +The thought of thee shall tremble there +’Till Time shall close these weeping eyes, +And close the soothing source of sighs. +So, in the silence of the night, +Shines on the wave the lunar light; +With its soft image, bright, imprest, +It heaves, and seems to know no rest: +Its agitation soon is o’er; +It sighs, and dies along the shore! + + + + +LINES + +_To the Memory of Mrs. A.H. Holdsworth_, + +LATE OF MOUNT GALPIN, DEVONSHIRE. + +Tyrant of all our loves and friendships here, + Behold thy beauteous victim!—Ah! tis thine +To rend fond hearts, and start the tend’rest tear + Where joy should long in cloudless radiance shine. + +Alas! the mourning Muse in vain would paint, + Blest shade! how purely pass’d thy life away, +Or, with the meekness of a favour’d saint, + How rose thy spirit to the realms of day. + +’Twas thine to fill each part that gladdens life, + Such as approving angels smile upon;— +The faultless daughter, parent, friend, and wife,— + Virtues short-lived! they set just as they shone. + +Thus, in the bosom of some winding grove, + Where oft the pensive melodist retires, +From his sweet instrument, the note of love, + Charms the rapt ear, but, as it charms, expires. + +Farewell, pure spirit! o’er thine early grave + Oblivion ne’er shall spread her freezing shade; +Nature shall bid her richest foliage wave + Where her reposing fav’rite child is laid. + +There widow’d fondness oft, when summers bloom. + Shall with thy infant pledge of love repair; +Oft shall they kneel beside thy mossy tomb, + And tears shall dew the flow’rs that blossom there. + + + + +LINES + +_Written upon a Watch-String_, + +MADE AND PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ——. + +Say, lovely Charlotte! will you let me prove +What diff’rent thoughts thy taste and beauty move? +This woven chain, which graceful skill displays, + Leads me to think of time, and heave a sigh; +But when on thee and on thy charms I gaze, + Time unremember’d moves, or seems to die. + + + + +LINES + +_Upon a Diamond Cross_, + +WORN ON HER BOSOM BY MISS C.M. + +Well on that neck, sweet Kitty! may you wear + The sparkling cross, with hopes to soften Heaven; +For trust me, tho’ so very young and fair, + Thou hast some little sins to be forgiven:— +For all the hopes which wit and grace can spread, + For all the sighs which countless charms can move, +Fall, lovely Kitty! on thy youthful head; + Yet fall they gently—for the crime is love. + + + + +LINES TO FORTUNE, + +Occasioned by a very amiable and generous Friend of mine munificently +presenting Miss E.S. with a Donation of Fifteen Thousand Pounds. + +Oh, Fortune! I have seen thee shed + A plenteous show’r of treasure down +On many a weak and worthless head, + On those who but deserv’d thy frown. + +And I have heard, in lonely shade, + Her sorrows hapless Merit pour; +And thou hast pass’d the drooping maid, + To give some pamper’d fav’rite more. + +But tho’ so cold, or strangely wild, + It seems that worth can sometimes move; +Thou hast on gentle Emma smil’d, + And thou hast smil’d where all approve:— + +For Nature form’d her gen’rous heart + With ev’ry virtue, pure, refin’d; +And wit and taste, and grace and art, + United to illume her mind. + +So dew-drops fall on some rare flow’r, + That merits all their fost’ring care, +As tho’ they knew that, by their pow’r, + Grateful ’twould wider scent the air. + + + + +A SONG. + +THE LOVER +THE LUTE OF HIS DECEASED MISTRESS. + +Alas! but like a summer’s dream + All the delight I felt appears, +While mis’ry’s weeping moments seem + A ling’ring age of tears. + +Then breathe my sorrows, plaintive lute! + And pour thy soft consoling tone, +While I, a list’ning mourner mute, + Will call each tender grief my own. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN IN A COTTAGE BY THE SEA-SIDE + +(_In which the Author had taken Shelter during a violent Storm_), + +UPON SEEING AN IDIOTIC YOUTH SEATED IN THE CHIMNEY-CORNER, CARESSING A +BROOM. + +’Twas on a night of wildest storms, + When loudly roar’d the raving main,— +When dark clouds shew’d their shapeless forms, + And hail beat hard the cottage pane,— + +Tom Fool sat by the chimney-side, + With open mouth and staring eyes; +A batter’d broom was all his pride,— + It was his wife, his child, his prize! + +Alike to him if tempests howl, + Or summer beam its sweetest day; +For still is pleas’d the silly soul, + And still he laughs the hours away. + +Alas! I could not stop the sigh, + To see him thus so wildly stare,— +To mark, in ruins, Reason lie, + Callous alike to joy and care. + +God bless thee, thoughtless soul! I cried; + Yet are thy wants but very few: +The world’s hard scenes thou ne’er hast tried; + Its cares and crimes to thee are new. + +The hoary hag[2], who cross’d thee so, + Did not unkindly vex thy brain; +Indeed she could not be thy foe, + To snatch thee thus from grief and pain. + +Deceit shall never wring thy heart, + And baffled hope awake no sighs; +And true love, harshly forc’d to part, + Shall never swell with tears thine eyes. + +Then long enjoy thy batter’d broom, + Poor merry fool! and laugh away +’Till Fate shall bid thy reason bloom + In blissful scenes of brighter day. + + [2] It is generally believed by the peasants of Devonshire that + idiotcy is produced by the influence of a witch. + + + + +LINES + +_To a Laurel-Leaf_, + +SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ——. + +Tho’ unknown is the hand that bestow’d thee on me, + Sweet leaf! ev’ry fibre I’ll warm with a kiss: +With the fame of her beauty thou well dost agree, + Whose presence shews conquest, whose triumph is bliss! + + + + +LINES + +OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF LIEUTENANT J——, + +_Who was killed by a Pistol-Shot_, + +ACCIDENTALLY DISCHARGED BY HIS FRIEND, +CAPTAIN B——. + +With horror dumb, tho’ guiltless, stood + Beside his dying friend, +The hapless wretch who made the blood + Sad from his side descend! + +“Give me thy hand; lov’d friend, adieu!” + The gen’rous suff’rer cried! +“I do forgive and bless thee too;” + And, having said it, died! + +And Pity, who stood trembling near + Knew not for which to shed, +So claim’d by both, her saddest tear— + The living or the dead! + + + + +LINES + +TO AN ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY, + +Whose Timidity frequently agitated her, when pressed to gratify her +Friends by her Musical Talents. + +’Tis said (and I believe it too) + That genuine merit seeks the shade; +Blushing to think what is her due, + As of her own sweet pow’rs afraid:— + +Thus, lovely maid! on fluttering wings, + Thy pow’rs a thousand fears pursue, +Which, like thy own harmonious strings, + When press’d _enchant_, and _tremble_ too! + +The pity, which we give, you owe, + For mutual fears on both attend; +While anxious thus you joy bestow, + We fear too soon that joy will end! + + + + +LINES + +TO MISS L—— D——. + +When Heav’n, sweet Laura! form’d thy mind, +With genius and with taste refin’d, + As if the union were too bright, +It spread the veil of diffidence, +That ev’ry ray, at first intense, + Might shine as soft as lunar light. + +To frame a form then Nature strove, +And call’d on Beauty and on Love, + To lodge the mind they priz’d so well: +Completed was the fair design; +Thus blended dew-drops mildly shine + Within the lily’s spotless bell! + + + + +LINES[3] + +_Written in a beautiful Spot_, + +THE FAVOURITE RETREAT OF DELIA. + +Streams ever limpid, fresh, and clear, +Where Delia’s charms renew’d appear, +Ye flow’rs that touch’d her snowy breast, +Ye trees whereon she lov’d to rest, +Ye scenes adorn’d where’er she flies, +If grief shall close these woe-worn eyes, +May some kind form, with hand benign, +My body with this earth enshrine, +That, when the fairest nymph shall deign +To visit this delightful plain, +That, when she views my silent shade, +And marks the change her love has made, +The tear may tremble down her face, +As show’rs the lily’s leaves embrace; +Then, like the infant at the breast, +That feels a sorrow unexprest, +That pang shall gentle Delia know, +And silent treasure up her woe. + + [3] I am indebted to Petrarch for some of the imagery contained in + these Lines. + + + + +VALENTINE VERSES, + +_Sent to my young Friend, Miss Emma Trevelyan_, + +OF WALLINGTON-HOUSE, NORTHUMBERLAND. + +Emma! ’tis early time for thee +To hear the sounds of minstrelsy, +That breathe around the rosy shrine +Of honest old Saint Valentine. + +Too young art thou for strains of love; +’Tis not thy passion I would move; +Instead of lover’s strains, I send +The cordial wishes of a friend. + +Nobly has Nature done her duty, +To give thee of thy mother’s beauty +So large a share—oh! then be thine +The mental charms that in her shine! + +And may thy father’s taste refin’d +Still add new graces to thy mind; +And may’st thou to each charm impart +The gen’rous frankness of his heart. + +Then, my sweet Emma! thou shall move +In many a heart more genuine love +Than ever warm’d poetic line, +Or sigh’d in any Valentine. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN UPON SEEING A BLIND YOUNG WOMAN IN NORTH WALES, + +Who supports herself, and an aged and infirm Mother, by selling +Stockings and Gloves of her own Knitting, which she offers to +Travellers as they pass by; in doing which she has been known to run +close by the Side of a Carriage for several Miles. + +POOR BLIND BET. + +The morning purple on the hill, + The village spire, the ivy’d tow’r, +The sparkling wheel of yonder mill, + The grove, green field, and op’ning flow’r, + Are lost to thee! + +Dark child of Nature, as thou art! + Yet thy poor bosom heaves no sigh; +E’en now thy dimpling cheeks impart + Their knowledge of some pleasure nigh:— + ’Tis good for thee! + +Thou seem’st to say “I’ve sunshine too; + ’Tis beaming in a spotless breast; +No shade of guilt obstructs the view, + And there are many not so blest, + Who day’s blush see. + +“Dear are those eyes, by mine ne’er seen, + Which I protect from many a tear; +Kind stranger! ’tis on yonder green + A mother’s aged form I rear: + Oh! buy of me!” + + + + +LINES + +UPON SEEING —— + +_At one of the annual Banquets given in Guildhall_. + +Gorgeous and splendid was the sight; +From myriad lamps a fairy light +Enshrin’d in wreaths the Gothic wall, +And heav’nly music fill’d the hall! + +But there was one—(alas! that I +Had ever seen)—the melody +Her voice surpassed, and brighter far +Her eyes than ev’ry mimic star! + +I gaz’d, until, oh! thought divine! +I fancied she I saw was mine; +But soon the beauteous vision flew— +The stranger-form I lov’d withdrew. + +Yet still she lives within my breast, +There mem’ry has her form imprest:— +Thus, when some minstrel’s strain is done, +Sounds seem to breathe, for ever gone! + + + + +YARRIMORE. + +[These Lines were written for a Lady who set them to Music.] + +My poor heart flutters like the sea + Now heaving on the sandy shore; +It seems to tell me you shall be + Never again near Yarrimore. + +Far, far beyond the waves, I bend + Mine eyes, if I can land explore; +But o’er the waves I find no end,— + Yet there they say’s my Yarrimore. + +The hut he built is standing still, + Deck’d with the shells he cull’d from shore; +Our bow’r is waving on the hill, + But where, alas! is Yarrimore? + +Within that bow’r I’ll sit and sigh, + From dawn of day till day is o’er; +And, as the wild winds o’er me fly, + I’ll call on gentle Yarrimore! + + + + +LINES TO MISS ——, + +Upon her appearing at a Ball in an elegant Plaid Dress, + +AND HAVING REPEATEDLY BEFORE EXPRESSED HER PREFERENCE OF THE SCOTISH +NATION. + +Is it that plaided thus you wish to prove +How northern is the region of your love? +Ah, Mary! tho’, within that far-fam’d clime, +Deeds have been done that mock the wreck of Time; +Tho’ there the brave have bled, or, o’er the wave, +On distant shores have found a glorious grave; +Tho’ there the mountain-nymph of song has pour’d +Her loftiest strain, to bless the hero’s sword; +Still, lovely wand’rer, with a jealous eye, +O’er Scotia’s hills we see thy fancy fly; +For _here_ the warrior oft has rais’d his sword, +The patriot too his noble blood has pour’d; +_Here_ too the sweet Recorder of the brave +Has sat and sung upon her hero’s grave. +Then cease, romantic maid! ah, cease to rove; +The very wood-dove loves its native grove: +Oh! then, let Nature bid thy guileless heart +Here shed its love, and all its warmth impart; +And on the land that gave thee birth bestow +The fondness which it claims, and treasures too. + + + + +A SONG. + +TO THE MOON. + +Thou, lamp! the gods benignly gave, + To light a lover on his way; +Thou, Moon! along the silv’ry wave, + Ah! safe this flutt’ring heart convey:— + +Sweet is thy light, and sweet thy shade, + The _guide_ and _guardian_ of our bliss, +A lover’s panting lips to lead, + Or veil him in the ravish’d kiss. + +Her white robe floats upon the air; + + My Lyra hears the dashing oar: +Ye floods, oh! speed me to my fair! + My soul is with her long before. + +Oh! lightly haste, thy lover view, + And ev’ry anxious fear resign; +Ye tow’rs, no longer fear’d, adieu! + The treasure which ye held is mine! + + + + +LINES + +_Upon the Death of the Lady of Lieutenant-Colonel Adams_, + +WHO LATELY DIED OF A DECLINE IN THE EAST INDIES. + +When Time a mellowing tint has thrown + O’er many a scene to mem’ry dear. +It scatters round a charm, unknown + When first th’ impression rested there. + +But, oh! should distance intervene, + Should Ocean’s wave, should changeful clime, +Divide—how sweeter far the scene! + How richer ev’ry tint of time! + +E’en thus with those (a treasur’d few) + Who gladden’d life with many a smile, +Tho’ long has pass’d the sad adieu, + In thought we love to dwell awhile. + +Then with keen eye, and beating heart, + The anxious mind still seeks relief +From those who can the tale impart, + How pass their day, in joy or grief. + +If haply health and fortune bless, + We feel as if on us they shone; +If sickness and if sorrow press, + Then feeling makes their woes our own. + +’Twas thus of Mira oft I thought, + Oft dwelt upon the scenes she grac’d: +Her form in beauty’s mould was wrought, + Her mind the seat of sense and taste. + +Long, hov’ring o’er her fleeting breath, + Love kept his watch in silent gloom; +He saw her meekly yield to Death, + And knelt a mourner at her tomb. + +When the night-breeze shall softly blow, + When the bright moon upon the flood +Shall spread her beams (a silv’ry show), + And dark be many a waving wood,— + +When, dimly[4] seen, in robes of white, + A mournful train along the grove +Shall bear the lamp of sacred light, + To deck the turf of those they love,— + +Then shall the wood-dove quit its bow’r, + And seek the spot were she is laid; +Its wild and mournful notes shall pour + A requiem to her hallow’d shade. + +And Friendship oft shall raise the veil + Time shall have drawn o’er pleasures past, +And Fancy shall repeat the tale + Of happy hours, too sweet to last! + +But when she mourns o’er Mira’s bier, + And when the fond illusion ends, +Oh! then shall fall the genuine tear + That drops for dear departed friends! + + [4] Mr. Hodges, in his Travels in India, page 28, mentions, that + between Banglepoor and Mobgheir, it is the custom of the women of the + family to attend the tombs of their friends after sun-set; and + observes, “it is both affecting and curious to see them proceeding in + groups, carrying lamps in their hands, which they place at the head of + the tomb.” + + + + +LINES + +TO MISS C. + +_On her leaving the Country_. + +Since Friendship soon must bid a fond adieu, +And, parting, wish your charms she never knew, +Dear Laura hear one genuine thought express’d, +Warm from the heart, and to the heart address’d:— +Much do I wish you all your soul holds dear, +To sooth and sweeten ev’ry trouble here; +But heav’n has yielded such an ample store, +You cannot ask, nor can I wish you, more; +Bless’d with a sister’s love, whose gentle mind, +Still pure tho’ polish’d, virtuous and refin’d, +Will aid your tend’rer years and innocence +Beneath the shelter of her riper sense. +Charm’d with the bright example may you move, +And, loving, richly copy what you love. +Adieu! and blame not if an artless pray’r +Should, self-directed, ask one moment’s care:— +When years and absence shall their shade extend, +Reflect who sighs adieu, and call him—friend. + + + + +LINES + +TO A ROBIN. + +_Written during a severe Winter_. + +Why, trembling, silent, wand’rer! why, +From me and Pity do you fly? +Your little heart against your plumes +Beats hard—ah! dreary are these glooms! +Famine has chok’d the note of joy +That charm’d the roving shepherd-boy. +Why, wand’rer, do you look so shy? +And why, when I approach you, fly? +The crumbs which at your feet I strew +Are only meant to nourish you; +They are not thrown with base decoy, +To rob you of one hour of joy. +Come, follow to my silent mill, +That stands beneath yon snow-clad hill; +There will I house your trembling form, +There shall your shiv’ring breast be warm: +And, when your little heart grows strong, +I’ll ask you for your simple song; +And, when you will not tarry more, +Open shall be my wicket-door; +And freely, when you chirp “adieu,” +I’ll wish you well, sweet warbler! too; +I’ll wish you many a summer-hour +On top of tree, or abbey-tow’r. +When Spring her wasted form retrieves, +And gives your little roof its leaves, +May you (a happy lover) find +A kindred partner to your mind: +And when, amid the tangled spray, +The sun shall shoot a parting ray, +May all within your mossy nest +Be safe, be merry, and be blest. + + + + +LINES TO DELIA, + +ON HER WEARING A MUSLIN VEIL. + +Say, Delia, why, in muslin shade, + Ah! say, dost thou conceal those eyes? +Such little stars were never made, + I’m sure, to shine thro’ misty skies. + +Say, are they wrapt in so much shade, + That they may more successful rise, +Starting from such soft ambuscade, + To catch and kill us by surprise? + +Or, of their various pow’rs afraid, + Is it in mercy to our sighs, +Lest love, o’er many a heart betray’d, + Should sob “a faithful vot’ry dies”? + +Then, oh! remove the envious shade; + Let others wear, who want, disguise: +We all had sooner die, sweet maid, + To see, than live without, those eyes. + + + + +VERSES + +TO THE TOMB OF A FRIEND. + +Dearer to me, thou pile of dust! + Tho’ with the wild flow’r simply crown’d, +Than the vast dome or beauteous bust, + By genius form’d, by wit renown’d. + +Wave, thou wild flow’r! for ever wave, + O’er my lov’d relic of delight; +My tears shall bathe her green-rob’d grave + More than the dews of heav’n by night. + +Methinks my Delia bids me go, + Says, “Florio, dry that fruitless tear! +Feed not a wild flow’r with thy woe, + Thy long-lov’d Delia is not here. + +“No drop of feeling from her eye + Now starts to hear thy sorrows speak; +And, did thy bosom know one joy, + No smile would bloom upon her cheek. + +“Pale, wan, and torpid, droops that cheek, + Whereon thy lip impress’d its red; +Those eyes, which Florio taught to speak, + Unnotic’d close amid the dead!” + +True, true, too idly mourns this heart; + Why, Mem’ry, dost thou paint the past? +Why say you saw my Delia part, + Still press’d, still lov’d her, to the last? + +Then, thou wild flow’r, for ever wave! + To thee this parting tear is given; +The sigh I offer at her grave + Shall reach my sainted love in heaven! + + + + +TIME AND THE LOVER. + +Oh, Time! thy merits who can know? + Thy real nature who discover? +The absent lover calls thee slow,— + “Too rapid,” says the happy lover. + +With bloom thy cheeks are now refin’d, + Now to thine eye the tear is given; +At once too cruel and too kind,— + A little hell, a little heaven. + +Go then, thou charming myst’ry, go!— + Yes, tho’ thou often dost amuse me, +Tho’ many a joy to thee I owe, + At once I thank thee and abuse thee. + + + + +A ROUNDELAY. + +Wide thro’ the azure blue and bright +Serenely floats the lamp of night; +The sleeping waves forget to move, +And silent is the cedar grove; +Each breeze suspended seems to say— +“Now, Leline, for thy Roundelay!” + +My Delia’s lids are clos’d in rest; +Ah! were her pillow but my breast! +Go, dreams! one gentle word impart, +In whispers place me by her heart; +While near her door I’ll fondly stray, +And sooth her with my Roundelay. + +But, ah! the Night draws in her shade, +And glimm’ring stars reluctant fade: +Yet sleep, my love! nor may’st thou feel +The pangs which griefs like mine reveal: +Adieu! for Morning’s on his way, +And bids me close my Roundelay. + + + + +FAREWELL LINES + +TO +_BRISTOL HOT WELLS_. + +Bristol! in vain thy rocks attempt the sky, + The wild woods waving on their giddy brow; +And vainly, devious Avon! vainly sigh + Thy waters, winding thro’ the vales below;— + +In vain, upon thy glassy bosom borne, + Th’ expected vessel proudly glides along, +While, ’mid thy echoes, at the break of morn + Is heard the homeward ship-boy’s happy song;— + +For, ah! amid thy sweet romantic shade, + By Friendship led, fair drooping Beauty moves; +Thy hallow’d cup of health affords no aid, + Nor charm thy birds, that chant their woodland loves. + +Each morn I view her thro’ thy wave-girt grove, + Her white robe flutt’ring round her sinking form; +O’er the sweet ruin shine those eyes of love, + As bright stars beaming thro’ a midnight storm. + +Here sorrowing Love seeks a sequester’d bow’r. + Calls on thy spring to calm his troubled breast; +Bright Hope alights not on his pensive hour, + Nor can thy favour’d fountains yield him rest. + +Despair across his joys now intervenes, + And sternly bids the little cherub fly; +While his eyes close amid thy beauteous scenes. + His last sighs bless the form that bids him die. + +Farewell, then, Bristol! thou canst yield no joy, + Thy woods look darken’d with funereal gloom, +Sickness and Sorrow on thy green banks sigh, + And all thy form is but a beauteous tomb. + +Ah! may each future suff’rer, hov’ring near, + Rais’d by thy genial wave, delighted view +Returning joy and health, supremely dear, + Long lost to him who sadly sighs adieu! + + + + +A SONG. + +These shades were made for Love alone,— + Here only smiles and kisses sweet +Shall play around his flow’ry throne, + And doves shall sentinel the seat. + +Come, Delia! ’tis a genial day; + It bids us to his bow’r repair:— +“But what will little Cupid say?”— + “Say! sweet?—why, give a welcome there.” + +There not a tell-tale beam shall peep + Upon thy beauty’s rich display,— +There not a breeze shall dare to sweep + The leaves, to whisper what we say. + + + + +LINES + +ON LADY W—— APPEARING AT THE EXHIBITION. + +When lovely Delphine sought the crowded scene, + The painter’s mimic pow’r no longer mov’d; +All turn’d to gaze upon her beauteous mien, + None envied her, for, as they look’d, they lov’d. + +Amid the proud display of forms so fair, + Of each fine tint the pencil can impart, +Nature with rapture seem’d to lead her there, + To prove how she could triumph over Art. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN AT BRIGHTON. + +From Mirth’s bright circle, from the giddy throng, + How sweet it is to steal away at eve, +To listen to the homeward fisher’s song, + Whilst dark the waters of the ocean heave;— + +And on the sloping beach to hear the spray + Dash ’gainst some hoary vessel’s broken side; +Whilst, far illumin’d by the parting ray, + The distant sail is faintly seen to glide. + +Yes, ’tis Reflection’s chosen hour; for then, + With pensive pleasure mingling o’er the scene, +Th’ erratic mind treads over life again, + And gazes on the past with eye serene. + +Those stormy passions which bedimm’d the soul, + That oft have bid the joys it treasur’d fly, +Now, like th’ unruffled waves of Ocean, roll + With gentle lapse—their only sound a sigh. + +The galling wrong no longer knits the brow, + Ambition feels the folly of her aim; +And Pity, from the heart expanding, now + Pants to extend relief to ev’ry claim. + +Thus, as I sit beside the murm’ring sea, + And o’er its darkness trace light’s parting streak, +I feel, O Nature! that serenity + Which vainly poetry like mine can speak! + +O’er the drear tract of Time, Remembrance views + Some dear, some long-departed, pleasure gleam;— +So o’er the dark expanse the eye pursues + Upon the wat’ry edge a transient beam. + +The spot fraternal love has sacred made, + Solemn, yet sweet, like groves in twilight gloom, +Mem’ry revisits, and beneath its shade + Faintly it sees each faded joy re-bloom. + +By Fancy led, from Death’s cold bed of stone, + Lovely, tho’ wan, what cherish’d form appears? +Oh! gentle Anna[5]! at thy name alone, + Genius, and Grace, and Virtue, smile in tears. + +Half-wrapp’d in mist I see thy figure move, + O’er thy pale cheek appears its wonted smile; +With lunar lustre beam those looks of love, + That once could life of ev’ry care beguile: + +Faintly I hear thy angel-voice again; + There’s music in the sweet and dying sound; +Like Philomela’s soft and echo’d strain, + It spreads a soothing consolation round. + +Adieu, bless’d shade!—Imagination roves + To distant regions, o’er th’ Atlantic wave; +Ah! not to genial skies, or fragrant groves, + To drop a tear upon a kindred grave. + +Hard was thy fate, Eliza[6]!—It was thine, + Tho’ wit thy mind, tho’ beauty grac’d thy form, +Behind Affliction’s weeping cloud to shine, + With star-like radiance, in a night of storm. + +Fierce from the sun the fiery fever flew, + And bade the burning sand become thy tomb! +O’er thee no willow drops its mourning dew, + Nor spotless lilies o’er thy bosom bloom! + +Oh! when we stood around our brother’s bier, + And wept in life’s full bloom to see him torn, +Ah! little did ye think that such a tear + As then ye shed so soon your fate would mourn. + +Farewell, dear shades! accept this mournful song, + At once the tribute of my grief and love; +Fain would it try your virtues to prolong, + Here priz’d and honour’d, and now bless’d above. + + [5] Mrs. Hodges, a sister of the author. + + [6] Mrs Fountaine, another sister of the author, who accompanied her + husband to Africa, and died at the Government-house, in one of the + British settlements on that coast, where she survived but a short time + the death of three of her children. + + + + +ECHO. + +Echo! thou sweet enchantress of the grove! +Oh! cease to answer to the tones of love; +Or teach my Delia in thine art divine, +Thou loveliest nymph! to hear and answer mine! + + + + +OCCASIONAL LINES + +_Repeated at an elegant Entertainment_ + +GIVEN BY LIEUTENANT-COLONEL D—— TO HIS FRIENDS +IN THE RUINS OF BERRY CASTLE, DEVONSHIRE.[7] + +By your permission, Ladies! I address ye, +And for the boon you grant, my Muse shall bless ye. +I do not mean in solemn verse to tell +What fate the race of Pomeroy befell; +To trace the castle-story of each year, +To learn how many owls have hooted here; +What was the weight of stone, which form’d this pile, +Will on your lovely cheeks awake no smile: +Such antiquarian sermons suit not me, +Nor any soul who loves festivity. +Past times I heed not; be the present hour +In life, while yet it blooms, my chosen flow’r, +For well I know, what Time cannot disown, +Amidst this mossy pile of mould’ring stone, +That Hospitality was never seen +To spread more social joy upon the green; +Or, when its noble and capacious hall +Rang with the gambol gay, or graceful ball, +More beauty never charm’d its ancient beaux +Than what its honour’d ruins now enclose. +Thanks to the clouds, which from the soaking show’r +Preserve the vot’ries of the present hour; +For, strange to tell, beneath the chilling storm, +Lately the rose reclin’d her frozen form; +Yet since, beneath the favour of the weather, +We are (a laughing group) conven’d together, +Pray let the Muse pursue her merry route, +To shew what pass’d before we all set out. +To some fair damsel, who, intent to charm, +Declares she thinks the weather fine and warm, +Such words as these address her trembling ear— +“I really think we shall have rain, my dear; +Pray do not go, my love,” cries soft mama; +“You shall not go, that’s flat,” cries stern papa. +A lucky sunbeam shines on the discourse, +The parents soften, and Miss mounts her horse. +Each tickled with some laugh-inspiring notion, +Behold the jocund party all in motion: +Some by a rattling buggy are befriended, +Some mount the cart—but not to be suspended. +The mourning-coach[8] is wisely counter-order’d +(The very thought on impious rashness border’d), +Because the luckless vehicle, one night, +Put all its merry mourners in a fright, +Who, to conduct them to the masquerade, +Sought from its crazy wheels their moving aid. +Us’d to a soleme pace, the creaking load +Bounded unwillingly along the road; +Down came the whole—oh! what a sight was there! +O’er a blind Fiddler roll’d a Flow’r-Nymph fair; +A glitt’ring Spaniard, who had lost his nose, +Roar’d out, “Oh! d—n it, take away your toes;” +A blooming Nun fell plump upon a Jew, +Still to the good old cause of traffic true, +Buried in clothes, exclaim’d the son of barter, +“Got blesh my shoul! you’ll shell this pretty garter?” +Here let me pause;—the Muse, in sad affright, +Turns from the dire disasters of that night; +Quite panic-struck she drops her trembling plumes, +And thus a moralizing theme assumes:— +Know, gentle Ladies, once these shapeless walls, +O’er whose grey wreck the shading ivy crawls, +Compos’d a graceful mansion, whose fair mould +Led from the road the trav’ller, to behold. +Oft, when the morning ting’d the redd’ning skies, +Far off the spiral smoke was seen to rise; +At noon the hospitable board was spread, +Then nappy ale made light the weary head; +And when grey eve appear’d, in shadows damp, +Each casement glitter’d with th’ enliv’ning lamp; +Here the laugh titter’d, there the lute of Love +Fill’d with its melody the moon-light grove: +All, all are fled!—Time ruthless stalks around, +And bends the crumbling ruin to the ground: +Time, Ladies, too (I know you do not like him, +And, if a fan could end him, you would strike him), +Will with as little gallantry devour +From your fair faces their bewitching pow’r; +Then, like these ruins, beauteous in decay, +Still shall you charm, and men shall still obey: +Then, with remembrance soft, and tender smile, +Perchance you’ll think upon this mossy pile; +And, with a starting tear of joy declare, +“Oh! how we laugh’d, how merry were we there!” + + [7] The manor of Berry was given by William the Conqueror to one of + his Normans, Ralph de la Pomerai, who built on it the castle which + still bears his name, and in whose family it continued till the reign + of Edward VI. when it was sold by Sir Thomas Pomeroy to Edward + Seymour, Duke of Somerset, from whom it has descended to the present + Duke. + The castle is seated upon a rock, which rises almost + perpendicularly from a narrow valley; through this valley winds a + small stream of water, which drives the mill seen through the + foliage of the surrounding woods from the turrets of the castle. + In approaching the castle from the south, the path leads down the + side of a hill through a thick wood; and on the north side of the + valley, opposite the rock on which the castle stands, is a high + ridge, partly covered with oak: these hills completely shut in the + ruins on both sides. The valley stretches a considerable way both + to the east and west, and opens a view at either end into the + adjacent country. + From the ivy-covered ruins of the fortress which now remain, it is + scarcely possible to say what was its ancient form; but it is most + generally supposed to have been quadrangular, having only one + entrance, a large double portcullis, at the west end of the + southern front, turreted and embattled, as was the whole of the + front, with a tower at its eastern end, corresponding with that on + the west. This front, with its gateway and turrets, are perhaps the + only remains of the original structure. Winding steps, now almost + worn away, lead to what once was a chapel, over the portcullis, and + thence to the top of the turrets. + In more modern times a magnificent building was erected within the + walls of the castle by the Seymour family; but, although upwards of + £20,000 were said to have been expended on it, it was never + finished, and now the whole forms one common ruin, which, as it + totters on it base, the spectator contemplates with awe, while he + sighs over the remains of fallen grandeur. + + [8] A party from Totness went to Lord Courtenay’s masquerade in this + way, there being no other conveyance to be had, and met with the + ridiculous accident here alluded to. + + + + +LINES + +TO SIR ROBERT KER PORTER, +KNIGHT OF THE IMPERIAL ORDER OF ST. JOACHIM, + +_Upon his approaching Nuptials with the Princess Shebatoff_. + +To save the credit of the dame, + Poets and painters all agree + That Mistress Fortune cannot see, +And on her bandage cast the blame; + +When honours on th’ unworthy wait, + When riches to the wealthy flow, + When high desert, oppress’d by woe, +Is left to struggle on with Fate. + +But, Porter! when on thee she smil’d, + The fillet from her eyes she mov’d, + To view the merit all approv’d— +A mind inform’d, a heart unsoil’d. + +She saw thy virtues bright appear; + A son that mothers seldom know, + A brother with affection’s glow, +The soldier brave[9], the friend sincere. + +With honours then thy name she grac’d, + And call’d on Love to bless thy arms + With princely rank, with Virtue’s charms, +And all the pow’rs of wit and taste. + + [9] Sir R.K. Porter was attached to the staff in the late campaign in + Spain, and was in nearly every engagement with the enemy. + + + + +THE FOLLOWING LINES IN FRENCH, + +_Are inscribed upon the Pedestal of a Statue of Cupid_, + +IN A GARDEN AT UTRECHT. + +_ORIGINAL_. + + N’offrant qu’un cœur à la Beauté, + Nud comme la Verité, + Sans armes comme l’Innocence, + Sans aîles comme la Constance, + Tel fut l’Amour dans le siecle d’or, +On ne le trouve plus, quoiqu’on le cherche encore. + +_TRANSLATION_. + +To Beauty give your heart, your sighs, +No other off’ring will she prize; +As Truth should unadorn’d appear, +Behold! the god is naked here! +Like Innocence, he has no arms +But those of sweet, of native, charms; +No wish or pow’r has he to fly, +Like thy pure spirit, Constancy! +Such in the golden age was Love; +But now, oh! whither does he rove? + + + + +THE RHINGAU SONG. + +This is the favourite Song with the Inhabitants of the vine-covered +Region of the Rhingau, an extensive District along the Banks of the +Rhine, where the finest Wines are produced. + +_ORIGINAL_. + +Bekrantzt mit laub den liebe vollen becher, + Und trinkt ihn frölich leer; +In Gauz Europa ihr herren zecher, + Ist solch, ein wein micht mehr. + +Ihn bringt das vaterland aus seiner fulle, + Wie wär er sonst so gut? +Wie wär er sonst so edel, stille, + Und doch voll kraft und muth? + +Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsre reben: + Gesegnet sey der Rhein! +Da wachsen sie am ufer hin, und geben + Uns diesen labe wein. + +So trinkt ihn dann, und lasst uns alle wege + Uns freun, und frölich seyn; +Und wüsten wir, wo jemand traurig läge, + Wir gaben ihm den wein. + +_TRANSLATION_. + +With wine-leaves crown the jovial cup, + For, search all Europe round, +You’ll say, as pleas’d you drink it up, + Such wine was never found. + Such wine, &c. + +Our fathers’ land this vine supplies; + What soil can e’er produce +But this, tho’ warm’d with genial skies, + Such mild, such gen’rous juice? + Such mild, &c. + +Then shall the Rhine our smiles receive, + For on its banks alone +Can e’er be found a wine to give + The soul its proper tone. + The soul, &c. + +Come, put the jovial cup around, + Our joys it will enhance, +If any one is mournful found, + One sip shall make him dance. + One sip, &c. + + + + +LINES TO HEALTH, + +_Upon the Recovery of a Friend from a dangerous Illness_. + +Sweet guardian of the rosy cheek! + Whene’er to thee I raise my hands +Upon the mountain’s breezy peak, + Or on the yellow winding sands, + +If thou hast deign’d, by Pity mov’d, + This fev’rish phantom to prolong, +I’ve touch’d my lute, for ever lov’d, + And bless’d thee with its earliest song! + +And oh! if in thy gentle ear + Its simple notes have sounded sweet, +May the soft breeze, to thee so dear, + Now bear them to thy rose-wreath’d seat! + +For thou hast dried the dew of grief, + And Friendship feels new ecstacy: +To Pollio thou hast stretch’d relief, + And, raising him, hast cherish’d me. + +So, whilst some treasur’d plant receives + Th’ admiring florist’s partial show’r, +The drops that tremble from its leaves + Oft feed some near uncultur’d flow’r. + +For late connubial Fondness hung + Mute o’er the couch where Pollio lay; +Love, Hope, and Sorrow, fixed her tongue, + Thro’ sable night till morning grey. + +There, too, by drooping Pollio’s side, + Stood Modesty, a mourner meek, +Whilst Genius, mov’d by grief and pride, + Increas’d the blush which grac’d her cheek; + +For much the maiden he reprov’d + For having spread her veil of snow +Upon the mind he form’d and lov’d, + Till she was seen to mourn it too. + +O Health! when thou art fled, how vain + The witchery of earth and skies, +Love’s look, or music’s sweetest strain, + Or Ocean’s softest lullabies! + +Oh! ever hover near his bow’r, + There let thy fav’rite sylphs repair; +Fence it with ev’ry sweet-lipp’d flow’r, + That Sickness find no entrance there. + +So shall his lyre, untouch’d so long, + The tone with which it charm’d regain; +Sweet spirit! thou shall teach his song, + With mine, to breathe the grateful strain. + + + + +AN IRISH SONG + +Poor Molly O’Flannagan (Lord rest her soul!) +Drank so deeply of whiskey, ’twas thought she would die; +Her fond lover, Pat, from her _nate_ cabin stole, +And stepp’d into Dublin to buy her a pie. + Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan! + +Tho’ chin-deep in sorrow, yet fun he lov’d well; +A pie-man pass’d near, crying “Pies” at his _aise_; +“Here are pies of all sorts.”—“Oh! if all sorts you sell, +Then a _twopenny magpie_ for me, if you _plaise_!” + Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan! + + + + +THE SONG OF GRIEF + +By the walk of the willows I pour’d out my theme, +The breath of the evening scarce dimpled the stream; +By the waters I stood, like an image of Woe, +And my tears, like the tide, seem’d to tremble and flow. + +Ye green scatter’d reeds, that half lean to the wave, +In your plaintive, your musical, sighs, could ye save +But one note of my charmer, to soften my doom, +I would stay till these willows should arch me a tomb! + +For ye know, when I pour’d out my soul on the lute, +How she hung down her head, so expressively mute! +From my hand she would take it, still breathing my pain; +She would touch it—return it—and smile at the strain. + +Ye wild blooming flow’rs, that enamel this brink, +Like me could ye feel, and like me could ye think, +How sadly would droop ev’ry beautiful leaf! +How soon would your sweetness be wasted with grief! + +She is gone, in a cloud, like the star of the night! +She has left me, heart-broken, to mourn at her flight,— +To think of the hours she endear’d by her love. +To sigh till again I shall join her above! + + + + +LINES + +UPON HEARING MISS —— SING AT AN EVENING PARTY. + +THE NIGHTINGALE’S COMPLAINT. + +The Moon had bespangled the murmuring wave, +The dew-drop had moisten’d the moss of the cave, +The summer night-breeze, like a sigh, was just heard, +When thus flow’d the strains of the dark-warbling bird: + +“I hear a strange melody breathe thro’ the grove, +Now swelling with joy, and now melting with love; +Tho’ sweet is the sound, yet it should not invade, +Unbidden, my lonely dominion of shade. + +“As long as the stars that now twinkle shall shine, +This willow’s my throne, and all nature is mine: +Perchance ’tis the breeze on your desolate lute; +Its strings are now sighing, so long that were mute. + +“Ah! no, silly bird that I am! shall I grieve? +Shall Envy alarm, and shall Folly deceive? +’Tis the voice of Eliza! I hear it again, +Enraptur’d I hear it, nor envy the strain.” +Then Philomel flutter’d with tremulous wing +To Eliza—more happy to listen than sing! + + + + +LOVE AND THE SPRING-FLOWER. + +’Tis pity, ev’ry maiden knows, +Just as she cools, Love warmer grows; +But, if the chill be too severe, +Trust me, he’ll wither in a tear. + +Thus will the spring-flow’r bud and blow, +Wrapp’d round in many a fold of snow; +But, if an ice-wind pierce the sky, +’Twill drop upon its bed, and die! + + + + +LINES + +UPON THE REV. MR. C——’S IMPROMPTU COMPOSITIONS +OF SOME OF BOWLES’S SONNETS. + +No sweeter verse did e’er inspire +A kindred Muse with all its fire; +Nor sweeter strains could Music lend, +To sooth the sorrows of her friend. + +Associate Genius bids them flow +With sounds that give a charm to woe; +We weep as tho’ it were our own, +As if our hearts were play’d upon. + + + + +SONNET. + +The leaves are flutter’d by no tell-tale gales, + Clear melts the azure in the rosy west, +Scarce heard, the river winds along the vales, + And Eve has lull’d the vocal grove to rest. + +To yon thick elms, my Delia! let us rove, + As slow the glories of the day retire; +There to thy lute breathe dulcet notes of love, + While thro’ the vale they linger and expire. + +Those honey’d tones, that melt upon the tongue,— + Thy looks, serener than the scenes I sing,— +Thy chaste desires, which angels might have sung, + Alone can quiet in this bosom bring, +Which burns for thee, and, kindled by thine eyes, + Bears a pure flame—the flame that never dies! + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN AT KILKENNY, +ON THE THEATRICALS OF THAT CITY. + +Amid the ruins of monastic gloom, + Where Nore’s meand’ring waters wind along, +Genius and Wealth have rais’d the tasteful dome, + Yet not alone for Fashion’s brilliant throng;— + +In Virtue’s cause they take a noble aim; + ’Tis theirs in sweetest harmony to blend +Wit with Compassion, Sympathy with Fame, + Pleasure the means, Beneficence the end[10]. + +There, if on Beauty’s cheek the tear appears + (Form’d by the mournful Muse’s mimic sigh), +Fast as it falls, a kindred drop it bears, + More sadly shed from genuine Misery. + +Nor, if the laughter-loving Nymph delight, + Does the reviving transport perish there; +Still, still, with Pity’s radiance doubly bright, + Its smiles shed sunshine on the cheek of Care. + +So, if Pomona’s golden fruit descend, + Shook by some breeze, into the lake below, +Quick will the dimple, which it forms, extend, + Till all around the joyous circles flow. + +Bless’d be the liberal mind, th’ undaunted zeal, + That bade loud Folly from the Stage retire; +That teach us how to think, and how to feel, + And once again our godlike Bard admire! + +Thus aided, see his rescued genius spring; + Again he pours the phrenzy of his song; +With EV’RY FEATHER[11] in his eagle wing, + Once more in majesty he soars along. + +Oft, deck’d with smiles, his spirit shall explore, + Erin! thy beauteous vales and classic ground; +And ev’ry ripple of thy winding Nore + To him shall sweetly as his Avon’s sound. + +22_d Oct._ 1805. + + [10] The theatricals of Kilkenny are supported by gentlemen of rank + and fashion in Ireland, and the profits are applied to charitable + purposes. + + [11] Alluding to several fine passages of Shakspeare, which have been + long omitted in representation, but restored at the theatricals of + Kilkenny. + + + + +EPIGRAM, + +UPON SEEING THE DILAPIDATED STATE OF +_BETHLEM HOSPITAL_. + +Well with the _purpose_ does the _place_ agree; +For e’en the very house is _crack’d_, you see. + + + + +EPIGRAM + +ON THE GRAVE OF ROBESPIERRE. + +_ORIGINAL_. + +Passant, ne pleure point son sort; +Car, s’il vivait, tu serais mort. + +_TRANSLATION_. + +Nay, passenger, don’t mourn his lot; +If he had liv’d, why you had not. + + + + +AN INDIAN MASSACRE-SONG. + +See, the waves clasp the Sun, as he sinks from our sight, +And Despair sullen rides on the wings of the night; +Lo! he comes, and reproaches our arms with delay,— +Then arise, let us go where Revenge points the way! + +In the deed should we fall, (since who’ll e’er breathe a slave?) +Our free souls shall repose in the realms of the brave; +In the song we shall live, and fresh heroes inspire, +While the son shall exult in the fate of his sire. + +Then know, ye white race! ye too long shake the rod; +By this arm ye shall soon be dismiss’d to your God! +Then demand, if he bade ye torment, why he gave +All the soul of a man to the breast of a slave? + +Then prepare; know our hatchets atone for our wrong, +And our hearts, like our hatchets, are stubborn and strong: +Sleep your last! ye no more shall the morning survey, +Nor shall sorrow arise with the break of the day. + +Yes, remember the lashes that pierc’d thro’ our flesh! +See the wounds of our fathers; they open afresh! +In the winds, hark! blue Avrin attends to our call; +I, your chief, will be first in your glories, or fall! + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN ON DELIA, LISTENING TO HER CANARY-BIRD. + +When thoughtless Delia unconcern’d surveys + Her plumy captive, as he leans to sing, +Lo! while she smiles, the fascination stays + The little heaven of its airy wing. + +Ah! so she tastes the sorrows I impart, + Smiles at the sound, but never feels my pain; +And many a glance deludes my captive heart + To sigh in numbers, tho’ I sigh in vain! + + + + +THE HECTIC. + +Upon the breezy cliff’s impending brow, + With trembling step, the Hectic paus’d awhile; +As round his wasted form the sea-breeze blew, + His flush’d cheek brighten’d with a transient smile: + +Refresh’d and cherish’d by its balmy breath, + He dreamt of future bliss, of years to come; +Whilst, with a look of woe, the spectre, Death, + Oft shook his head, and pointed to his tomb. + +Such sounds as these escap’d his lab’ring breast:— + “Sweet Health! thou wilt revisit this sad frame; +Slumber shall bid these aching eyelids rest, + And I shall live for love, perchance for fame.” +Ah! poor enthusiast!—in the day’s decline +A mournful knell was heard, and it was thine! + + + + +VERSES TO MISS M. G——, + +ACCOMPANIED WITH A DRIED HELIOTROPE, + +_Which she had presented to the Author a Year before_. + +Time, since thou gav’st this flow’r to me, + Has often turn’d his glass of sand; +Perchance ’tis now unknown to thee + That once its breath perfum’d thy hand. + +Oh, lovely maid! that thou may’st see + How much thy gifts my care engage, +I’ve sent the cherish’d flow’r to thee + Without a blemish, but from age. + +Kiss but its leaves;—one kiss from thee, + And all its sweetness ’twill regain; +And, if I live in memory + Thus honour’d, send it back again! + + + + +LINES + +TO MRS. B——, AT BRISTOL HOT WELLS + +Tho’ nought, amid these darkened groves, + But various groups of death appear, +Scar’d at the sight, tho’ fly the Loves, + And Sickness saddens all the year, + +Yet, Clara, where you deign to stay, + Your sense and manners charm us so, +E’en sick’ning Sorrow’s self looks gay, + And smiles amid the wreck of woe. + + + + +LINES + +TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH, +UPON THE PRINTS + +_From her beautiful Drawings of the Birth and Triumph of Cupid_. + +Once, for a palace, Painting left her grove, + And taught her royal fav’rite’s hand to trace +A beauteous maiden’s tale of little Love, + His silken wings, soft limbs, and laughing face! + +Then Nature wept o’er each expressive line, + To think the sweet creation so confin’d, +That such a boy, so fair, and so divine, + Was but the playful prattler of her mind; + +And had he near the royal easel flown, + And seen the features of this mimic brother, +He would have known the portrait for his own, + And claim’d the beauteous painter for his mother. + + + + +EPITAPH + +TO THE MEMORY OF A WORTHY MAN, +_THE REV. MR. SLEEP_, +CURATE OF KINGSWEAR CHURCH, DEVON, + +_Whose devotional Elocution was remarkably impregnated with soporific +Qualities_. + +Reader! since Parson Sleep is gone, +And lies beneath yon humble stone, +Whene’er to Kingswear Church we go, + Holy the sabbath-day to keep +(Indeed ’tis right it should be so), + We never more shall go to _sleep_. + + + + +LINES, + +SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A FEMALE FRIEND, + +_Upon an Infant recommended to her Care by its dying Mother_. + +Bless’d be thy slumbers, little love! + Unconscious of the ills so near; +May no rude noise thy dreams remote, + Or prompt the artless early tear;— + +For she who gave thee life is gone, + Whose trust it was thy life to rear, +Now in the cold and mould’ring stone + Calls for that artless early tear. + +Sleep on, thou little dreamer! sleep; + For, long as I shall tarry here, +I’ll soothe thee; thou shalt never weep, + Tho’ flows for thee the tend’rest tear. + +Then be thy gentle visions blest, + Nor e’er thy bosom know that fear, +Which thro’ the night disturbs my rest, + And prompts Affection’s trembling tear. + + + + +LINES + +ON THE CALEDONIAN HARP BEING SUCCEEDED +BY THE HIGHLAND BAGPIPES. + +In days that long have glided by, +Beneath keen Scotia’s weeping sky, +On many a hill of purple heath, +In many a gloomy glen beneath, +The wand’ring Lyrist once was known +To pour his harp’s entrancing tone. +Then, when the castle’s rocky form +Rose ’mid the dark surrounding storm, +The Harper had a sacred seat, +Whence he might breathe his wild notes sweet. +Oh! then, when many a twinkling star +Shone in the azure vault afar, +And mute was ev’ry mountain-bird, +Soft music from the harp was heard; +And when the morning’s blushes shed +On hill, or tow’r, their varying red, +Oh! then the harp was heard to cheer, +With earliest sound, th’ enraptur’d ear; +Then many a lady fair was known, +With snowy hand, to wake its tone; +And infant fingers press’d the string, +And back recoil’d, to hear it sing. +Sweet instrument! such was thy pow’r, +’Twas thine to gladden ev’ry hour; +The young and old then honour’d thee, +And smil’d to hear thy melody. + + Alas! as Time has turn’d to dust +The temple fair, the beauteous bust, +Thou too hast mark’d his frowning brow; +No Highland echo knows thee now: +A savage has usurp’d thy place, +Once fill’d by thee with ev’ry grace; +Th’ inflated Pipe, with swinish drone, +Calls forth applauses once thine own. + + + + +A SONG. + +When stormy show’rs from Heav’n descend, +And with their weight the lily bend, +The Sun will soon his aid bestow, +And drink the drops that laid it low. + +Oh! thus, when sorrow wrings the heart, +A sigh may rise, a tear may start; +Pity shall soon the face impress +With all its looks of happiness. + + + + +VERSES + +ON AN AUTUMNAL LEAF. + +Think not, thou pride of Summer’s softest strain! + Sweet dress of Nature, in her virgin bloom! +That thou hast flutter’d to the breeze in vain, + Or unlamented found thy native tomb. + +The Muse, who sought thee in the whisp’ring shade, + When scarce one roving breeze was on the wing, +With tones of genuine grief beholds thee fade, + And asks thy quick return in earliest Spring. + +I mark’d the victim of the wintry hour, + I heard the winds breathe sad a fun’ral sigh, +When the lone warbler, from his fav’rite bow’r, + Pour’d forth his pensive song to see thee die;— + +When, in his little temple, colder grown, + He saw its sides of green to yellow grow, +And mourn’d his little roof, around him blown, + Or toss’d in beauteous ruin on the snow; + +And vow’d, throughout the dreary day to come, + (More sad by far than summer’s gloomiest night), +That not one note should charm the leafless gloom, + But silent Sorrow should attend thy flight. + + + + +SONG. + +THE WORDS ADAPTED TO “THE COSSAKA,” + +_One of the most ancient of the Russ Airs_. + +Has Time a changeling made of thee? +Oh! no; and thou art all to me: +He bares the forest, but his pow’rs + Impair not love like ours. + +Tho’ sever’d from each other’s sight, +When once we meet we shall unite, +As dew-drops down the lily run, + And, touching, blend in one. + +For thee this bosom learnt to grieve, +Another never made it heave; +When present, oh! it was thy throne, + And, absent, thine alone. + +Then may my trembling pilgrim feet +In safety find thy lov’d retreat! +And, if I’m doom’d to drop with care, + Still let me perish there! + + + + +TO MISS ATKINSON, + +ON THE EXTREME DIFFIDENCE WHICH SHE +DISPLAYS TO STRANGERS. + +Just as a fawn, in forest shade, + Trembling to meet th’ admiring eye, +I’ve seen thee try to hide, sweet maid! + Thy charms behind thy modesty. + +Thus too I’ve seen at midnight steal + A fleecy cloud before the wind, +And veil, tho’ it could not conceal, + The brilliant light that shone behind. + + + + +LINES + +Upon reading the Journal of a Friend’s Tour into Scotland, in which the +picturesque Scenery and the Character of the People are fairly and +liberally stated. + +Much injur’d, Scotia! was thy genuine worth, +When late the[12] surly Rambler wandered forth + In brown[13] surtout, with ragged staff, + Enough to make a savage laugh! +And sent the faithless legend from his hand, +That Want and Famine scour’d thy bladeless land, + +That with thee Nature wore a wrinkled face, +That not a leaf e’er shed its sylvan grace, + But, harden’d by their northern wind, + Rude, deceitful, and unkind, +Thy half-cloth’d sons their oaten cake denied, +Victims at once of penury and pride. + +Happy for thee! a lib’ral Briton here, +Gentle yet shrewd, tho’ learned not severe. + Fairly thy merit dares impart, + Asserts thy hospitable heart, +Proves that luxuriance smiles upon thy plains, +And wit and valour grace thy hardy swains. + + [12] Dr. Johnson, author of the Rambler. + + [13] Alluding to his dress, as described by Mr. Boswell. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN UPON A HILL, + +_On leaving the Country_. + +Ah! sweet romantic spot, adieu! +Ere your green fields again I view, +These looks may change their youthful hue. + +Dependence sternly bids me part +From all that ye, lov’d scenes! impart, +Far from my treasure and my heart. + +Tho’ winter shall your bloom invade, +Fancy may visit ev’ry shade, +Each bow’r shall kiss the wand’ring maid. + +To busier scenes of life I fly, +Where many smile, where many sigh, +As Chance, not Worth, turns up the die. + + + + +BANKRUPTCY RENDERED EASY. + +The Cit, relying on his trade, +Which, like all other things, may fade, + Longs for a curricle and villa: +This Hatchet splendidly supplies, +The other Cock’ril builds, or buys, + To charm himself and Miss Hautilla. + +Then swift, O London! he retires, +To be, from all thy smoke and spires, + From Saturday till Sunday, merry: +On Sunday crowds of friends attend; +His house and garden some commend, + And all admire his port and sherry. + +His mistress urg’d him now to play, +And cut to wealth a shorter way, + Now as a bride she heads his table; +But still our Cit observ’d his time. +Returning at St. Cripple’s chime, + At least as near as he was able. + +But soon _she_ could not bear the sight +Of town; for walls with bow’rs unite, + As well as smoke with country breezes; +Without the keenest grief and pride +_He_ could not quit his _mares_, and _bride_: + We yield as soon as passion seizes. + +The clock no more his herald prov’d; +Tuesday, nay Wednesday, morn have mov’d, + Ere trembling shopmen saw their master: +Observing neighbours whisper’d round, +That ease might do, with plenty crown’d; + If not, that ruin came the faster. + +His cash grew scarce, his business still, +At variance were his books and till + (For wolves devour when shepherds slumber); +His creditors around him pour, +Seize all his horses, household store, + And only give him up the lumber! + + + + +LINES + +_Written at the Sea-Side in Devonshire_, + +IN THE MONTH OF NOVEMBER, +WHEN THE SHIPS FROM NEWFOUNDLAND RETURN. + +Still Summer lingers on these peaceful shores, + Nor yet she quits her rose-erected bow’r; +Tho’ oft in many a dew-drop she explores + Her beauties fading in each passing hour! + +Tho’ Winter’s boist’rous child, November, strays + Amid those scenes that wak’d the poet’s lyre, +Shakes his green canopy, and loves to raise, + Of sapless leaves, an altar for his sire. + +Soon shall his wild and stormy sway be o’er; + These lovely scenes shall feel his shortest reign; +And thou, sweet Summer! charming as before, + Shall but retire to dress thyself again. + +Yet Heaven guides, full provident and kind, + With sweet economy, the source of joy, +From grief extracts some comfort for the mind, + And fresh hopes flatter ere the lost annoy. + +See where Connubial Love yon rock ascends, + To hail each sail, while fav’ring breezes blow; +There many an hour she o’er the margin bends, + Her bosom trembling like the floods below. + +Nearer the ocean’s graceful burden glides; + Cleav’d by its prow, the lines of water yield: +While adverse mountains, with protective sides, + The Heav’n-directed wand’ring seaman shield. + +The anchor dropp’d, he springs upon the shore, + His wife and children press to meet his kiss; +Half-told, a thousand things they prattle o’er, + And, safe at home, renew their former bliss. + + + + +EPIGRAM, + +ON WINNING A YOUNG LADY’S MONEY AT CARDS. + +How fairly Fortune all her gifts imparts; +We win your money, Ann, and you our hearts. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN IN A FINE WINTER’S DAY, + +_At the Shooting-Box of my Friend, W. Cope, Esq_. + +NEAR ORPINGTON, KENT. + +Tho’ leafless are the woods, tho’ flow’rs no more, +In beauty blushing, spread their fragrant store, +Yet still ’tis sweet to quit the crowded scene, +And rove with Nature, tho’ no longer green; +For Winter bids her winds so softly blow, +That, cold and famine scorning, even now +The feather’d warblers still delight the ear, +And all of Summer, but her leaves, is here. +Here, on this winding garden’s sloping bound, +’Tis sweet to listen to each rustic sound, +The distant dog-bark, and the rippling rill, +Or catch the sparkling of the water-mill. +The tranquil scene each tender feeling moves; +As the eye rests on Holwood’s naked groves, +A tear bedims the sight for Chatham’s son, +For him whose god-like eloquence could stun, +Like some vast cat’ract, Faction’s clam’rous tongue, +Or by its sweetness charm, like Virgil’s song, +For him, whose mighty spirit rous’d afar +Europe’s plum’d legions to the hallow’d war; +But who, ah! hapless tale! could not inspire +Their recreant chiefs with his heroic fire; +Who, as _they_ pass’d the tyrant Conqu’ror’s yoke, +Felt, as the bolt of Heav’n, the ruthless stroke; +And having long, in vain, the tempest brav’d, +Could breathe no longer in a world enslav’d. + + + + +LINES ON A LITTLE BIRD + +_Singing at the Window of the Author_, + +SOON AFTER THE DEATH OF A BELOVED SISTER. + +Go, little flutt’rer! seek thy feather’d loves, + And leave a wretched mourner to his woe; +Seek out the bow’rs of bliss, seek happier groves, + Nor here unheeded let thy music flow. + +Yet think me not ungrateful for thy song, + If meant to cheer me in my lone retreat; +Ah! not to thee, my little friend! belong + The pow’rs to soothe the pangs of adverse fate. + +Fly, then! the window of the wretched, fly! + And be thy harmless life for ever blest; +I only can reward thee with a sigh, + And wish that joys may crown thy peaceful nest. + + + + +EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. + +By painful sickness long severely prest, +Here sinks, on Nature’s sacred lap of rest, +A friend, who, in a life too short, display’d +A mind in virtue bright, without one shade. +Hence with unusual grief is Fondness mov’d, +Hence more than Pity’s sighs for one belov’d; +Unshaken Honour sheds a manly tear, +And weeping Virtue stops, a mourner here. + + + + +LINES + +TO THE MEMORY OF AN AMIABLE YOUTH, +OF GREAT PROMISE, + +Whose afflicted Parents received the Intelligence of his having been +drowned, at the very time when his Arrival was expected from abroad. + +Dire were the horrors of that ruthless storm, + That for young Lycid form’d a wat’ry grave; +Oh! many wept to see his fainting form + Unaided sink beneath th’ o’erwhelming wave. + +Ah! hapless youth! yet, tho’ the billowy waste + Has thus, with ruthless fury, snatch’d away +Thy various charms, thy genius, wit, and taste, + From those who fondly watch’d their rich display,— + +Their cherish’d, lov’d, impression still shall last; + Mem’ry shall ride triumphant o’er the storm, +Shall shield thy gen’rous virtues from the blast, + And Fancy animate again thy form. + +Yes, gentle youth! to her, tho’ little known, + Save by the rich effusions of thy lyre, +Th’ admiring Muse shall breathe a mournful tone, + And sounds of grief shall o’er the floods expire. + +But, far more grateful to thy pensive shade, + Parental Fondness mourns her Lycid gone, +Lycid! who to her bosom oft convey’d + The liveliest joys to tend’rest feelings known. + +For her the lustre of the dawning day, + With all its charms, no longer yields delight; +And silent sorrow marks its parting ray, + And saddens ev’ry vision of the night. + +Oh! what ecstatic joys inspir’d her breast, + When, fast advancing to thy native shore, +She thought she saw thee in the bay at rest, + And now in fancy heard th’ approaching oar. + +Oh! sad reverse! The dire delusive wind, + Which promis’d fair to bring thee to her breast, +Thy youthful honours to the wave consign’d, + And bore thy spirit to the realms of rest + +Ah! had the song of ancient Bard been true, + Had Genius still the pow’r to soothe the storm, +Harmless had been each blast that round thee blew, + And safe and sacred, ’midst its rage, thy form. + +What tho’ no marble urn thy relics hold, + Where grief at midnight hour may sit and sigh, +Like gem in amber, Fancy shall enfold + Thy relics in each wave that murmurs by. + +Still shall she listen to thy glowing song, + And dwell with rapture on each vivid line, +Shall round thy lyre, neglected and unstrung, + Of sweetest flow’rs a fun’ral wreath entwine. + +Ah! since thy tuneful song no more shall flow, + Nor here again thy op’ning virtues shine, +May those who, Lycid! lov’d thee living, know + To bear the sorrows of a loss like thine! + +And, while they linger yet another hour + On life’s extended, tempest-beaten, strand, +Waiting the gale that shall convey them o’er, + To hail their Lycid in a happier land, + +Oh! may religion lull each sigh to rest, + Teach them a God, in mercy rob’d, to praise, +To know that ev’ry act of his is best, + And, tho’ mysterious, still to prize his ways! + + + + +EPIGRAM + +ON THE AUTHOR AND ELIZA FREQUENTLY DIFFERING IN OPINION. + +To such extremes were I and Bet + Perpetually driven, +We quarrell’d every time we met, + To kiss, and be forgiven. + + + + +LINES + +TO MY MOTHER, + +_On her attaining her 70th Year_. + +Oh! with what genuine pleasure do I trace +Each line of that long-lov’d, accustom’d, face, +Where Time, as if enchanted, and imprest +With all the virtues of thy peaceful breast, +Tho’ sev’nty varied years have roll’d away, +Still loves to linger, and, with soft decay, +Permits thy cheek to wear a healthy bloom, +In all the grace of age, without its gloom. + + So on some sacred temple’s mossy walls, +With feath’ry force, the snow of winter falls! +Yes, venerable parent! may I long +Thus happy hail thee with an annual song. +Till, having clos’d thine eyes in such soft rest +As infants feel when to the bosom prest, +Angels shall bear thy spotless soul away +To realms of pure delight and endless day! + + + + +LINES TO SELINA + +’Twas when the leaves were yellow turn’d, + Selina, with the gentlest sigh, +Exclaim’d, “For you I long have burn’d, + For you alone, my love! I’ll die.” + +Unthinking youth! I thought her true, + And, when the trees grew white with snow, +The wint’ry wind with music blew, + So did her love upon me grow. + +The Spring had scarce unlock’d her store, + When lo! in much ungentle strain, +She bade me think of her no more, + She bade me never love again. + +Then did my heart at once reply, + “If you are false, who can be true? +There’s nothing here deserves a sigh, + Take this, the last, ’tis heav’d for you.” + +Ah! fickle fair! amid the scene + That giddy pleasure may prepare, +A pensive thought shall intervene, + And touch your wand’ring heart with care. + +And when, alone, at eve you rove, + Where arm in arm we oft have mov’d, +Each Zephyr in the well-known grove + Shall whisper that we once have lov’d. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE, +AT DRONNINGAARD, NEAR COPENHAGEN. + +Delicious gloom! asylum of repose! + Within your verdant shades, your tranquil bound, +A wretched fugitive[14], oppress’d by woes, + The balm of peace, that long had left him, found. + +Ne’er does the trump of war disturb this grove; + Throughout its deep recess the warbling bird +Discourses sweetly of its happy lore, + Or distant sounds of rural joy are heard. + +Life’s checquer’d scene is softly pictur’d here; + Here the proud moss-rose spreads its transient pride; +Close by, the willow drops a dewy tear, + And gaudy flow’rs the modest lily hide. + +Alas! poor Hermit! happy had it been + For thee, if in these shades thy days had past, +If, well contented with the happy scene, + Thou ne’er again had fac’d life’s stormy blast! + +And Pity oft shall shed the gen’rous tear + O’er the sad moral which thy days disclose; +There view how restless is our nature here, + How strangely hostile to its own repose. + + [14] Dronningaard is the first private residence in Denmark: it + belongs to the wealthy family of the De Conincks. The grounds, which + are very extensive, and tastefully laid out, slope down to a noble + lake, twelve English miles in circumference, which is skirted with + fine woods and romantic country-houses. At the end of a beautiful walk + is an elegant marble column, with a tablet, on which is inscribed by + Mr. D.C. “This monument is erected in gratitude to a mild and + beneficent Government, under whose auspices I enjoy the blessings that + surround me.” In another part of the grounds, in a spot of deep + seclusion, are the ruins of a Hermitage; and a little further, in a + nook, an open grave and tombstone. The story connected with this + retired spot deserves to be mentioned:—Time has shed many snows upon + the romantic beauties of Dronningaard, since one, who, weary of the + pomp of courts and the tumult of camps, in the prime of life, covered + with honours and with fortune, sought from its hospitable owner + permission to raise a sequestered cell, in which he might pass the + remainder of his days in all the austerities and privations of an + Anchorite. This singular man had, long previously to the revolution in + Holland, distinguished himself at the head of his regiment, when, in + an unhappy moment, the love of aggrandizement took possession of his + heart, and, marrying under its influence, misery soon followed; and + here, in a little wood of tall firs, he raised this simple fabric: + moss warmed it within, and the bark of the birch defended it without; + a stream of rock-water once flowed in a bed of pebbles before the + door, in which the young willow dipped its leaves; and, at a little + distance from a bed of wild roses, the labernum gracefully rose, and + suspended her yellow flowers; and adjoining was a spot which the + Recluse had selected for his grave, of which, like the monks of La + Trappe, he dug a small portion every day until he had finished it. He + composed his Epitaph in French, and had it inscribed on a stone. If + the reader is as much interested as I was in the history of the poor + Hermit, he will be pleased with the translation of it, which follows, + from the pen of my respected and distinguished friend, William Hayley, + Esq. In this solitude he passed several years, when the plan of his + life became suddenly reversed by a letter of recall, which he received + from his Prince, containing the most flattering expressions of regard. + He obeyed the summons, returned to Holland, and at the head of his + regiment most gallantly fought and fell. + +THE HERMIT’S EPITAPH. + +Here may he rest, who, shunning scenes of strife, +Enjoy’d at Dronningaard a Hermit’s life: +The faithless splendour of a court he knew, + And all the ardour of the tented field, +Soft Passion’s idler charm, not less untrue, + And all that listless Luxury can yield. +He tasted, tender Love! thy chatter sweet; +Thy promis’d happiness prov’d mere deceit. +To Hymen’s hallow’d fane by Reason led, + He deem’d the path he trod the path of bliss; +Oh! ever-mourn’d mistake! from int’rest bred, + Its dupe was plung’d in misery’s abyss: +But Friendship offer’d him, benignant pow’r! +Her cheering hand, in trouble’s darkest hour: +Beside this shaded stream, her soothing voice +Bade the disconsolate again rejoice: + Peace in his heart revives, serenely sweet; +The calm content, so sought for as his choice, + Quits him no more in this belov’d retreat. + + + + +LINES TO MISS E. ATKINSON, + +ON HER PRESENTING THE AUTHOR WITH AN IRISH PEBBLE. + +Oft does the lucid pebble shine, + Just cover’d by the murm’ring sea; +Thus precious, thus conceal’d, it shews, + Fair maid! thy mind and modesty. + +If searching eyes the stone discern, + Quick will the hand of Art remove +Each ruder part, till, brilliant grown, + It seals the fond record of love. + +And here the sweet connexion ends, + + Eliza! ’twixt the gem and thee; +For thou wast polish’d from the first, + By Nature’s hand, more happily! + + + + +THE WATER-NYMPH OF THE ROCK. + +[The French is by Bosquillon, which I translated as under, in a +beautiful Swedish island in the Baltic, as I sat by the side of a fine +clear stream of rock-water.] + +_ORIGINAL_. + +La nymphe qui donne de cette eau +Au plus creux de rocher se cache, +Suivez un example si beau: +Donnez sans vouloir qu’on le sache. + +_TRANSLATION_. + +The nymph, to whom this stream you owe, + Conceals herself in caves of stone: +Like her your benefits bestow; + Give, without wishing to be known. + + + + +LINES + +UPON MADEMOISELLE DELPHINE SAULOT + +_Singing some equisite Airs_ + +IN THE GARDENS OF MOUSSEAU, NEAR PARIS. + +In Mousseau’s sweet Arcadian dale + Fair Delphine pours the plaintive strain; +She charms the list’ning nightingale, + And seems th’ enchantress of the plain. + +Bless’d be those lips, to music dear; + Sweet songstress! never may they move +But with such sounds, to soothe the ear, + And melt the yielding heart to love. + +May sorrow never bid them pour + From the torn heart one suff’ring sigh; +But be thy life a fragrant flow’r, + Blooming beneath a cloudless sky! + + + + +IMPROMPTU TO MADAME C—— + +WRITTEN AT PARIS, + +Upon her appearing equally modestly and elegantly dressed, amidst the +Semi-Nakedness of the Rest of the Female Fashionables. + +Whilst, in a dress that one might swear +The whole was made of woven air, +Pert Fashion spreads her senseless sway +Over the giddy and the gay +(Who think, by showing all their charms, +Lovers will fly into their arms), +In thee shall Wit and Virtue find +A friend more genial to their mind; +And Modesty shall gain in thee +A surer, chaster, victory. + + + + +SONNET + +UPON A SWEDISH COTTAGE, + +_Written on the Road_, + +WITHIN A FEW MILES OF STOCKHOLM. + +Here, far from all the pomp Ambition seeks, + Much sought, but only whilst untasted prais’d, +Content and Innocence, with rosy cheeks, + Enjoy the simple shed their hands have rais’d. + +On a gray rock it stands, whose fretted base + The distant cat’ract’s murm’ring waters lave, +Whilst o’er its mossy roof, with varying grace, + The slender branches of the white birch wave. + +Around the forest-fir is heard to sigh, + On which the pensive ear delights to dwell, +Whilst, as the gazing trav’ller passes by, + The gray goat, starting, sounds his tinkling bell. +Oh! in my native land, ere life’s decline, +May such a spot, so wild, so sweet, be mine! + + + + +LINES + +TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. B—— + +Ah, stranger! if thy pilgrim footsteps love, + By meditation led, to wander here, +A suff’ring husband may thy pity move, + Who weeps the loss of all his soul holds dear! + +Cold as this mourning marble is that heart, + Which Virtue warm’d with pure and gen’rous heat, +Which to each checquer’d scene could joy impart, + Nor ceas’d to love until it ceas’d to beat. + +Yet, gentle spirit! o’er thine early grave + Shall Consolation, like a seraph, prove, +When Sickness clos’d thy faultless life, she gave + Another angel to the realms above! + + + + +STATE TRICKS + +_Or a Peep into the Cabinet of the Premier Consul_, + +AT ST. CLOUD, + +ON THE NIGHT OF THE 26th OCT. 1803. + +—“they show an outward hideousness, +And speak off half a dozen dang’rous words, +How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst; +And this is all.” + +MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, Act V. Scene 4. + +FIRST CONSUL. + +My dear Talleyrand! I am sorry to send +For you out of your bed; but you know you’re my friend: +No secret I hide from your generous breast; +This invasion is always _invading my rest_: +My soldiers, poor devils! are ready to start, +But to stay where I am is the wish of my heart; +And yet I have sworn at their head to appear: +I am puzzl’d to act ’twixt my threats and my fear; +If I go, I am lost!—say, what shall I do? + +TALLEYRAND. + +Why I think I’ve a snug little project in view: +I have felt for you long, and have ransack’d my brain +To relieve you from so much embarrassing pain. +To-morrow our principal tools shall repair +To this spot, to implore you to stay where you are: +Little Jancourt, you know, has a tear at command, +The rest shall have muslin-wrapp’d onions in hand; +An expedient which you, my good Consul, must try, +For a drop never yet wag observ’d in your eye! +And therefore I think ’twould be better for you +The largest to pluck from the beds of St Cloud. +When these fellows appear, they shall fall at your feet, +Portalis shall pen a few words to repeat; +He shall state ’tis the nation’s imperial will +That you do not your _dangerous promise_ fulfil; +But snug in this closet put all into motion, +Nor hazard your life with these sons of the ocean. +_You_ shall say, “I have sworn by my glory to go;” } +_They_ shall all of them blubber out “No, no, no, no!} +It must not, thou world’s second saviour! be so. } +If you go, mighty Chieftain! and should not escape, +All Gallia, the world, will be cover’d with crape[15]! +Oh! stay where you are; on our knees we implore!” +Then, apparently chok’d, they shall utter no more. +When thrice sixty seconds have nearly expir’d +(Now mind, my dear Consul, and do as desir’d), +You must mimic some hero you’ve seen at the play, +Of the tragical cast, when his soul melts away +(And, without any compliment ’twixt you and I, +You re’lly have talents and pow’rs very high, +To make the most striking tragedian alive). +But now to the point. You must tenderly strive +To raise these sweet prostrates; then, heaving a sigh, +And wiping the drops that shall stand in each eye, +Like one sorely cross’d, you shall, weeping, exclaim, +“Oh! why do you tear me from conquest and fame? +But still, if the nation commands me, ’tis fit” +(Your breast thumping hard) “that its Chief should submit.” +Then you see, if the army of England should sail, +And the schemes of this cursed armada should fail, +In the _Moniteur’s_ faithful official page, +I can humbug the people, and soften their rage; +I will tell them, that, had but the nation permitted +Her Chief to have gone, we had ne’er been outwitted; +That merely the terrible glance of his eye +Would have made all those shop-keeping islanders fly; +This will quiet our friends, and, to harass our foes, +A second invasion I’ll slyly propose, +In which, in the van, Buonaparte shall pour +His vengeance divine on that mercantile shore. +Not that I, my dear Premier! conceive ’twould be right +To renew with these cursed tough fellows the fight; +But our people ’twill please, until some new occasion +Shall call from this project the eye of the nation. + +FIRST CONSUL. + +It will do, it will do, my dear Tally! thy brain +Has my terrors remov’d, and “a man I’m again.” +I will rise with the dawn, for this scene to prepare; +Denon, with his crayons, so swift shall be there; +The Parisians the subject with rapture will trace +In my Nosegay[16]; I’ll hang it up full in their face. +I embrace thee, my dear little Tal! with delight; +_Ca ira! Ca ira_! Thy hand, and good night. + +[The First Consul is said to have enjoyed half an hour’s uninterrupted +repose that night. What followed, the next day, all Europe knows, and +all Europe laughs at.] + + [15] Black crape and the bolt of Heaven are the favourite rhetorical + figures of Napoleon the First. + + [16] “Nosegay”—The anti-chamber of the Hall of the Arts in the Louvre, + in which there are many fine paintings, is called, by the Parisians, + Buonaparte’s Nosegay. + + + + +LINES + +TO MISS CHINNERY, OF GILLWELL-HOUSE, + +_Upon her appearing in a Dress_ + +WITH MAY-FLOWERS AND LEAVES TASTEFULLY DISPLAYED. + +Tell me what taught thee to display + A choice so sweet, and yet so rare, +To prize the modest buds of May + Beyond the diamond’s prouder glare? + +Say, was the grateful pref’rence paid + To Nature, since, with skill divine, +So many fairy charms she made, + To grace her fav’rite Caroline? + +Or was it Taste that bade thee try + How soon the richest gem must yield, +In beauty and attractive die, + To this wild blossom of the field? + +Whate’er the cause, in Nature’s glow + Well does the choice thyself pourtray; +Thine innocence the blossoms show, + Thy youth the green leaves well display. + + + + +SONG. + +Ah! if my voice is heard in vain, + This fond, this falling, tear +May yet thy dire intent restrain, + May yet dissolve my fear. + +Th’ unsparing wound that lays thee low + Will bend thy Julia too: +Could she survive the fatal blow + Who only lives in you? + + + + +LINES + +TO MRS. A. CLARKE. + +Within his cold and cheerless cell, +I heard the sighing Censor tell + That ev’ry charm of life was gone, +That ev’ry noble virtue long +Had ceas’d to wake the Minstrel’s song, + And Vice triumphant stood alone. + +“Poor gloomy reas’ner! come with me; +Smooth each dark frown, and thou shall see + Thy tale is but a mournful dream; +I’ll show thee scenes to yield delight, +I’ll show thee forms in Virtue bright, + Illum’d by Heav’n’s unclouded beam. + +“See Clarke, with ev’ry goodness grac’d, +Her mind the seat of Wit and Taste; + Tho’ Wealth invites to Pleasure’s bow’r, +See her the haunts of Woe descend; +Of many a friendless wretch the friend, + Pleas’d she exerts sweet Pity’s pow’r. + +“See her, with parent patriot care, +The infant orphan-mind prepare, + Assur’d, without Instruction’s aid, +The proudest nation soon will show +A wasted form, a hectic glow, + A robb’d, diseas’d, revolting, shade. + +“See her with Prince-like spirit pour +On genuine worth her ample store[17]; + See her, by ev’ry gentle art, +Protect the plant she loves to rear, +And, as she bathes it with a tear, + Grateful it twines around her heart. + +“And there are more, of kindred mind;”— +When, with a face more bland and kind, + The Sage, in soften’d tone, replied: +“’Twas Error made to me the den +More grateful than the haunts of men; + Henceforth mankind shall be my pride.” + + [17] This alludes to a munificent donation of a very handsome fortune, + which this Lady presented, without any claim of consanguinity or + connexion, to a young Lady of great merit. + + + + +LINES + +_To the Tune of “Oh! Lady fair! where art thou going_?” + +Sing, bird of grief! still eve descending, +And soothe a mind with sorrow rending; +Ne’er may I see the blush of morrow, +But close this night the sigh of sorrow; + +Then, if some wand’rer here directed +Shall find my mossy grave neglected, +May he replace the weed that’s growing +With the nearest flow’r that’s blowing! + + + + +IMPROMPTU LINES + +UPON A VERY HANDSOME WOMAN + +_Keeping the Hotel de Lion Blanc, at Dantzig_. + +The sign of the house should be chang’d, I’ll be sworn, + Where enchanted we find so much beauty and grace; +Then quick from the door let the _lion_ be torn, + And an _angel_ expand her white wings in his place. + + + + +LINES + +UPON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL INFANT SLEEPING ON THE BOSOM OF ITS MOTHER. + +Upon its native pillow dear, + The little slumb’rer finds repose; +His fragrant breath eludes the ear— + A zephyr passing o’er a rose. + +Yet soon from that pure spot of rest + + (Love’s little throne!) shalt thou be torn; +Time hovers o’er thy downy nest, + To crown thy baby-brow with thorn. + +Ah! thoughtless! couldst thou now but see + On what a world thou soon must move, +Or taste the cup prepar’d for thee + Of grief, lost hopes, or widow’d love, + +Ne’er from that breast thou’d’st raise thine head, + But thou would’st breathe to Heav’n a pray’r +To let thee, ere thy blossom fade, + In one fond sigh exhale thee there. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN AT FREDENSBORG, + +_The deserted Palace of the late Queen Dowager Juliana Maria_[18]. + + Bless’d are the steps of Virtue’s queen! + Where’er she moves fresh roses bloom; +And, when she droops, kind Nature pours +Her genuine tears in gentle show’rs, + That love to dew the willow green + That over-canopies her tomb. + + But, ah! no willing mourner here + Attends to tell the tale of woe: +Why is yon statue prostrate thrown? +Why has the grass green’d o’er the stone? + Why, ’gainst the spider’d casement drear, + So sullen seems the wind to blow? + + How mournful was the lonely bird, + Within yon dark neglected grove! +Say, was it fancy? From its throat +Issu’d a strange and cheerless note; + ’Twas not so sad as grief I heard, + Nor yet so wildly sweet as love. + + In the deep gloom of yonder dell + Ambition’s blood-stain’d victims sigh’d; +While Time beholds, without a tear, +Fell Desolation hov’ring near, + Whose angry blushes seem to tell. + Here Juliana shudd’ring died! + + [18] This palace, called the Mansion of Peace, is in the road and near + to Elsineur; it was the retreat of the ambitious and remorseless + Juliana Maria, the mother-in-law of Christian VII. whose intrigues and + jealousy sent Brandt and Struensee to the scaffold, and drove the + unhappy Matilda, the mother of the present King of Denmark, from her + throne, and the arms of her royal husband. Juliana died here. The + palace and grounds, parts of which are beautiful, were, when I visited + them in 1804, much neglected. + + + + +SONG + +Upon the Admiration of the Valour and amiable Qualities of Lord Nelson, +expressed by Junot, now Duke of Abrantes, who, by the Chances of War, +was for a short Time the British Hero’s Prisoner. + +A wreath from an immortal bough +Should deck that gen’rous victor’s brow, +Who hears his captive’s grateful praise +Augment the thanks his country pays; +For him the minstrel’s song shall flow, +The canvass breathe, the marble glow. + + + + +LINES + +UPON A LADY DYING + +_Soon after she had been wrecked on the Cornish Coast_, + +LEAVING A LITTLE INFANT BEHIND HER. + +Sweet stranger! tho’ the merc’less storm +Here sternly cast thy fainting form, +What tho’ no kindred hand was near +To wipe away Affliction’s tear, + +Yet shall thy gentle spirit own, +Amidst these sea-girt shores unknown, +That Pity pour’d her balmy store, +And kindred hands could do no more. + +Ne’er shall that pang disturb thy rest, +That moves the parted mother’s breast; +The object of thy dying fear +Shall want no father’s fondness here. + +Oft shall his little lips proclaim, +With April-tears, thy treasur’d name; +His little hands, when summers bloom, +Shall gather flow’rs to deck thy tomb. + + + + +JEU D’ESPRIT + +UPON A VERY PRETTY WOMAN ASKING THE AUTHOR HIS OPINION OF BEAUTY. + +Madam! you ask what marks for beauty pass: +Require them rather from your looking-glass! + + + + +LINES + +TO THE MEMORY OF ERASMUS, +BY OUDAAN, + +Inscribed on the Pedestal of the Statue raised in Honour of the former, +in Rotterdam. + +[_The Original in Dutch_.] + +_ORIGINAL_. + +Hier rees die groote zon, en ging te Bazel onder! + De Rykstad eer’ en vier’ dien Heilig in zyn grav; + Dit tweede leeven geevt, die’t eerste leeven gav: +Maar ’t ligt der taalen, ’t zout der zeden, ’t heerlyk wonder. + +Waar met de Lievde, en Vreede, en Godgeleerdheid praald, +Word met geen grav gëerd nog met zeen beeld betaald: +Dies moet hier’t lugtgewele Erasmus overdekken, +Nadien geen mind’re plaats zyn tempel kan verstrekken! + +_TRANSLATION_. + +Erasmus, here, the eloquent and wise, + That Sun of Learning! rose, and spread his beam +O’er a benighted world, thro’ low’ring skies, + And shed on Basil’s tow’rs his parting gleam. + +There his great relics lie: he bless’d the place: + No proud preserver of his fame shall prove +The Parian pile, tho’ fraught with sculptur’d grace: + Reader! his mausoleum is above. + + + + +THE FOLLOWING TWO SONGS + +Were written during a Period when it was confidently believed that the +French would invade our Country. + +SONG. + +_To the Tune of “Ye Gentlemen of England_.” + +No gentleman of England now sits at home at ease, +But emulates on shore the heroes of the seas; +A common cause unites them, to meet the daring foe, +All they wish, all they ask, is a fav’ring wind to blow. + +Oh! let them come along, and may no tempests low’r, +But fairly may we try our valour and our pow’r, +That Hist’ry may not say, should these robbers be laid low, +To the storm ’tis alone the victory we owe. + +Soon shall these infidels the dreadful diff’rence prove, +’Twixt slaves impell’d by fear, and freemen bound by love; +Our foes shall never rise again, when once they are laid low, +On the sea, on the shore, for justice strikes the blow. + +SONG. + + When storms on the ocean + Create high emotion, + It pleases the wish + Of the monarch of fish, +For he gambols and sports in the motion. + + Should a shoal of small fry + Attempt to draw nigh, + With a flap of his tail, + Th’ imperial whale +Makes them pay for their rashness, and die. + + Oh! thus, on the seas, + Just with the same ease, + Should the enemy come, + In ship, boat, or bomb, +We will knock them about as we please; + + Till at last they shall cry, + “We are the small fry, + And Britannia’s the whale, + By a flap of whose tail, +If we dare to approach her we die.” + + + + +SONNET, + +Occasioned by reading an Inscription on the Tombstone of Captain +Christensen, of Krajore, in Norway, who died in consequence of the Bite +of his Dog, when it was mad. + +Ah! hapless stranger! who, without a tear, + Can this sad record of thy fate survey? +No angry tempest laid thee breathless here, + Nor hostile sword, nor Nature’s mild decay. + +The fond companion of thy pilgrim feet, + Who watch’d thee in thy sleep, who moan’d if miss’d, +And sprung with such delight his Lord to greet, + Imbu’d with death the hand he oft had kiss’d. + +And here, remov’d from Love’s lamenting eye, + Far from thy native cat’racts’ awful sound, +Far from thy dusky forests’ pensive sigh, + Thy poor remains repose on alien ground; +Yet Pity oft shall sit beside thy stone, +And sigh as tho’ she mourn’d a brother gone. + + + + +IMPROMPTU, + +IN REPLY TO A LADY, + +_Who asked the Author what Childhood resembled_. + +How like is childhood to the lucid tide + That calmly wanders thro’ the mossy dell, +Sweeps o’er the lily by the margin’s side, + And, as it kisses, murmurs out, Farewell! + + + + +LINES + +ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY IN GERMANY, + +_Who, until her Sister, honoured the Author by walking with him in the +Evening_. + +Adieu! dear girl! if we are doom’d to part, +Take with thee, take, the blessing of this heart, +Due to thy gentle mind, and cultur’d sense; +Perhaps ’twill please, but, sure, can’t give offence. +Tho’, when we met, the solar ray was gone, +And on our steps the moon-beam only shone, +Yet well I mark’d thy form and native grace, +And all the sweet expression of thy face; +And pleas’d I listen’d as thy accents fell, +Accents that spoke a feeling mind so well +Lo, when the birds repose at ev’ning hour, +The sweetest of them carols from her bow’r! +So, when the dews the garden’s fragrance close, +The night-flow’r[19] blooms, the rival of the rose! + + [19] One of the creeping cereuses, usually known by the name of the + night-flower, is said to be as grand and as beautiful as any in the + vegetable system. It begins to open in the evening, about seven + o’clock; is in perfection about eleven, perfuming the air to a + considerable distance, and fades about four in the morning. + + + + +LINES TO STUDY. + +O Study! while thy lovers raise +Thy name with all the pow’r of praise, +Frown not, thou nymph with piercing mind! +If in this bosom thou should’st find +That all thy deep, thy brilliant, lore, +Which charm’d it once, now charms no more: +Frown not, if, on thy classic line, +One strange, uncall’d-for, tear should shine; +Frown not, if, when a smile should start, +A sigh should heave an aching heart: +If Mem’ry, roving far away, +Should an unmeaning homage pay, +Should ask thee for thy golden fruit, +And, when thou deign’st to hear her suit, +Should turn her from the proffer’d food, +To tread the shades of Solitude: +Frown not, if, in the humble line, +Ungrac’d by any thought of thine, +Should but that gentle name appear, +Fond cause of ev’ry joy and fear; +I love, tho’ rude, I love it more, +Than all thy piles of letter’d lore: +Frown not if ev’ry airy word, +Which Beauty breathes, or Love has heard, +More rich, more eloquently, flow, +To Mem’ry gives a warmer glow, +Than all by thee so much approv’d, +The wit of age on age improv’d. +Go, then! and, since it is denied +That thou shalt be my radiant guide! +Leave me to sigh, to weep, to prove +How little Learning is to Love. + + + + +SONG. + +Wilt thou, because thy Florio loves, + Forsake the giddy glitt’ring throng, +With him to dwell in peaceful groves, + With him to hear the shepherd’s song? + +Can’st thou, without a sigh, resign + The homage by thy charms inspir’d? +To one, oh! say, can’st thou confine + What oft so many have admir’d? + +Sweet maid! oh! bless’d shall be our love, + Till time shall bid it cease to flow; +With thee shall ev’ry moment prove + A little heaven form’d below! + + + + +THE FURY OF DISCORD + +In a chariot of fire, thro Hell’s flaming arch, + The Fury of Discord appear’d; +A myriad of demons attended her march, + And in Gallia her standard she rear’d. + +Thy name, so enchanting, sweet Freedom! she took, + But in vain did she try to assume +Thy smile of content, thy enlivening look, + And thy roseate mountainous bloom. + +For wan was her visage, and phrensied her eye, + At her girdle a poniard she wore; +Her bosom and limbs were expos’d to the sky, + And her robe was besprinkled with gore. + +Nature shudder’d, and sigh’d as the wild rabble past, + Each flow’r droop’d its beautiful head; +The groves became dusky, and moan’d in the blast, + And Virtue and Innocence fled. + +She rose from her car ’midst the yell of her crew; + Emblazon’d, a scroll she unfurl’d, +And on it the dreams of Philosophy drew; + “’Tis the Charter, she cried, of the World.” + +Plunder, keen-ey’d and lean, rang with plaudits the sky, + Murder grinn’d as he whetted his steel; +While Blasphemy swore the Redeemer on high + Was the creature of Folly and Zeal. + +The scaffold grew red with the blood of the brave, + Kings turn’d pale on their thrones at her nod; +While Loyalty fled to the gloom of the cave, + And Piety knelt to her God. + +At length, after changing her chiefs at her will, + As their mischievous zeal grew remiss, +She sought a fresh fav’rite, with dexterous skill, + From Obscurity’s darkest abyss. + +The pow’rs of her monstrous adoption to try, + ’Midst, Syria! thy waterless waste, +She bade him the blast of thy desert outvie, + And defile all thy relics of taste. + +The chieftain obey’d: with a merciful air + He wrung from thy natives a tear; +But the justice and valour of Britain, e’en there, + Shook his legions, recoiling with fear. + +Well-pleas’d with his crimes, the Fury, with flight, + To her empire safe wafted him o’er; +Whilst the spectres of Jaffa, with ghastly delight, + The murd’rer pursued to the shore. + +Arriv’d, for his brow, lo! a turban she made, + Bright with gems pluck’d from Gallia’s crown; +To give him a name, she Rome’s hist’ry survey’d, + In the days of her early renown. + +To embellish his guilt, or to soften its shade, + The Arts mournful captives she kept; +And the plund’rer and plunder of Europe display’d + To the wand’rer, who wonder’d and wept. + +To support this apostate imperial shade, + This impious mock’ry of good, +She rais’d a banditti, to whom she convey’d + His spirit for plunder and blood. + +The chiefs of the earth in a panic beheld + The flash of his sabre afar; +They enter’d, but pensively mov’d from the field, + And bow’d to this idol of war. + +Till, fum’d with the incense of slavish applause, + O’er the globe’s fairest portion he trod; +And, spurning its liberty, spirit, and laws, + Conceiv’d himself rais’d to a god. + +But England disdain’d to the Tyrant to bend; + Still erect, undismay’d, she was found; +Infuriate, he swore that “his bolt should descend,” + And her temples should fall to the ground. + +Yes, here, if his banner is destin’d to wave, + It shall float o’er her temples laid low, +O’er piles of her children, who, loyal and brave, + Such a victory never will know. + +Oh! banish the thought; for, learn ’tis in vain, + Thus, thou maniac Tyrant, to boast; +As soon shall her base be remov’d by the main, + As her empire by thee and thy host. + +The sound is gone forth, ’tis recorded above, + To the mountain it spread from the vale; +“Our God, and our King, and our Country, we love, + And for them we will die or prevail.” + +Then hasten the day, if thy threat be sincere, + Let the winds blow thy myriads along; +Then soon may thy boasted armada appear, + And our rocks catch thy death-breathing song. + +Thy guardian, foul deity! hideous with crime, + Shall view, as she moves to our shore, +The Genius of Britain, mild, brave, and sublime, + And shall boast her achievements no more. + +Oh! direful and strange will the contest appear, + Big with freedom to nations afar; +The good, who confide, and the guilty, who fear, + Shall join in the conflict of war. + +In Heaven, with smiles, shall the happy and blest + Lean over its bright-beaming walls, +To guide and support to the regions of rest + The soul of the patriot who falls. + +Britannia! thy Muse, on a rock high and steep, + The fate of the fight shall proclaim; +The strings of her lyre Inspiration shall sweep, + Recording each hero by name. + +The world to its centre shall shake with delight, + As thus she announces their fall; +“They sink! our invaders submit to our might, + The ocean has buried them all!” + + + + +LINES TO ANNETTE. + +Canst thou, Annette, thy lover see? + His trembling love unfolded hear? + And mark the while th’ impassion’d tear, +Th’ impassion’d tear of agony? + +Adown his anxious features steal, +Nor then one burst of pity feel? +But, as bereav’d of ev’ry sense, +Look on with cold indifference. +Go, then, Annette, in all thy charms, +Go bless some gayer, happier, arms; +Go, rest secure, thy fear give o’er, +These eyes shall follow thee no more; +And never shall these lips impart +One thought of all that rends my heart. + +Yet, since will burst the frequent sigh, + And since the tear will ever fall, +From thee and from the world I’ll fly; + Deserts shall hide, shall silence, all. + + + + +LINES + +SENT WITH SOME INDIAN ROUGE TO MISS W——. + +Go, faithless bloom! on Delia’s cheek + Your boasted captivations try; +Alas! o’er Nature would you seek + To gain one moment’s victory? +Her softer tint, sweet look, and gentle air, +Shall prove you’re but a vain intruder there. + +But go, display your charms and taste; + Soon shall you blush a richer red, +To find your mimic pow’r surpass’d; + And, whilst upon her cheek you spread +Your vermeil hue, tell her ingenuous heart, +’Tis the first time she ever practis’d art. + + + + +MISS W—— RETURNED THE ROUGE + +_With the following elegant Lines_. + +When men exert their utmost pow’rs, +To while away the tedious hours, + With soothing Flatt’ry’s art, +When ev’ry art and work well skill’d, +And ev’ry look with poison fill’d, + Assail a woman’s heart, + +Tho’ ardently she’d wish to be +Proof ’gainst the charms of Flattery, + The task is hard, I ween; +Self-love will whisper “’Tis quite true, +Who can there be more fair than you? + Who more admir’d, when seen?” + +Then take this tempting gift of thine, +Nor e’er again wish me to shine + In any borrow’d bloom: +Nor rouge, nor compliments, can charm; +Full well I know they both will harm; + Truth is my only plume. + + + + +LINES TO A YOUNG LADY, + +OCCASIONED BY HER DECLINING AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE + +_Made her by a very accomplished Friend of the Author_. + +Oh! form’d to prompt the smile or tear, +At once so sweet, yet so severe! +As much for you as him I grieve; +Ah! thoughtless! if you thus can leave +A mind with wit and learning bright, +Where Temper sheds its cloudless light; +Where manly honour, taste refin’d, +With ev’ry virtue, are combin’d; +If you can quit a heart so true, +Which has so often throbb’d for you, +I’ll pity, tho’ I can’t reprove; +And did I, such is Florio’s love, +Eager he’d fly to take thy part, +E’en in a war against his heart. + + + + +THE MUSHROOM. + +Awake, my Muse! awake each slumb’ring string, +And (mighty subject!) of a Mushroom sing, +Fair to the eye, and pleasant to the taste; +Charm’d by the note, a pigmy group, in haste, +Lay down their grainy loads, as slow they move +Thro’ lanes of reed and grass, to them a grove! +As if an Orpheus thou, they gather round, +Erect their tiny ears, and drink the sound. +Gray was the sky, save where the eastern ray +O’er fragrant hills proclaim’d th’ approaching day; +Rurilla, loveliest virgin of the plain, +With spirits light, and mind without a stain, +Rose from her simple bed, refresh’d with rest; +Ah, Sleep! with marble finger had’st thou prest +Her lovely eyelids till a later hour, +And by a blissful vision’s fairy pow’r +Hadst thou impress’d her mind with forms of love, +The walk at eve, the kiss, the murm’ring dove, +The little nymph had never sought the plain, +Nor fill’d with one romantic thought this brain. +In russet gown, with sweet and simple air, +She issued forth, like Hebe, young and fair, +To neighb’ring field, fresh as the rosy dawn; +Nor stile oppos’d her; like a bounding fawn +Graceful she sprang: so prankish was the air, +Had but the love-sick Daphanel been there, +He would have sigh’d: alas! poor love-sick fool! +Thou rather Zephyr dost inflame than cool! +And now, my Muse, the fatal spot disclose, +Where, bath’d with dew, the modest Mushroom rose. +Less fair the swan, by Richmond’s flow’ry side, +That in the river views herself with pride, +As, gazing on her, some their stay prolong, +To see her sail in majesty along. +Ill-fated child of earth! thy charms so fair, +As oft with youthful beauty, prove thy snare: +Now, as with dewy-spangled feet is seen +The lovely maid to trace each ringlet green, +Not distant far thy skin of velvet white +She views, and to thee presses with delight +Oh! might some deity, with potent arm, +Arrest her flight, and alter ev’ry charm; +Like Niobe dissolve into a tear, +Or like the Delian virgin, when with fear +She fled!—See on each beauteous limb appear +Soft leaves and flow’rs, the sweetest of the year; +And, taking root, spread round her fragrant breath +O’er the fair form that now she dooms to death: +But, ah! in vain, the pray’r no goddess hears; } +She bends—she plucks—and, bath’d in purple tears,} +The much-priz’d victim in her lap she bears! } +Tears that, preserv’d in crystal, will prolong, +And paint its worth beyond this simple song. + + + + +LINES + +Written _en badinage_, after visiting a Paper-Mill near +Tunbridge-Wells, in consequence of the lovely Miss W——, who excels in +Drawing, requesting the Author to describe the Process of making Paper, +in Verse. + +Reader! I do not wish to brag; + But, to display Eliza’s skill, +I’d proudly be the vilest rag + That ever went to paper-mill. + +Content in pieces to be cut; + Tho’ sultry were the summer-skies, +Pleas’d between flannel I’d be put, + And after bath’d in jellied size. + +Tho’ to be squeez’d and hang’d I hate, + For thee, sweet girl! upon my word, +When the stout press had forc’d me flat, + I’d be suspended on a cord. + +And then, when dried and fit for use, + Eliza! I would pray to thee, +If with thy pen thou would’st amuse, + That thou would’st deign to write on me. + +Gad’s bud! how pleasant it would prove + Her pretty chit-chat to convey, +P’rhaps be the record of her love, + Told in some coy enchanting way. + +Or, if her pencil she would try, + On me, oh! may she still imprint +Those forms that fix th’ admiring eye, + Each graceful line, each glowing tint! + +Then shall I reason have to brag, + For thus, to high importance grown, +The world will see a simple rag + Become a treasure rarely known. + + + + +LINES + +TO A PROMISING YOUNG ARTIST. + +These bays be thine; and, tho’ not form’d to shine +Clear as thy colour, faultless as thy line, +Yet shall the Muse essay, in humble verse, +Thy merits, lovely Painting! to rehearse. +As when the demon of the winter storm +Robs each sweet flow’ret of its beauteous form, +The Spirit of the stream, in crystal wave, +Sleeps whilst the chilling blasts above him rave, +Till the Sun spreads his animating fires, +And sullen Darkness from the scene retires, +Then mountain-nymphs discard their robes of snow, +And in green mantles smile in roseate glow, +And rivers, loosen’d from their icy chain, +Spread joy and richness thro’ the verdant plain, +Thus, in those climes where skies are ever fair, +Each infant Science breath’d a genial air, +Climes where the Earth her stores to all resign’d, +Nor left one selfish passion to the mind; +On her green lap the swain reclin’d his head, +And found his banquet where he found his bed. +Then Painting grew, and from the shades of flow’rs[20] +There first essay’d her imitative pow’rs, +When, urg’d by plunder, with the torrent’s might, +Nerv’d by the storm, and harden’d in the fight, +A race barbarian left their forests wild, +And sought the spot where Love and Learning smil’d. +By Taste unsoften’d, these relentless droves +Burst, fair Italia! thro’ thy sacred groves, +Laid ev’ry flow’r of Art and Fancy waste, +And pour’d a winter o’er the realms of Taste, +Each Science trembled at the ruffian sound, +Forsook her shades, and fled her classic ground; +The lofty column prostrate in the dust, +Defac’d the arch, o’erthrown the matchless bust; +The shatter’d fresco animates no more, +And ruthless winds thro’ clefted temples roar! +Florence beheld the scene with sad surprise, +And bade the prostrate pile in grandeur rise. +Then, oh! thou truly “Father of the Art[21]!” +’Twas thine superior vigour to impart; +Illustrious Cimabue! it was thine +To soar beyond Example’s bounded line, +And, as the Heav’n-directed sceptre’s shock, +Produc’d full torrents from the flinty rock, +So streams of taste obey’d thy pencil’s call, +And Nature seem’d to start from out the wall. +Hail, beauteous art! oh! that in equal lay +Could but my Muse thy various pow’rs convey! +’Tis thine with silent eloquence to shew +Passion’s strong image, Beauty’s rapt’rous glow, +To soothe the parted lover’s anxious care, +Who owns thee fairest of thy sisters fair; +When waves divide him, still thro’ thee to trace +The dear resemblance of that cherish’d face, +Which he so oft with trembling lips has prest, +So often gaz’d upon, so often blest! +Thine too it is to seek the verdant plains +Where Peace resides, where Rustic Beauty reigns; +Or bid the torrent on thy canvass roar, +Or calmly spread the yellow winding shore; +Or show, from some vast cliff’s extremest verge, +The frail bark combating the angry surge. +Oft too on some lone turret wilt thou stand, +To trace the fury of th’ embattled band, +To darken with the clouds of death the skies, +And bid the scenes of blood and havoc rise! +Such, and far more, thy pow’rs, bless’d art! to thee +Inferior far descriptive Poesy; +And tho’ sweet Music, when she strikes the strings, +When thro’ the grove with seraph-voice she sings, +The soul, enraptur’d with the thrilling stream, +Would hail the Maid of Harmony supreme! +Yet, while her dulcet sounds enchant, they die;} +So shooting stars illume the midnight sky, } +And, as we wonder, vanish from the eye. } +But when resistless Death, in mournful hour, +Withdraws the drooping painter’s mimic pow’r, +Improv’d by time, his works still charm the sight, +And thro’ successive ages yield delight +Greece early bade the painter’s pencil trace +Each form with force; to force she added grace: +For this her Zeuxis she a garland wove, +For[22] that Apelles won her grateful love. +Chiefly she called on Painting’s magic powers +To deck the guardians of her lofty tow’rs; +Here[23] Jove in lightning show’d his awful mien. +There Venus with her doves was smiling seen! +Till ruthless Time, with unabating flight, +O’er Grecian grandeur flung the shades of night +Long did they settle o’er the darken’d world. +Till Raphael’s hand the sable curtain furl’d; +A pious calm, an elevated grace, +Then on the canvass mark’d th’ Apostle’s face; +Devout applauses ev’ry feature drew, +E’en[24] such as graceful Sculpture never knew. +In nearer times, and on a neighb’ring shore, +Painting but feebly shone, obscur’d by pow’r. +See Rubens’ soul indignantly advance, +Press’d by the pride and vanity of France; +Behold,[25] in fulsome allegory spread, +The gaudy iris o’er the victor’s head! +See Genius, deaf to Nature’s nobler call, +Waste all its strength upon the banner’d hall! +E’en now, tho’ Gallia, in her blood-stain’d car, +Spreads over Europe all the woes of war, +Still with consummate craft she tries to prove +How much the peaceful charms engage her love: +Treasures of art in lengthen’d gall’ries glow, +And[26] Europe’s plunder Europe’s plund’rers show! +Yet of her living artists few can claim +Half the mix’d praise that waits on David’s fame. +Thrice happy Britain! in thy favour’d isle +The sister Arts in health and beauty smile! +Tho’ no Imperial Gall’ries grace thy shores, +Tho’ wealth the public bounty seldom pours, +Yet private taste rewards thy painter’s toil, +And bids his genius grace his native soil. +Bless’d country! here thy artists can supply +Abundant charms to fix th’ admiring eye: +In furtive splendour ne’er art thou array’d, +No plunder’d country mourns thy ruthless blade, +Sees its transported treasures torn away, +To grace a fierce ambitious Tyrant’s sway. +Long in this isle, where Freedom finds repose, +Whilst, raving round her, loud the tempest blows, +Oh! long befriended, may the Arts excel, +And bless the sacred spot they love so well! + + [20] “_Then painting grew, and from the shades_,” &c.—The shadows of + plants, and indeed of every object in Nature, must, at a very early + period, have furnished ideas of imitation. + + [21] _“Then, oh! thou_,” &c.—After the ravages of the northern + barbarians, painting was revived in Italy, about the fourteenth + century, by Cimabue, who was hence styled the Father of Painting. + + [22] “_For that Apelles_,” &c.—Painting attained so great a perfection + amongst the Greeks, under Zeuxis, that Apelles found nothing wanting + but grace, which in those times he bestowed upon the art, as Corregio + did after Raphael. + + [23] “_Here Jove in_,” &c.—The Greeks excelled in the delineation of + their deities, to whom they attributed all the human passions: their + Jupiter they elevated to the highest degree of majesty, their Venus to + the utmost pitch of human beauty. + + [24] “_E’en such as graceful Sculpture_,” &c.—From Cimabue to Raphael, + the painters were employed by the church; and they gave a character to + the Prophets, Apostles, and our Saviour, which was never known to the + ancient sculptors. The power which the former possessed of uniting + dignity to humility is without a parallel. + + [25] “_Behold, in fulsome allegory_,” &c.—As long as the French school + adhered to the principles of the Italian school, it produced many + great masters; however, the art certainly degenerated after Raphael, + by being employed in adulatory allegory, in honour of Princes, as is + to be seen in the works of Rubens and Le Brun at Paris, artists of + great talents, which they were led to misapply, through the supreme + vanity of Louis the Fourteenth. + + [26] “_And Europe’s plunder_,” &c.—Those who have visited the Napoleon + Gallery at Paris can attest the truth of this observation, as those + who are acquainted with the modern state of painting in France well + know, and, knowing, cannot but be surprised at, the small number of + French painters of any tolerable celebrity. + +FINIS. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 10367-0.txt or 10367-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/3/6/10367/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Poems</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Sir John Carr</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: December 2, 2003 [eBook #10367]<br /> +[Most recently updated: May 16, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Jonathan Ingram, Josephine Paolucci and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***</div> + +<h1>Poems</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Sir John Carr</h2> + +<p class="letter"> +Non ulla Musis pagina gratior,<br/> +Quam quae severis ludicra jungere<br/> +Novit, fatigatamque nugis<br/> +Utilibus recreare mentem. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +1809.</p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>POEMS.</h2> + +<h3>DEDICATION.</h3> + +<h5>TO<br/> +LADY WARREN,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +&c. &c. &c.</p> + +<p class="letter"> +<i>MADAM</i>, +</p> + +<p>In dedicating the following Poems to your Ladyship, I cannot help +regretting that they are not more worthy of such an honour; that I +might consequently have used it as an humble mode of expressing +my sense of the happy and enlightened hours which I have passed in +your Ladyship’s society, and of the polite attentions which I +have at various times received from you, and the gallant object of +your connubial affection, particularly at the House of British Embassy +at Petersburgh, where you afforded to the Ladies of the North a just +representation of the dignified virtue, cultivated mind, and +attractive beauty, of the higher order of females of your own country.</p> + +<p>I have the honour to remain,</p> + +<p>Madam,</p> + +<p>Your Ladyship’s</p> + +<p>Obedient faithful Servant,</p> + +<h5>JOHN CARR.</h5> + +<p><i>Temple. June</i> 1809</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>PREFACE.</h2> + +<p>This Volume is submitted to the Public with all that diffidence which +ought to attend the publication of Verses, many of which were written +in the gay and happy era of boyhood, and others in subsequent periods +of maturer life, as a relief from more arduous pursuits.</p> + +<p>They lay no pretensions to the depth and solidity of the effusions of +the Muse in her elevated flights; they are the few wild notes of the +simple shepherd, and do not even affect to imitate the rich cadence of +the scientific musician.</p> + +<p>If the Author might, without the imputation of vanity, select for them +a place in the Temple of Poetry, he would endeavour to class them in +that niche which is appropriated for the reception of the light and +playful <i>Vers de Societé</i>.</p> + +<p>Should the Reader find them but little worthy of his approval, he will +not have reason at the same time to condemn their prolixity: their +brevity will, at least in some degree, atone for their want of fire +and fancy.</p> + +<p>It is thought proper to state that some of the following Poems have +appeared before at various times, in a fugitive shape; and that the +Poetry in the Author’s Tours is here collected.</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>POEMS,</h2> + +<p class="center"> +&c. &c.</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>VERSES</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN IN A GROTTO</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>In a Wood on the Side of the River Dart</i>,</p> + +<p class="center"> +IN DEVONSHIRE. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Tell me, thou grotto! o’er whose brow are seen<br/> +Projecting plumes, and shades of deep’ning green,—<br/> +While not a sound disturbs thy stony hall,<br/> +While all thy dewy drops forget to fall,—<br/> +Why canst thou not thy soothing charms impart,<br/> +And shed thy quiet o’er this beating heart?<br/> +Tell me, thou richly-painted river! tell,<br/> +That on thy mirror’d plane dost mimic well<br/> +Each pendent tree and every distant hill,<br/> +Tipp’d with red lustre, beauteous, bright, and still,—<br/> +Can I not, gazing on thy tranquil tide,<br/> +Shed ev’ry grief upon thy rocky side?<br/> +Or must I rove thy margin, calm and clear,<br/> +The only agitated object near?<br/> +Oh! tell me, too, thou babbling cold cascade!<br/> +Whose waters, falling thro’ successive shade,<br/> +Unspangled by the brightness of the sky,<br/> +Awake each echo to a soft reply,—<br/> +Say, canst thou not my bosom-grief befriend,<br/> +And bid one drop upon my heart descend?<br/> +When all thy songsters soothe themselves to sleep.<br/> +Ah! must these aching eyes for ever weep?<br/> +And must their frequent waters, like thine own,<br/> +Drop, idly drop, on unimpressive stone?<br/> +Or, when my beauteous fair shall deign to grace<br/> +The humid foliage of thy mossy base,<br/> +Canst thou not tell how many a rock below<br/> +Impedes to kiss thy waters as they flow?<br/> +In <i>her</i> mind canst thou not the feeling rear<br/> +To stop, or thus caress, each genuine tear?<br/> +Teach her, oh! teach her, then, thou cold cascade!<br/> +Pour all thy lessons for the lovely maid!<br/> +And thou, bless’d grotto! let thy silence prove<br/> +Her mute consenting answer to my love!<br/> +And thou, bright river! as thou roll’st along,<br/> +Bear on thy wand’ring wave a lover’s song!<br/> +Strong as thy current, as thy waters pure,<br/> +Teach her to feel the passion I endure! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO THE MEMORY OF MY DEAR BROTHER,</h2> + +<h5>W.T.P. CARR, ESQ.</h5> + +<p class="letter"> +—manibus date lilia plenis:<br/> +Purpureos spargam flores.</p> + +<p class="letter"><i>Aeneid</i>, lib. vi.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Tho’ no funereal grandeur swell my song,<br/> +Nor genius, eagle-plum’d, the strain prolong,—<br/> +Tho’ Grief and Nature here alone combine<br/> +To weep, my William! o’er a fate like thine,—<br/> +Yet thy fond pray’r, still ling’ring on my ear,<br/> +Shall force its way thro’ many a gushing tear:<br/> +The Muse, that saw thy op’ning beauties spread,<br/> +That lov’d thee living, shall lament thee dead!<br/> +Ye graceful Virtues! while the note I breathe,<br/> +Of sweetest flow’rs entwine a fun’ral wreath,—<br/> +Of virgin flow’rs, and place them round his tomb,<br/> +To bud, like him, and perish in their bloom!<br/> +Ah! when these eyes saw thee serenely wait<br/> +The last long separating stroke of Fate,—<br/> +When round thy bed a kindred weeping train<br/> +Call’d on thy voice to greet them, but in vain,—<br/> +When o’er thy lips we watch’d thy fault’ring breath—<br/> +When louder grief proclaim’d th’approach of death,—<br/> +Thro’ ev’ry vein an icy horror chill’d,<br/> +Colder than marble ev’ry bosom thrill’d.<br/> +Unsettled still, tho’ exercis’d to grieve,<br/> +Scarce would my mind the alter’d sight believe;<br/> +Familiar scenes a transient calm inspire,<br/> +Poor flutt’ring Fancy fann’d the vain desire,<br/> +’Till with sad proof thy wasted relics rise,<br/> +And restless Nature pours uncall’d-for sighs.<br/> +Ah! long, my William! shall thy picture rest,<br/> +Time shall not wear it, imag’d in my breast;<br/> +Yes, thou shall live while fond remembrance lives,<br/> +’Till he who mourns thee asks the line he gives.<br/> +No common joy, no fugitive delight,<br/> +Regret like this could in my breast excite;<br/> +For then my sorrow had been less severe,<br/> +And tears less copious had bedew’d the bier.<br/> +From the same breast our milky food we drew,<br/> +Entwin’d affection strengthen’d as we grew;<br/> +Why further trace? The flatt’ring dream is o’er—<br/> +Thy transient joys and sorrows are no more!<br/> +All, all are fled!—And, ah! where’er I turn,<br/> +Insulting Death directs me to thy urn,<br/> +Throws his cold shadows round me while I sing.<br/> +Damps ev’ry nerve, and slackens ev’ry string.<br/> +So, when the Moon trims up her waning fire,<br/> +Sweep the night-breezes o’er th’Aeolian lyre;<br/> +Ling’ring, perchance, some wild pathetic sound<br/> +Lulls the lorn ear, and dies along the ground.<br/> +Ye kindred train! who, o’er the parting grave,<br/> +Have mourn’d the virtues which ye could not save.<br/> +Ye know how Mem’ry, with excursive pow’r,<br/> +Extracts a sweet from ev’ry faded hour;—<br/> +From scenes long past, regardless of repose,<br/> +She feeds her tears, and treasures up her woes.<br/> +Thou tuneful, mute, companion<a href="#fn1" name="fnref1" id="fnref1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> of my care!<br/> +Where now thy notes, that linger’d in the air?<br/> +That linger still!—Vain thy harmonious store,—<br/> +Thy sweet persuasive triumphs are no more.<br/> +Thy mournful image strikes my wand’ring eye;<br/> +Sad, near thy silent strings, I sit and sigh.<br/> +Cold is that band which Music form’d her own,<br/> +When ev’ry chord resign’d its sweetest tone.<br/> +Ah! long, fair source of rapture, shall thou rest,<br/> +Silent and sad, neglected and unprest,<br/> +’Till years, lov’d shade! superior pow’rs resign,<br/> +Or raise one note more eloquent than thine.<br/> +Tho’ with’ring Sickness mark’d thee in the womb,<br/> +And form’d thy cradle but to form thy tomb,<br/> +Yet, like a flow’r, she bade thee reach thy prime,<br/> +The fairer victim for the stroke of Time.<br/> +When fond Invention vainly sought thine ease,<br/> +The wave salubrious and the morning breeze,—<br/> +When even Sleep, sweet Sleep! refus’d thy call,<br/> +Sleep! that with sweet refreshment smiles on all,—<br/> +When, till the morn, thine eyes, unclos’d and damp,<br/> +Trac’d thy sad semblance in the glimm’ring lamp,—<br/> +When from thy face Health’s latest relic fled,<br/> +Where Hope might flatter, with reluctant tread,—<br/> +Still, darting forward from the weight of woe,<br/> +Thy soul with all its energy would glow;<br/> +Still with the purest passion wouldst thou prove<br/> +The glow of friendship and the warmth of love.<br/> +And ah! to sacred Memory ever nigh,<br/> +Thy wit and humour claim the passing sigh:<br/> +When, thro’ the hour, with unresisted skill,<br/> +I’ve seen thee mould each feature to thy will,—<br/> +When friends drew round thee with attentive ear,<br/> +Pleas’d with the raill’ry which they could not fear.<br/> +Oh! how I’ve heard thee, with concealing art,<br/> +Join in the song, tho’ sorrow rent thy heart;<br/> +How have I seen thee too, with venial guile,<br/> +O’er many an anguish force the faithless smile,—<br/> +Seen suffering Nature check each sigh, each fear,<br/> +To rob maternal fondness of a tear!<br/> +Alas! those scenes are past!—Vain was the pray’r<br/> +That ask’d of Fate to soften and to spare;<br/> +Ah! vain, if wit and virtue could not save<br/> +Thy youthful honours from an early grave.<br/> +But yet, if here my warm fraternal love<br/> +May claim alliance with the realms above;<br/> +If kindred Nature, with perpetual bloom,<br/> +Transplanted springs, and lives beyond the tomb;<br/> +Thy pitying soul shall smile upon my grief,<br/> +Shall feel a pang that wishes not relief;<br/> +In visions still shall shield me as I go,<br/> +Along this gloomy wilderness of woe;<br/> +Shall still regard me with peculiar pride,<br/> +On earth my brother, and in heav’n my guide!<br/> +Methinks I see thee reach th’ empyrean shore,<br/> +And heav’n’s full chorus hails one angel more;<br/> +While ’mid the seraph-forms that round thee fly,<br/> +Thy father meets thee with ecstatic eye!<br/> +He springs exulting from his throne of rest,<br/> +Extends his arms, and clasps thee to his breast! +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn1" id="fn1"></a> <a href="#fnref1">[1]</a> +The piano-forte, on which he excelled. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>PARODY</h2> + +<h5>ON</h5> + +<p class="center"> +“<i>The Golden Days of good Queen Bess</i>.”</p> + +<p>To my Muse give attention, and deem it not a mystery<br/> +If I jumble up together music, poetry, and history,<br/> +To sing of the vices of wicked Queen Bess, sir,<br/> +Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir,<br/> + Detested be the memory of wicked Queen Bess, sir,<br/> + Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir. +</p> + +<p>In saying she would die a maid, she, England! did amuse ye.<br/> +But what she did, and what she died—I hope you will excuse me:<br/> +A gallant Earl a miracle of passion for her fed, sir;<br/> +She kiss’d him, and she clos’d the scene by striking off his head, sir!<br/> + Detested be, &c. +</p> + +<p>Oh! rude ungrateful Scotland! had thy desolated Queen, sir,<br/> +No blue eyes ever known, nor had she beauteous been, sir,<br/> +The envy of our old rival hag she might have baffled, sir,<br/> +Nor with her guiltless blood have crimson’d o’er the scaffold, sir.<br/> + Detested be, &c. +</p> + +<p>She dress’d just like a porcupine, and din’d just like a pig, sir,<br/> +And an over-running butt of sack she swallow’d at a swig, sir!<br/> +Her brawny maids of honour ate and drank confounded hard, sir,<br/> +And droves of oxen daily bled within her palace-yard, sir!<br/> + Detested be, &c. +</p> + +<p>In ruling she was wonderous tyrannical and surly;<br/> +If a patriot only touch’d on the Queen or Master Burleigh,<br/> +She’d send a file of soldiers in less than half an hour, sir,<br/> +Just to bid him make his speeches to the prisons of the Tow’r, sir!<br/> + Detested be, &c. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>REBECCA,</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>A Ballad</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Rebecca was the fairest maid<br/> +That on the Danube’s borders play’d;<br/> +And many a handsome nobleman<br/> +For her in tilt and tourney ran;<br/> +While fair Rebecca wish’d to see<br/> +What youth her husband was to be.<br/> +<br/> +Rebecca heard the gossips say,<br/> +“Alone from dusk till midnight stay<br/> +Within the church-porch drear and dark,<br/> +Upon the vigil of Saint Mark,<br/> +And, lovely maiden! you shall see<br/> +What youth your husband is to be.”<br/> +<br/> +Rebecca, when the night grew dark,<br/> +Upon the vigil of Saint Mark,<br/> +(Observ’d by Paul, a roguish scout,<br/> +Who guess’d the task she went about,)<br/> +Stepp’d to St Stephen’s Church to see<br/> +What youth her husband was to be.<br/> +<br/> +Rebecca heard the screech-owl cry,<br/> +And saw the black bat round her fly;<br/> +She sat, ’till, wild with fear, at last<br/> +Her blood ran cold, her pulse beat fast;<br/> +And yet, rash maid! she stopp’d to see<br/> +What youth her husband was to be.<br/> +<br/> +Rebecca heard the midnight chime<br/> +Ring out the yawning peal of time,<br/> +When shrouded Paul, unlucky knave!<br/> +Rose like a spectre from the grave;<br/> +And cried, “Fair maiden, come with me.<br/> +For I your bridegroom am to be.”<br/> +<br/> +Rebecca turn’d her head aside,<br/> +Sent forth a hideous shriek, and died!<br/> +While Paul confess’d himself, in vain,<br/> +Rebecca never spoke again!<br/> +Ah! little, hapless maid! did she<br/> +Think Death her bridegroom was to be.<br/> +<br/> +Rebecca! may thy story long<br/> +Instruct the giddy and the young.<br/> +Fright not, fond youths! the timid fair;<br/> +And you too, gentle maids! beware;<br/> +Nor seek by lawless arts to see<br/> +What youths your husbands are to be. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO AN AURICULA, BELONGING TO ——.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Thou rear’st thy beauteous head, sweet flow’r<br/> +Gemm’d by the soft and vernal show’r;<br/> + Its drops still round thee shine:<br/> +The florist views thee with delight;<br/> +And, if so precious in <i>his</i> sight,<br/> + Oh! what art thou in <i>mine</i>?<br/> +<br/> +For she, who nurs’d thy drooping form<br/> +When Winter pour’d her snowy storm,<br/> + Has oft consol’d me too;<br/> +For me a fost’ring tear has shed,—<br/> +She has reviv’d my drooping head,<br/> + And bade me bloom anew.<br/> +<br/> +When adverse Fortune bade us part,<br/> +And grief depress’d my aching heart,<br/> + Like yon reviving ray,<br/> +She from behind the cloud would move,<br/> +And with a stolen look of love<br/> + Would melt my cares away.<br/> +<br/> +Sweet flow’r! supremely dear to me,<br/> +Thy lovely mistress blooms in thee,<br/> + For, tho’ the garden’s pride,<br/> +In beauty’s grace and tint array’d,<br/> +Thou seem’st to court the secret shade,<br/> + Thy modest form to hide.<br/> +<br/> +Oh! crown’d with many a roseate year,<br/> +Bless’d may she be who plac’d thee here,<br/> + Until the tear of love<br/> +Shall tremble in the eye to find<br/> +Her spirit, spotless and refin’d,<br/> + Borne to the realms above!<br/> +<br/> +And oft for thee, sweet child of spring!<br/> +The Muse shall touch her tend’rest string;<br/> + And, as thou rear’st thine head,<br/> +She shall invoke the softest air,<br/> +Or ask the chilling storm to spare,<br/> + And bless thy humble bed. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO LADY WARREN,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>On the Departure of Sir John Borlase Warren, K.B</i>.</p> + +<h5>TO TAKE THE COMMAND OF A SQUADRON.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Oh! why does sorrow shade thy face,<br/> +Where mind and beauty vie with grace?<br/> +Say, dost thou for thy hero weep,<br/> +Who gallantly, upon the deep,<br/> +Is gone to tell the madd’ning foe,<br/> +Tho’ vict’ry laid our Nelson low,<br/> +We still have chiefs as greatly brave,<br/> +Proudly triumphant on the wave?<br/> +Dear to thy Country shalt thou be,<br/> +Fair mourner! and her sympathy<br/> +Is thine; for, in the war’s alarms,<br/> +Thou gav’st thine hero from thine arms;<br/> +And only ask’d to sigh alone,<br/> +To look to heav’n, and weep him gone.<br/> +Oh! soon shall all thy sorrow cease,<br/> +And, to thine aching bosom, peace<br/> +Shall quick return;—another tear<br/> +To love and joy, supremely dear,<br/> +Shall give thy gen’rous mind relief—<br/> +That tear shall gem the laurel leaf. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO MISS ——,<br/> +ACCOMPANIED BY A ROSE AND A LILY.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +I look’d the fragrant garden round<br/> + For what I thought would picture best<br/> + Thy beauty and thy modesty;<br/> +A lily and a rose I found,—<br/> + With kisses on their leaves imprest,<br/> + I send the beauteous pair to thee. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>SONG.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Nature’s imperfect child, to whom<br/> +The world is wrapt in viewless gloom,<br/> +Can unresisted still impart<br/> +The fondest wishes of his heart.<br/> +<br/> +And he, to whose impervious ear<br/> + The sweetest sounds no charms dispense,<br/> +Can bid his inmost soul appear<br/> + In clear, tho’ silent, eloquence.<br/> +<br/> +But we, my Julia, not so blest,<br/> + Are doom’d a diff’rent fate to prove,—<br/> +To feel each joy and hope supprest<br/> + That flow from pure, but hidden, love. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>IMPROMPTU LINES,</h2> + +<h5>UPON ANACREON MOORE’S SAYING THAT HE DISLIKED +SINGING TO MEN.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +By Beauty’s caresses, like Cupid, half-spoil’d,<br/> +Thus Music’s and Poesy’s favourite child<br/> +Exclaim’d,—“’Tis, by Heaven! a terrible thing<br/> +Before a <i>he</i>-party to sit and to sing!”<br/> +“By my shoul! Master Moore, you there may be right,”<br/> +Said a son of green Erin; “tho’ dear to my sight<br/> +Are all the sweet cratures, call’d women, I swear,<br/> +Yet I think we can feel just as well as the fair:<br/> +Tho’ you’d bribe us with songs, blood and ’ounds! let me say,<br/> +I’d not be a woman for one in your way.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO JULIA.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Tho’, Julia, we are doom’d to part,<br/> +Tho’ unknown pangs invade this heart,<br/> +For thee the light of love shall burn,<br/> +To thee my soul in secret turn:<br/> +Upon this bosom, swell’d with care,<br/> +The thought of thee shall tremble there<br/> +’Till Time shall close these weeping eyes,<br/> +And close the soothing source of sighs.<br/> +So, in the silence of the night,<br/> +Shines on the wave the lunar light;<br/> +With its soft image, bright, imprest,<br/> +It heaves, and seems to know no rest:<br/> +Its agitation soon is o’er;<br/> +It sighs, and dies along the shore! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>To the Memory of Mrs. A.H. Holdsworth</i>,</p> + +<h5>LATE OF MOUNT GALPIN, DEVONSHIRE.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Tyrant of all our loves and friendships here,<br/> + Behold thy beauteous victim!—Ah! tis thine<br/> +To rend fond hearts, and start the tend’rest tear<br/> + Where joy should long in cloudless radiance shine.<br/> +<br/> +Alas! the mourning Muse in vain would paint,<br/> + Blest shade! how purely pass’d thy life away,<br/> +Or, with the meekness of a favour’d saint,<br/> + How rose thy spirit to the realms of day.<br/> +<br/> +’Twas thine to fill each part that gladdens life,<br/> + Such as approving angels smile upon;—<br/> +The faultless daughter, parent, friend, and wife,—<br/> + Virtues short-lived! they set just as they shone.<br/> +<br/> +Thus, in the bosom of some winding grove,<br/> + Where oft the pensive melodist retires,<br/> +From his sweet instrument, the note of love,<br/> + Charms the rapt ear, but, as it charms, expires.<br/> +<br/> +Farewell, pure spirit! o’er thine early grave<br/> + Oblivion ne’er shall spread her freezing shade;<br/> +Nature shall bid her richest foliage wave<br/> + Where her reposing fav’rite child is laid.<br/> +<br/> +There widow’d fondness oft, when summers bloom.<br/> + Shall with thy infant pledge of love repair;<br/> +Oft shall they kneel beside thy mossy tomb,<br/> + And tears shall dew the flow’rs that blossom there. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Written upon a Watch-String</i>,</p> + +<h5>MADE AND PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ——.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Say, lovely Charlotte! will you let me prove<br/> +What diff’rent thoughts thy taste and beauty move?<br/> +This woven chain, which graceful skill displays,<br/> + Leads me to think of time, and heave a sigh;<br/> +But when on thee and on thy charms I gaze,<br/> + Time unremember’d moves, or seems to die. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Upon a Diamond Cross</i>,</p> + +<h5>WORN ON HER BOSOM BY MISS C.M.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Well on that neck, sweet Kitty! may you wear<br/> + The sparkling cross, with hopes to soften Heaven;<br/> +For trust me, tho’ so very young and fair,<br/> + Thou hast some little sins to be forgiven:—<br/> +For all the hopes which wit and grace can spread,<br/> + For all the sighs which countless charms can move,<br/> +Fall, lovely Kitty! on thy youthful head;<br/> + Yet fall they gently—for the crime is love. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO FORTUNE,</h2> + +<p class="letter"> +Occasioned by a very amiable and generous Friend of mine +munificently presenting Miss E.S. with a Donation of +Fifteen Thousand Pounds. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Oh, Fortune! I have seen thee shed<br/> + A plenteous show’r of treasure down<br/> +On many a weak and worthless head,<br/> + On those who but deserv’d thy frown.<br/> +<br/> +And I have heard, in lonely shade,<br/> + Her sorrows hapless Merit pour;<br/> +And thou hast pass’d the drooping maid,<br/> + To give some pamper’d fav’rite more.<br/> +<br/> +But tho’ so cold, or strangely wild,<br/> + It seems that worth can sometimes move;<br/> +Thou hast on gentle Emma smil’d,<br/> + And thou hast smil’d where all approve:—<br/> +<br/> +For Nature form’d her gen’rous heart<br/> + With ev’ry virtue, pure, refin’d;<br/> +And wit and taste, and grace and art,<br/> + United to illume her mind.<br/> +<br/> +So dew-drops fall on some rare flow’r,<br/> + That merits all their fost’ring care,<br/> +As tho’ they knew that, by their pow’r,<br/> + Grateful ’twould wider scent the air. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>A SONG.</h2> + +<h5>THE LOVER<br/> +THE LUTE OF HIS DECEASED MISTRESS.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Alas! but like a summer’s dream<br/> + All the delight I felt appears,<br/> +While mis’ry’s weeping moments seem<br/> + A ling’ring age of tears.<br/> +<br/> +Then breathe my sorrows, plaintive lute!<br/> + And pour thy soft consoling tone,<br/> +While I, a list’ning mourner mute,<br/> + Will call each tender grief my own. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN IN A COTTAGE BY THE SEA-SIDE</h5> + +<p class="center"> +(<i>In which the Author had taken Shelter during a violent Storm</i>), +</p> + +<h5>UPON SEEING AN IDIOTIC YOUTH SEATED IN THE CHIMNEY-CORNER, CARESSING A +BROOM.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +’Twas on a night of wildest storms,<br/> + When loudly roar’d the raving main,—<br/> +When dark clouds shew’d their shapeless forms,<br/> + And hail beat hard the cottage pane,—<br/> +<br/> +Tom Fool sat by the chimney-side,<br/> + With open mouth and staring eyes;<br/> +A batter’d broom was all his pride,—<br/> + It was his wife, his child, his prize!<br/> +<br/> +Alike to him if tempests howl,<br/> + Or summer beam its sweetest day;<br/> +For still is pleas’d the silly soul,<br/> + And still he laughs the hours away.<br/> +<br/> +Alas! I could not stop the sigh,<br/> + To see him thus so wildly stare,—<br/> +To mark, in ruins, Reason lie,<br/> + Callous alike to joy and care.<br/> +<br/> +God bless thee, thoughtless soul! I cried;<br/> + Yet are thy wants but very few:<br/> +The world’s hard scenes thou ne’er hast tried;<br/> + Its cares and crimes to thee are new.<br/> +<br/> +The hoary hag<a href="#fn2" name="fnref2" id="fnref2"><sup>[2]</sup></a>, who cross’d thee so,<br/> + Did not unkindly vex thy brain;<br/> +Indeed she could not be thy foe,<br/> + To snatch thee thus from grief and pain.<br/> +<br/> +Deceit shall never wring thy heart,<br/> + And baffled hope awake no sighs;<br/> +And true love, harshly forc’d to part,<br/> + Shall never swell with tears thine eyes.<br/> +<br/> +Then long enjoy thy batter’d broom,<br/> + Poor merry fool! and laugh away<br/> +’Till Fate shall bid thy reason bloom<br/> + In blissful scenes of brighter day. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn2" id="fn2"></a> <a href="#fnref2">[2]</a> +It is generally believed by the peasants of Devonshire +that idiotcy is produced by the influence of a witch. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>To a Laurel-Leaf</i>,</p> + +<h5>SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ——.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Tho’ unknown is the hand that bestow’d thee on me,<br/> + Sweet leaf! ev’ry fibre I’ll warm with a kiss:<br/> +With the fame of her beauty thou well dost agree,<br/> + Whose presence shews conquest, whose triumph is bliss! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF LIEUTENANT J——,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Who was killed by a Pistol-Shot</i>,</p> + +<h5>ACCIDENTALLY DISCHARGED BY HIS FRIEND,<br/> +CAPTAIN B——.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +With horror dumb, tho’ guiltless, stood<br/> + Beside his dying friend,<br/> +The hapless wretch who made the blood<br/> + Sad from his side descend!<br/> +<br/> +“Give me thy hand; lov’d friend, adieu!”<br/> + The gen’rous suff’rer cried!<br/> +“I do forgive and bless thee too;”<br/> + And, having said it, died!<br/> +<br/> +And Pity, who stood trembling near<br/> + Knew not for which to shed,<br/> +So claim’d by both, her saddest tear—<br/> + The living or the dead! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO AN ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +Whose Timidity frequently agitated her, when pressed to gratify her<br/> +Friends by her Musical Talents. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +’Tis said (and I believe it too)<br/> + That genuine merit seeks the shade;<br/> +Blushing to think what is her due,<br/> + As of her own sweet pow’rs afraid:—<br/> +<br/> +Thus, lovely maid! on fluttering wings,<br/> + Thy pow’rs a thousand fears pursue,<br/> +Which, like thy own harmonious strings,<br/> + When press’d <i>enchant</i>, and <i>tremble</i> too!<br/> +<br/> +The pity, which we give, you owe,<br/> + For mutual fears on both attend;<br/> +While anxious thus you joy bestow,<br/> + We fear too soon that joy will end! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO MISS L—— D——.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +When Heav’n, sweet Laura! form’d thy mind,<br/> +With genius and with taste refin’d,<br/> + As if the union were too bright,<br/> +It spread the veil of diffidence,<br/> +That ev’ry ray, at first intense,<br/> + Might shine as soft as lunar light.<br/> +<br/> +To frame a form then Nature strove,<br/> +And call’d on Beauty and on Love,<br/> + To lodge the mind they priz’d so well:<br/> +Completed was the fair design;<br/> +Thus blended dew-drops mildly shine<br/> + Within the lily’s spotless bell! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES<a href="#fn3" name="fnref3" id="fnref3"><sup>[3]</sup></a></h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Written in a beautiful Spot</i>,</p> + +<h5>THE FAVOURITE RETREAT OF DELIA.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Streams ever limpid, fresh, and clear,<br/> +Where Delia’s charms renew’d appear,<br/> +Ye flow’rs that touch’d her snowy breast,<br/> +Ye trees whereon she lov’d to rest,<br/> +Ye scenes adorn’d where’er she flies,<br/> +If grief shall close these woe-worn eyes,<br/> +May some kind form, with hand benign,<br/> +My body with this earth enshrine,<br/> +That, when the fairest nymph shall deign<br/> +To visit this delightful plain,<br/> +That, when she views my silent shade,<br/> +And marks the change her love has made,<br/> +The tear may tremble down her face,<br/> +As show’rs the lily’s leaves embrace;<br/> +Then, like the infant at the breast,<br/> +That feels a sorrow unexprest,<br/> +That pang shall gentle Delia know,<br/> +And silent treasure up her woe. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn3" id="fn3"></a> <a href="#fnref3">[3]</a> +I am indebted to Petrarch for some of the imagery +contained in these Lines.</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>VALENTINE VERSES,</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Sent to my young Friend, Miss Emma Trevelyan</i>,</p> + +<h5>OF WALLINGTON-HOUSE, NORTHUMBERLAND.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Emma! ’tis early time for thee<br/> +To hear the sounds of minstrelsy,<br/> +That breathe around the rosy shrine<br/> +Of honest old Saint Valentine.<br/> +<br/> +Too young art thou for strains of love;<br/> +’Tis not thy passion I would move;<br/> +Instead of lover’s strains, I send<br/> +The cordial wishes of a friend.<br/> +<br/> +Nobly has Nature done her duty,<br/> +To give thee of thy mother’s beauty<br/> +So large a share—oh! then be thine<br/> +The mental charms that in her shine!<br/> +<br/> +And may thy father’s taste refin’d<br/> +Still add new graces to thy mind;<br/> +And may’st thou to each charm impart<br/> +The gen’rous frankness of his heart.<br/> +<br/> +Then, my sweet Emma! thou shall move<br/> +In many a heart more genuine love<br/> +Than ever warm’d poetic line,<br/> +Or sigh’d in any Valentine. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN UPON SEEING A BLIND YOUNG WOMAN IN NORTH WALES,</h5> + +<p class="letter"> +Who supports herself, and an aged and infirm Mother, by selling Stockings and +Gloves of her own Knitting, which she offers to Travellers as they pass by; in +doing which she has been known to run close by the Side of a Carriage for +several Miles. +</p> + +<h5>POOR BLIND BET.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +The morning purple on the hill,<br/> + The village spire, the ivy’d tow’r,<br/> +The sparkling wheel of yonder mill,<br/> + The grove, green field, and op’ning flow’r,<br/> + Are lost to thee!<br/> +<br/> +Dark child of Nature, as thou art!<br/> + Yet thy poor bosom heaves no sigh;<br/> +E’en now thy dimpling cheeks impart<br/> + Their knowledge of some pleasure nigh:—<br/> + ’Tis good for thee!<br/> +<br/> +Thou seem’st to say “I’ve sunshine too;<br/> + ’Tis beaming in a spotless breast;<br/> +No shade of guilt obstructs the view,<br/> + And there are many not so blest,<br/> + Who day’s blush see.<br/> +<br/> +“Dear are those eyes, by mine ne’er seen,<br/> + Which I protect from many a tear;<br/> +Kind stranger! ’tis on yonder green<br/> + A mother’s aged form I rear:<br/> + Oh! buy of me!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>UPON SEEING ——</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>At one of the annual Banquets given in Guildhall</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Gorgeous and splendid was the sight;<br/> +From myriad lamps a fairy light<br/> +Enshrin’d in wreaths the Gothic wall,<br/> +And heav’nly music fill’d the hall!<br/> +<br/> +But there was one—(alas! that I<br/> +Had ever seen)—the melody<br/> +Her voice surpassed, and brighter far<br/> +Her eyes than ev’ry mimic star!<br/> +<br/> +I gaz’d, until, oh! thought divine!<br/> +I fancied she I saw was mine;<br/> +But soon the beauteous vision flew—<br/> +The stranger-form I lov’d withdrew.<br/> +<br/> +Yet still she lives within my breast,<br/> +There mem’ry has her form imprest:—<br/> +Thus, when some minstrel’s strain is done,<br/> +Sounds seem to breathe, for ever gone! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>YARRIMORE.</h2> + +<p class="center"> +[These Lines were written for a Lady who set them to Music.]</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +My poor heart flutters like the sea<br/> + Now heaving on the sandy shore;<br/> +It seems to tell me you shall be<br/> + Never again near Yarrimore.<br/> +<br/> +Far, far beyond the waves, I bend<br/> + Mine eyes, if I can land explore;<br/> +But o’er the waves I find no end,—<br/> + Yet there they say’s my Yarrimore.<br/> +<br/> +The hut he built is standing still,<br/> + Deck’d with the shells he cull’d from shore;<br/> +Our bow’r is waving on the hill,<br/> + But where, alas! is Yarrimore?<br/> +<br/> +Within that bow’r I’ll sit and sigh,<br/> + From dawn of day till day is o’er;<br/> +And, as the wild winds o’er me fly,<br/> + I’ll call on gentle Yarrimore! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO MISS ——,</h2> + +<p class="center"> +Upon her appearing at a Ball in an elegant Plaid Dress,</p> + +<h5>AND HAVING REPEATEDLY BEFORE EXPRESSED HER PREFERENCE +OF THE SCOTISH NATION.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Is it that plaided thus you wish to prove<br/> +How northern is the region of your love?<br/> +Ah, Mary! tho’, within that far-fam’d clime,<br/> +Deeds have been done that mock the wreck of Time;<br/> +Tho’ there the brave have bled, or, o’er the wave,<br/> +On distant shores have found a glorious grave;<br/> +Tho’ there the mountain-nymph of song has pour’d<br/> +Her loftiest strain, to bless the hero’s sword;<br/> +Still, lovely wand’rer, with a jealous eye,<br/> +O’er Scotia’s hills we see thy fancy fly;<br/> +For <i>here</i> the warrior oft has rais’d his sword,<br/> +The patriot too his noble blood has pour’d;<br/> +<i>Here</i> too the sweet Recorder of the brave<br/> +Has sat and sung upon her hero’s grave.<br/> +Then cease, romantic maid! ah, cease to rove;<br/> +The very wood-dove loves its native grove:<br/> +Oh! then, let Nature bid thy guileless heart<br/> +Here shed its love, and all its warmth impart;<br/> +And on the land that gave thee birth bestow<br/> +The fondness which it claims, and treasures too. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>A SONG.</h2> + +<h5>TO THE MOON.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Thou, lamp! the gods benignly gave,<br/> + To light a lover on his way;<br/> +Thou, Moon! along the silv’ry wave,<br/> + Ah! safe this flutt’ring heart convey:—<br/> +<br/> +Sweet is thy light, and sweet thy shade,<br/> + The <i>guide</i> and <i>guardian</i> of our bliss,<br/> +A lover’s panting lips to lead,<br/> + Or veil him in the ravish’d kiss.<br/> +<br/>Her white robe floats upon the air;<br/> + + My Lyra hears the dashing oar:<br/> +Ye floods, oh! speed me to my fair!<br/> + My soul is with her long before.<br/> +<br/> +Oh! lightly haste, thy lover view,<br/> + And ev’ry anxious fear resign;<br/> +Ye tow’rs, no longer fear’d, adieu!<br/> + The treasure which ye held is mine! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Upon the Death of the Lady of Lieutenant-Colonel Adams</i>,</p> + +<h5>WHO LATELY DIED OF A DECLINE IN THE EAST INDIES.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +When Time a mellowing tint has thrown<br/> + O’er many a scene to mem’ry dear.<br/> +It scatters round a charm, unknown<br/> + When first th’ impression rested there.<br/> +<br/> +But, oh! should distance intervene,<br/> + Should Ocean’s wave, should changeful clime,<br/> +Divide—how sweeter far the scene!<br/> + How richer ev’ry tint of time!<br/> +<br/> +E’en thus with those (a treasur’d few)<br/> + Who gladden’d life with many a smile,<br/> +Tho’ long has pass’d the sad adieu,<br/> + In thought we love to dwell awhile.<br/> +<br/> +Then with keen eye, and beating heart,<br/> + The anxious mind still seeks relief<br/> +From those who can the tale impart,<br/> + How pass their day, in joy or grief.<br/> +<br/> +If haply health and fortune bless,<br/> + We feel as if on us they shone;<br/> +If sickness and if sorrow press,<br/> + Then feeling makes their woes our own.<br/> +<br/> +’Twas thus of Mira oft I thought,<br/> + Oft dwelt upon the scenes she grac’d:<br/> +Her form in beauty’s mould was wrought,<br/> + Her mind the seat of sense and taste.<br/> +<br/> +Long, hov’ring o’er her fleeting breath,<br/> + Love kept his watch in silent gloom;<br/> +He saw her meekly yield to Death,<br/> + And knelt a mourner at her tomb.<br/> +<br/> +When the night-breeze shall softly blow,<br/> + When the bright moon upon the flood<br/> +Shall spread her beams (a silv’ry show),<br/> + And dark be many a waving wood,—<br/> +<br/> +When, dimly<a href="#fn4" name="fnref4" id="fnref4"><sup>[4]</sup></a> seen, in robes of white,<br/> + A mournful train along the grove<br/> +Shall bear the lamp of sacred light,<br/> + To deck the turf of those they love,—<br/> +<br/> +Then shall the wood-dove quit its bow’r,<br/> + And seek the spot were she is laid;<br/> +Its wild and mournful notes shall pour<br/> + A requiem to her hallow’d shade.<br/> +<br/> +And Friendship oft shall raise the veil<br/> + Time shall have drawn o’er pleasures past,<br/> +And Fancy shall repeat the tale<br/> + Of happy hours, too sweet to last!<br/> +<br/> +But when she mourns o’er Mira’s bier,<br/> + And when the fond illusion ends,<br/> +Oh! then shall fall the genuine tear<br/> + That drops for dear departed friends! +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn4" id="fn4"></a> <a href="#fnref4">[4]</a> +Mr. Hodges, in his Travels in India, page 28, mentions, +that between Banglepoor and Mobgheir, it is the custom of the women of +the family to attend the tombs of their friends after sun-set; and +observes, “it is both affecting and curious to see them proceeding in +groups, carrying lamps in their hands, which they place at the head of +the tomb.”</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO MISS C.</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>On her leaving the Country</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Since Friendship soon must bid a fond adieu,<br/> +And, parting, wish your charms she never knew,<br/> +Dear Laura hear one genuine thought express’d,<br/> +Warm from the heart, and to the heart address’d:—<br/> +Much do I wish you all your soul holds dear,<br/> +To sooth and sweeten ev’ry trouble here;<br/> +But heav’n has yielded such an ample store,<br/> +You cannot ask, nor can I wish you, more;<br/> +Bless’d with a sister’s love, whose gentle mind,<br/> +Still pure tho’ polish’d, virtuous and refin’d,<br/> +Will aid your tend’rer years and innocence<br/> +Beneath the shelter of her riper sense.<br/> +Charm’d with the bright example may you move,<br/> +And, loving, richly copy what you love.<br/> +Adieu! and blame not if an artless pray’r<br/> +Should, self-directed, ask one moment’s care:—<br/> +When years and absence shall their shade extend,<br/> +Reflect who sighs adieu, and call him—friend. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO A ROBIN.</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Written during a severe Winter</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Why, trembling, silent, wand’rer! why,<br/> +From me and Pity do you fly?<br/> +Your little heart against your plumes<br/> +Beats hard—ah! dreary are these glooms!<br/> +Famine has chok’d the note of joy<br/> +That charm’d the roving shepherd-boy.<br/> +Why, wand’rer, do you look so shy?<br/> +And why, when I approach you, fly?<br/> +The crumbs which at your feet I strew<br/> +Are only meant to nourish you;<br/> +They are not thrown with base decoy,<br/> +To rob you of one hour of joy.<br/> +Come, follow to my silent mill,<br/> +That stands beneath yon snow-clad hill;<br/> +There will I house your trembling form,<br/> +There shall your shiv’ring breast be warm:<br/> +And, when your little heart grows strong,<br/> +I’ll ask you for your simple song;<br/> +And, when you will not tarry more,<br/> +Open shall be my wicket-door;<br/> +And freely, when you chirp “adieu,”<br/> +I’ll wish you well, sweet warbler! too;<br/> +I’ll wish you many a summer-hour<br/> +On top of tree, or abbey-tow’r.<br/> +When Spring her wasted form retrieves,<br/> +And gives your little roof its leaves,<br/> +May you (a happy lover) find<br/> +A kindred partner to your mind:<br/> +And when, amid the tangled spray,<br/> +The sun shall shoot a parting ray,<br/> +May all within your mossy nest<br/> +Be safe, be merry, and be blest. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO DELIA,</h2> + +<h5>ON HER WEARING A MUSLIN VEIL.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Say, Delia, why, in muslin shade,<br/> + Ah! say, dost thou conceal those eyes?<br/> +Such little stars were never made,<br/> + I’m sure, to shine thro’ misty skies.<br/> +<br/> +Say, are they wrapt in so much shade,<br/> + That they may more successful rise,<br/> +Starting from such soft ambuscade,<br/> + To catch and kill us by surprise?<br/> +<br/> +Or, of their various pow’rs afraid,<br/> + Is it in mercy to our sighs,<br/> +Lest love, o’er many a heart betray’d,<br/> + Should sob “a faithful vot’ry dies”?<br/> +<br/> +Then, oh! remove the envious shade;<br/> + Let others wear, who want, disguise:<br/> +We all had sooner die, sweet maid,<br/> + To see, than live without, those eyes. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>VERSES</h2> + +<h5>TO THE TOMB OF A FRIEND.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Dearer to me, thou pile of dust!<br/> + Tho’ with the wild flow’r simply crown’d,<br/> +Than the vast dome or beauteous bust,<br/> + By genius form’d, by wit renown’d.<br/> +<br/> +Wave, thou wild flow’r! for ever wave,<br/> + O’er my lov’d relic of delight;<br/> +My tears shall bathe her green-rob’d grave<br/> + More than the dews of heav’n by night.<br/> +<br/> +Methinks my Delia bids me go,<br/> + Says, “Florio, dry that fruitless tear!<br/> +Feed not a wild flow’r with thy woe,<br/> + Thy long-lov’d Delia is not here.<br/> +<br/> +“No drop of feeling from her eye<br/> + Now starts to hear thy sorrows speak;<br/> +And, did thy bosom know one joy,<br/> + No smile would bloom upon her cheek.<br/> +<br/> +“Pale, wan, and torpid, droops that cheek,<br/> + Whereon thy lip impress’d its red;<br/> +Those eyes, which Florio taught to speak,<br/> + Unnotic’d close amid the dead!”<br/> +<br/> +True, true, too idly mourns this heart;<br/> + Why, Mem’ry, dost thou paint the past?<br/> +Why say you saw my Delia part,<br/> + Still press’d, still lov’d her, to the last?<br/> +<br/> +Then, thou wild flow’r, for ever wave!<br/> + To thee this parting tear is given;<br/> +The sigh I offer at her grave<br/> + Shall reach my sainted love in heaven! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>TIME AND THE LOVER.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Oh, Time! thy merits who can know?<br/> + Thy real nature who discover?<br/> +The absent lover calls thee slow,—<br/> + “Too rapid,” says the happy lover.<br/> +<br/> +With bloom thy cheeks are now refin’d,<br/> + Now to thine eye the tear is given;<br/> +At once too cruel and too kind,—<br/> + A little hell, a little heaven.<br/> +<br/> +Go then, thou charming myst’ry, go!—<br/> + Yes, tho’ thou often dost amuse me,<br/> +Tho’ many a joy to thee I owe,<br/> + At once I thank thee and abuse thee. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>A ROUNDELAY.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Wide thro’ the azure blue and bright<br/> +Serenely floats the lamp of night;<br/> +The sleeping waves forget to move,<br/> +And silent is the cedar grove;<br/> +Each breeze suspended seems to say—<br/> +“Now, Leline, for thy Roundelay!”<br/> +<br/> +My Delia’s lids are clos’d in rest;<br/> +Ah! were her pillow but my breast!<br/> +Go, dreams! one gentle word impart,<br/> +In whispers place me by her heart;<br/> +While near her door I’ll fondly stray,<br/> +And sooth her with my Roundelay.<br/> +<br/> +But, ah! the Night draws in her shade,<br/> +And glimm’ring stars reluctant fade:<br/> +Yet sleep, my love! nor may’st thou feel<br/> +The pangs which griefs like mine reveal:<br/> +Adieu! for Morning’s on his way,<br/> +And bids me close my Roundelay. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>FAREWELL LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO<br/> +<i>BRISTOL HOT WELLS</i>.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Bristol! in vain thy rocks attempt the sky,<br/> + The wild woods waving on their giddy brow;<br/> +And vainly, devious Avon! vainly sigh<br/> + Thy waters, winding thro’ the vales below;—<br/> +<br/> +In vain, upon thy glassy bosom borne,<br/> + Th’ expected vessel proudly glides along,<br/> +While, ’mid thy echoes, at the break of morn<br/> + Is heard the homeward ship-boy’s happy song;—<br/> +<br/> +For, ah! amid thy sweet romantic shade,<br/> + By Friendship led, fair drooping Beauty moves;<br/> +Thy hallow’d cup of health affords no aid,<br/> + Nor charm thy birds, that chant their woodland loves.<br/> +<br/> +Each morn I view her thro’ thy wave-girt grove,<br/> + Her white robe flutt’ring round her sinking form;<br/> +O’er the sweet ruin shine those eyes of love,<br/> + As bright stars beaming thro’ a midnight storm.<br/> +<br/> +Here sorrowing Love seeks a sequester’d bow’r.<br/> + Calls on thy spring to calm his troubled breast;<br/> +Bright Hope alights not on his pensive hour,<br/> + Nor can thy favour’d fountains yield him rest.<br/> +<br/> +Despair across his joys now intervenes,<br/> + And sternly bids the little cherub fly;<br/> +While his eyes close amid thy beauteous scenes.<br/> + His last sighs bless the form that bids him die.<br/> +<br/> +Farewell, then, Bristol! thou canst yield no joy,<br/> + Thy woods look darken’d with funereal gloom,<br/> +Sickness and Sorrow on thy green banks sigh,<br/> + And all thy form is but a beauteous tomb.<br/> +<br/> +Ah! may each future suff’rer, hov’ring near,<br/> + Rais’d by thy genial wave, delighted view<br/> +Returning joy and health, supremely dear,<br/> + Long lost to him who sadly sighs adieu! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>A SONG.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +These shades were made for Love alone,—<br/> + Here only smiles and kisses sweet<br/> +Shall play around his flow’ry throne,<br/> + And doves shall sentinel the seat.<br/> +<br/> +Come, Delia! ’tis a genial day;<br/> + It bids us to his bow’r repair:—<br/> +“But what will little Cupid say?”—<br/> + “Say! sweet?—why, give a welcome there.”<br/> +<br/> +There not a tell-tale beam shall peep<br/> + Upon thy beauty’s rich display,—<br/> +There not a breeze shall dare to sweep<br/> + The leaves, to whisper what we say. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>ON LADY W—— APPEARING AT THE EXHIBITION.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +When lovely Delphine sought the crowded scene,<br/> + The painter’s mimic pow’r no longer mov’d;<br/> +All turn’d to gaze upon her beauteous mien,<br/> + None envied her, for, as they look’d, they lov’d.<br/> +<br/> +Amid the proud display of forms so fair,<br/> + Of each fine tint the pencil can impart,<br/> +Nature with rapture seem’d to lead her there,<br/> + To prove how she could triumph over Art. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN AT BRIGHTON.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +From Mirth’s bright circle, from the giddy throng,<br/> + How sweet it is to steal away at eve,<br/> +To listen to the homeward fisher’s song,<br/> + Whilst dark the waters of the ocean heave;—<br/> +<br/> +And on the sloping beach to hear the spray<br/> + Dash ’gainst some hoary vessel’s broken side;<br/> +Whilst, far illumin’d by the parting ray,<br/> + The distant sail is faintly seen to glide.<br/> +<br/> +Yes, ’tis Reflection’s chosen hour; for then,<br/> + With pensive pleasure mingling o’er the scene,<br/> +Th’ erratic mind treads over life again,<br/> + And gazes on the past with eye serene.<br/> +<br/> +Those stormy passions which bedimm’d the soul,<br/> + That oft have bid the joys it treasur’d fly,<br/> +Now, like th’ unruffled waves of Ocean, roll<br/> + With gentle lapse—their only sound a sigh.<br/> +<br/> +The galling wrong no longer knits the brow,<br/> + Ambition feels the folly of her aim;<br/> +And Pity, from the heart expanding, now<br/> + Pants to extend relief to ev’ry claim.<br/> +<br/> +Thus, as I sit beside the murm’ring sea,<br/> + And o’er its darkness trace light’s parting streak,<br/> +I feel, O Nature! that serenity<br/> + Which vainly poetry like mine can speak!<br/> +<br/> +O’er the drear tract of Time, Remembrance views<br/> + Some dear, some long-departed, pleasure gleam;—<br/> +So o’er the dark expanse the eye pursues<br/> + Upon the wat’ry edge a transient beam.<br/> +<br/> +The spot fraternal love has sacred made,<br/> + Solemn, yet sweet, like groves in twilight gloom,<br/> +Mem’ry revisits, and beneath its shade<br/> + Faintly it sees each faded joy re-bloom.<br/> +<br/> +By Fancy led, from Death’s cold bed of stone,<br/> + Lovely, tho’ wan, what cherish’d form appears?<br/> +Oh! gentle Anna<a href="#fn5" name="fnref5" id="fnref5"><sup>[5]</sup></a>! at thy name alone,<br/> + Genius, and Grace, and Virtue, smile in tears.<br/> +<br/> +Half-wrapp’d in mist I see thy figure move,<br/> + O’er thy pale cheek appears its wonted smile;<br/> +With lunar lustre beam those looks of love,<br/> + That once could life of ev’ry care beguile:<br/> +<br/> +Faintly I hear thy angel-voice again;<br/> + There’s music in the sweet and dying sound;<br/> +Like Philomela’s soft and echo’d strain,<br/> + It spreads a soothing consolation round.<br/> +<br/> +Adieu, bless’d shade!—Imagination roves<br/> + To distant regions, o’er th’ Atlantic wave;<br/> +Ah! not to genial skies, or fragrant groves,<br/> + To drop a tear upon a kindred grave.<br/> +<br/> +Hard was thy fate, Eliza<a href="#fn6" name="fnref6" id="fnref6"><sup>[6]</sup></a>!—It was thine,<br/> + Tho’ wit thy mind, tho’ beauty grac’d thy form,<br/> +Behind Affliction’s weeping cloud to shine,<br/> + With star-like radiance, in a night of storm.<br/> +<br/> +Fierce from the sun the fiery fever flew,<br/> + And bade the burning sand become thy tomb!<br/> +O’er thee no willow drops its mourning dew,<br/> + Nor spotless lilies o’er thy bosom bloom!<br/> +<br/> +Oh! when we stood around our brother’s bier,<br/> + And wept in life’s full bloom to see him torn,<br/> +Ah! little did ye think that such a tear<br/> + As then ye shed so soon your fate would mourn.<br/> +<br/> +Farewell, dear shades! accept this mournful song,<br/> + At once the tribute of my grief and love;<br/> +Fain would it try your virtues to prolong,<br/> + Here priz’d and honour’d, and now bless’d above. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn5" id="fn5"></a> <a href="#fnref5">[5]</a> +Mrs. Hodges, a sister of the author.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn6" id="fn6"></a> <a href="#fnref6">[6]</a> +Mrs Fountaine, another sister of the author, who +accompanied her husband to Africa, and died at the Government-house, +in one of the British settlements on that coast, where she survived +but a short time the death of three of her children.</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>ECHO.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Echo! thou sweet enchantress of the grove!<br/> +Oh! cease to answer to the tones of love;<br/> +Or teach my Delia in thine art divine,<br/> +Thou loveliest nymph! to hear and answer mine! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>OCCASIONAL LINES</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Repeated at an elegant Entertainment</i></p> + +<h5>GIVEN BY LIEUTENANT-COLONEL D—— TO HIS FRIENDS<br/> +IN THE RUINS OF BERRY CASTLE, DEVONSHIRE.<a href="#fn7" name="fnref7" id="fnref7"><sup>[7]</sup></a></h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +By your permission, Ladies! I address ye,<br/> +And for the boon you grant, my Muse shall bless ye.<br/> +I do not mean in solemn verse to tell<br/> +What fate the race of Pomeroy befell;<br/> +To trace the castle-story of each year,<br/> +To learn how many owls have hooted here;<br/> +What was the weight of stone, which form’d this pile,<br/> +Will on your lovely cheeks awake no smile:<br/> +Such antiquarian sermons suit not me,<br/> +Nor any soul who loves festivity.<br/> +Past times I heed not; be the present hour<br/> +In life, while yet it blooms, my chosen flow’r,<br/> +For well I know, what Time cannot disown,<br/> +Amidst this mossy pile of mould’ring stone,<br/> +That Hospitality was never seen<br/> +To spread more social joy upon the green;<br/> +Or, when its noble and capacious hall<br/> +Rang with the gambol gay, or graceful ball,<br/> +More beauty never charm’d its ancient beaux<br/> +Than what its honour’d ruins now enclose.<br/> +Thanks to the clouds, which from the soaking show’r<br/> +Preserve the vot’ries of the present hour;<br/> +For, strange to tell, beneath the chilling storm,<br/> +Lately the rose reclin’d her frozen form;<br/> +Yet since, beneath the favour of the weather,<br/> +We are (a laughing group) conven’d together,<br/> +Pray let the Muse pursue her merry route,<br/> +To shew what pass’d before we all set out.<br/> +To some fair damsel, who, intent to charm,<br/> +Declares she thinks the weather fine and warm,<br/> +Such words as these address her trembling ear—<br/> +“I really think we shall have rain, my dear;<br/> +Pray do not go, my love,” cries soft mama;<br/> +“You shall not go, that’s flat,” cries stern papa.<br/> +A lucky sunbeam shines on the discourse,<br/> +The parents soften, and Miss mounts her horse.<br/> +Each tickled with some laugh-inspiring notion,<br/> +Behold the jocund party all in motion:<br/> +Some by a rattling buggy are befriended,<br/> +Some mount the cart—but not to be suspended.<br/> +The mourning-coach<a href="#fn8" name="fnref8" id="fnref8"><sup>[8]</sup></a> is wisely counter-order’d<br/> +(The very thought on impious rashness border’d),<br/> +Because the luckless vehicle, one night,<br/> +Put all its merry mourners in a fright,<br/> +Who, to conduct them to the masquerade,<br/> +Sought from its crazy wheels their moving aid.<br/> +Us’d to a soleme pace, the creaking load<br/> +Bounded unwillingly along the road;<br/> +Down came the whole—oh! what a sight was there!<br/> +O’er a blind Fiddler roll’d a Flow’r-Nymph fair;<br/> +A glitt’ring Spaniard, who had lost his nose,<br/> +Roar’d out, “Oh! d—n it, take away your toes;”<br/> +A blooming Nun fell plump upon a Jew,<br/> +Still to the good old cause of traffic true,<br/> +Buried in clothes, exclaim’d the son of barter,<br/> +“Got blesh my shoul! you’ll shell this pretty garter?”<br/> +Here let me pause;—the Muse, in sad affright,<br/> +Turns from the dire disasters of that night;<br/> +Quite panic-struck she drops her trembling plumes,<br/> +And thus a moralizing theme assumes:—<br/> +Know, gentle Ladies, once these shapeless walls,<br/> +O’er whose grey wreck the shading ivy crawls,<br/> +Compos’d a graceful mansion, whose fair mould<br/> +Led from the road the trav’ller, to behold.<br/> +Oft, when the morning ting’d the redd’ning skies,<br/> +Far off the spiral smoke was seen to rise;<br/> +At noon the hospitable board was spread,<br/> +Then nappy ale made light the weary head;<br/> +And when grey eve appear’d, in shadows damp,<br/> +Each casement glitter’d with th’ enliv’ning lamp;<br/> +Here the laugh titter’d, there the lute of Love<br/> +Fill’d with its melody the moon-light grove:<br/> +All, all are fled!—Time ruthless stalks around,<br/> +And bends the crumbling ruin to the ground:<br/> +Time, Ladies, too (I know you do not like him,<br/> +And, if a fan could end him, you would strike him),<br/> +Will with as little gallantry devour<br/> +From your fair faces their bewitching pow’r;<br/> +Then, like these ruins, beauteous in decay,<br/> +Still shall you charm, and men shall still obey:<br/> +Then, with remembrance soft, and tender smile,<br/> +Perchance you’ll think upon this mossy pile;<br/> +And, with a starting tear of joy declare,<br/> +“Oh! how we laugh’d, how merry were we there!” +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn7" id="fn7"></a> <a href="#fnref7">[7]</a> +The manor of Berry was given by William the Conqueror to +one of his Normans, Ralph de la Pomerai, who built on it the castle +which still bears his name, and in whose family it continued till the +reign of Edward VI. when it was sold by Sir Thomas Pomeroy to Edward +Seymour, Duke of Somerset, from whom it has descended to the present +Duke.<br/> + The castle is seated upon a rock, which rises almost perpendicularly +from a narrow valley; through this valley winds a small stream of +water, which drives the mill seen through the foliage of the +surrounding woods from the turrets of the castle.<br/> + In approaching the castle from the south, the path leads down the +side of a hill through a thick wood; and on the north side of the +valley, opposite the rock on which the castle stands, is a high ridge, +partly covered with oak: these hills completely shut in the ruins on +both sides. The valley stretches a considerable way both to the east +and west, and opens a view at either end into the adjacent country.<br/> + From the ivy-covered ruins of the fortress which now remain, it is +scarcely possible to say what was its ancient form; but it is most +generally supposed to have been quadrangular, having only one +entrance, a large double portcullis, at the west end of the southern +front, turreted and embattled, as was the whole of the front, with a +tower at its eastern end, corresponding with that on the west. This +front, with its gateway and turrets, are perhaps the only remains of +the original structure. Winding steps, now almost worn away, lead to +what once was a chapel, over the portcullis, and thence to the top of +the turrets.<br/> + In more modern times a magnificent building was erected within the +walls of the castle by the Seymour family; but, although upwards of +£20,000 were said to have been expended on it, it was never finished, +and now the whole forms one common ruin, which, as it totters on it +base, the spectator contemplates with awe, while he sighs over the +remains of fallen grandeur.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn8" id="fn8"></a> <a href="#fnref8">[8]</a> +A party from Totness went to Lord Courtenay’s masquerade +in this way, there being no other conveyance to be had, and met with +the ridiculous accident here alluded to.</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO SIR ROBERT KER PORTER,<br/> +KNIGHT OF THE IMPERIAL ORDER OF ST. JOACHIM,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Upon his approaching Nuptials with the Princess Shebatoff</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +To save the credit of the dame,<br/> + Poets and painters all agree<br/> + That Mistress Fortune cannot see,<br/> +And on her bandage cast the blame;<br/> +<br/> +When honours on th’ unworthy wait,<br/> + When riches to the wealthy flow,<br/> + When high desert, oppress’d by woe,<br/> +Is left to struggle on with Fate.<br/> +<br/> +But, Porter! when on thee she smil’d,<br/> + The fillet from her eyes she mov’d,<br/> + To view the merit all approv’d—<br/> +A mind inform’d, a heart unsoil’d.<br/> +<br/> +She saw thy virtues bright appear;<br/> + A son that mothers seldom know,<br/> + A brother with affection’s glow,<br/> +The soldier brave<a href="#fn9" name="fnref9" id="fnref9"><sup>[9]</sup></a>, the friend sincere.<br/> +<br/> +With honours then thy name she grac’d,<br/> + And call’d on Love to bless thy arms<br/> + With princely rank, with Virtue’s charms,<br/> +And all the pow’rs of wit and taste. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn9" id="fn9"></a> <a href="#fnref9">[9]</a> +Sir R.K. Porter was attached to the staff in the late +campaign in Spain, and was in nearly every engagement with the enemy. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>THE FOLLOWING LINES IN FRENCH,</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Are inscribed upon the Pedestal of a Statue of Cupid</i>,</p> + +<h5>IN A GARDEN AT UTRECHT.</h5> + +<h4><i>ORIGINAL</i>.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> + N’offrant qu’un cœur à la Beauté,<br/> + Nud comme la Verité,<br/> + Sans armes comme l’Innocence,<br/> + Sans aîles comme la Constance,<br/> + Tel fut l’Amour dans le siecle d’or,<br/> +On ne le trouve plus, quoiqu’on le cherche encore. +</p> + +<h4><i>TRANSLATION</i>.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> +To Beauty give your heart, your sighs,<br/> +No other off’ring will she prize;<br/> +As Truth should unadorn’d appear,<br/> +Behold! the god is naked here!<br/> +Like Innocence, he has no arms<br/> +But those of sweet, of native, charms;<br/> +No wish or pow’r has he to fly,<br/> +Like thy pure spirit, Constancy!<br/> +Such in the golden age was Love;<br/> +But now, oh! whither does he rove? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>THE RHINGAU SONG.</h2> + +<p class="letter"> +This is the favourite Song with the Inhabitants of the vine-covered +Region of the Rhingau, an extensive District along the Banks of the +Rhine, where the finest Wines are produced. +</p> + +<h4><i>ORIGINAL</i>.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> +Bekrantzt mit laub den liebe vollen becher,<br/> + Und trinkt ihn frölich leer;<br/> +In Gauz Europa ihr herren zecher,<br/> + Ist solch, ein wein micht mehr.<br/> +<br/> +Ihn bringt das vaterland aus seiner fulle,<br/> + Wie wär er sonst so gut?<br/> +Wie wär er sonst so edel, stille,<br/> + Und doch voll kraft und muth?<br/> +<br/> +Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsre reben:<br/> + Gesegnet sey der Rhein!<br/> +Da wachsen sie am ufer hin, und geben<br/> + Uns diesen labe wein.<br/> +<br/> +So trinkt ihn dann, und lasst uns alle wege<br/> + Uns freun, und frölich seyn;<br/> +Und wüsten wir, wo jemand traurig läge,<br/> + Wir gaben ihm den wein. +</p> + +<h4><i>TRANSLATION</i>.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> +With wine-leaves crown the jovial cup,<br/> + For, search all Europe round,<br/> +You’ll say, as pleas’d you drink it up,<br/> + Such wine was never found.<br/> + Such wine, &c.<br/> +<br/> +Our fathers’ land this vine supplies;<br/> + What soil can e’er produce<br/> +But this, tho’ warm’d with genial skies,<br/> + Such mild, such gen’rous juice?<br/> + Such mild, &c.<br/> +<br/> +Then shall the Rhine our smiles receive,<br/> + For on its banks alone<br/> +Can e’er be found a wine to give<br/> + The soul its proper tone.<br/> + The soul, &c.<br/> +<br/> +Come, put the jovial cup around,<br/> + Our joys it will enhance,<br/> +If any one is mournful found,<br/> + One sip shall make him dance.<br/> + One sip, &c. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO HEALTH,</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Upon the Recovery of a Friend from a dangerous Illness</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Sweet guardian of the rosy cheek!<br/> + Whene’er to thee I raise my hands<br/> +Upon the mountain’s breezy peak,<br/> + Or on the yellow winding sands,<br/> +<br/> +If thou hast deign’d, by Pity mov’d,<br/> + This fev’rish phantom to prolong,<br/> +I’ve touch’d my lute, for ever lov’d,<br/> + And bless’d thee with its earliest song!<br/> +<br/> +And oh! if in thy gentle ear<br/> + Its simple notes have sounded sweet,<br/> +May the soft breeze, to thee so dear,<br/> + Now bear them to thy rose-wreath’d seat!<br/> +<br/> +For thou hast dried the dew of grief,<br/> + And Friendship feels new ecstacy:<br/> +To Pollio thou hast stretch’d relief,<br/> + And, raising him, hast cherish’d me.<br/> +<br/> +So, whilst some treasur’d plant receives<br/> + Th’ admiring florist’s partial show’r,<br/> +The drops that tremble from its leaves<br/> + Oft feed some near uncultur’d flow’r.<br/> +<br/> +For late connubial Fondness hung<br/> + Mute o’er the couch where Pollio lay;<br/> +Love, Hope, and Sorrow, fixed her tongue,<br/> + Thro’ sable night till morning grey.<br/> +<br/> +There, too, by drooping Pollio’s side,<br/> + Stood Modesty, a mourner meek,<br/> +Whilst Genius, mov’d by grief and pride,<br/> + Increas’d the blush which grac’d her cheek;<br/> +<br/> +For much the maiden he reprov’d<br/> + For having spread her veil of snow<br/> +Upon the mind he form’d and lov’d,<br/> + Till she was seen to mourn it too.<br/> +<br/> +O Health! when thou art fled, how vain<br/> + The witchery of earth and skies,<br/> +Love’s look, or music’s sweetest strain,<br/> + Or Ocean’s softest lullabies!<br/> +<br/> +Oh! ever hover near his bow’r,<br/> + There let thy fav’rite sylphs repair;<br/> +Fence it with ev’ry sweet-lipp’d flow’r,<br/> + That Sickness find no entrance there.<br/> +<br/> +So shall his lyre, untouch’d so long,<br/> + The tone with which it charm’d regain;<br/> +Sweet spirit! thou shall teach his song,<br/> + With mine, to breathe the grateful strain. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>AN IRISH SONG</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Poor Molly O’Flannagan (Lord rest her soul!)<br/> +Drank so deeply of whiskey, ’twas thought she would die;<br/> +Her fond lover, Pat, from her <i>nate</i> cabin stole,<br/> +And stepp’d into Dublin to buy her a pie.<br/> + Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan!<br/> +<br/> +Tho’ chin-deep in sorrow, yet fun he lov’d well;<br/> +A pie-man pass’d near, crying “Pies” at his <i>aise</i>;<br/> +“Here are pies of all sorts.”—“Oh! if all sorts you sell,<br/> +Then a <i>twopenny magpie</i> for me, if you <i>plaise</i>!”<br/> + Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>THE SONG OF GRIEF</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +By the walk of the willows I pour’d out my theme,<br/> +The breath of the evening scarce dimpled the stream;<br/> +By the waters I stood, like an image of Woe,<br/> +And my tears, like the tide, seem’d to tremble and flow.<br/> +<br/> +Ye green scatter’d reeds, that half lean to the wave,<br/> +In your plaintive, your musical, sighs, could ye save<br/> +But one note of my charmer, to soften my doom,<br/> +I would stay till these willows should arch me a tomb!<br/> +<br/> +For ye know, when I pour’d out my soul on the lute,<br/> +How she hung down her head, so expressively mute!<br/> +From my hand she would take it, still breathing my pain;<br/> +She would touch it—return it—and smile at the strain.<br/> +<br/> +Ye wild blooming flow’rs, that enamel this brink,<br/> +Like me could ye feel, and like me could ye think,<br/> +How sadly would droop ev’ry beautiful leaf!<br/> +How soon would your sweetness be wasted with grief!<br/> +<br/> +She is gone, in a cloud, like the star of the night!<br/> +She has left me, heart-broken, to mourn at her flight,—<br/> +To think of the hours she endear’d by her love.<br/> +To sigh till again I shall join her above! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>UPON HEARING MISS —— SING AT AN EVENING PARTY.</h5> + +<h5>THE NIGHTINGALE’S COMPLAINT.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +The Moon had bespangled the murmuring wave,<br/> +The dew-drop had moisten’d the moss of the cave,<br/> +The summer night-breeze, like a sigh, was just heard,<br/> +When thus flow’d the strains of the dark-warbling bird:<br/> +<br/> +“I hear a strange melody breathe thro’ the grove,<br/> +Now swelling with joy, and now melting with love;<br/> +Tho’ sweet is the sound, yet it should not invade,<br/> +Unbidden, my lonely dominion of shade.<br/> +<br/> +“As long as the stars that now twinkle shall shine,<br/> +This willow’s my throne, and all nature is mine:<br/> +Perchance ’tis the breeze on your desolate lute;<br/> +Its strings are now sighing, so long that were mute.<br/> +<br/> +“Ah! no, silly bird that I am! shall I grieve?<br/> +Shall Envy alarm, and shall Folly deceive?<br/> +’Tis the voice of Eliza! I hear it again,<br/> +Enraptur’d I hear it, nor envy the strain.”<br/> +Then Philomel flutter’d with tremulous wing<br/> +To Eliza—more happy to listen than sing! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LOVE AND THE SPRING-FLOWER.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +’Tis pity, ev’ry maiden knows,<br/> +Just as she cools, Love warmer grows;<br/> +But, if the chill be too severe,<br/> +Trust me, he’ll wither in a tear.<br/> +<br/> +Thus will the spring-flow’r bud and blow,<br/> +Wrapp’d round in many a fold of snow;<br/> +But, if an ice-wind pierce the sky,<br/> +’Twill drop upon its bed, and die! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>UPON THE REV. MR. C——’S IMPROMPTU COMPOSITIONS<br/> +OF SOME OF BOWLES’S SONNETS.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +No sweeter verse did e’er inspire<br/> +A kindred Muse with all its fire;<br/> +Nor sweeter strains could Music lend,<br/> +To sooth the sorrows of her friend.<br/> +<br/> +Associate Genius bids them flow<br/> +With sounds that give a charm to woe;<br/> +We weep as tho’ it were our own,<br/> +As if our hearts were play’d upon. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>SONNET.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +The leaves are flutter’d by no tell-tale gales,<br/> + Clear melts the azure in the rosy west,<br/> +Scarce heard, the river winds along the vales,<br/> + And Eve has lull’d the vocal grove to rest.<br/> +<br/> +To yon thick elms, my Delia! let us rove,<br/> + As slow the glories of the day retire;<br/> +There to thy lute breathe dulcet notes of love,<br/> + While thro’ the vale they linger and expire.<br/> +<br/> +Those honey’d tones, that melt upon the tongue,—<br/> + Thy looks, serener than the scenes I sing,—<br/> +Thy chaste desires, which angels might have sung,<br/> + Alone can quiet in this bosom bring,<br/> +Which burns for thee, and, kindled by thine eyes,<br/> + Bears a pure flame—the flame that never dies! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN AT KILKENNY,<br/> +ON THE THEATRICALS OF THAT CITY.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Amid the ruins of monastic gloom,<br/> + Where Nore’s meand’ring waters wind along,<br/> +Genius and Wealth have rais’d the tasteful dome,<br/> + Yet not alone for Fashion’s brilliant throng;—<br/> +<br/> +In Virtue’s cause they take a noble aim;<br/> + ’Tis theirs in sweetest harmony to blend<br/> +Wit with Compassion, Sympathy with Fame,<br/> + Pleasure the means, Beneficence the end<a href="#fn10" name="fnref10" id="fnref10"><sup>[10]</sup></a>.<br/> +<br/> +There, if on Beauty’s cheek the tear appears<br/> + (Form’d by the mournful Muse’s mimic sigh),<br/> +Fast as it falls, a kindred drop it bears,<br/> + More sadly shed from genuine Misery.<br/> +<br/> +Nor, if the laughter-loving Nymph delight,<br/> + Does the reviving transport perish there;<br/> +Still, still, with Pity’s radiance doubly bright,<br/> + Its smiles shed sunshine on the cheek of Care.<br/> +<br/> +So, if Pomona’s golden fruit descend,<br/> + Shook by some breeze, into the lake below,<br/> +Quick will the dimple, which it forms, extend,<br/> + Till all around the joyous circles flow.<br/> +<br/> +Bless’d be the liberal mind, th’ undaunted zeal,<br/> + That bade loud Folly from the Stage retire;<br/> +That teach us how to think, and how to feel,<br/> + And once again our godlike Bard admire!<br/> +<br/> +Thus aided, see his rescued genius spring;<br/> + Again he pours the phrenzy of his song;<br/> +With <small>EV’RY FEATHER</small><a href="#fn11" name="fnref11" id="fnref11"><sup>[11]</sup></a> in his eagle wing,<br/> + Once more in majesty he soars along.<br/> +<br/> +Oft, deck’d with smiles, his spirit shall explore,<br/> + Erin! thy beauteous vales and classic ground;<br/> +And ev’ry ripple of thy winding Nore<br/> + To him shall sweetly as his Avon’s sound. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +22<i>d Oct.</i> 1805.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn10" id="fn10"></a> <a href="#fnref10">[10]</a> +The theatricals of Kilkenny are supported by gentlemen of +rank and fashion in Ireland, and the profits are applied to charitable +purposes.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn11" id="fn11"></a> <a href="#fnref11">[11]</a> +Alluding to several fine passages of Shakspeare, which +have been long omitted in representation, but restored at the +theatricals of Kilkenny.</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>EPIGRAM,</h2> + +<h5>UPON SEEING THE DILAPIDATED STATE OF<br/> +<i>BETHLEM HOSPITAL</i>.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Well with the <i>purpose</i> does the <i>place</i> agree;<br/> +For e’en the very house is <i>crack’d</i>, you see. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>EPIGRAM</h2> + +<h5>ON THE GRAVE OF ROBESPIERRE.</h5> + +<h4><i>ORIGINAL</i>.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> +Passant, ne pleure point son sort;<br/> +Car, s’il vivait, tu serais mort. +</p> + +<h4><i>TRANSLATION</i>.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> +Nay, passenger, don’t mourn his lot;<br/> +If he had liv’d, why you had not. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>AN INDIAN MASSACRE-SONG.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +See, the waves clasp the Sun, as he sinks from our sight,<br/> +And Despair sullen rides on the wings of the night;<br/> +Lo! he comes, and reproaches our arms with delay,—<br/> +Then arise, let us go where Revenge points the way!<br/> +<br/> +In the deed should we fall, (since who’ll e’er breathe a slave?)<br/> +Our free souls shall repose in the realms of the brave;<br/> +In the song we shall live, and fresh heroes inspire,<br/> +While the son shall exult in the fate of his sire.<br/> +<br/> +Then know, ye white race! ye too long shake the rod;<br/> +By this arm ye shall soon be dismiss’d to your God!<br/> +Then demand, if he bade ye torment, why he gave<br/> +All the soul of a man to the breast of a slave?<br/> +<br/> +Then prepare; know our hatchets atone for our wrong,<br/> +And our hearts, like our hatchets, are stubborn and strong:<br/> +Sleep your last! ye no more shall the morning survey,<br/> +Nor shall sorrow arise with the break of the day.<br/> +<br/> +Yes, remember the lashes that pierc’d thro’ our flesh!<br/> +See the wounds of our fathers; they open afresh!<br/> +In the winds, hark! blue Avrin attends to our call;<br/> +I, your chief, will be first in your glories, or fall! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN ON DELIA, LISTENING TO HER CANARY-BIRD.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +When thoughtless Delia unconcern’d surveys<br/> + Her plumy captive, as he leans to sing,<br/> +Lo! while she smiles, the fascination stays<br/> + The little heaven of its airy wing.<br/> +<br/> +Ah! so she tastes the sorrows I impart,<br/> + Smiles at the sound, but never feels my pain;<br/> +And many a glance deludes my captive heart<br/> + To sigh in numbers, tho’ I sigh in vain! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>THE HECTIC.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Upon the breezy cliff’s impending brow,<br/> + With trembling step, the Hectic paus’d awhile;<br/> +As round his wasted form the sea-breeze blew,<br/> + His flush’d cheek brighten’d with a transient smile:<br/> +<br/> +Refresh’d and cherish’d by its balmy breath,<br/> + He dreamt of future bliss, of years to come;<br/> +Whilst, with a look of woe, the spectre, Death,<br/> + Oft shook his head, and pointed to his tomb.<br/> +<br/> +Such sounds as these escap’d his lab’ring breast:—<br/> + “Sweet Health! thou wilt revisit this sad frame;<br/> +Slumber shall bid these aching eyelids rest,<br/> + And I shall live for love, perchance for fame.”<br/> +Ah! poor enthusiast!—in the day’s decline<br/> +A mournful knell was heard, and it was thine! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>VERSES TO MISS M. G——,</h2> + +<h5>ACCOMPANIED WITH A DRIED HELIOTROPE,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Which she had presented to the Author a Year before</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Time, since thou gav’st this flow’r to me,<br/> + Has often turn’d his glass of sand;<br/> +Perchance ’tis now unknown to thee<br/> + That once its breath perfum’d thy hand.<br/> +<br/>Oh, lovely maid! that thou may’st see<br/> + How much thy gifts my care engage,<br/> +I’ve sent the cherish’d flow’r to thee<br/> + Without a blemish, but from age.<br/> +<br/> +Kiss but its leaves;—one kiss from thee,<br/> + And all its sweetness ’twill regain;<br/> +And, if I live in memory<br/> + Thus honour’d, send it back again! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO MRS. B——, AT BRISTOL HOT WELLS</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Tho’ nought, amid these darkened groves,<br/> + But various groups of death appear,<br/> +Scar’d at the sight, tho’ fly the Loves,<br/> + And Sickness saddens all the year,<br/> +<br/> +Yet, Clara, where you deign to stay,<br/> + Your sense and manners charm us so,<br/> +E’en sick’ning Sorrow’s self looks gay,<br/> + And smiles amid the wreck of woe. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH,<br/> +UPON THE PRINTS</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>From her beautiful Drawings of the Birth and Triumph of Cupid</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Once, for a palace, Painting left her grove,<br/> + And taught her royal fav’rite’s hand to trace<br/> +A beauteous maiden’s tale of little Love,<br/> + His silken wings, soft limbs, and laughing face!<br/> +<br/> +Then Nature wept o’er each expressive line,<br/> + To think the sweet creation so confin’d,<br/> +That such a boy, so fair, and so divine,<br/> + Was but the playful prattler of her mind;<br/> +<br/> +And had he near the royal easel flown,<br/> + And seen the features of this mimic brother,<br/> +He would have known the portrait for his own,<br/> + And claim’d the beauteous painter for his mother. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>EPITAPH</h2> + +<h5>TO THE MEMORY OF A WORTHY MAN,<br/> +<i>THE REV. MR. SLEEP</i>,<br/> +CURATE OF KINGSWEAR CHURCH, DEVON,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Whose devotional Elocution was remarkably impregnated with +soporific Qualities</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Reader! since Parson Sleep is gone,<br/> +And lies beneath yon humble stone,<br/> +Whene’er to Kingswear Church we go,<br/> + Holy the sabbath-day to keep<br/> +(Indeed ’tis right it should be so),<br/> + We never more shall go to <i>sleep</i>. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES,</h2> + +<h5>SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A FEMALE FRIEND,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Upon an Infant recommended to her Care by its dying Mother</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Bless’d be thy slumbers, little love!<br/> + Unconscious of the ills so near;<br/> +May no rude noise thy dreams remote,<br/> + Or prompt the artless early tear;—<br/> +<br/> +For she who gave thee life is gone,<br/> + Whose trust it was thy life to rear,<br/> +Now in the cold and mould’ring stone<br/> + Calls for that artless early tear.<br/> +<br/> +Sleep on, thou little dreamer! sleep;<br/> + For, long as I shall tarry here,<br/> +I’ll soothe thee; thou shalt never weep,<br/> + Tho’ flows for thee the tend’rest tear.<br/> +<br/> +Then be thy gentle visions blest,<br/> + Nor e’er thy bosom know that fear,<br/> +Which thro’ the night disturbs my rest,<br/> + And prompts Affection’s trembling tear. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>ON THE CALEDONIAN HARP BEING SUCCEEDED<br/> +BY THE HIGHLAND BAGPIPES.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +In days that long have glided by,<br/> +Beneath keen Scotia’s weeping sky,<br/> +On many a hill of purple heath,<br/> +In many a gloomy glen beneath,<br/> +The wand’ring Lyrist once was known<br/> +To pour his harp’s entrancing tone.<br/> +Then, when the castle’s rocky form<br/> +Rose ’mid the dark surrounding storm,<br/> +The Harper had a sacred seat,<br/> +Whence he might breathe his wild notes sweet.<br/> +Oh! then, when many a twinkling star<br/> +Shone in the azure vault afar,<br/> +And mute was ev’ry mountain-bird,<br/> +Soft music from the harp was heard;<br/> +And when the morning’s blushes shed<br/> +On hill, or tow’r, their varying red,<br/> +Oh! then the harp was heard to cheer,<br/> +With earliest sound, th’ enraptur’d ear;<br/> +Then many a lady fair was known,<br/> +With snowy hand, to wake its tone;<br/> +And infant fingers press’d the string,<br/> +And back recoil’d, to hear it sing.<br/> +Sweet instrument! such was thy pow’r,<br/> +’Twas thine to gladden ev’ry hour;<br/> +The young and old then honour’d thee,<br/> +And smil’d to hear thy melody.<br/> +<br/> + Alas! as Time has turn’d to dust<br/> +The temple fair, the beauteous bust,<br/> +Thou too hast mark’d his frowning brow;<br/> +No Highland echo knows thee now:<br/> +A savage has usurp’d thy place,<br/> +Once fill’d by thee with ev’ry grace;<br/> +Th’ inflated Pipe, with swinish drone,<br/> +Calls forth applauses once thine own. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>A SONG.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +When stormy show’rs from Heav’n descend,<br/> +And with their weight the lily bend,<br/> +The Sun will soon his aid bestow,<br/> +And drink the drops that laid it low.<br/> +<br/> +Oh! thus, when sorrow wrings the heart,<br/> +A sigh may rise, a tear may start;<br/> +Pity shall soon the face impress<br/> +With all its looks of happiness. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>VERSES</h2> + +<h5>ON AN AUTUMNAL LEAF.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Think not, thou pride of Summer’s softest strain!<br/> + Sweet dress of Nature, in her virgin bloom!<br/> +That thou hast flutter’d to the breeze in vain,<br/> + Or unlamented found thy native tomb.<br/> +<br/> +The Muse, who sought thee in the whisp’ring shade,<br/> + When scarce one roving breeze was on the wing,<br/> +With tones of genuine grief beholds thee fade,<br/> + And asks thy quick return in earliest Spring.<br/> +<br/> +I mark’d the victim of the wintry hour,<br/> + I heard the winds breathe sad a fun’ral sigh,<br/> +When the lone warbler, from his fav’rite bow’r,<br/> + Pour’d forth his pensive song to see thee die;—<br/> +<br/> +When, in his little temple, colder grown,<br/> + He saw its sides of green to yellow grow,<br/> +And mourn’d his little roof, around him blown,<br/> + Or toss’d in beauteous ruin on the snow;<br/> +<br/> +And vow’d, throughout the dreary day to come,<br/> + (More sad by far than summer’s gloomiest night),<br/> +That not one note should charm the leafless gloom,<br/> + But silent Sorrow should attend thy flight. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>SONG.</h2> + +<h5>THE WORDS ADAPTED TO “THE COSSAKA,”</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>One of the most ancient of the Russ Airs</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Has Time a changeling made of thee?<br/> +Oh! no; and thou art all to me:<br/> +He bares the forest, but his pow’rs<br/> + Impair not love like ours.<br/> +<br/> +Tho’ sever’d from each other’s sight,<br/> +When once we meet we shall unite,<br/> +As dew-drops down the lily run,<br/> + And, touching, blend in one.<br/> +<br/> +For thee this bosom learnt to grieve,<br/> +Another never made it heave;<br/> +When present, oh! it was thy throne,<br/> + And, absent, thine alone.<br/> +<br/> +Then may my trembling pilgrim feet<br/> +In safety find thy lov’d retreat!<br/> +And, if I’m doom’d to drop with care,<br/> + Still let me perish there! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>TO MISS ATKINSON,</h2> + +<h5>ON THE EXTREME DIFFIDENCE WHICH SHE<br/> +DISPLAYS TO STRANGERS.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Just as a fawn, in forest shade,<br/> + Trembling to meet th’ admiring eye,<br/> +I’ve seen thee try to hide, sweet maid!<br/> + Thy charms behind thy modesty.<br/> +<br/> +Thus too I’ve seen at midnight steal<br/> + A fleecy cloud before the wind,<br/> +And veil, tho’ it could not conceal,<br/> + The brilliant light that shone behind. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<p class="letter"> +Upon reading the Journal of a Friend’s Tour into Scotland, in which +the picturesque Scenery and the Character of the People are fairly +and liberally stated.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Much injur’d, Scotia! was thy genuine worth,<br/> +When late the<a href="#fn12" name="fnref12" id="fnref12"><sup>[12]</sup></a> surly Rambler wandered forth<br/> + In brown<a href="#fn13" name="fnref13" id="fnref13"><sup>[13]</sup></a> surtout, with ragged staff,<br/> + Enough to make a savage laugh!<br/> +And sent the faithless legend from his hand,<br/> +That Want and Famine scour’d thy bladeless land,<br/> +<br/> +That with thee Nature wore a wrinkled face,<br/> +That not a leaf e’er shed its sylvan grace,<br/> + But, harden’d by their northern wind,<br/> + Rude, deceitful, and unkind,<br/> +Thy half-cloth’d sons their oaten cake denied,<br/> +Victims at once of penury and pride.<br/> +<br/> +Happy for thee! a lib’ral Briton here,<br/> +Gentle yet shrewd, tho’ learned not severe.<br/> + Fairly thy merit dares impart,<br/> + Asserts thy hospitable heart,<br/> +Proves that luxuriance smiles upon thy plains,<br/> +And wit and valour grace thy hardy swains. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn12" id="fn12"></a> <a href="#fnref12">[12]</a> +Dr. Johnson, author of the Rambler. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn13" id="fn13"></a> <a href="#fnref13">[13]</a> +Alluding to his dress, as described by Mr. Boswell. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN UPON A HILL,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>On leaving the Country</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Ah! sweet romantic spot, adieu!<br/> +Ere your green fields again I view,<br/> +These looks may change their youthful hue.<br/> +<br/> +Dependence sternly bids me part<br/> +From all that ye, lov’d scenes! impart,<br/> +Far from my treasure and my heart.<br/> +<br/> +Tho’ winter shall your bloom invade,<br/> +Fancy may visit ev’ry shade,<br/> +Each bow’r shall kiss the wand’ring maid.<br/> +<br/> +To busier scenes of life I fly,<br/> +Where many smile, where many sigh,<br/> +As Chance, not Worth, turns up the die. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>BANKRUPTCY RENDERED EASY.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +The Cit, relying on his trade,<br/> +Which, like all other things, may fade,<br/> + Longs for a curricle and villa:<br/> +This Hatchet splendidly supplies,<br/> +The other Cock’ril builds, or buys,<br/> + To charm himself and Miss Hautilla.<br/> +<br/> +Then swift, O London! he retires,<br/> +To be, from all thy smoke and spires,<br/> + From Saturday till Sunday, merry:<br/> +On Sunday crowds of friends attend;<br/> +His house and garden some commend,<br/> + And all admire his port and sherry.<br/> +<br/> +His mistress urg’d him now to play,<br/> +And cut to wealth a shorter way,<br/> + Now as a bride she heads his table;<br/> +But still our Cit observ’d his time.<br/> +Returning at St. Cripple’s chime,<br/> + At least as near as he was able.<br/> +<br/> +But soon <i>she</i> could not bear the sight<br/> +Of town; for walls with bow’rs unite,<br/> + As well as smoke with country breezes;<br/> +Without the keenest grief and pride<br/> +<i>He</i> could not quit his <i>mares</i>, and <i>bride</i>:<br/> + We yield as soon as passion seizes.<br/> +<br/> +The clock no more his herald prov’d;<br/> +Tuesday, nay Wednesday, morn have mov’d,<br/> + Ere trembling shopmen saw their master:<br/> +Observing neighbours whisper’d round,<br/> +That ease might do, with plenty crown’d;<br/> + If not, that ruin came the faster.<br/> +<br/> +His cash grew scarce, his business still,<br/> +At variance were his books and till<br/> + (For wolves devour when shepherds slumber);<br/> +His creditors around him pour,<br/> +Seize all his horses, household store,<br/> + And only give him up the lumber! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Written at the Sea-Side in Devonshire</i>,</p> + +<h5>IN THE MONTH OF NOVEMBER,<br/> +WHEN THE SHIPS FROM NEWFOUNDLAND RETURN.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Still Summer lingers on these peaceful shores,<br/> + Nor yet she quits her rose-erected bow’r;<br/> +Tho’ oft in many a dew-drop she explores<br/> + Her beauties fading in each passing hour!<br/> +<br/> +Tho’ Winter’s boist’rous child, November, strays<br/> + Amid those scenes that wak’d the poet’s lyre,<br/> +Shakes his green canopy, and loves to raise,<br/> + Of sapless leaves, an altar for his sire.<br/> +<br/> +Soon shall his wild and stormy sway be o’er;<br/> + These lovely scenes shall feel his shortest reign;<br/> +And thou, sweet Summer! charming as before,<br/> + Shall but retire to dress thyself again.<br/> +<br/> +Yet Heaven guides, full provident and kind,<br/> + With sweet economy, the source of joy,<br/> +From grief extracts some comfort for the mind,<br/> + And fresh hopes flatter ere the lost annoy.<br/> +<br/> +See where Connubial Love yon rock ascends,<br/> + To hail each sail, while fav’ring breezes blow;<br/> +There many an hour she o’er the margin bends,<br/> + Her bosom trembling like the floods below.<br/> +<br/> +Nearer the ocean’s graceful burden glides;<br/> + Cleav’d by its prow, the lines of water yield:<br/> +While adverse mountains, with protective sides,<br/> + The Heav’n-directed wand’ring seaman shield.<br/> +<br/> +The anchor dropp’d, he springs upon the shore,<br/> + His wife and children press to meet his kiss;<br/> +Half-told, a thousand things they prattle o’er,<br/> + And, safe at home, renew their former bliss. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>EPIGRAM,</h2> + +<h5>ON WINNING A YOUNG LADY’S MONEY AT CARDS.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +How fairly Fortune all her gifts imparts;<br/> +We win your money, Ann, and you our hearts. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN IN A FINE WINTER’S DAY,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>At the Shooting-Box of my Friend, W. Cope, Esq</i>.</p> + +<h5>NEAR ORPINGTON, KENT.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Tho’ leafless are the woods, tho’ flow’rs no more,<br/> +In beauty blushing, spread their fragrant store,<br/> +Yet still ’tis sweet to quit the crowded scene,<br/> +And rove with Nature, tho’ no longer green;<br/> +For Winter bids her winds so softly blow,<br/> +That, cold and famine scorning, even now<br/> +The feather’d warblers still delight the ear,<br/> +And all of Summer, but her leaves, is here.<br/> +Here, on this winding garden’s sloping bound,<br/> +’Tis sweet to listen to each rustic sound,<br/> +The distant dog-bark, and the rippling rill,<br/> +Or catch the sparkling of the water-mill.<br/> +The tranquil scene each tender feeling moves;<br/> +As the eye rests on Holwood’s naked groves,<br/> +A tear bedims the sight for Chatham’s son,<br/> +For him whose god-like eloquence could stun,<br/> +Like some vast cat’ract, Faction’s clam’rous tongue,<br/> +Or by its sweetness charm, like Virgil’s song,<br/> +For him, whose mighty spirit rous’d afar<br/> +Europe’s plum’d legions to the hallow’d war;<br/> +But who, ah! hapless tale! could not inspire<br/> +Their recreant chiefs with his heroic fire;<br/> +Who, as <i>they</i> pass’d the tyrant Conqu’ror’s yoke,<br/> +Felt, as the bolt of Heav’n, the ruthless stroke;<br/> +And having long, in vain, the tempest brav’d,<br/> +Could breathe no longer in a world enslav’d. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES ON A LITTLE BIRD</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Singing at the Window of the Author</i>,</p> + +<h5>SOON AFTER THE DEATH OF A BELOVED SISTER.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Go, little flutt’rer! seek thy feather’d loves,<br/> + And leave a wretched mourner to his woe;<br/> +Seek out the bow’rs of bliss, seek happier groves,<br/> + Nor here unheeded let thy music flow.<br/> +<br/> +Yet think me not ungrateful for thy song,<br/> + If meant to cheer me in my lone retreat;<br/> +Ah! not to thee, my little friend! belong<br/> + The pow’rs to soothe the pangs of adverse fate.<br/> +<br/> +Fly, then! the window of the wretched, fly!<br/> + And be thy harmless life for ever blest;<br/> +I only can reward thee with a sigh,<br/> + And wish that joys may crown thy peaceful nest. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +By painful sickness long severely prest,<br/> +Here sinks, on Nature’s sacred lap of rest,<br/> +A friend, who, in a life too short, display’d<br/> +A mind in virtue bright, without one shade.<br/> +Hence with unusual grief is Fondness mov’d,<br/> +Hence more than Pity’s sighs for one belov’d;<br/> +Unshaken Honour sheds a manly tear,<br/> +And weeping Virtue stops, a mourner here. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO THE MEMORY OF AN AMIABLE YOUTH,<br/> +OF GREAT PROMISE,</h5> + +<p class="letter"> +Whose afflicted Parents received the Intelligence of his having been +drowned, at the very time when his Arrival was expected from +abroad.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Dire were the horrors of that ruthless storm,<br/> + That for young Lycid form’d a wat’ry grave;<br/> +Oh! many wept to see his fainting form<br/> + Unaided sink beneath th’ o’erwhelming wave.<br/> +<br/> +Ah! hapless youth! yet, tho’ the billowy waste<br/> + Has thus, with ruthless fury, snatch’d away<br/> +Thy various charms, thy genius, wit, and taste,<br/> + From those who fondly watch’d their rich display,—<br/> +<br/> +Their cherish’d, lov’d, impression still shall last;<br/> + Mem’ry shall ride triumphant o’er the storm,<br/> +Shall shield thy gen’rous virtues from the blast,<br/> + And Fancy animate again thy form.<br/> +<br/> +Yes, gentle youth! to her, tho’ little known,<br/> + Save by the rich effusions of thy lyre,<br/> +Th’ admiring Muse shall breathe a mournful tone,<br/> + And sounds of grief shall o’er the floods expire.<br/> +<br/> +But, far more grateful to thy pensive shade,<br/> + Parental Fondness mourns her Lycid gone,<br/> +Lycid! who to her bosom oft convey’d<br/> + The liveliest joys to tend’rest feelings known.<br/> +<br/> +For her the lustre of the dawning day,<br/> + With all its charms, no longer yields delight;<br/> +And silent sorrow marks its parting ray,<br/> + And saddens ev’ry vision of the night.<br/> +<br/> +Oh! what ecstatic joys inspir’d her breast,<br/> + When, fast advancing to thy native shore,<br/> +She thought she saw thee in the bay at rest,<br/> + And now in fancy heard th’ approaching oar.<br/> +<br/> +Oh! sad reverse! The dire delusive wind,<br/> + Which promis’d fair to bring thee to her breast,<br/> +Thy youthful honours to the wave consign’d,<br/> + And bore thy spirit to the realms of rest<br/> +<br/> +Ah! had the song of ancient Bard been true,<br/> + Had Genius still the pow’r to soothe the storm,<br/> +Harmless had been each blast that round thee blew,<br/> + And safe and sacred, ’midst its rage, thy form.<br/> +<br/> +What tho’ no marble urn thy relics hold,<br/> + Where grief at midnight hour may sit and sigh,<br/> +Like gem in amber, Fancy shall enfold<br/> + Thy relics in each wave that murmurs by.<br/> +<br/> +Still shall she listen to thy glowing song,<br/> + And dwell with rapture on each vivid line,<br/> +Shall round thy lyre, neglected and unstrung,<br/> + Of sweetest flow’rs a fun’ral wreath entwine.<br/> +<br/> +Ah! since thy tuneful song no more shall flow,<br/> + Nor here again thy op’ning virtues shine,<br/> +May those who, Lycid! lov’d thee living, know<br/> + To bear the sorrows of a loss like thine!<br/> +<br/> +And, while they linger yet another hour<br/> + On life’s extended, tempest-beaten, strand,<br/> +Waiting the gale that shall convey them o’er,<br/> + To hail their Lycid in a happier land,<br/> +<br/> +Oh! may religion lull each sigh to rest,<br/> + Teach them a God, in mercy rob’d, to praise,<br/> +To know that ev’ry act of his is best,<br/> + And, tho’ mysterious, still to prize his ways! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>EPIGRAM</h2> + +<h5>ON THE AUTHOR AND ELIZA FREQUENTLY DIFFERING +IN OPINION.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +To such extremes were I and Bet<br/> + Perpetually driven,<br/> +We quarrell’d every time we met,<br/> + To kiss, and be forgiven. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO MY MOTHER,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>On her attaining her 70th Year</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Oh! with what genuine pleasure do I trace<br/> +Each line of that long-lov’d, accustom’d, face,<br/> +Where Time, as if enchanted, and imprest<br/> +With all the virtues of thy peaceful breast,<br/> +Tho’ sev’nty varied years have roll’d away,<br/> +Still loves to linger, and, with soft decay,<br/> +Permits thy cheek to wear a healthy bloom,<br/> +In all the grace of age, without its gloom.<br/> +<br/> + So on some sacred temple’s mossy walls,<br/> +With feath’ry force, the snow of winter falls!<br/> +Yes, venerable parent! may I long<br/> +Thus happy hail thee with an annual song.<br/> +Till, having clos’d thine eyes in such soft rest<br/> +As infants feel when to the bosom prest,<br/> +Angels shall bear thy spotless soul away<br/> +To realms of pure delight and endless day! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO SELINA</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +’Twas when the leaves were yellow turn’d,<br/> + Selina, with the gentlest sigh,<br/> +Exclaim’d, “For you I long have burn’d,<br/> + For you alone, my love! I’ll die.”<br/> +<br/> +Unthinking youth! I thought her true,<br/> + And, when the trees grew white with snow,<br/> +The wint’ry wind with music blew,<br/> + So did her love upon me grow.<br/> +<br/> +The Spring had scarce unlock’d her store,<br/> + When lo! in much ungentle strain,<br/> +She bade me think of her no more,<br/> + She bade me never love again.<br/> +<br/> +Then did my heart at once reply,<br/> + “If you are false, who can be true?<br/> +There’s nothing here deserves a sigh,<br/> + Take this, the last, ’tis heav’d for you.”<br/> +<br/> +Ah! fickle fair! amid the scene<br/> + That giddy pleasure may prepare,<br/> +A pensive thought shall intervene,<br/> + And touch your wand’ring heart with care.<br/> +<br/> +And when, alone, at eve you rove,<br/> + Where arm in arm we oft have mov’d,<br/> +Each Zephyr in the well-known grove<br/> + Shall whisper that we once have lov’d. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE,<br/> +AT DRONNINGAARD, NEAR COPENHAGEN.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Delicious gloom! asylum of repose!<br/> + Within your verdant shades, your tranquil bound,<br/> +A wretched fugitive<a href="#fn14" name="fnref14" id="fnref14"><sup>[14]</sup></a>, oppress’d by woes,<br/> + The balm of peace, that long had left him, found.<br/> +<br/> +Ne’er does the trump of war disturb this grove;<br/> + Throughout its deep recess the warbling bird<br/> +Discourses sweetly of its happy lore,<br/> + Or distant sounds of rural joy are heard.<br/> +<br/> +Life’s checquer’d scene is softly pictur’d here;<br/> + Here the proud moss-rose spreads its transient pride;<br/> +Close by, the willow drops a dewy tear,<br/> + And gaudy flow’rs the modest lily hide.<br/> +<br/> +Alas! poor Hermit! happy had it been<br/> + For thee, if in these shades thy days had past,<br/> +If, well contented with the happy scene,<br/> + Thou ne’er again had fac’d life’s stormy blast!<br/> +<br/> +And Pity oft shall shed the gen’rous tear<br/> + O’er the sad moral which thy days disclose;<br/> +There view how restless is our nature here,<br/> + How strangely hostile to its own repose. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn14" id="fn14"></a> <a href="#fnref14">[14]</a> +Dronningaard is the first private residence in Denmark: +it belongs to the wealthy family of the De Conincks. The grounds, +which are very extensive, and tastefully laid out, slope down to a +noble lake, twelve English miles in circumference, which is skirted +with fine woods and romantic country-houses. At the end of a +beautiful walk is an elegant marble column, with a tablet, on which +is inscribed by Mr. D.C. “This monument is erected in gratitude to a +mild and beneficent Government, under whose auspices I enjoy the +blessings that surround me.” In another part of the grounds, in a +spot of deep seclusion, are the ruins of a Hermitage; and a little +further, in a nook, an open grave and tombstone. The story connected +with this retired spot deserves to be mentioned:—Time has shed many +snows upon the romantic beauties of Dronningaard, since one, who, +weary of the pomp of courts and the tumult of camps, in the prime of +life, covered with honours and with fortune, sought from its +hospitable owner permission to raise a sequestered cell, in which he +might pass the remainder of his days in all the austerities and +privations of an Anchorite. This singular man had, long previously to +the revolution in Holland, distinguished himself at the head of his +regiment, when, in an unhappy moment, the love of aggrandizement took +possession of his heart, and, marrying under its influence, misery +soon followed; and here, in a little wood of tall firs, he raised this +simple fabric: moss warmed it within, and the bark of the birch +defended it without; a stream of rock-water once flowed in a bed of +pebbles before the door, in which the young willow dipped its leaves; +and, at a little distance from a bed of wild roses, the labernum +gracefully rose, and suspended her yellow flowers; and adjoining was a +spot which the Recluse had selected for his grave, of which, like the +monks of La Trappe, he dug a small portion every day until he had +finished it. He composed his Epitaph in French, and had it inscribed +on a stone. If the reader is as much interested as I was in the +history of the poor Hermit, he will be pleased with the translation of +it, which follows, from the pen of my respected and distinguished +friend, William Hayley, Esq. In this solitude he passed several years, +when the plan of his life became suddenly reversed by a letter of +recall, which he received from his Prince, containing the most +flattering expressions of regard. He obeyed the summons, returned to +Holland, and at the head of his regiment most gallantly fought and +fell.</p> + +<h5>THE HERMIT’S EPITAPH.</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Here may he rest, who, shunning scenes of strife,<br/> +Enjoy’d at Dronningaard a Hermit’s life:<br/> +The faithless splendour of a court he knew,<br/> + And all the ardour of the tented field,<br/> +Soft Passion’s idler charm, not less untrue,<br/> + And all that listless Luxury can yield.<br/> +He tasted, tender Love! thy chatter sweet;<br/> +Thy promis’d happiness prov’d mere deceit.<br/> +To Hymen’s hallow’d fane by Reason led,<br/> + He deem’d the path he trod the path of bliss;<br/> +Oh! ever-mourn’d mistake! from int’rest bred,<br/> + Its dupe was plung’d in misery’s abyss:<br/> +But Friendship offer’d him, benignant pow’r!<br/> +Her cheering hand, in trouble’s darkest hour:<br/> +Beside this shaded stream, her soothing voice<br/> +Bade the disconsolate again rejoice:<br/> + Peace in his heart revives, serenely sweet;<br/> +The calm content, so sought for as his choice,<br/> + Quits him no more in this belov’d retreat. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO MISS E. ATKINSON,</h2> + +<h5>ON HER PRESENTING THE AUTHOR WITH AN IRISH PEBBLE.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Oft does the lucid pebble shine,<br/> + Just cover’d by the murm’ring sea;<br/> +Thus precious, thus conceal’d, it shews,<br/> + Fair maid! thy mind and modesty.<br/> +<br/> +If searching eyes the stone discern,<br/> + Quick will the hand of Art remove<br/> +Each ruder part, till, brilliant grown,<br/> + It seals the fond record of love.<br/> +<br/>And here the sweet connexion ends,<br/> + + Eliza! ’twixt the gem and thee;<br/> +For thou wast polish’d from the first,<br/> + By Nature’s hand, more happily! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>THE WATER-NYMPH OF THE ROCK.</h2> + +<p class="letter"> +[The French is by Bosquillon, which I translated as under, in a +beautiful Swedish island in the Baltic, as I sat by the side of a fine +clear stream of rock-water.]</p> + +<h4><i>ORIGINAL</i>.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> +La nymphe qui donne de cette eau<br/> +Au plus creux de rocher se cache,<br/> +Suivez un example si beau:<br/> +Donnez sans vouloir qu’on le sache. +</p> + +<h4><i>TRANSLATION</i>.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> +The nymph, to whom this stream you owe,<br/> + Conceals herself in caves of stone:<br/> +Like her your benefits bestow;<br/> + Give, without wishing to be known. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>UPON MADEMOISELLE DELPHINE SAULOT</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Singing some equisite Airs</i></p> + +<h5>IN THE GARDENS OF MOUSSEAU, NEAR PARIS.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +In Mousseau’s sweet Arcadian dale<br/> + Fair Delphine pours the plaintive strain;<br/> +She charms the list’ning nightingale,<br/> + And seems th’ enchantress of the plain.<br/> +<br/> +Bless’d be those lips, to music dear;<br/> + Sweet songstress! never may they move<br/> +But with such sounds, to soothe the ear,<br/> + And melt the yielding heart to love.<br/> +<br/> +May sorrow never bid them pour<br/> + From the torn heart one suff’ring sigh;<br/> +But be thy life a fragrant flow’r,<br/> + Blooming beneath a cloudless sky! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>IMPROMPTU TO MADAME C——</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN AT PARIS,</h5> + +<p class="letter"> +Upon her appearing equally modestly and elegantly dressed, amidst the +Semi-Nakedness of the Rest of the Female Fashionables. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Whilst, in a dress that one might swear<br/> +The whole was made of woven air,<br/> +Pert Fashion spreads her senseless sway<br/> +Over the giddy and the gay<br/> +(Who think, by showing all their charms,<br/> +Lovers will fly into their arms),<br/> +In thee shall Wit and Virtue find<br/> +A friend more genial to their mind;<br/> +And Modesty shall gain in thee<br/> +A surer, chaster, victory. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>SONNET</h2> + +<h5>UPON A SWEDISH COTTAGE,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Written on the Road</i>,</p> + +<h5>WITHIN A FEW MILES OF STOCKHOLM.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Here, far from all the pomp Ambition seeks,<br/> + Much sought, but only whilst untasted prais’d,<br/> +Content and Innocence, with rosy cheeks,<br/> + Enjoy the simple shed their hands have rais’d.<br/> +<br/> +On a gray rock it stands, whose fretted base<br/> + The distant cat’ract’s murm’ring waters lave,<br/> +Whilst o’er its mossy roof, with varying grace,<br/> + The slender branches of the white birch wave.<br/> +<br/> +Around the forest-fir is heard to sigh,<br/> + On which the pensive ear delights to dwell,<br/> +Whilst, as the gazing trav’ller passes by,<br/> + The gray goat, starting, sounds his tinkling bell.<br/> +Oh! in my native land, ere life’s decline,<br/> +May such a spot, so wild, so sweet, be mine! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. B——</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Ah, stranger! if thy pilgrim footsteps love,<br/> + By meditation led, to wander here,<br/> +A suff’ring husband may thy pity move,<br/> + Who weeps the loss of all his soul holds dear!<br/> +<br/> +Cold as this mourning marble is that heart,<br/> + Which Virtue warm’d with pure and gen’rous heat,<br/> +Which to each checquer’d scene could joy impart,<br/> + Nor ceas’d to love until it ceas’d to beat.<br/> +<br/> +Yet, gentle spirit! o’er thine early grave<br/> + Shall Consolation, like a seraph, prove,<br/> +When Sickness clos’d thy faultless life, she gave<br/> + Another angel to the realms above! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>STATE TRICKS</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Or a Peep into the Cabinet of the Premier Consul</i>,</p> + +<h5>AT ST. CLOUD,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +ON THE NIGHT OF THE 26th OCT. 1803.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +—“they show an outward hideousness,<br/> +And speak off half a dozen dang’rous words,<br/> +How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst;<br/> +And this is all.” +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, Act V. Scene 4.</p> + +<h4>FIRST CONSUL.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> +My dear Talleyrand! I am sorry to send<br/> +For you out of your bed; but you know you’re my friend:<br/> +No secret I hide from your generous breast;<br/> +This invasion is always <i>invading my rest</i>:<br/> +My soldiers, poor devils! are ready to start,<br/> +But to stay where I am is the wish of my heart;<br/> +And yet I have sworn at their head to appear:<br/> +I am puzzl’d to act ’twixt my threats and my fear;<br/> +If I go, I am lost!—say, what shall I do? +</p> + +<h5>TALLEYRAND.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Why I think I’ve a snug little project in view:<br/> +I have felt for you long, and have ransack’d my brain<br/> +To relieve you from so much embarrassing pain.<br/> +To-morrow our principal tools shall repair<br/> +To this spot, to implore you to stay where you are:<br/> +Little Jancourt, you know, has a tear at command,<br/> +The rest shall have muslin-wrapp’d onions in hand;<br/> +An expedient which you, my good Consul, must try,<br/> +For a drop never yet wag observ’d in your eye!<br/> +And therefore I think ’twould be better for you<br/> +The largest to pluck from the beds of St Cloud.<br/> +When these fellows appear, they shall fall at your feet,<br/> +Portalis shall pen a few words to repeat;<br/> +He shall state ’tis the nation’s imperial will<br/> +That you do not your <i>dangerous promise</i> fulfil;<br/> +But snug in this closet put all into motion,<br/> +Nor hazard your life with these sons of the ocean.<br/> +<i>You</i> shall say, “I have sworn by my glory to go;” }<br/> +<i>They</i> shall all of them blubber out “No, no, no, no!}<br/> +It must not, thou world’s second saviour! be so. }<br/> +If you go, mighty Chieftain! and should not escape,<br/> +All Gallia, the world, will be cover’d with crape<a href="#fn15" name="fnref15" id="fnref15"><sup>[15]</sup></a>!<br/> +Oh! stay where you are; on our knees we implore!”<br/> +Then, apparently chok’d, they shall utter no more.<br/> +When thrice sixty seconds have nearly expir’d<br/> +(Now mind, my dear Consul, and do as desir’d),<br/> +You must mimic some hero you’ve seen at the play,<br/> +Of the tragical cast, when his soul melts away<br/> +(And, without any compliment ’twixt you and I,<br/> +You re’lly have talents and pow’rs very high,<br/> +To make the most striking tragedian alive).<br/> +But now to the point. You must tenderly strive<br/> +To raise these sweet prostrates; then, heaving a sigh,<br/> +And wiping the drops that shall stand in each eye,<br/> +Like one sorely cross’d, you shall, weeping, exclaim,<br/> +“Oh! why do you tear me from conquest and fame?<br/> +But still, if the nation commands me, ’tis fit”<br/> +(Your breast thumping hard) “that its Chief should submit.”<br/> +Then you see, if the army of England should sail,<br/> +And the schemes of this cursed armada should fail,<br/> +In the <i>Moniteur’s</i> faithful official page,<br/> +I can humbug the people, and soften their rage;<br/> +I will tell them, that, had but the nation permitted<br/> +Her Chief to have gone, we had ne’er been outwitted;<br/> +That merely the terrible glance of his eye<br/> +Would have made all those shop-keeping islanders fly;<br/> +This will quiet our friends, and, to harass our foes,<br/> +A second invasion I’ll slyly propose,<br/> +In which, in the van, Buonaparte shall pour<br/> +His vengeance divine on that mercantile shore.<br/> +Not that I, my dear Premier! conceive ’twould be right<br/> +To renew with these cursed tough fellows the fight;<br/> +But our people ’twill please, until some new occasion<br/> +Shall call from this project the eye of the nation. +</p> + +<h5>FIRST CONSUL.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +It will do, it will do, my dear Tally! thy brain<br/> +Has my terrors remov’d, and “a man I’m again.”<br/> +I will rise with the dawn, for this scene to prepare;<br/> +Denon, with his crayons, so swift shall be there;<br/> +The Parisians the subject with rapture will trace<br/> +In my Nosegay<a href="#fn16" name="fnref16" id="fnref16"><sup>[16]</sup></a>; I’ll hang it up full in their face.<br/> +I embrace thee, my dear little Tal! with delight;<br/> +<i>Ca ira! Ca ira</i>! Thy hand, and good night. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +[The First Consul is said to have enjoyed half an hour’s uninterrupted +repose that night. What followed, the next day, all Europe +knows, and all Europe laughs at.]</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn15" id="fn15"></a> <a href="#fnref15">[15]</a> +Black crape and the bolt of Heaven are the favourite +rhetorical figures of Napoleon the First.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn16" id="fn16"></a> <a href="#fnref16">[16]</a> +“Nosegay”—The anti-chamber of the Hall of the Arts in +the Louvre, in which there are many fine paintings, is called, by the +Parisians, Buonaparte’s Nosegay.</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO MISS CHINNERY, OF GILLWELL-HOUSE,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Upon her appearing in a Dress</i></p> + +<h5>WITH MAY-FLOWERS AND LEAVES TASTEFULLY DISPLAYED.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Tell me what taught thee to display<br/> + A choice so sweet, and yet so rare,<br/> +To prize the modest buds of May<br/> + Beyond the diamond’s prouder glare?<br/> +<br/> +Say, was the grateful pref’rence paid<br/> + To Nature, since, with skill divine,<br/> +So many fairy charms she made,<br/> + To grace her fav’rite Caroline?<br/> +<br/> +Or was it Taste that bade thee try<br/> + How soon the richest gem must yield,<br/> +In beauty and attractive die,<br/> + To this wild blossom of the field?<br/> +<br/> +Whate’er the cause, in Nature’s glow<br/> + Well does the choice thyself pourtray;<br/> +Thine innocence the blossoms show,<br/> + Thy youth the green leaves well display. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>SONG.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Ah! if my voice is heard in vain,<br/> + This fond, this falling, tear<br/> +May yet thy dire intent restrain,<br/> + May yet dissolve my fear.<br/> +<br/> +Th’ unsparing wound that lays thee low<br/> + Will bend thy Julia too:<br/> +Could she survive the fatal blow<br/> + Who only lives in you? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO MRS. A. CLARKE.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Within his cold and cheerless cell,<br/> +I heard the sighing Censor tell<br/> + That ev’ry charm of life was gone,<br/> +That ev’ry noble virtue long<br/> +Had ceas’d to wake the Minstrel’s song,<br/> + And Vice triumphant stood alone.<br/> +<br/> +“Poor gloomy reas’ner! come with me;<br/> +Smooth each dark frown, and thou shall see<br/> + Thy tale is but a mournful dream;<br/> +I’ll show thee scenes to yield delight,<br/> +I’ll show thee forms in Virtue bright,<br/> + Illum’d by Heav’n’s unclouded beam.<br/> +<br/> +“See Clarke, with ev’ry goodness grac’d,<br/> +Her mind the seat of Wit and Taste;<br/> + Tho’ Wealth invites to Pleasure’s bow’r,<br/> +See her the haunts of Woe descend;<br/> +Of many a friendless wretch the friend,<br/> + Pleas’d she exerts sweet Pity’s pow’r.<br/> +<br/> +“See her, with parent patriot care,<br/> +The infant orphan-mind prepare,<br/> + Assur’d, without Instruction’s aid,<br/> +The proudest nation soon will show<br/> +A wasted form, a hectic glow,<br/> + A robb’d, diseas’d, revolting, shade.<br/> +<br/> +“See her with Prince-like spirit pour<br/> +On genuine worth her ample store<a href="#fn17" name="fnref17" id="fnref17"><sup>[17]</sup></a>;<br/> + See her, by ev’ry gentle art,<br/> +Protect the plant she loves to rear,<br/> +And, as she bathes it with a tear,<br/> + Grateful it twines around her heart.<br/> +<br/> +“And there are more, of kindred mind;”—<br/> +When, with a face more bland and kind,<br/> + The Sage, in soften’d tone, replied:<br/> +“’Twas Error made to me the den<br/> +More grateful than the haunts of men;<br/> + Henceforth mankind shall be my pride.” +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn17" id="fn17"></a> <a href="#fnref17">[17]</a> +This alludes to a munificent donation of a very handsome +fortune, which this Lady presented, without any claim of consanguinity +or connexion, to a young Lady of great merit.</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>To the Tune of “Oh! Lady fair! where art thou going</i>?”</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Sing, bird of grief! still eve descending,<br/> +And soothe a mind with sorrow rending;<br/> +Ne’er may I see the blush of morrow,<br/> +But close this night the sigh of sorrow;<br/> +<br/> +Then, if some wand’rer here directed<br/> +Shall find my mossy grave neglected,<br/> +May he replace the weed that’s growing<br/> +With the nearest flow’r that’s blowing! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>IMPROMPTU LINES</h2> + +<h5>UPON A VERY HANDSOME WOMAN</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Keeping the Hotel de Lion Blanc, at Dantzig</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +The sign of the house should be chang’d, I’ll be sworn,<br/> + Where enchanted we find so much beauty and grace;<br/> +Then quick from the door let the <i>lion</i> be torn,<br/> + And an <i>angel</i> expand her white wings in his place. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>UPON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL INFANT SLEEPING ON THE +BOSOM OF ITS MOTHER.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Upon its native pillow dear,<br/> + The little slumb’rer finds repose;<br/> +His fragrant breath eludes the ear—<br/> + A zephyr passing o’er a rose.<br/> +<br/>Yet soon from that pure spot of rest<br/> + + (Love’s little throne!) shalt thou be torn;<br/> +Time hovers o’er thy downy nest,<br/> + To crown thy baby-brow with thorn.<br/> +<br/> +Ah! thoughtless! couldst thou now but see<br/> + On what a world thou soon must move,<br/> +Or taste the cup prepar’d for thee<br/> + Of grief, lost hopes, or widow’d love,<br/> +<br/> +Ne’er from that breast thou’d’st raise thine head,<br/> + But thou would’st breathe to Heav’n a pray’r<br/> +To let thee, ere thy blossom fade,<br/> + In one fond sigh exhale thee there. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>WRITTEN AT FREDENSBORG,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>The deserted Palace of the late Queen Dowager Juliana Maria</i><a href="#fn18" name="fnref18" id="fnref18"><sup>[18]</sup></a>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> + Bless’d are the steps of Virtue’s queen!<br/> + Where’er she moves fresh roses bloom;<br/> +And, when she droops, kind Nature pours<br/> +Her genuine tears in gentle show’rs,<br/> + That love to dew the willow green<br/> + That over-canopies her tomb.<br/> +<br/> + But, ah! no willing mourner here<br/> + Attends to tell the tale of woe:<br/> +Why is yon statue prostrate thrown?<br/> +Why has the grass green’d o’er the stone?<br/> + Why, ’gainst the spider’d casement drear,<br/> + So sullen seems the wind to blow?<br/> +<br/> + How mournful was the lonely bird,<br/> + Within yon dark neglected grove!<br/> +Say, was it fancy? From its throat<br/> +Issu’d a strange and cheerless note;<br/> + ’Twas not so sad as grief I heard,<br/> + Nor yet so wildly sweet as love.<br/> +<br/> + In the deep gloom of yonder dell<br/> + Ambition’s blood-stain’d victims sigh’d;<br/> +While Time beholds, without a tear,<br/> +Fell Desolation hov’ring near,<br/> + Whose angry blushes seem to tell.<br/> + Here Juliana shudd’ring died! +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn18" id="fn18"></a> <a href="#fnref18">[18]</a> +This palace, called the Mansion of Peace, is in the road +and near to Elsineur; it was the retreat of the ambitious and +remorseless Juliana Maria, the mother-in-law of Christian VII. whose +intrigues and jealousy sent Brandt and Struensee to the scaffold, and +drove the unhappy Matilda, the mother of the present King of Denmark, +from her throne, and the arms of her royal husband. Juliana died here. +The palace and grounds, parts of which are beautiful, were, when I +visited them in 1804, much neglected.</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>SONG</h2> + +<p class="letter"> +Upon the Admiration of the Valour and amiable Qualities of Lord +Nelson, expressed by Junot, now Duke of Abrantes, who, by the +Chances of War, was for a short Time the British Hero’s Prisoner. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +A wreath from an immortal bough<br/> +Should deck that gen’rous victor’s brow,<br/> +Who hears his captive’s grateful praise<br/> +Augment the thanks his country pays;<br/> +For him the minstrel’s song shall flow,<br/> +The canvass breathe, the marble glow. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>UPON A LADY DYING</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Soon after she had been wrecked on the Cornish Coast</i>,</p> + +<h5>LEAVING A LITTLE INFANT BEHIND HER.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Sweet stranger! tho’ the merc’less storm<br/> +Here sternly cast thy fainting form,<br/> +What tho’ no kindred hand was near<br/> +To wipe away Affliction’s tear,<br/> +<br/> +Yet shall thy gentle spirit own,<br/> +Amidst these sea-girt shores unknown,<br/> +That Pity pour’d her balmy store,<br/> +And kindred hands could do no more.<br/> +<br/> +Ne’er shall that pang disturb thy rest,<br/> +That moves the parted mother’s breast;<br/> +The object of thy dying fear<br/> +Shall want no father’s fondness here.<br/> +<br/> +Oft shall his little lips proclaim,<br/> +With April-tears, thy treasur’d name;<br/> +His little hands, when summers bloom,<br/> +Shall gather flow’rs to deck thy tomb. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>JEU D’ESPRIT</h2> + +<h5>UPON A VERY PRETTY WOMAN ASKING THE AUTHOR HIS +OPINION OF BEAUTY.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Madam! you ask what marks for beauty pass:<br/> +Require them rather from your looking-glass! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO THE MEMORY OF ERASMUS,<br/> +BY OUDAAN,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +Inscribed on the Pedestal of the Statue raised in Honour of the former, +in Rotterdam.</p> + +<p class="center"> +[<i>The Original in Dutch</i>.]</p> + +<h4><i>ORIGINAL</i>.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> +Hier rees die groote zon, en ging te Bazel onder!<br/> + De Rykstad eer’ en vier’ dien Heilig in zyn grav;<br/> + Dit tweede leeven geevt, die’t eerste leeven gav:<br/> +Maar ’t ligt der taalen, ’t zout der zeden, ’t heerlyk wonder.<br/> +<br/> +Waar met de Lievde, en Vreede, en Godgeleerdheid praald,<br/> +Word met geen grav gëerd nog met zeen beeld betaald:<br/> +Dies moet hier’t lugtgewele Erasmus overdekken,<br/> +Nadien geen mind’re plaats zyn tempel kan verstrekken! +</p> + +<h4><i>TRANSLATION</i>.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> +Erasmus, here, the eloquent and wise,<br/> + That Sun of Learning! rose, and spread his beam<br/> +O’er a benighted world, thro’ low’ring skies,<br/> + And shed on Basil’s tow’rs his parting gleam.<br/> +<br/> +There his great relics lie: he bless’d the place:<br/> + No proud preserver of his fame shall prove<br/> +The Parian pile, tho’ fraught with sculptur’d grace:<br/> + Reader! his mausoleum is above. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>THE FOLLOWING TWO SONGS</h2> + +<p class="center"> +Were written during a Period when it was confidently believed that the<br/> +French would invade our Country. +</p> + +<h4>SONG.</h4> + +<p class="center"> +<i>To the Tune of “Ye Gentlemen of England</i>.”</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +No gentleman of England now sits at home at ease,<br/> +But emulates on shore the heroes of the seas;<br/> +A common cause unites them, to meet the daring foe,<br/> +All they wish, all they ask, is a fav’ring wind to blow.<br/> +<br/> +Oh! let them come along, and may no tempests low’r,<br/> +But fairly may we try our valour and our pow’r,<br/> +That Hist’ry may not say, should these robbers be laid low,<br/> +To the storm ’tis alone the victory we owe.<br/> +<br/> +Soon shall these infidels the dreadful diff’rence prove,<br/> +’Twixt slaves impell’d by fear, and freemen bound by love;<br/> +Our foes shall never rise again, when once they are laid low,<br/> +On the sea, on the shore, for justice strikes the blow. +</p> + +<h4>SONG.</h4> + +<p class="noindent"> + When storms on the ocean<br/> + Create high emotion,<br/> + It pleases the wish<br/> + Of the monarch of fish,<br/> +For he gambols and sports in the motion.<br/> +<br/> + Should a shoal of small fry<br/> + Attempt to draw nigh,<br/> + With a flap of his tail,<br/> + Th’ imperial whale<br/> +Makes them pay for their rashness, and die.<br/> +<br/> + Oh! thus, on the seas,<br/> + Just with the same ease,<br/> + Should the enemy come,<br/> + In ship, boat, or bomb,<br/> +We will knock them about as we please;<br/> +<br/> + Till at last they shall cry,<br/> + “We are the small fry,<br/> + And Britannia’s the whale,<br/> + By a flap of whose tail,<br/> +If we dare to approach her we die.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>SONNET,</h2> + +<p class="letter"> +Occasioned by reading an Inscription on the Tombstone of Captain +Christensen, of Krajore, in Norway, who died in consequence of +the Bite of his Dog, when it was mad.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Ah! hapless stranger! who, without a tear,<br/> + Can this sad record of thy fate survey?<br/> +No angry tempest laid thee breathless here,<br/> + Nor hostile sword, nor Nature’s mild decay.<br/> +<br/> +The fond companion of thy pilgrim feet,<br/> + Who watch’d thee in thy sleep, who moan’d if miss’d,<br/> +And sprung with such delight his Lord to greet,<br/> + Imbu’d with death the hand he oft had kiss’d.<br/> +<br/> +And here, remov’d from Love’s lamenting eye,<br/> + Far from thy native cat’racts’ awful sound,<br/> +Far from thy dusky forests’ pensive sigh,<br/> + Thy poor remains repose on alien ground;<br/> +Yet Pity oft shall sit beside thy stone,<br/> +And sigh as tho’ she mourn’d a brother gone. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>IMPROMPTU,</h2> + +<h5>IN REPLY TO A LADY,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Who asked the Author what Childhood resembled</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +How like is childhood to the lucid tide<br/> + That calmly wanders thro’ the mossy dell,<br/> +Sweeps o’er the lily by the margin’s side,<br/> + And, as it kisses, murmurs out, Farewell! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY IN GERMANY,</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Who, until her Sister, honoured the Author by walking with him in +the Evening</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Adieu! dear girl! if we are doom’d to part,<br/> +Take with thee, take, the blessing of this heart,<br/> +Due to thy gentle mind, and cultur’d sense;<br/> +Perhaps ’twill please, but, sure, can’t give offence.<br/> +Tho’, when we met, the solar ray was gone,<br/> +And on our steps the moon-beam only shone,<br/> +Yet well I mark’d thy form and native grace,<br/> +And all the sweet expression of thy face;<br/> +And pleas’d I listen’d as thy accents fell,<br/> +Accents that spoke a feeling mind so well<br/> +Lo, when the birds repose at ev’ning hour,<br/> +The sweetest of them carols from her bow’r!<br/> +So, when the dews the garden’s fragrance close,<br/> +The night-flow’r<a href="#fn19" name="fnref19" id="fnref19"><sup>[19]</sup></a> blooms, the rival of the rose! +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn19" id="fn19"></a> <a href="#fnref19">[19]</a> +One of the creeping cereuses, usually known by the name +of the night-flower, is said to be as grand and as beautiful as any in +the vegetable system. It begins to open in the evening, about seven +o’clock; is in perfection about eleven, perfuming the air to a +considerable distance, and fades about four in the morning.</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO STUDY.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +O Study! while thy lovers raise<br/> +Thy name with all the pow’r of praise,<br/> +Frown not, thou nymph with piercing mind!<br/> +If in this bosom thou should’st find<br/> +That all thy deep, thy brilliant, lore,<br/> +Which charm’d it once, now charms no more:<br/> +Frown not, if, on thy classic line,<br/> +One strange, uncall’d-for, tear should shine;<br/> +Frown not, if, when a smile should start,<br/> +A sigh should heave an aching heart:<br/> +If Mem’ry, roving far away,<br/> +Should an unmeaning homage pay,<br/> +Should ask thee for thy golden fruit,<br/> +And, when thou deign’st to hear her suit,<br/> +Should turn her from the proffer’d food,<br/> +To tread the shades of Solitude:<br/> +Frown not, if, in the humble line,<br/> +Ungrac’d by any thought of thine,<br/> +Should but that gentle name appear,<br/> +Fond cause of ev’ry joy and fear;<br/> +I love, tho’ rude, I love it more,<br/> +Than all thy piles of letter’d lore:<br/> +Frown not if ev’ry airy word,<br/> +Which Beauty breathes, or Love has heard,<br/> +More rich, more eloquently, flow,<br/> +To Mem’ry gives a warmer glow,<br/> +Than all by thee so much approv’d,<br/> +The wit of age on age improv’d.<br/> +Go, then! and, since it is denied<br/> +That thou shalt be my radiant guide!<br/> +Leave me to sigh, to weep, to prove<br/> +How little Learning is to Love. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>SONG.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Wilt thou, because thy Florio loves,<br/> + Forsake the giddy glitt’ring throng,<br/> +With him to dwell in peaceful groves,<br/> + With him to hear the shepherd’s song?<br/> +<br/> +Can’st thou, without a sigh, resign<br/> + The homage by thy charms inspir’d?<br/> +To one, oh! say, can’st thou confine<br/> + What oft so many have admir’d?<br/> +<br/> +Sweet maid! oh! bless’d shall be our love,<br/> + Till time shall bid it cease to flow;<br/> +With thee shall ev’ry moment prove<br/> + A little heaven form’d below! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>THE FURY OF DISCORD</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +In a chariot of fire, thro Hell’s flaming arch,<br/> + The Fury of Discord appear’d;<br/> +A myriad of demons attended her march,<br/> + And in Gallia her standard she rear’d.<br/> +<br/> +Thy name, so enchanting, sweet Freedom! she took,<br/> + But in vain did she try to assume<br/> +Thy smile of content, thy enlivening look,<br/> + And thy roseate mountainous bloom.<br/> +<br/> +For wan was her visage, and phrensied her eye,<br/> + At her girdle a poniard she wore;<br/> +Her bosom and limbs were expos’d to the sky,<br/> + And her robe was besprinkled with gore.<br/> +<br/> +Nature shudder’d, and sigh’d as the wild rabble past,<br/> + Each flow’r droop’d its beautiful head;<br/> +The groves became dusky, and moan’d in the blast,<br/> + And Virtue and Innocence fled.<br/> +<br/> +She rose from her car ’midst the yell of her crew;<br/> + Emblazon’d, a scroll she unfurl’d,<br/> +And on it the dreams of Philosophy drew;<br/> + “’Tis the Charter, she cried, of the World.”<br/> +<br/> +Plunder, keen-ey’d and lean, rang with plaudits the sky,<br/> + Murder grinn’d as he whetted his steel;<br/> +While Blasphemy swore the Redeemer on high<br/> + Was the creature of Folly and Zeal.<br/> +<br/> +The scaffold grew red with the blood of the brave,<br/> + Kings turn’d pale on their thrones at her nod;<br/> +While Loyalty fled to the gloom of the cave,<br/> + And Piety knelt to her God.<br/> +<br/> +At length, after changing her chiefs at her will,<br/> + As their mischievous zeal grew remiss,<br/> +She sought a fresh fav’rite, with dexterous skill,<br/> + From Obscurity’s darkest abyss.<br/> +<br/> +The pow’rs of her monstrous adoption to try,<br/> + ’Midst, Syria! thy waterless waste,<br/> +She bade him the blast of thy desert outvie,<br/> + And defile all thy relics of taste.<br/> +<br/> +The chieftain obey’d: with a merciful air<br/> + He wrung from thy natives a tear;<br/> +But the justice and valour of Britain, e’en there,<br/> + Shook his legions, recoiling with fear.<br/> +<br/> +Well-pleas’d with his crimes, the Fury, with flight,<br/> + To her empire safe wafted him o’er;<br/> +Whilst the spectres of Jaffa, with ghastly delight,<br/> + The murd’rer pursued to the shore.<br/> +<br/> +Arriv’d, for his brow, lo! a turban she made,<br/> + Bright with gems pluck’d from Gallia’s crown;<br/> +To give him a name, she Rome’s hist’ry survey’d,<br/> + In the days of her early renown.<br/> +<br/> +To embellish his guilt, or to soften its shade,<br/> + The Arts mournful captives she kept;<br/> +And the plund’rer and plunder of Europe display’d<br/> + To the wand’rer, who wonder’d and wept.<br/> +<br/> +To support this apostate imperial shade,<br/> + This impious mock’ry of good,<br/> +She rais’d a banditti, to whom she convey’d<br/> + His spirit for plunder and blood.<br/> +<br/> +The chiefs of the earth in a panic beheld<br/> + The flash of his sabre afar;<br/> +They enter’d, but pensively mov’d from the field,<br/> + And bow’d to this idol of war.<br/> +<br/> +Till, fum’d with the incense of slavish applause,<br/> + O’er the globe’s fairest portion he trod;<br/> +And, spurning its liberty, spirit, and laws,<br/> + Conceiv’d himself rais’d to a god.<br/> +<br/> +But England disdain’d to the Tyrant to bend;<br/> + Still erect, undismay’d, she was found;<br/> +Infuriate, he swore that “his bolt should descend,”<br/> + And her temples should fall to the ground.<br/> +<br/> +Yes, here, if his banner is destin’d to wave,<br/> + It shall float o’er her temples laid low,<br/> +O’er piles of her children, who, loyal and brave,<br/> + Such a victory never will know.<br/> +<br/> +Oh! banish the thought; for, learn ’tis in vain,<br/> + Thus, thou maniac Tyrant, to boast;<br/> +As soon shall her base be remov’d by the main,<br/> + As her empire by thee and thy host.<br/> +<br/> +The sound is gone forth, ’tis recorded above,<br/> + To the mountain it spread from the vale;<br/> +“Our God, and our King, and our Country, we love,<br/> + And for them we will die or prevail.”<br/> +<br/> +Then hasten the day, if thy threat be sincere,<br/> + Let the winds blow thy myriads along;<br/> +Then soon may thy boasted armada appear,<br/> + And our rocks catch thy death-breathing song.<br/> +<br/> +Thy guardian, foul deity! hideous with crime,<br/> + Shall view, as she moves to our shore,<br/> +The Genius of Britain, mild, brave, and sublime,<br/> + And shall boast her achievements no more.<br/> +<br/> +Oh! direful and strange will the contest appear,<br/> + Big with freedom to nations afar;<br/> +The good, who confide, and the guilty, who fear,<br/> + Shall join in the conflict of war.<br/> +<br/> +In Heaven, with smiles, shall the happy and blest<br/> + Lean over its bright-beaming walls,<br/> +To guide and support to the regions of rest<br/> + The soul of the patriot who falls.<br/> +<br/> +Britannia! thy Muse, on a rock high and steep,<br/> + The fate of the fight shall proclaim;<br/> +The strings of her lyre Inspiration shall sweep,<br/> + Recording each hero by name.<br/> +<br/> +The world to its centre shall shake with delight,<br/> + As thus she announces their fall;<br/> +“They sink! our invaders submit to our might,<br/> + The ocean has buried them all!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO ANNETTE.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Canst thou, Annette, thy lover see?<br/> + His trembling love unfolded hear?<br/> + And mark the while th’ impassion’d tear,<br/> +Th’ impassion’d tear of agony?<br/> +<br/> +Adown his anxious features steal,<br/> +Nor then one burst of pity feel?<br/> +But, as bereav’d of ev’ry sense,<br/> +Look on with cold indifference.<br/> +Go, then, Annette, in all thy charms,<br/> +Go bless some gayer, happier, arms;<br/> +Go, rest secure, thy fear give o’er,<br/> +These eyes shall follow thee no more;<br/> +And never shall these lips impart<br/> +One thought of all that rends my heart.<br/> +<br/> +Yet, since will burst the frequent sigh,<br/> + And since the tear will ever fall,<br/> +From thee and from the world I’ll fly;<br/> + Deserts shall hide, shall silence, all. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>SENT WITH SOME INDIAN ROUGE TO MISS W——.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +Go, faithless bloom! on Delia’s cheek<br/> + Your boasted captivations try;<br/> +Alas! o’er Nature would you seek<br/> + To gain one moment’s victory?<br/> +Her softer tint, sweet look, and gentle air,<br/> +Shall prove you’re but a vain intruder there.<br/> +<br/> +But go, display your charms and taste;<br/> + Soon shall you blush a richer red,<br/> +To find your mimic pow’r surpass’d;<br/> + And, whilst upon her cheek you spread<br/> +Your vermeil hue, tell her ingenuous heart,<br/> +’Tis the first time she ever practis’d art. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>MISS W—— RETURNED THE ROUGE</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>With the following elegant Lines</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +When men exert their utmost pow’rs,<br/> +To while away the tedious hours,<br/> + With soothing Flatt’ry’s art,<br/> +When ev’ry art and work well skill’d,<br/> +And ev’ry look with poison fill’d,<br/> + Assail a woman’s heart,<br/> +<br/> +Tho’ ardently she’d wish to be<br/> +Proof ’gainst the charms of Flattery,<br/> + The task is hard, I ween;<br/> +Self-love will whisper “’Tis quite true,<br/> +Who can there be more fair than you?<br/> + Who more admir’d, when seen?”<br/> +<br/> +Then take this tempting gift of thine,<br/> +Nor e’er again wish me to shine<br/> + In any borrow’d bloom:<br/> +Nor rouge, nor compliments, can charm;<br/> +Full well I know they both will harm;<br/> + Truth is my only plume. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES TO A YOUNG LADY,</h2> + +<h5>OCCASIONED BY HER DECLINING AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE</h5> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Made her by a very accomplished Friend of the Author</i>.</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Oh! form’d to prompt the smile or tear,<br/> +At once so sweet, yet so severe!<br/> +As much for you as him I grieve;<br/> +Ah! thoughtless! if you thus can leave<br/> +A mind with wit and learning bright,<br/> +Where Temper sheds its cloudless light;<br/> +Where manly honour, taste refin’d,<br/> +With ev’ry virtue, are combin’d;<br/> +If you can quit a heart so true,<br/> +Which has so often throbb’d for you,<br/> +I’ll pity, tho’ I can’t reprove;<br/> +And did I, such is Florio’s love,<br/> +Eager he’d fly to take thy part,<br/> +E’en in a war against his heart. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>THE MUSHROOM.</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Awake, my Muse! awake each slumb’ring string,<br/> +And (mighty subject!) of a Mushroom sing,<br/> +Fair to the eye, and pleasant to the taste;<br/> +Charm’d by the note, a pigmy group, in haste,<br/> +Lay down their grainy loads, as slow they move<br/> +Thro’ lanes of reed and grass, to them a grove!<br/> +As if an Orpheus thou, they gather round,<br/> +Erect their tiny ears, and drink the sound.<br/> +Gray was the sky, save where the eastern ray<br/> +O’er fragrant hills proclaim’d th’ approaching day;<br/> +Rurilla, loveliest virgin of the plain,<br/> +With spirits light, and mind without a stain,<br/> +Rose from her simple bed, refresh’d with rest;<br/> +Ah, Sleep! with marble finger had’st thou prest<br/> +Her lovely eyelids till a later hour,<br/> +And by a blissful vision’s fairy pow’r<br/> +Hadst thou impress’d her mind with forms of love,<br/> +The walk at eve, the kiss, the murm’ring dove,<br/> +The little nymph had never sought the plain,<br/> +Nor fill’d with one romantic thought this brain.<br/> +In russet gown, with sweet and simple air,<br/> +She issued forth, like Hebe, young and fair,<br/> +To neighb’ring field, fresh as the rosy dawn;<br/> +Nor stile oppos’d her; like a bounding fawn<br/> +Graceful she sprang: so prankish was the air,<br/> +Had but the love-sick Daphanel been there,<br/> +He would have sigh’d: alas! poor love-sick fool!<br/> +Thou rather Zephyr dost inflame than cool!<br/> +And now, my Muse, the fatal spot disclose,<br/> +Where, bath’d with dew, the modest Mushroom rose.<br/> +Less fair the swan, by Richmond’s flow’ry side,<br/> +That in the river views herself with pride,<br/> +As, gazing on her, some their stay prolong,<br/> +To see her sail in majesty along.<br/> +Ill-fated child of earth! thy charms so fair,<br/> +As oft with youthful beauty, prove thy snare:<br/> +Now, as with dewy-spangled feet is seen<br/> +The lovely maid to trace each ringlet green,<br/> +Not distant far thy skin of velvet white<br/> +She views, and to thee presses with delight<br/> +Oh! might some deity, with potent arm,<br/> +Arrest her flight, and alter ev’ry charm;<br/> +Like Niobe dissolve into a tear,<br/> +Or like the Delian virgin, when with fear<br/> +She fled!—See on each beauteous limb appear<br/> +Soft leaves and flow’rs, the sweetest of the year;<br/> +And, taking root, spread round her fragrant breath<br/> +O’er the fair form that now she dooms to death:<br/> +But, ah! in vain, the pray’r no goddess hears; }<br/> +She bends—she plucks—and, bath’d in purple tears,}<br/> +The much-priz’d victim in her lap she bears! }<br/> +Tears that, preserv’d in crystal, will prolong,<br/> +And paint its worth beyond this simple song. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<p class="letter"> +Written <i>en badinage</i>, after visiting a Paper-Mill near +Tunbridge-Wells, in consequence of the lovely Miss W——, who excels +in Drawing, requesting the Author to describe the Process of making +Paper, in Verse. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Reader! I do not wish to brag;<br/> + But, to display Eliza’s skill,<br/> +I’d proudly be the vilest rag<br/> + That ever went to paper-mill.<br/> +<br/> +Content in pieces to be cut;<br/> + Tho’ sultry were the summer-skies,<br/> +Pleas’d between flannel I’d be put,<br/> + And after bath’d in jellied size.<br/> +<br/> +Tho’ to be squeez’d and hang’d I hate,<br/> + For thee, sweet girl! upon my word,<br/> +When the stout press had forc’d me flat,<br/> + I’d be suspended on a cord.<br/> +<br/> +And then, when dried and fit for use,<br/> + Eliza! I would pray to thee,<br/> +If with thy pen thou would’st amuse,<br/> + That thou would’st deign to write on me.<br/> +<br/> +Gad’s bud! how pleasant it would prove<br/> + Her pretty chit-chat to convey,<br/> +P’rhaps be the record of her love,<br/> + Told in some coy enchanting way.<br/> +<br/> +Or, if her pencil she would try,<br/> + On me, oh! may she still imprint<br/> +Those forms that fix th’ admiring eye,<br/> + Each graceful line, each glowing tint!<br/> +<br/> +Then shall I reason have to brag,<br/> + For thus, to high importance grown,<br/> +The world will see a simple rag<br/> + Become a treasure rarely known. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<h5>TO A PROMISING YOUNG ARTIST.</h5> + +<p class="noindent"> +These bays be thine; and, tho’ not form’d to shine<br/> +Clear as thy colour, faultless as thy line,<br/> +Yet shall the Muse essay, in humble verse,<br/> +Thy merits, lovely Painting! to rehearse.<br/> +As when the demon of the winter storm<br/> +Robs each sweet flow’ret of its beauteous form,<br/> +The Spirit of the stream, in crystal wave,<br/> +Sleeps whilst the chilling blasts above him rave,<br/> +Till the Sun spreads his animating fires,<br/> +And sullen Darkness from the scene retires,<br/> +Then mountain-nymphs discard their robes of snow,<br/> +And in green mantles smile in roseate glow,<br/> +And rivers, loosen’d from their icy chain,<br/> +Spread joy and richness thro’ the verdant plain,<br/> +Thus, in those climes where skies are ever fair,<br/> +Each infant Science breath’d a genial air,<br/> +Climes where the Earth her stores to all resign’d,<br/> +Nor left one selfish passion to the mind;<br/> +On her green lap the swain reclin’d his head,<br/> +And found his banquet where he found his bed.<br/> +Then Painting grew, and from the shades of flow’rs<a href="#fn20" name="fnref20" id="fnref20"><sup>[20]</sup></a><br/> +There first essay’d her imitative pow’rs,<br/> +When, urg’d by plunder, with the torrent’s might,<br/> +Nerv’d by the storm, and harden’d in the fight,<br/> +A race barbarian left their forests wild,<br/> +And sought the spot where Love and Learning smil’d.<br/> +By Taste unsoften’d, these relentless droves<br/> +Burst, fair Italia! thro’ thy sacred groves,<br/> +Laid ev’ry flow’r of Art and Fancy waste,<br/> +And pour’d a winter o’er the realms of Taste,<br/> +Each Science trembled at the ruffian sound,<br/> +Forsook her shades, and fled her classic ground;<br/> +The lofty column prostrate in the dust,<br/> +Defac’d the arch, o’erthrown the matchless bust;<br/> +The shatter’d fresco animates no more,<br/> +And ruthless winds thro’ clefted temples roar!<br/> +Florence beheld the scene with sad surprise,<br/> +And bade the prostrate pile in grandeur rise.<br/> +Then, oh! thou truly “Father of the Art<a href="#fn21" name="fnref21" id="fnref21"><sup>[21]</sup></a>!”<br/> +’Twas thine superior vigour to impart;<br/> +Illustrious Cimabue! it was thine<br/> +To soar beyond Example’s bounded line,<br/> +And, as the Heav’n-directed sceptre’s shock,<br/> +Produc’d full torrents from the flinty rock,<br/> +So streams of taste obey’d thy pencil’s call,<br/> +And Nature seem’d to start from out the wall.<br/> +Hail, beauteous art! oh! that in equal lay<br/> +Could but my Muse thy various pow’rs convey!<br/> +’Tis thine with silent eloquence to shew<br/> +Passion’s strong image, Beauty’s rapt’rous glow,<br/> +To soothe the parted lover’s anxious care,<br/> +Who owns thee fairest of thy sisters fair;<br/> +When waves divide him, still thro’ thee to trace<br/> +The dear resemblance of that cherish’d face,<br/> +Which he so oft with trembling lips has prest,<br/> +So often gaz’d upon, so often blest!<br/> +Thine too it is to seek the verdant plains<br/> +Where Peace resides, where Rustic Beauty reigns;<br/> +Or bid the torrent on thy canvass roar,<br/> +Or calmly spread the yellow winding shore;<br/> +Or show, from some vast cliff’s extremest verge,<br/> +The frail bark combating the angry surge.<br/> +Oft too on some lone turret wilt thou stand,<br/> +To trace the fury of th’ embattled band,<br/> +To darken with the clouds of death the skies,<br/> +And bid the scenes of blood and havoc rise!<br/> +Such, and far more, thy pow’rs, bless’d art! to thee<br/> +Inferior far descriptive Poesy;<br/> +And tho’ sweet Music, when she strikes the strings,<br/> +When thro’ the grove with seraph-voice she sings,<br/> +The soul, enraptur’d with the thrilling stream,<br/> +Would hail the Maid of Harmony supreme!<br/> +Yet, while her dulcet sounds enchant, they die;}<br/> +So shooting stars illume the midnight sky, }<br/> +And, as we wonder, vanish from the eye. }<br/> +But when resistless Death, in mournful hour,<br/> +Withdraws the drooping painter’s mimic pow’r,<br/> +Improv’d by time, his works still charm the sight,<br/> +And thro’ successive ages yield delight<br/> +Greece early bade the painter’s pencil trace<br/> +Each form with force; to force she added grace:<br/> +For this her Zeuxis she a garland wove,<br/> +For<a href="#fn22" name="fnref22" id="fnref22"><sup>[22]</sup></a> that Apelles won her grateful love.<br/> +Chiefly she called on Painting’s magic powers<br/> +To deck the guardians of her lofty tow’rs;<br/> +Here<a href="#fn23" name="fnref23" id="fnref23"><sup>[23]</sup></a> Jove in lightning show’d his awful mien.<br/> +There Venus with her doves was smiling seen!<br/> +Till ruthless Time, with unabating flight,<br/> +O’er Grecian grandeur flung the shades of night<br/> +Long did they settle o’er the darken’d world.<br/> +Till Raphael’s hand the sable curtain furl’d;<br/> +A pious calm, an elevated grace,<br/> +Then on the canvass mark’d th’ Apostle’s face;<br/> +Devout applauses ev’ry feature drew,<br/> +E’en<a href="#fn24" name="fnref24" id="fnref24"><sup>[24]</sup></a> such as graceful Sculpture never knew.<br/> +In nearer times, and on a neighb’ring shore,<br/> +Painting but feebly shone, obscur’d by pow’r.<br/> +See Rubens’ soul indignantly advance,<br/> +Press’d by the pride and vanity of France;<br/> +Behold,<a href="#fn25" name="fnref25" id="fnref25"><sup>[25]</sup></a> in fulsome allegory spread,<br/> +The gaudy iris o’er the victor’s head!<br/> +See Genius, deaf to Nature’s nobler call,<br/> +Waste all its strength upon the banner’d hall!<br/> +E’en now, tho’ Gallia, in her blood-stain’d car,<br/> +Spreads over Europe all the woes of war,<br/> +Still with consummate craft she tries to prove<br/> +How much the peaceful charms engage her love:<br/> +Treasures of art in lengthen’d gall’ries glow,<br/> +And<a href="#fn26" name="fnref26" id="fnref26"><sup>[26]</sup></a> Europe’s plunder Europe’s plund’rers show!<br/> +Yet of her living artists few can claim<br/> +Half the mix’d praise that waits on David’s fame.<br/> +Thrice happy Britain! in thy favour’d isle<br/> +The sister Arts in health and beauty smile!<br/> +Tho’ no Imperial Gall’ries grace thy shores,<br/> +Tho’ wealth the public bounty seldom pours,<br/> +Yet private taste rewards thy painter’s toil,<br/> +And bids his genius grace his native soil.<br/> +Bless’d country! here thy artists can supply<br/> +Abundant charms to fix th’ admiring eye:<br/> +In furtive splendour ne’er art thou array’d,<br/> +No plunder’d country mourns thy ruthless blade,<br/> +Sees its transported treasures torn away,<br/> +To grace a fierce ambitious Tyrant’s sway.<br/> +Long in this isle, where Freedom finds repose,<br/> +Whilst, raving round her, loud the tempest blows,<br/> +Oh! long befriended, may the Arts excel,<br/> +And bless the sacred spot they love so well! +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn20" id="fn20"></a> <a href="#fnref20">[20]</a> +“<i>Then painting grew, and from the shades</i>,” +&c.—The shadows of plants, and indeed of every object in Nature, +must, at a very early period, have furnished ideas of imitation.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn21" id="fn21"></a> <a href="#fnref21">[21]</a> +<i>“Then, oh! thou</i>,” &c.—After the ravages of the +northern barbarians, painting was revived in Italy, about the +fourteenth century, by Cimabue, who was hence styled the Father of +Painting.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn22" id="fn22"></a> <a href="#fnref22">[22]</a> +“<i>For that Apelles</i>,” &c.—Painting attained so +great a perfection amongst the Greeks, under Zeuxis, that Apelles +found nothing wanting but grace, which in those times he bestowed upon +the art, as Corregio did after Raphael.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn23" id="fn23"></a> <a href="#fnref23">[23]</a> +“<i>Here Jove in</i>,” &c.—The Greeks excelled in the +delineation of their deities, to whom they attributed all the human +passions: their Jupiter they elevated to the highest degree of +majesty, their Venus to the utmost pitch of human beauty.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn24" id="fn24"></a> <a href="#fnref24">[24]</a> +“<i>E’en such as graceful Sculpture</i>,” &c.—From +Cimabue to Raphael, the painters were employed by the church; and they +gave a character to the Prophets, Apostles, and our Saviour, which was +never known to the ancient sculptors. The power which the former +possessed of uniting dignity to humility is without a parallel.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn25" id="fn25"></a> <a href="#fnref25">[25]</a> +“<i>Behold, in fulsome allegory</i>,” &c.—As long as +the French school adhered to the principles of the Italian school, it +produced many great masters; however, the art certainly degenerated +after Raphael, by being employed in adulatory allegory, in honour of +Princes, as is to be seen in the works of Rubens and Le Brun at Paris, +artists of great talents, which they were led to misapply, through the +supreme vanity of Louis the Fourteenth.</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn26" id="fn26"></a> <a href="#fnref26">[26]</a> +“<i>And Europe’s plunder</i>,” &c.—Those who have +visited the Napoleon Gallery at Paris can attest the truth of this +observation, as those who are acquainted with the modern state of +painting in France well know, and, knowing, cannot but be surprised +at, the small number of French painters of any tolerable celebrity.</p> + +<h5>FINIS.</h5> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 10367-h.htm or 10367-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/3/6/10367/</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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\ No newline at end of file diff --git a/old/old/10367-8.txt b/old/old/10367-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0e3deee --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/10367-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4627 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Sir John Carr + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems + +Author: Sir John Carr + +Release Date: December 2, 2003 [EBook #10367] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Jonathan Ingram, Josephine Paolucci and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + +POEMS, + +BY + +SIR JOHN CARR. + + + +Non ulla Musis pagina gratior, +Quam quae severis ludicra jungere +Novit, fatigatamque nugis +Utilibus recreare mentem. + + + +1809. + + + + +POEMS. + + + +DEDICATION. + +TO + +LADY WARREN, + +&c. &c. &c. + +_MADAM_, + +In dedicating the following Poems to your Ladyship, I cannot help +regretting that they are not more worthy of such an honour; that I +might consequently have used it as an humble mode of expressing +my sense of the happy and enlightened hours which I have passed in +your Ladyship's society, and of the polite attentions which I +have at various times received from you, and the gallant object of +your connubial affection, particularly at the House of British Embassy +at Petersburgh, where you afforded to the Ladies of the North a just +representation of the dignified virtue, cultivated mind, and +attractive beauty, of the higher order of females of your own country. + +I have the honour to remain, + +Madam, + +Your Ladyship's + +Obedient faithful Servant, + +JOHN CARR. + +_Temple. June_ 1809 + + + + +PREFACE. + + +This Volume is submitted to the Public with all that diffidence which +ought to attend the publication of Verses, many of which were written +in the gay and happy era of boyhood, and others in subsequent periods +of maturer life, as a relief from more arduous pursuits. + +They lay no pretensions to the depth and solidity of the effusions of +the Muse in her elevated flights; they are the few wild notes of the +simple shepherd, and do not even affect to imitate the rich cadence of +the scientific musician. + +If the Author might, without the imputation of vanity, select for them +a place in the Temple of Poetry, he would endeavour to class them in +that niche which is appropriated for the reception of the light and +playful _Vers de Societ_. + +Should the Reader find them but little worthy of his approval, he will +not have reason at the same time to condemn their prolixity: their +brevity will, at least in some degree, atone for their want of fire +and fancy. + +It is thought proper to state that some of the following Poems have +appeared before at various times, in a fugitive shape; and that the +Poetry in the Author's Tours is here collected. + + + + +POEMS, + +&c. &c. + + + + +VERSES + +WRITTEN IN A GROTTO + +_In a Wood on the Side of the River Dart_, + +IN DEVONSHIRE. + + +Tell me, thou grotto! o'er whose brow are seen +Projecting plumes, and shades of deep'ning green,-- +While not a sound disturbs thy stony hall, +While all thy dewy drops forget to fall,-- +Why canst thou not thy soothing charms impart, +And shed thy quiet o'er this beating heart? +Tell me, thou richly-painted river! tell, +That on thy mirror'd plane dost mimic well +Each pendent tree and every distant hill, +Tipp'd with red lustre, beauteous, bright, and still,-- + +Can I not, gazing on thy tranquil tide, +Shed ev'ry grief upon thy rocky side? +Or must I rove thy margin, calm and clear, +The only agitated object near? +Oh! tell me, too, thou babbling cold cascade! +Whose waters, falling thro' successive shade, +Unspangled by the brightness of the sky, +Awake each echo to a soft reply,-- +Say, canst thou not my bosom-grief befriend, +And bid one drop upon my heart descend? +When all thy songsters soothe themselves to sleep. +Ah! must these aching eyes for ever weep? +And must their frequent waters, like thine own, +Drop, idly drop, on unimpressive stone? +Or, when my beauteous fair shall deign to grace +The humid foliage of thy mossy base, +Canst thou not tell how many a rock below +Impedes to kiss thy waters as they flow? +In _her_ mind canst thou not the feeling rear +To stop, or thus caress, each genuine tear? + +Teach her, oh! teach her, then, thou cold cascade! +Pour all thy lessons for the lovely maid! +And thou, bless'd grotto! let thy silence prove +Her mute consenting answer to my love! +And thou, bright river! as thou roll'st along, +Bear on thy wand'ring wave a lover's song! +Strong as thy current, as thy waters pure, +Teach her to feel the passion I endure! + + + + +LINES TO THE MEMORY OF MY DEAR BROTHER, + +W.T.P. CARR, ESQ. + + +--manibus date lilia plenis: +Purpureos spargam flores. + +_Aeneid_, lib. vi. + + +Tho' no funereal grandeur swell my song, +Nor genius, eagle-plum'd, the strain prolong,-- +Tho' Grief and Nature here alone combine +To weep, my William! o'er a fate like thine,-- +Yet thy fond pray'r, still ling'ring on my ear, +Shall force its way thro' many a gushing tear: +The Muse, that saw thy op'ning beauties spread, +That lov'd thee living, shall lament thee dead! +Ye graceful Virtues! while the note I breathe, +Of sweetest flow'rs entwine a fun'ral wreath,-- +Of virgin flow'rs, and place them round his tomb, +To bud, like him, and perish in their bloom! +Ah! when these eyes saw thee serenely wait +The last long separating stroke of Fate,-- +When round thy bed a kindred weeping train +Call'd on thy voice to greet them, but in vain,-- +When o'er thy lips we watch'd thy fault'ring breath-- +When louder grief proclaim'd th'approach of death,-- +Thro' ev'ry vein an icy horror chill'd, +Colder than marble ev'ry bosom thrill'd. +Unsettled still, tho' exercis'd to grieve, +Scarce would my mind the alter'd sight believe; +Familiar scenes a transient calm inspire, +Poor flutt'ring Fancy fann'd the vain desire, +'Till with sad proof thy wasted relics rise, +And restless Nature pours uncall'd-for sighs. +Ah! long, my William! shall thy picture rest, +Time shall not wear it, imag'd in my breast; +Yes, thou shall live while fond remembrance lives, +'Till he who mourns thee asks the line he gives. +No common joy, no fugitive delight, +Regret like this could in my breast excite; +For then my sorrow had been less severe, +And tears less copious had bedew'd the bier. +From the same breast our milky food we drew, +Entwin'd affection strengthen'd as we grew; +Why further trace? The flatt'ring dream is o'er-- +Thy transient joys and sorrows are no more! +All, all are fled!--And, ah! where'er I turn, +Insulting Death directs me to thy urn, +Throws his cold shadows round me while I sing. +Damps ev'ry nerve, and slackens ev'ry string. +So, when the Moon trims up her waning fire, +Sweep the night-breezes o'er th'Aeolian lyre; +Ling'ring, perchance, some wild pathetic sound +Lulls the lorn ear, and dies along the ground. +Ye kindred train! who, o'er the parting grave, +Have mourn'd the virtues which ye could not save. +Ye know how Mem'ry, with excursive pow'r, +Extracts a sweet from ev'ry faded hour;-- +From scenes long past, regardless of repose, +She feeds her tears, and treasures up her woes. +Thou tuneful, mute, companion[A] of my care! +Where now thy notes, that linger'd in the air? +That linger still!--Vain thy harmonious store,-- +Thy sweet persuasive triumphs are no more. +Thy mournful image strikes my wand'ring eye; +Sad, near thy silent strings, I sit and sigh. +Cold is that band which Music form'd her own, +When ev'ry chord resign'd its sweetest tone. +Ah! long, fair source of rapture, shall thou rest, +Silent and sad, neglected and unprest, +'Till years, lov'd shade! superior pow'rs resign, +Or raise one note more eloquent than thine. +Tho' with'ring Sickness mark'd thee in the womb, +And form'd thy cradle but to form thy tomb, +Yet, like a flow'r, she bade thee reach thy prime, +The fairer victim for the stroke of Time. +When fond Invention vainly sought thine ease, +The wave salubrious and the morning breeze,-- +When even Sleep, sweet Sleep! refus'd thy call, +Sleep! that with sweet refreshment smiles on all,-- +When, till the morn, thine eyes, unclos'd and damp, +Trac'd thy sad semblance in the glimm'ring lamp,-- +When from thy face Health's latest relic fled, +Where Hope might flatter, with reluctant tread,-- +Still, darting forward from the weight of woe, +Thy soul with all its energy would glow; +Still with the purest passion wouldst thou prove +The glow of friendship and the warmth of love. +And ah! to sacred Memory ever nigh, +Thy wit and humour claim the passing sigh: +When, thro' the hour, with unresisted skill, +I've seen thee mould each feature to thy will,-- +When friends drew round thee with attentive ear, +Pleas'd with the raill'ry which they could not fear. +Oh! how I've heard thee, with concealing art, +Join in the song, tho' sorrow rent thy heart; +How have I seen thee too, with venial guile, +O'er many an anguish force the faithless smile,-- +Seen suffering Nature check each sigh, each fear, +To rob maternal fondness of a tear! +Alas! those scenes are past!--Vain was the pray'r +That ask'd of Fate to soften and to spare; +Ah! vain, if wit and virtue could not save +Thy youthful honours from an early grave. +But yet, if here my warm fraternal love +May claim alliance with the realms above; +If kindred Nature, with perpetual bloom, +Transplanted springs, and lives beyond the tomb; +Thy pitying soul shall smile upon my grief, +Shall feel a pang that wishes not relief; +In visions still shall shield me as I go, +Along this gloomy wilderness of woe; +Shall still regard me with peculiar pride, +On earth my brother, and in heav'n my guide! +Methinks I see thee reach th' empyrean shore, +And heav'n's full chorus hails one angel more; +While 'mid the seraph-forms that round thee fly, +Thy father meets thee with ecstatic eye! +He springs exulting from his throne of rest, +Extends his arms, and clasps thee to his breast! + +[Footnote A: The piano-forte, on which he excelled.] + + + + +PARODY + +ON + +"_The Golden Days of good Queen Bess_." + + +To my Muse give attention, and deem it not a mystery +If I jumble up together music, poetry, and history, +To sing of the vices of wicked Queen Bess, sir, +Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir, + Detested be the memory of wicked Queen Bess, sir, + Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir. + +In saying she would die a maid, she, England! did amuse ye. +But what she did, and what she died--I hope you will excuse me: +A gallant Earl a miracle of passion for her fed, sir; +She kiss'd him, and she clos'd the scene by striking off his head, sir! + Detested be, &c. + +Oh! rude ungrateful Scotland! had thy desolated Queen, sir, +No blue eyes ever known, nor had she beauteous been, sir, +The envy of our old rival hag she might have baffled, sir, +Nor with her guiltless blood have crimson'd o'er the scaffold, sir. + Detested be, &c. + +She dress'd just like a porcupine, and din'd just like a pig, sir, +And an over-running butt of sack she swallow'd at a swig, sir! +Her brawny maids of honour ate and drank confounded hard, sir, +And droves of oxen daily bled within her palace-yard, sir! + Detested be, &c. + +In ruling she was wonderous tyrannical and surly; +If a patriot only touch'd on the Queen or Master Burleigh, +She'd send a file of soldiers in less than half an hour, sir, +Just to bid him make his speeches to the prisons of the Tow'r, sir! + Detested be, &c. + + + + +REBECCA, + +_A Ballad_. + + +Rebecca was the fairest maid +That on the Danube's borders play'd; +And many a handsome nobleman +For her in tilt and tourney ran; +While fair Rebecca wish'd to see +What youth her husband was to be. + +Rebecca heard the gossips say, +"Alone from dusk till midnight stay +Within the church-porch drear and dark, +Upon the vigil of Saint Mark, +And, lovely maiden! you shall see +What youth your husband is to be." + +Rebecca, when the night grew dark, +Upon the vigil of Saint Mark, +(Observ'd by Paul, a roguish scout, +Who guess'd the task she went about,) +Stepp'd to St Stephen's Church to see +What youth her husband was to be. + +Rebecca heard the screech-owl cry, +And saw the black bat round her fly; +She sat, 'till, wild with fear, at last +Her blood ran cold, her pulse beat fast; +And yet, rash maid! she stopp'd to see +What youth her husband was to be. + +Rebecca heard the midnight chime +Ring out the yawning peal of time, +When shrouded Paul, unlucky knave! +Rose like a spectre from the grave; +And cried, "Fair maiden, come with me. +For I your bridegroom am to be." + +Rebecca turn'd her head aside, +Sent forth a hideous shriek, and died! +While Paul confess'd himself, in vain, +Rebecca never spoke again! +Ah! little, hapless maid! did she +Think Death her bridegroom was to be. + +Rebecca! may thy story long +Instruct the giddy and the young. +Fright not, fond youths! the timid fair; +And you too, gentle maids! beware; +Nor seek by lawless arts to see +What youths your husbands are to be. + + + + +LINES + +TO AN AURICULA, BELONGING TO ----. + + +Thou rear'st thy beauteous head, sweet flow'r +Gemm'd by the soft and vernal show'r; + Its drops still round thee shine: +The florist views thee with delight; +And, if so precious in _his_ sight, + Oh! what art thou in _mine_? + +For she, who nurs'd thy drooping form +When Winter pour'd her snowy storm, + Has oft consol'd me too; +For me a fost'ring tear has shed,-- +She has reviv'd my drooping head, + And bade me bloom anew. + +When adverse Fortune bade us part, +And grief depress'd my aching heart, + Like yon reviving ray, +She from behind the cloud would move, +And with a stolen look of love + Would melt my cares away. + +Sweet flow'r! supremely dear to me, +Thy lovely mistress blooms in thee, + For, tho' the garden's pride, +In beauty's grace and tint array'd, +Thou seem'st to court the secret shade, + Thy modest form to hide. + +Oh! crown'd with many a roseate year, +Bless'd may she be who plac'd thee here, + Until the tear of love +Shall tremble in the eye to find +Her spirit, spotless and refin'd, + Borne to the realms above! + +And oft for thee, sweet child of spring! +The Muse shall touch her tend'rest string; + And, as thou rear'st thine head, +She shall invoke the softest air, +Or ask the chilling storm to spare, + And bless thy humble bed. + + + + +LINES + +TO LADY WARREN, + +_On the Departure of Sir John Borlase Warren, K.B_. + +TO TAKE THE COMMAND OF A SQUADRON. + + +Oh! why does sorrow shade thy face, +Where mind and beauty vie with grace? +Say, dost thou for thy hero weep, +Who gallantly, upon the deep, +Is gone to tell the madd'ning foe, +Tho' vict'ry laid our Nelson low, +We still have chiefs as greatly brave, +Proudly triumphant on the wave? +Dear to thy Country shall thou be, +Fair mourner! and her sympathy +Is thine; for, in the war's alarms, +Thou gav'st thine hero from thine arms; +And only ask'd to sigh alone, +To look to heav'n, and weep him gone. +Oh! soon shall all thy sorrow cease, +And, to thine aching bosom, peace +Shall quick return;--another tear +To love and joy, supremely dear, +Shall give thy gen'rous mind relief-- +That tear shall gem the laurel leaf. + + + + +LINES + +TO MISS ----, + +ACCOMPANIED BY A ROSE AND A LILY. + + + +I look'd the fragrant garden round + For what I thought would picture best + Thy beauty and thy modesty; +A lily and a rose I found,-- + With kisses on their leaves imprest, + I send the beauteous pair to thee. + + + + +SONG. + + +Nature's imperfect child, to whom +The world is wrapt in viewless gloom, +Can unresisted still impart +The fondest wishes of his heart. + +And he, to whose impervious ear + The sweetest sounds no charms dispense, +Can bid his inmost soul appear + In clear, tho' silent, eloquence. + +But we, my Julia, not so blest, + Are doom'd a diff'rent fate to prove,-- +To feel each joy and hope supprest + That flow from pure, but hidden, love. + + + + +IMPROMPTU LINES, + +UPON ANACREON MOORE'S SAYING THAT HE DISLIKED +SINGING TO MEN. + + +By Beauty's caresses, like Cupid, half-spoil'd, +Thus Music's and Poesy's favourite child +Exclaim'd,--"'Tis, by Heaven! a terrible thing +Before a _he_-party to sit and to sing!" +"By my shoul! Master Moore, you there may be right," +Said a son of green Erin; "tho' dear to my sight +Are all the sweet cratures, call'd women, I swear, +Yet I think we can feel just as well as the fair: +Tho' you'd bribe us with songs, blood and 'ounds! let me say, +I'd not be a woman for one in your way." + + + + +LINES TO JULIA. + + +Tho', Julia, we are doom'd to part, +Tho' unknown pangs invade this heart, +For thee the light of love shall burn, +To thee my soul in secret turn: +Upon this bosom, swell'd with care, +The thought of thee shall tremble there +'Till Time shall close these weeping eyes, +And close the soothing source of sighs. +So, in the silence of the night, +Shines on the wave the lunar light; +With its soft image, bright, imprest, +It heaves, and seems to know no rest: +Its agitation soon is o'er; +It sighs, and dies along the shore! + + + + +LINES + +_To the Memory of Mrs. A.H. Holdsworth_, + +LATE OF MOUNT GALPIN, DEVONSHIRE. + + +Tyrant of all our loves and friendships here, + Behold thy beauteous victim!--Ah! tis thine +To rend fond hearts, and start the tend'rest tear + Where joy should long in cloudless radiance shine. + +Alas! the mourning Muse in vain would paint, + Blest shade! how purely pass'd thy life away, +Or, with the meekness of a favour'd saint, + How rose thy spirit to the realms of day. + +'Twas thine to fill each part that gladdens life, + Such as approving angels smile upon;-- +The faultless daughter, parent, friend, and wife,-- + Virtues short-lived! they set just as they shone. + +Thus, in the bosom of some winding grove, + Where oft the pensive melodist retires, +From his sweet instrument, the note of love, + Charms the rapt ear, but, as it charms, expires. + +Farewell, pure spirit! o'er thine early grave + Oblivion ne'er shall spread her freezing shade; +Nature shall bid her richest foliage wave + Where her reposing fav'rite child is laid. + +There widow'd fondness oft, when summers bloom. + Shall with thy infant pledge of love repair; +Oft shall they kneel beside thy mossy tomb, + And tears shall dew the flow'rs that blossom there. + + + + +LINES + +_Written upon a Watch-String_, + +MADE AND PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ----. + + +Say, lovely Charlotte! will you let me prove +What diff'rent thoughts thy taste and beauty move? +This woven chain, which graceful skill displays, + Leads me to think of time, and heave a sigh; +But when on thee and on thy charms I gaze, + Time unremember'd moves, or seems to die. + + + + +LINES + +_Upon a Diamond Cross_, + +WORN ON HER BOSOM BY MISS C.M. + + +Well on that neck, sweet Kitty! may you wear + The sparkling cross, with hopes to soften Heaven; +For trust me, tho' so very young and fair, + Thou hast some little sins to be forgiven:-- +For all the hopes which wit and grace can spread, + For all the sighs which countless charms can move, +Fall, lovely Kitty! on thy youthful head; + Yet fall they gently--for the crime is love. + + + + +LINES TO FORTUNE, + +Occasioned by a very amiable and generous Friend of mine +munificently presenting Miss E.S. with a Donation of +Fifteen Thousand Pounds. + + +Oh, Fortune! I have seen thee shed + A plenteous show'r of treasure down +On many a weak and worthless head, + On those who but deserv'd thy frown. + +And I have heard, in lonely shade, + Her sorrows hapless Merit pour; +And thou hast pass'd the drooping maid, + To give some pamper'd fav'rite more. + +But tho' so cold, or strangely wild, + It seems that worth can sometimes move; +Thou hast on gentle Emma smil'd, + And thou hast smil'd where all approve:-- + +For Nature form'd her gen'rous heart + With ev'ry virtue, pure, refin'd; +And wit and taste, and grace and art, + United to illume her mind. + +So dew-drops fall on some rare flow'r, + That merits all their fost'ring care, +As tho' they knew that, by their pow'r, + Grateful 'twould wider scent the air. + + + + +A SONG. + +THE LOVER + +THE LUTE OF HIS DECEASED MISTRESS. + + +Alas! but like a summer's dream + All the delight I felt appears, +While mis'ry's weeping moments seem + A ling'ring age of tears. + +Then breathe my sorrows, plaintive lute! + And pour thy soft consoling tone, +While I, a list'ning mourner mute, + Will call each tender grief my own. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN IN A COTTAGE BY THE SEA-SIDE + +(_In which the Author had taken Shelter during a violent Storm_), + +UPON SEEING AN IDIOTIC YOUTH SEATED IN THE CHIMNEY-CORNER, CARESSING A +BROOM. + + +'Twas on a night of wildest storms, + When loudly roar'd the raving main,-- +When dark clouds shew'd their shapeless forms, + And hail beat hard the cottage pane,-- + +Tom Fool sat by the chimney-side, + With open mouth and staring eyes; +A batter'd broom was all his pride,-- + It was his wife, his child, his prize! + +Alike to him if tempests howl, + Or summer beam its sweetest day; +For still is pleas'd the silly soul, + And still he laughs the hours away. + +Alas! I could not stop the sigh, + To see him thus so wildly stare,-- +To mark, in ruins, Reason lie, + Callous alike to joy and care. + +God bless thee, thoughtless soul! I cried; + Yet are thy wants but very few: +The world's hard scenes thou ne'er hast tried; + Its cares and crimes to thee are new. + +The hoary hag[A], who cross'd thee so, + Did not unkindly vex thy brain; +Indeed she could not be thy foe, + To snatch thee thus from grief and pain. + +Deceit shall never wring thy heart, + And baffled hope awake no sighs; +And true love, harshly forc'd to part, + Shall never swell with tears thine eyes. + +Then long enjoy thy batter'd broom, + Poor merry fool! and laugh away +'Till Fate shall bid thy reason bloom + In blissful scenes of brighter day. + +[Footnote A: It is generally believed by the peasants of Devonshire +that idiotcy is produced by the influence of a witch.] + + + + +LINES + +_To a Laurel-Leaf_, + +SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ----. + + +Tho' unknown is the hand that bestow'd thee on me, + Sweet leaf! ev'ry fibre I'll warm with a kiss: +With the fame of her beauty thou well dost agree, + Whose presence shews conquest, whose triumph is bliss! + + + + +LINES + +OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF LIEUTENANT J----, + +_Who was killed by a Pistol-Shot_, + +ACCIDENTALLY DISCHARGED BY HIS FRIEND, + +CAPTAIN B----. + + +With horror dumb, tho' guiltless, stood + Beside his dying friend, +The hapless wretch who made the blood + Sad from his side descend! + +"Give me thy hand; lov'd friend, adieu!" + The gen'rous suff'rer cried! +"I do forgive and bless thee too;" + And, having said it, died! + +And Pity, who stood trembling near + Knew not for which to shed, +So claim'd by both, her saddest tear-- + The living or the dead! + + + + +LINES + +TO AN ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY, + +Whose Timidity frequently agitated her, when pressed to gratify her +Friends by her Musical Talents. + + +'Tis said (and I believe it too) + That genuine merit seeks the shade; +Blushing to think what is her due, + As of her own sweet pow'rs afraid:-- + +Thus, lovely maid! on fluttering wings, + Thy pow'rs a thousand fears pursue, +Which, like thy own harmonious strings, + When press'd _enchant_, and _tremble_ too! + +The pity, which we give, you owe, + For mutual fears on both attend; +While anxious thus you joy bestow, + We fear too soon that joy will end! + + + + +LINES + +TO MISS L---- D----. + + +When Heav'n, sweet Laura! form'd thy mind, +With genius and with taste refin'd, + As if the union were too bright, +It spread the veil of diffidence, +That ev'ry ray, at first intense, + Might shine as soft as lunar light. + +To frame a form then Nature strove, +And call'd on Beauty and on Love, + To lodge the mind they priz'd so well: +Completed was the fair design; +Thus blended dew-drops mildly shine + Within the lily's spotless bell! + + + + +LINES[A] + +_Written in a beautiful Spot_, + +THE FAVOURITE RETREAT OF DELIA. + + +Streams ever limpid, fresh, and clear, +Where Delia's charms renew'd appear, +Ye flow'rs that touch'd her snowy breast, +Ye trees whereon she lov'd to rest, +Ye scenes adorn'd where'er she flies, +If grief shall close these woe-worn eyes, +May some kind form, with hand benign, +My body with this earth enshrine, +That, when the fairest nymph shall deign +To visit this delightful plain, +That, when she views my silent shade, +And marks the change her love has made, +The tear may tremble down her face, +As show'rs the lily's leaves embrace; +Then, like the infant at the breast, +That feels a sorrow unexprest, +That pang shall gentle Delia know, +And silent treasure up her woe. + +[Footnote A: I am indebted to Petrarch for some of the imagery +contained in these Lines.] + + + + +VALENTINE VERSES, + +_Sent to my young Friend, Miss Emma Trevelyan_, + +OF WALLINGTON-HOUSE, NORTHUMBERLAND. + + +Emma! 'tis early time for thee +To hear the sounds of minstrelsy, +That breathe around the rosy shrine +Of honest old Saint Valentine. + +Too young art thou for strains of love; +'Tis not thy passion I would move; +Instead of lover's strains, I send +The cordial wishes of a friend. + +Nobly has Nature done her duty, +To give thee of thy mother's beauty +So large a share--oh! then be thine +The mental charms that in her shine! + +And may thy father's taste refin'd +Still add new graces to thy mind; +And may'st thou to each charm impart +The gen'rous frankness of his heart. + +Then, my sweet Emma! thou shall move +In many a heart more genuine love +Than ever warm'd poetic line, +Or sigh'd in any Valentine. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN UPON SEEING A BLIND YOUNG WOMAN IN NORTH WALES, + +Who supports herself, and an aged and infirm Mother, by selling +Stockings and Gloves of her own Knitting, which she offers to +Travellers as they pass by; in doing which she has been known +to run close by the Side of a Carriage for several Miles. + +POOR BLIND BET. + + +The morning purple on the hill, + The village spire, the ivy'd tow'r, +The sparkling wheel of yonder mill, + The grove, green field, and op'ning flow'r, + Are lost to thee! + +Dark child of Nature, as thou art! + Yet thy poor bosom heaves no sigh; +E'en now thy dimpling cheeks impart + Their knowledge of some pleasure nigh:-- + 'Tis good for thee! + +Thou seem'st to say "I've sunshine too; + 'Tis beaming in a spotless breast; +No shade of guilt obstructs the view, + And there are many not so blest, + Who day's blush see. + +"Dear are those eyes, by mine ne'er seen, + Which I protect from many a tear; +Kind stranger! 'tis on yonder green + A mother's aged form I rear: + Oh! buy of me!" + + + + +LINES + +UPON SEEING ---- + +_At one of the annual Banquets given in Guildhall_. + + +Gorgeous and splendid was the sight; +From myriad lamps a fairy light +Enshrin'd in wreaths the Gothic wall, +And heav'nly music fill'd the hall! + +But there was one--(alas! that I +Had ever seen)--the melody +Her voice surpassed, and brighter far +Her eyes than ev'ry mimic star! + +I gaz'd, until, oh! thought divine! +I fancied she I saw was mine; +But soon the beauteous vision flew-- +The stranger-form I lov'd withdrew. + +Yet still she lives within my breast, +There mem'ry has her form imprest:-- +Thus, when some minstrel's strain is done, +Sounds seem to breathe, for ever gone! + + + + +YARRIMORE. + +[These Lines were written for a Lady who set them to Music.] + + +My poor heart flutters like the sea + Now heaving on the sandy shore; +It seems to tell me you shall be + Never again near Yarrimore. + +Far, far beyond the waves, I bend + Mine eyes, if I can land explore; +But o'er the waves I find no end,-- + Yet there they say's my Yarrimore. + +The hut he built is standing still, + Deck'd with the shells he cull'd from shore; +Our bow'r is waving on the hill, + But where, alas! is Yarrimore? + +Within that bow'r I'll sit and sigh, + From dawn of day till day is o'er; +And, as the wild winds o'er me fly, + I'll call on gentle Yarrimore! + + + + +LINES TO MISS ----, + +Upon her appearing at a Ball in an elegant Plaid Dress, + +AND HAVING REPEATEDLY BEFORE EXPRESSED HER PREFERENCE +OF THE SCOTISH NATION. + + +Is it that plaided thus you wish to prove +How northern is the region of your love? +Ah, Mary! tho', within that far-fam'd clime, +Deeds have been done that mock the wreck of Time; +Tho' there the brave have bled, or, o'er the wave, +On distant shores have found a glorious grave; +Tho' there the mountain-nymph of song has pour'd +Her loftiest strain, to bless the hero's sword; +Still, lovely wand'rer, with a jealous eye, +O'er Scotia's hills we see thy fancy fly; +For _here_ the warrior oft has rais'd his sword, +The patriot too his noble blood has pour'd; +_Here_ too the sweet Recorder of the brave +Has sat and sung upon her hero's grave. +Then cease, romantic maid! ah, cease to rove; +The very wood-dove loves its native grove: +Oh! then, let Nature bid thy guileless heart +Here shed its love, and all its warmth impart; +And on the land that gave thee birth bestow +The fondness which it claims, and treasures too. + + + + +A SONG. + +TO THE MOON. + + +Thou, lamp! the gods benignly gave, + To light a lover on his way; +Thou, Moon! along the silv'ry wave, + Ah! safe this flutt'ring heart convey:-- + +Sweet is thy light, and sweet thy shade, + The _guide_ and _guardian_ of our bliss, +A lover's panting lips to lead, + Or veil him in the ravish'd kiss. + +Her white robe floats upon the air; + My Lyra hears the dashing oar: +Ye floods, oh! speed me to my fair! + My soul is with her long before. + +Oh! lightly haste, thy lover view, + And ev'ry anxious fear resign; +Ye tow'rs, no longer fear'd, adieu! + The treasure which ye held is mine! + + + + +LINES + +_Upon the Death of the Lady of Lieutenant-Colonel Adams_, + +WHO LATELY DIED OF A DECLINE IN THE EAST INDIES. + + +When Time a mellowing tint has thrown + O'er many a scene to mem'ry dear. +It scatters round a charm, unknown + When first th' impression rested there. + +But, oh! should distance intervene, + Should Ocean's wave, should changeful clime. +Divide--how sweeter far the scene! + How richer ev'ry tint of time! + +E'en thus with those (a treasur'd few) + Who gladden'd life with many a smile, +Tho' long has pass'd the sad adieu, + In thought we love to dwell awhile. + +Then with keen eye, and beating heart, + The anxious mind still seeks relief +From those who can the tale impart, + How pass their day, in joy or grief. + +If haply health and fortune bless, + We feel as if on us they shone; +If sickness and if sorrow press, + Then feeling makes their woes our own. + +'Twas thus of Mira oft I thought, + Oft dwelt upon the scenes she grac'd: +Her form in beauty's mould was wrought, + Her mind the seat of sense and taste. + +Long, hov'ring o'er her fleeting breath, + Love kept his watch in silent gloom; +He saw her meekly yield to Death, + And knelt a mourner at her tomb. + +When the night-breeze shall softly blow, + When the bright moon upon the flood +Shall spread her beams (a silv'ry show), + And dark be many a waving wood,-- + +When, dimly[A] seen, in robes of white, + A mournful train along the grove +Shall bear the lamp of sacred light, + To deck the turf of those they love,-- + +Then shall the wood-dove quit its bow'r, + And seek the spot were she is laid; +Its wild and mournful notes shall pour + A requiem to her hallow'd shade. + +And Friendship oft shall raise the veil + Time shall have drawn o'er pleasures past, +And Fancy shall repeat the tale + Of happy hours, too sweet to last! + +But when she mourns o'er Mira's bier, + And when the fond illusion ends, +Oh! then shall fall the genuine tear + That drops for dear departed friends! + +[Footnote A: Mr. Hodges, in his Travels in India, page 28, mentions, +that between Banglepoor and Mobgheir, it is the custom of the women of +the family to attend the tombs of their friends after sun-set; and +observes, "it is both affecting and curious to see them proceeding in +groups, carrying lamps in their hands, which they place at the head of +the tomb."] + + + + +LINES + +TO MISS C. + +_On her leaving the Country_. + + +Since Friendship soon must bid a fond adieu, +And, parting, wish your charms she never knew, +Dear Laura hear one genuine thought express'd, +Warm from the heart, and to the heart address'd:-- +Much do I wish you all your soul holds dear, +To sooth and sweeten ev'ry trouble here; +But heav'n has yielded such an ample store, +You cannot ask, nor can I wish you, more; +Bless'd with a sister's love, whose gentle mind, +Still pure tho' polish'd, virtuous and refin'd, +Will aid your tend'rer years and innocence +Beneath the shelter of her riper sense. +Charm'd with the bright example may you move, +And, loving, richly copy what you love. +Adieu! and blame not if an artless pray'r +Should, self-directed, ask one moment's care:-- +When years and absence shall their shade extend, +Reflect who sighs adieu, and call him--friend. + + + + +LINES + +TO A ROBIN. + +_Written during a severe Winter_. + + +Why, trembling, silent, wand'rer! why, +From me and Pity do you fly? +Your little heart against your plumes +Beats hard--ah! dreary are these glooms! +Famine has chok'd the note of joy +That charm'd the roving shepherd-boy. +Why, wand'rer, do you look so shy? +And why, when I approach you, fly? +The crumbs which at your feet I strew +Are only meant to nourish you; +They are not thrown with base decoy, +To rob you of one hour of joy. +Come, follow to my silent mill, +That stands beneath yon snow-clad hill; +There will I house your trembling form, +There shall your shiv'ring breast be warm: +And, when your little heart grows strong, +I'll ask you for your simple song; +And, when you will not tarry more, +Open shall be my wicket-door; +And freely, when you chirp "adieu," +I'll wish you well, sweet warbler! too; +I'll wish you many a summer-hour +On top of tree, or abbey-tow'r. +When Spring her wasted form retrieves, +And gives your little roof its leaves, +May you (a happy lover) find +A kindred partner to your mind: +And when, amid the tangled spray, +The sun shall shoot a parting ray, +May all within your mossy nest +Be safe, be merry, and be blest. + + + + +LINES TO DELIA, + +ON HER WEARING A MUSLIN VEIL. + + +Say, Delia, why, in muslin shade, + Ah! say, dost thou conceal those eyes? +Such little stars were never made, + I'm sure, to shine thro' misty skies. + +Say, are they wrapt in so much shade, + That they may more successful rise, +Starting from such soft ambuscade, + To catch and kill us by surprise? + +Or, of their various pow'rs afraid, + Is it in mercy to our sighs, +Lest love, o'er many a heart betray'd, + Should sob "a faithful vot'ry dies"? + +Then, oh! remove the envious shade; + Let others wear, who want, disguise: +We all had sooner die, sweet maid, + To see, than live without, those eyes. + + + + +VERSES + +TO THE TOMB OF A FRIEND. + + +Dearer to me, thou pile of dust! + Tho' with the wild flow'r simply crown'd, +Than the vast dome or beauteous bust, + By genius form'd, by wit renown'd. + +Wave, thou wild flow'r! for ever wave, + O'er my lov'd relic of delight; +My tears shall bathe her green-rob'd grave + More than the dews of heav'n by night. + +Methinks my Delia bids me go, + Says, "Florio, dry that fruitless tear! +Feed not a wild flow'r with thy woe, + Thy long-lov'd Delia is not here. + +"No drop of feeling from her eye + Now starts to hear thy sorrows speak; +And, did thy bosom know one joy, + No smile would bloom upon her cheek. + +"Pale, wan, and torpid, droops that cheek, + Whereon thy lip impress'd its red; +Those eyes, which Florio taught to speak, + Unnotic'd close amid the dead!" + +True, true, too idly mourns this heart; + Why, Mem'ry, dost thou paint the past? +Why say you saw my Delia part, + Still press'd, still lov'd her, to the last? + +Then, thou wild flow'r, for ever wave! + To thee this parting tear is given; +The sigh I offer at her grave + Shall reach my sainted love in heaven! + + + + +TIME AND THE LOVER. + + +Oh, Time! thy merits who can know? + Thy real nature who discover? +The absent lover calls thee slow,-- + "Too rapid," says the happy lover. + +With bloom thy cheeks are now refin'd, + Now to thine eye the tear is given; +At once too cruel and too kind,-- + A little hell, a little heaven. + +Go then, thou charming myst'ry, go!-- + Yes, tho' thou often dost amuse me, +Tho' many a joy to thee I owe, + At once I thank thee and abuse thee. + + + + +A ROUNDELAY. + + +Wide thro' the azure blue and bright +Serenely floats the lamp of night; +The sleeping waves forget to move, +And silent is the cedar grove; +Each breeze suspended seems to say-- +"Now, Leline, for thy Roundelay!" + +My Delia's lids are clos'd in rest; +Ah! were her pillow but my breast! +Go, dreams! one gentle word impart, +In whispers place me by her heart; +While near her door I'll fondly stray, +And sooth her with my Roundelay. + +But, ah! the Night draws in her shade, +And glimm'ring stars reluctant fade: +Yet sleep, my love! nor may'st thou feel +The pangs which griefs like mine reveal: +Adieu! for Morning's on his way, +And bids me close my Roundelay. + + + + +FAREWELL LINES + +TO + +_BRISTOL HOT WELLS_. + + +Bristol! in vain thy rocks attempt the sky, + The wild woods waving on their giddy brow; +And vainly, devious Avon! vainly sigh + Thy waters, winding thro' the vales below;-- + +In vain, upon thy glassy bosom borne, + Th' expected vessel proudly glides along, +While, 'mid thy echoes, at the break of morn + Is heard the homeward ship-boy's happy song;-- + +For, ah! amid thy sweet romantic shade, + By Friendship led, fair drooping Beauty moves; +Thy hallow'd cup of health affords no aid, + Nor charm thy birds, that chant their woodland loves. + +Each morn I view her thro' thy wave-girt grove, + Her white robe flutt'ring round her sinking form; +O'er the sweet ruin shine those eyes of love, + As bright stars beaming thro' a midnight storm. + +Here sorrowing Love seeks a sequester'd bow'r. + Calls on thy spring to calm his troubled breast; +Bright Hope alights not on his pensive hour, + Nor can thy favour'd fountains yield him rest. + +Despair across his joys now intervenes, + And sternly bids the little cherub fly; +While his eyes close amid thy beauteous scenes. + His last sighs bless the form that bids him die. + +Farewell, then, Bristol! thou canst yield no joy, + Thy woods look darken'd with funereal gloom, +Sickness and Sorrow on thy green banks sigh, + And all thy form is but a beauteous tomb. + +Ah! may each future suff'rer, hov'ring near, + Rais'd by thy genial wave, delighted view +Returning joy and health, supremely dear, + Long lost to him who sadly sighs adieu! + + + + +A SONG. + + +These shades were made for Love alone,-- + Here only smiles and kisses sweet +Shall play around his flow'ry throne, + And doves shall sentinel the seat. + +Come, Delia! 'tis a genial day; + It bids us to his bow'r repair:-- +"But what will little Cupid say?"-- + "Say! sweet?--why, give a welcome there." + +There not a tell-tale beam shall peep + Upon thy beauty's rich display,-- +There not a breeze shall dare to sweep + The leaves, to whisper what we say. + + + + +LINES + +ON LADY W---- APPEARING AT THE EXHIBITION. + + +When lovely Delphine sought the crowded scene, + The painter's mimic pow'r no longer mov'd; +All turn'd to gaze upon her beauteous mien, + None envied her, for, as they look'd, they lov'd. + +Amid the proud display of forms so fair, + Of each fine tint the pencil can impart, +Nature with rapture seem'd to lead her there, + To prove how she could triumph over Art. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN AT BRIGHTON. + + +From Mirth's bright circle, from the giddy throng, + How sweet it is to steal away at eve, +To listen to the homeward fisher's song, + Whilst dark the waters of the ocean heave;-- + +And on the sloping beach to bear the spray + Dash 'gainst some hoary vessel's broken side; +Whilst, far illumin'd by the parting ray, + The distant sail is faintly seen to glide. + +Yes, 'tis Reflection's chosen hour; for then, + With pensive pleasure mingling o'er the scene, +Th' erratic mind treads over life again, + And gazes on the past with eye serene. + +Those stormy passions which bedimm'd the soul, + That oft have bid the joys it treasur'd fly, +Now, like th' unruffled waves of Ocean, roll + With gentle lapse--their only sound a sigh. + +The galling wrong no longer knits the brow, + Ambition feels the folly of her aim; +And Pity, from the heart expanding, now + Pants to extend relief to ev'ry claim. + +Thus, as I sit beside the murm'ring sea, + And o'er its darkness trace light's parting streak, +I feel, O Nature! that serenity + Which vainly poetry like mine can speak! + +O'er the drear tract of Time, Remembrance views + Some dear, some long-departed, pleasure gleam;-- +So o'er the dark expanse the eye pursues + Upon the wat'ry edge a transient beam. + +The spot fraternal love has sacred made, + Solemn, yet sweet, like groves in twilight gloom, +Mem'ry revisits, and beneath its shade + Faintly it sees each faded joy re-bloom. + +By Fancy led, from Death's cold bed of stone, + Lovely, tho' wan, what cherish'd form appears? +Oh! gentle Anna[A]! at thy name alone, + Genius, and Grace, and Virtue, smile in tears. + +Half-wrapp'd in mist I see thy figure move, + O'er thy pale cheek appears its wonted smile; +With lunar lustre beam those looks of love, + That once could life of ev'ry care beguile: + +Faintly I hear thy angel-voice again; + There's music in the sweet and dying sound; +Like Philomela's soft and echo'd strain, + It spreads a soothing consolation round. + +Adieu, bless'd shade!--Imagination roves + To distant regions, o'er th' Atlantic wave; +Ah! not to genial skies, or fragrant groves, + To drop a tear upon a kindred grave. + +Hard was thy fate, Eliza[B]!--It was thine, + Tho' wit thy mind, tho' beauty grac'd thy form, +Behind Affliction's weeping cloud to shine, + With star-like radiance, in a night of storm. + +Fierce from the sun the fiery fever flew, + And bade the burning sand become thy tomb! +O'er thee no willow drops its mourning dew, + Nor spotless lilies o'er thy bosom bloom! + +Oh! when we stood around our brother's bier, + And wept in life's full bloom to see him torn, +Ah! little did ye think that such a tear + As then ye shed so soon your fate would mourn. + +Farewell, dear shades! accept this mournful song, + At once the tribute of my grief and love; +Fain would it try your virtues to prolong, + Here priz'd and honour'd, and now bless'd above. + +[Footnote A: Mrs. Hodges, a sister of the author.] + +[Footnote B: Mrs Fountaine, another sister of the author, who +accompanied her husband to Africa, and died at the Government-house, +in one of the British settlements on that coast, where she survived +but a short time the death of three of her children.] + + + + +ECHO. + + +Echo! thou sweet enchantress of the grove! +Oh! cease to answer to the tones of love; +Or teach my Delia in thine art divine, +Thou loveliest nymph! to hear and answer mine! + + + + +OCCASIONAL LINES + +_Repeated at an elegant Entertainment_ + +GIVEN BY LIEUTENANT-COLONEL D---- TO HIS FRIENDS + +IN THE RUINS OF BERRY CASTLE, DEVONSHIRE.[A] + + +By your permission, Ladies! I address ye, +And for the boon you grant, my Muse shall bless ye. +I do not mean in solemn verse to tell +What fate the race of Pomeroy befell; +To trace the castle-story of each year, +To learn how many owls have hooted here; +What was the weight of stone, which form'd this pile, +Will on your lovely cheeks awake no smile: +Such antiquarian sermons suit not me, +Nor any soul who loves festivity. +Past times I heed not; be the present hour +In life, while yet it blooms, my chosen flow'r, +For well I know, what Time cannot disown, +Amidst this mossy pile of mould'ring stone, +That Hospitality was never seen +To spread more social joy upon the green; +Or, when its noble and capacious hall +Rang with the gambol gay, or graceful ball, +More beauty never charm'd its ancient beaux +Than what its honour'd ruins now enclose. +Thanks to the clouds, which from the soaking show'r +Preserve the vot'ries of the present hour; +For, strange to tell, beneath the chilling storm, +Lately the rose reclin'd her frozen form; +Yet since, beneath the favour of the weather, +We are (a laughing group) conven'd together, +Pray let the Muse pursue her merry route, +To shew what pass'd before we all set out. +To some fair damsel, who, intent to charm, +Declares she thinks the weather fine and warm, +Such words as these address her trembling ear-- +"I really think we shall have rain, my dear; +Pray do not go, my love," cries soft mama; +"You shall not go, that's flat," cries stern papa. +A lucky sunbeam shines on the discourse, +The parents soften, and Miss mounts her horse. +Each tickled with some laugh-inspiring notion, +Behold the jocund party all in motion: +Some by a rattling buggy are befriended, +Some mount the cart--but not to be suspended. +The mourning-coach[B] is wisely counter-order'd +(The very thought on impious rashness border'd), +Because the luckless vehicle, one night, +Put all its merry mourners in a fright, +Who, to conduct them to the masquerade, +Sought from its crazy wheels their moving aid. +Us'd to a soleme pace, the creaking load +Bounded unwillingly along the road; +Down came the whole--oh! what a sight was there! +O'er a blind Fiddler roll'd a Flow'r-Nymph fair; +A glitt'ring Spaniard, who had lost his nose, +Roar'd out, "Oh! d--n it, take away your toes;" +A blooming Nun fell plump upon a Jew, +Still to the good old cause of traffic true, +Buried in clothes, exclaim'd the son of barter, +"Got blesh my shoul! you'll shell this pretty garter?" +Here let me pause;--the Muse, in sad affright, +Turns from the dire disasters of that night; +Quite panic-struck she drops her trembling plumes, +And thus a moralizing theme assumes:-- +Know, gentle Ladies, once these shapeless walls, +O'er whose grey wreck the shading ivy crawls, +Compos'd a graceful mansion, whose fair mould +Led from the road the trav'ller, to behold. +Oft, when the morning ting'd the redd'ning skies, +Far off the spiral smoke was seen to rise; +At noon the hospitable board was spread, +Then nappy ale made light the weary head; +And when grey eve appear'd, in shadows damp, +Each casement glitter'd with th' enliv'ning lamp; +Here the laugh titter'd, there the lute of Love +Fill'd with its melody the moon-light grove: +All, all are fled!--Time ruthless stalks around, +And bends the crumbling ruin to the ground: +Time, Ladies, too (I know you do not like him, +And, if a fan could end him, you would strike him), +Will with as little gallantry devour +From your fair faces their bewitching pow'r; +Then, like these ruins, beauteous in decay, +Still shall you charm, and men shall still obey: +Then, with remembrance soft, and tender smile, +Perchance you'll think upon this mossy pile; +And, with a starting tear of joy declare, +"Oh! how we laugh'd, how merry were we there!" + +[Footnote A: The manor of Berry was given by William the Conqueror to +one of his Normans, Ralph de la Pomerai, who built on it the castle +which still bears his name, and in whose family it continued till the +reign of Edward VI. when it was sold by Sir Thomas Pomeroy to Edward +Seymour, Duke of Somerset, from whom it has descended to the present +Duke. + +The castle is seated upon a rock, which rises almost perpendicularly +from a narrow valley; through this valley winds a small stream of +water, which drives the mill seen through the foliage of the +surrounding woods from the turrets of the castle. + +In approaching the castle from the south, the path leads down the +side of a hill through a thick wood; and on the north side of the +valley, opposite the rock on which the castle stands, is a high ridge, +partly covered with oak: these hills completely shut in the ruins on +both sides. The valley stretches a considerable way both to the east +and west, and opens a view at either end into the adjacent country. + +From the ivy-covered ruins of the fortress which now remain, it is +scarcely possible to say what was its ancient form; but it is most +generally supposed to have been quadrangular, having only one +entrance, a large double portcullis, at the west end of the southern +front, turreted and embattled, as was the whole of the front, with a +tower at its eastern end, corresponding with that on the west. This +front, with its gateway and turrets, are perhaps the only remains of +the original structure. Winding steps, now almost worn away, lead to +what once was a chapel, over the portcullis, and thence to the top of +the turrets. + +In more modern times a magnificent building was erected within the +walls of the castle by the Seymour family; but, although upwards of +20,000 were said to have been expended on it, it was never finished, +and now the whole forms one common ruin, which, as it totters on it +base, the spectator contemplates with awe, while he sighs over the +remains of fallen grandeur.] + +[Footnote B: A party from Totness went to Lord Courtenay's masquerade +in this way, there being no other conveyance to be had, and met with +the ridiculous accident here alluded to.] + + + + +LINES + +TO SIR ROBERT KER PORTER, + +KNIGHT OF THE IMPERIAL ORDER OF ST. JOACHIM, + +_Upon his approaching Nuptials with the Princess Shebatoff_. + + +To save the credit of the dame, + Poets and painters all agree + That Mistress Fortune cannot see, +And on her bandage cast the blame; + +When honours on th' unworthy wait, + When riches to the wealthy flow, + When high desert, oppress'd by woe, +Is left to struggle on with Fate. + +But, Porter! when on thee she smil'd, + The fillet from her eyes she mov'd, + To view the merit all approv'd-- +A mind inform'd, a heart unsoil'd. + +She saw thy virtues bright appear; + A son that mothers seldom know, + A brother with affection's glow, +The soldier brave[A], the friend sincere. + +With honours then thy name she grac'd, + And call'd on Love to bless thy arms + With princely rank, with Virtue's charms, +And all the pow'rs of wit and taste. + +[Footnote A: Sir R.K. Porter was attached to the staff in the late +campaign in Spain, and was in nearly every engagement with the enemy.] + + + + +THE FOLLOWING LINES IN FRENCH, + +_Are inscribed upon the Pedestal of a Statue of Cupid_, + +IN A GARDEN AT UTRECHT. + + +_ORIGINAL_. + + N'offrant qu'un coeur la Beaut, + Nud comme la Verit, + Sans armes comme l'Innocence, + Sans ales comme la Constance, + Tel fut l'Amour dans le siecle d'or, +On ne le trouve plus, quoiqu'on le cherche encore. + + +_TRANSLATION_. + +To Beauty give your heart, your sighs, +No other off'ring will she prize; +As Truth should unadorn'd appear, +Behold! the god is naked here! +Like Innocence, he has no arms +But those of sweet, of native, charms; +No wish or pow'r has he to fly, +Like thy pure spirit, Constancy! +Such in the golden age was Love; +But now, oh! whither does he rove? + + + + +THE RHINGAU SONG. + +This is the favourite Song with the Inhabitants of the vine-covered +Region of the Rhingau, an extensive District along the Banks of the +Rhine, where the finest Wines are produced. + + +_ORIGINAL_. + +Bekrantzt mit laub den liebe vollen becher, + Und trinkt ihn frlich leer; +In Gauz Europa ihr herren zecher, + Ist solch, ein wein micht mehr. + +Ihn bringt das vaterland aus seiner fulle, + Wie wr er sonst so gut? +Wie wr er sonst so edel, stille, + Und doch voll kraft und muth? + +Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsre reben: + Gesegnet sey der Rhein! +Da wachsen sie am ufer hin, und geben + Uns diesen labe wein. + +So trinkt ihn dann, und lasst uns alle wege + Uns freun, und frlich seyn; +Und wsten wir, wo jemand traurig lge, + Wir gaben ihm den wein. + + +_TRANSLATION_. + +With wine-leaves crown the jovial cup, + For, search all Europe round, +You'll say, as pleas'd you drink it up, + Such wine was never found. + Such wine, &c. + +Our fathers' land this vine supplies; + What soil can e'er produce +But this, tho' warm'd with genial skies, + Such mild, such gen'rous juice? + Such mild, &c. + +Then shall the Rhine our smiles receive, + For on its banks alone +Can e'er be found a wine to give + The soul its proper tone. + The soul, &c. + +Come, put the jovial cup around, + Our joys it will enhance, +If any one is mournful found, + One sip shall make him dance. + One sip, &c. + + + + +LINES TO HEALTH, + +_Upon the Recovery of a Friend from a dangerous Illness_. + + +Sweet guardian of the rosy cheek! + Whene'er to thee I raise my hands +Upon the mountain's breezy peak, + Or on the yellow winding sands, + +If thou hast deign'd, by Pity mov'd, + This fev'rish phantom to prolong, +I've touch'd my lute, for ever lov'd, + And bless'd thee with its earliest song! + +And oh! if in thy gentle ear + Its simple notes have sounded sweet, +May the soft breeze, to thee so dear, + Now bear them to thy rose-wreath'd seat! + +For thou hast dried the dew of grief, + And Friendship feels new ecstacy: +To Pollio thou hast stretch'd relief, + And, raising him, hast cherish'd me. + +So, whilst some treasur'd plant receives + Th' admiring florist's partial show'r, +The drops that tremble from its leaves + Oft feed some near uncultur'd flow'r. + +For late connubial Fondness hung + Mute o'er the couch where Pollio lay; +Love, Hope, and Sorrow, fixed her tongue, + Thro' sable night till morning grey. + +There, too, by drooping Pollio's side, + Stood Modesty, a mourner meek, +Whilst Genius, mov'd by grief and pride, + Increas'd the blush which grac'd her cheek; + +For much the maiden he reprov'd + For having spread her veil of snow +Upon the mind he form'd and lov'd, + Till she was seen to mourn it too. + +O Health! when thou art fled, how vain + The witchery of earth and skies, +Love's look, or music's sweetest strain, + Or Ocean's softest lullabies! + +Oh! ever hover near his bow'r, + There let thy fav'rite sylphs repair; +Fence it with ev'ry sweet-lipp'd flow'r, + That Sickness find no entrance there. + +So shall his lyre, untouch'd so long, + The tone with which it charm'd regain; +Sweet spirit! thou shall teach his song, + With mine, to breathe the grateful strain. + + + + +AN IRISH SONG + + +Poor Molly O'Flannagan (Lord rest her soul!) +Drank so deeply of whiskey, 'twas thought she would die; +Her fond lover, Pat, from her _nate_ cabin stole, +And stepp'd into Dublin to buy her a pie. + Oh! poor Molly O'Flannagan! + +Tho' chin-deep in sorrow, yet fun he lov'd well; +A pie-man pass'd near, crying "Pies" at his _aise_; +"Here are pies of all sorts."--"Oh! if all sorts you sell, +Then a _twopenny magpie_ for me, if you _plaise_!" + Oh! poor Molly O'Flannagan! + + + + +THE SONG OF GRIEF + + +By the walk of the willows I pour'd out my theme, +The breath of the evening scarce dimpled the stream; +By the waters I stood, like an image of Woe, +And my tears, like the tide, seem'd to tremble and flow. + +Ye green scatter'd reeds, that half lean to the wave, +In your plaintive, your musical, sighs, could ye save +But one note of my charmer, to soften my doom, +I would stay till these willows should arch me a tomb! + +For ye know, when I pour'd out my soul on the lute, +How she hung down her head, so expressively mute! +From my hand she would take it, still breathing my pain; +She would touch it--return it--and smile at the strain. + +Ye wild blooming flow'rs, that enamel this brink, +Like me could ye feel, and like me could ye think, +How sadly would droop ev'ry beautiful leaf! +How soon would your sweetness be wasted with grief! + +She is gone, in a cloud, like the star of the night! +She has left me, heart-broken, to mourn at her flight,-- +To think of the hours she endear'd by her love. +To sigh till again I shall join her above! + + + + +LINES + +UPON HEARING MISS ---- SING AT AN EVENING PARTY. + +THE NIGHTINGALE'S COMPLAINT. + + +The Moon had bespangled the murmuring wave, +The dew-drop had moisten'd the moss of the cave, +The summer night-breeze, like a sigh, was just heard, +When thus flow'd the strains of the dark-warbling bird: + +"I hear a strange melody breathe thro' the grove, +Now swelling with joy, and now melting with love; +Tho' sweet is the sound, yet it should not invade, +Unbidden, my lonely dominion of shade. + +"As long as the stars that now twinkle shall shine, +This willow's my throne, and all nature is mine: +Perchance 'tis the breeze on your desolate lute; +Its strings are now sighing, so long that were mute. + +"Ah! no, silly bird that I am! shall I grieve? +Shall Envy alarm, and shall Folly deceive? +'Tis the voice of Eliza! I hear it again, +Enraptur'd I hear it, nor envy the strain." +Then Philomel flutter'd with tremulous wing +To Eliza--more happy to listen than sing! + + + + +LOVE AND THE SPRING-FLOWER. + + +'Tis pity, ev'ry maiden knows, +Just as she cools, Love warmer grows; +But, if the chill be too severe, +Trust me, he'll wither in a tear. + +Thus will the spring-flow'r bud and blow, +Wrapp'd round in many a fold of snow; +But, if an ice-wind pierce the sky, +'Twill drop upon its bed, and die! + + + + +LINES + +UPON THE REV. MR. C----'S IMPROMPTU COMPOSITIONS + +OF SOME OF BOWLES'S SONNETS. + + +No sweeter verse did e'er inspire +A kindred Muse with all its fire; +Nor sweeter strains could Music lend, +To sooth the sorrows of her friend. + +Associate Genius bids them flow +With sounds that give a charm to woe; +We weep as tho' it were our own, +As if our hearts were play'd upon. + + + + +SONNET. + + +The leaves are flutter'd by no tell-tale gales, + Clear melts the azure in the rosy west, +Scarce heard, the river winds along the vales, + And Eve has lull'd the vocal grove to rest. + +To yon thick elms, my Delia! let us rove, + As slow the glories of the day retire; +There to thy lute breathe dulcet notes of love, + While thro' the vale they linger and expire. + +Those honey'd tones, that melt upon the tongue,-- + Thy looks, serener than the scenes I sing,-- +Thy chaste desires, which angels might have sung, + Alone can quiet in this bosom bring, +Which burns for thee, and, kindled by thine eyes, + Bears a pure flame--the flame that never dies! + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN AT KILKENNY, + +ON THE THEATRICALS OF THAT CITY. + + +Amid the ruins of monastic gloom, + Where Nore's meand'ring waters wind along, +Genius and Wealth have rais'd the tasteful dome, + Yet not alone for Fashion's brilliant throng;-- + +In Virtue's cause they take a noble aim; + 'Tis theirs in sweetest harmony to blend +Wit with Compassion, Sympathy with Fame, + Pleasure the means, Beneficence the end[A]. + +There, if on Beauty's cheek the tear appears + (Form'd by the mournful Muse's mimic sigh), +Fast as it falls, a kindred drop it bears, + More sadly shed from genuine Misery. + +Nor, if the laughter-loving Nymph delight, + Does the reviving transport perish there; +Still, still, with Pity's radiance doubly bright, + Its smiles shed sunshine on the cheek of Care. + +So, if Pomona's golden fruit descend, + Shook by some breeze, into the lake below, +Quick will the dimple, which it forms, extend, + Till all around the joyous circles flow. + +Bless'd be the liberal mind, th' undaunted zeal, + That bade loud Folly from the Stage retire; +That teach us how to think, and how to feel, + And once again our godlike Bard admire! + +Thus aided, see his rescued genius spring; + Again he pours the phrenzy of his song; +With EV'RY FEATHER[B] in his eagle wing, + Once more in majesty he soars along. + +Oft, deck'd with smiles, his spirit shall explore, + Erin! thy beauteous vales and classic ground; +And ev'ry ripple of thy winding Nore + To him shall sweetly as his Avon's sound. + +_22d Oct. 1805_. + +[Footnote A: The theatricals of Kilkenny are supported by gentlemen of +rank and fashion in Ireland, and the profits are applied to charitable +purposes.] + +[Footnote B: Alluding to several fine passages of Shakspeare, which +have been long omitted in representation, but restored at the +theatricals of Kilkenny.] + + + + +EPIGRAM, + +UPON SEEING THE DILAPIDATED STATE OF + +_BETHLEM HOSPITAL_. + + +Well with the _purpose_ does the _place_ agree; +For e'en the very house is _crack'd_, you see. + + + + +EPIGRAM + +ON THE GRAVE OF ROBESPIERRE. + + +_ORIGINAL_. + +Passant, ne pleure point son sort; +Car, s'il vivait, tu serais mort. + + +_TRANSLATION_. + +Nay, passenger, don't mourn his lot; +If he had liv'd, why you had not. + + + + +AN INDIAN MASSACRE-SONG. + + +See, the waves clasp the Sun, as he sinks from our sight, +And Despair sullen rides on the wings of the night; +Lo! he comes, and reproaches our arms with delay,-- +Then arise, let us go where Revenge points the way! + +In the deed should we fall, (since who'll e'er breathe a slave?) +Our free souls shall repose in the realms of the brave; +In the song we shall live, and fresh heroes inspire, +While the son shall exult in the fate of his sire. + +Then know, ye white race! ye too long shake the rod; +By this arm ye shall soon be dismiss'd to your God! +Then demand, if he bade ye torment, why he gave +All the soul of a man to the breast of a slave? + +Then prepare; know our hatchets atone for our wrong, +And our hearts, like our hatchets, are stubborn and strong: +Sleep your last! ye no more shall the morning survey, +Nor shall sorrow arise with the break of the day. + +Yes, remember the lashes that pierc'd thro' our flesh! +See the wounds of our fathers; they open afresh! +In the winds, hark! blue Avrin attends to our call; +I, your chief, will be first in your glories, or fall! + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN ON DELIA, LISTENING TO HER CANARY-BIRD. + + +When thoughtless Delia unconcern'd surveys + Her plumy captive, as he leans to sing, +Lo! while she smiles, the fascination stays + The little heaven of its airy wing. + +Ah! so she tastes the sorrows I impart, + Smiles at the sound, but never feels my pain; +And many a glance deludes my captive heart + To sigh in numbers, tho' I sigh in vain! + + + + +THE HECTIC. + + +Upon the breezy cliff's impending brow, + With trembling step, the Hectic paus'd awhile; +As round his wasted form the sea-breeze blew, + His flush'd cheek brighten'd with a transient smile: + +Refresh'd and cherish'd by its balmy breath, + He dreamt of future bliss, of years to come; +Whilst, with a look of woe, the spectre, Death, + Oft shook his head, and pointed to his tomb. + +Such sounds as these escap'd his lab'ring breast:-- + "Sweet Health! thou wilt revisit this sad frame; +Slumber shall bid these aching eyelids rest, + And I shall live for love, perchance for fame." +Ah! poor enthusiast!--in the day's decline +A mournful knell was heard, and it was thine! + + + + +VERSES TO MISS M. G----, + +ACCOMPANIED WITH A DRIED HELIOTROPE, + +_Which she had presented to the Author a Year before_. + + +Time, since thou gav'st this flow'r to me, + Has often turn'd his glass of sand; +Perchance 'tis now unknown to thee + That once its breath perfum'd thy hand. + +Oh, lovely maid! that thou may'st see + How much thy gifts my care engage, +I've sent the cherish'd flow'r to thee + Without a blemish, but from age. + +Kiss but its leaves;--one kiss from thee, + And all its sweetness 'twill regain; +And, if I live in memory + Thus honour'd, send it back again! + + + + +LINES + +TO MRS. B----, AT BRISTOL HOT WELLS + + +Tho' nought, amid these darkened groves, + But various groups of death appear, +Scar'd at the sight, tho' fly the Loves, + And Sickness saddens all the year, + +Yet, Clara, where you deign to stay, + Your sense and manners charm us so, +E'en sick'ning Sorrow's self looks gay, + And smiles amid the wreck of woe. + + + + +LINES + +TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH, + +UPON THE PRINTS + +_From her beautiful Drawings of the Birth and Triumph of Cupid_. + + +Once, for a palace, Painting left her grove, + And taught her royal fav'rite's hand to trace +A beauteous maiden's tale of little Love, + His silken wings, soft limbs, and laughing face! + +Then Nature wept o'er each expressive line, + To think the sweet creation so confin'd, +That such a boy, so fair, and so divine, + Was but the playful prattler of her mind; + +And had he near the royal easel flown, + And seen the features of this mimic brother, +He would have known the portrait for his own, + And claim'd the beauteous painter for his mother. + + + + +EPITAPH + +TO THE MEMORY OF A WORTHY MAN, + +_THE REV. MR. SLEEP_, + +CURATE OF KINGSWEAR CHURCH, DEVON, + +_Whose devotional Elocution was remarkably impregnated with +soporific Qualities_. + + +Reader! since Parson Sleep is gone, +And lies beneath yon humble stone, +Whene'er to Kingswear Church we go, + Holy the sabbath-day to keep +(Indeed 'tis right it should be so), + We never more shall go to _sleep_. + + + + +LINES, + +SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A FEMALE FRIEND, + +_Upon an Infant recommended to her Care by its dying Mother_. + + +Bless'd be thy slumbers, little love! + Unconscious of the ills so near; +May no rude noise thy dreams remote, + Or prompt the artless early tear;-- + +For she who gave thee life is gone, + Whose trust it was thy life to rear, +Now in the cold and mould'ring stone + Calls for that artless early tear. + +Sleep on, thou little dreamer! sleep; + For, long as I shall tarry here, +I'll soothe thee; thou shalt never weep, + Tho' flows for thee the tend'rest tear. + +Then be thy gentle visions blest, + Nor e'er thy bosom know that fear, +Which thro' the night disturbs my rest, + And prompts Affection's trembling tear. + + + + +LINES + +ON THE CALEDONIAN HARP BEING SUCCEEDED + +BY THE HIGHLAND BAGPIPES. + + +In days that long have glided by, +Beneath keen Scotia's weeping sky, +On many a hill of purple heath, +In many a gloomy glen beneath, +The wand'ring Lyrist once was known +To pour his harp's entrancing tone. +Then, when the castle's rocky form +Rose 'mid the dark surrounding storm, +The Harper had a sacred seat, +Whence he might breathe his wild notes sweet. +Oh! then, when many a twinkling star +Shone in the azure vault afar, +And mute was ev'ry mountain-bird, +Soft music from the harp was heard; +And when the morning's blushes shed +On hill, or tow'r, their varying red, +Oh! then the harp was heard to cheer, +With earliest sound, th' enraptur'd ear; +Then many a lady fair was known, +With snowy hand, to wake its tone; +And infant fingers press'd the string, +And back recoil'd, to hear it sing. +Sweet instrument! such was thy pow'r, +'Twas thine to gladden ev'ry hour; +The young and old then honour'd thee, +And smil'd to hear thy melody. + +Alas! as Time has turn'd to dust +The temple fair, the beauteous bust, +Thou too hast mark'd his frowning brow; +No Highland echo knows thee now: +A savage has usurp'd thy place, +Once fill'd by thee with ev'ry grace; +Th' inflated Pipe, with swinish drone, +Calls forth applauses once thine own. + + + + +A SONG. + + +When stormy show'rs from Heav'n descend, +And with their weight the lily bend, +The Sun will soon his aid bestow, +And drink the drops that laid it low. + +Oh! thus, when sorrow wrings the heart, +A sigh may rise, a tear may start; +Pity shall soon the face impress +With all its looks of happiness. + + + + +VERSES + +ON AN AUTUMNAL LEAF. + + +Think not, thou pride of Summer's softest strain! + Sweet dress of Nature, in her virgin bloom! +That thou hast flutter'd to the breeze in vain, + Or unlamented found thy native tomb. + +The Muse, who sought thee in the whisp'ring shade, + When scarce one roving breeze was on the wing, +With tones of genuine grief beholds thee fade, + And asks thy quick return in earliest Spring. + +I mark'd the victim of the wintry hour, + I heard the winds breathe sad a fun'ral sigh, +When the lone warbler, from his fav'rite bow'r, + Pour'd forth his pensive song to see thee die;-- + +When, in his little temple, colder grown, + He saw its sides of green to yellow grow, +And mourn'd his little roof, around him blown, + Or toss'd in beauteous ruin on the snow; + +And vow'd, throughout the dreary day to come, + (More sad by far than summer's gloomiest night), +That not one note should charm the leafless gloom, + But silent Sorrow should attend thy flight. + + + + +SONG. + +THE WORDS ADAPTED TO "THE COSSAKA," + +_One of the most ancient of the Russ Airs_. + + +Has Time a changeling made of thee? +Oh! no; and thou art all to me: +He bares the forest, but his pow'rs + Impair not love like ours. + +Tho' sever'd from each other's sight, +When once we meet we shall unite, +As dew-drops down the lily run, + And, touching, blend in one. + +For thee this bosom learnt to grieve, +Another never made it heave; +When present, oh! it was thy throne, + And, absent, thine alone. + +Then may my trembling pilgrim feet +In safety find thy lov'd retreat! +And, if I'm doom'd to drop with care, + Still let me perish there! + + + + +TO MISS ATKINSON, + +ON THE EXTREME DIFFIDENCE WHICH SHE + +DISPLAYS TO STRANGERS. + + +Just as a fawn, in forest shade, + Trembling to meet th' admiring eye, +I've seen thee try to hide, sweet maid! + Thy charms behind thy modesty. + +Thus too I've seen at midnight steal + A fleecy cloud before the wind, +And veil, tho' it could not conceal, + The brilliant light that shone behind. + + + + +LINES + +Upon reading the Journal of a Friend's Tour into Scotland, in which +the picturesque Scenery and the Character of the People are fairly +and liberally stated. + + +Much injur'd, Scotia! was thy genuine worth, +When late the[A] surly Rambler wandered forth + In brown[B] surtout, with ragged staff, + Enough to make a savage laugh! +And sent the faithless legend from his hand, +That Want and Famine scour'd thy bladeless land, + +That with thee Nature wore a wrinkled face, +That not a leaf e'er shed its sylvan grace, + But, harden'd by their northern wind, + Rude, deceitful, and unkind, +Thy half-cloth'd sons their oaten cake denied, +Victims at once of penury and pride. + +Happy for thee! a lib'ral Briton here, +Gentle yet shrewd, tho' learned not severe. + Fairly thy merit dares impart, + Asserts thy hospitable heart, +Proves that luxuriance smiles upon thy plains, +And wit and valour grace thy hardy swains. + +[Footnote A: Dr. Johnson, author of the Rambler.] +[Footnote B: Alluding to his dress, as described by Mr. Boswell.] + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN UPON A HILL, + +_On leaving the Country_. + + +Ah! sweet romantic spot, adieu! +Ere your green fields again I view, +These looks may change their youthful hue. + +Dependence sternly bids me part +From all that ye, lov'd scenes! impart, +Far from my treasure and my heart. + +Tho' winter shall your bloom invade, +Fancy may visit ev'ry shade, +Each bow'r shall kiss the wand'ring maid. + +To busier scenes of life I fly, +Where many smile, where many sigh, +As Chance, not Worth, turns up the die. + + + + +BANKRUPTCY RENDERED EASY. + + +The Cit, relying on his trade, +Which, like all other things, may fade, + Longs for a curricle and villa: +This Hatchet splendidly supplies, +The other Cock'ril builds, or buys, + To charm himself and Miss Hautilla. + +Then swift, O London! he retires, +To be, from all thy smoke and spires, + From Saturday till Sunday, merry: +On Sunday crowds of friends attend; +His house and garden some commend, + And all admire his port and sherry. + +His mistress urg'd him now to play, +And cut to wealth a shorter way, + Now as a bride she heads his table; +But still our Cit observ'd his time. +Returning at St. Cripple's chime, + At least as near as he was able. + +But soon _she_ could not bear the sight +Of town; for walls with bow'rs unite, + As well as smoke with country breezes; +Without the keenest grief and pride +_He_ could not quit his _mares_, and _bride_: + We yield as soon as passion seizes. + +The clock no more his herald prov'd; +Tuesday, nay Wednesday, morn have mov'd, + Ere trembling shopmen saw their master: +Observing neighbours whisper'd round, +That ease might do, with plenty crown'd; + If not, that ruin came the faster. + +His cash grew scarce, his business still, +At variance were his books and till + (For wolves devour when shepherds slumber); +His creditors around him pour, +Seize all his horses, household store, + And only give him up the lumber! + + + + +LINES + +_Written at the Sea-Side in Devonshire_, + +IN THE MONTH OF NOVEMBER, + +WHEN THE SHIPS FROM NEWFOUNDLAND RETURN. + + +Still Summer lingers on these peaceful shores, + Nor yet she quits her rose-erected bow'r; +Tho' oft in many a dew-drop she explores + Her beauties fading in each passing hour! + +Tho' Winter's boist'rous child, November, strays + Amid those scenes that wak'd the poet's lyre, +Shakes his green canopy, and loves to raise, + Of sapless leaves, an altar for his sire. + +Soon shall his wild and stormy sway be o'er; + These lovely scenes shall feel his shortest reign; +And thou, sweet Summer! charming as before, + Shall but retire to dress thyself again. + +Yet Heaven guides, full provident and kind, + With sweet economy, the source of joy, +From grief extracts some comfort for the mind, + And fresh hopes flatter ere the lost annoy. + +See where Connubial Love yon rock ascends, + To hail each sail, while fav'ring breezes blow; +There many an hour she o'er the margin bends, + Her bosom trembling like the floods below. + +Nearer the ocean's graceful burden glides; + Cleav'd by its prow, the lines of water yield: +While adverse mountains, with protective sides, + The Heav'n-directed wand'ring seaman shield. + +The anchor dropp'd, he springs upon the shore, + His wife and children press to meet his kiss; +Half-told, a thousand things they prattle o'er, + And, safe at home, renew their former bliss. + + + + +EPIGRAM, + +ON WINNING A YOUNG LADY'S MONEY AT CARDS. + + +How fairly Fortune all her gifts imparts; +We win your money, Ann, and you our hearts. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN IN A FINE WINTER'S DAY, + +_At the Shooting-Box of my Friend, W. Cope, Esq_. + +NEAR ORPINGTON, KENT. + + +Tho' leafless are the woods, tho' flow'rs no more, +In beauty blushing, spread their fragrant store, +Yet still 'tis sweet to quit the crowded scene, +And rove with Nature, tho' no longer green; +For Winter bids her winds so softly blow, +That, cold and famine scorning, even now +The feather'd warblers still delight the ear, +And all of Summer, but her leaves, is here. +Here, on this winding garden's sloping bound, +'Tis sweet to listen to each rustic sound, +The distant dog-bark, and the rippling rill, +Or catch the sparkling of the water-mill. +The tranquil scene each tender feeling moves; +As the eye rests on Holwood's naked groves, +A tear bedims the sight for Chatham's son, +For him whose god-like eloquence could stun, +Like some vast cat'ract, Faction's clam'rous tongue, +Or by its sweetness charm, like Virgil's song, +For him, whose mighty spirit rous'd afar +Europe's plum'd legions to the hallow'd war; +But who, ah! hapless tale! could not inspire +Their recreant chiefs with his heroic fire; +Who, as _they_ pass'd the tyrant Conqu'ror's yoke, +Felt, as the bolt of Heav'n, the ruthless stroke; +And having long, in vain, the tempest brav'd, +Could breathe no longer in a world enslav'd. + + + + +LINES ON A LITTLE BIRD + +_Singing at the Window of the Author_, + +SOON AFTER THE DEATH OF A BELOVED SISTER. + + +Go, little flutt'rer! seek thy feather'd loves, + And leave a wretched mourner to his woe; +Seek out the bow'rs of bliss, seek happier groves, + Nor here unheeded let thy music flow. + +Yet think me not ungrateful for thy song, + If meant to cheer me in my lone retreat; +Ah! not to thee, my little friend! belong + The pow'rs to soothe the pangs of adverse fate. + +Fly, then! the window of the wretched, fly! + And be thy harmless life for ever blest; +I only can reward thee with a sigh, + And wish that joys may crown thy peaceful nest. + + + + +EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. + + +By painful sickness long severely prest, +Here sinks, on Nature's sacred lap of rest, +A friend, who, in a life too short, display'd +A mind in virtue bright, without one shade. +Hence with unusual grief is Fondness mov'd, +Hence more than Pity's sighs for one belov'd; +Unshaken Honour sheds a manly tear, +And weeping Virtue stops, a mourner here. + + + + +LINES + +TO THE MEMORY OF AN AMIABLE YOUTH, + +OF GREAT PROMISE, + +Whose afflicted Parents received the Intelligence of his having been +drowned, at the very time when his Arrival was expected from +abroad. + + +Dire were the horrors of that ruthless storm, + That for young Lycid form'd a wat'ry grave; +Oh! many wept to see his fainting form + Unaided sink beneath th' o'erwhelming wave. + +Ah! hapless youth! yet, tho' the billowy waste + Has thus, with ruthless fury, snatch'd away +Thy various charms, thy genius, wit, and taste, + From those who fondly watch'd their rich display,-- + +Their cherish'd, lov'd, impression still shall last; + Mem'ry shall ride triumphant o'er the storm, +Shall shield thy gen'rous virtues from the blast, + And Fancy animate again thy form. + +Yes, gentle youth! to her, tho' little known, + Save by the rich effusions of thy lyre, +Th' admiring Muse shall breathe a mournful tone, + And sounds of grief shall o'er the floods expire. + +But, far more grateful to thy pensive shade, + Parental Fondness mourns her Lycid gone, +Lycid! who to her bosom oft convey'd + The liveliest joys to tend'rest feelings known. + +For her the lustre of the dawning day, + With all its charms, no longer yields delight; +And silent sorrow marks its parting ray, + And saddens ev'ry vision of the night. + +Oh! what ecstatic joys inspir'd her breast, + When, fast advancing to thy native shore, +She thought she saw thee in the bay at rest, + And now in fancy heard th' approaching oar. + +Oh! sad reverse! The dire delusive wind, + Which promis'd fair to bring thee to her breast, +Thy youthful honours to the wave consign'd, + And bore thy spirit to the realms of rest + +Ah! had the song of ancient Bard been true, + Had Genius still the pow'r to soothe the storm, +Harmless had been each blast that round thee blew, + And safe and sacred, 'midst its rage, thy form. + +What tho' no marble urn thy relics hold, + Where grief at midnight hour may sit and sigh, +Like gem in amber, Fancy shall enfold + Thy relics in each wave that murmurs by. + +Still shall she listen to thy glowing song, + And dwell with rapture on each vivid line, +Shall round thy lyre, neglected and unstrung, + Of sweetest flow'rs a fun'ral wreath entwine. + +Ah! since thy tuneful song no more shall flow, + Nor here again thy op'ning virtues shine, +May those who, Lycid! lov'd thee living, know + To bear the sorrows of a loss like thine! + +And, while they linger yet another hour + On life's extended, tempest-beaten, strand, +Waiting the gale that shall convey them o'er, + To hail their Lycid in a happier land, + +Oh! may religion lull each sigh to rest, + Teach them a God, in mercy rob'd, to praise, +To know that ev'ry act of his is best, + And, tho' mysterious, still to prize his ways! + + + + +EPIGRAM + +ON THE AUTHOR AND ELIZA FREQUENTLY DIFFERING +IN OPINION. + + +To such extremes were I and Bet + Perpetually driven, +We quarrell'd every time we met, + To kiss, and be forgiven. + + + + +LINES + +TO MY MOTHER, + +_On her attaining her 70th Year_. + + +Oh! with what genuine pleasure do I trace +Each line of that long-lov'd, accustom'd, face, +Where Time, as if enchanted, and imprest +With all the virtues of thy peaceful breast, +Tho' sev'nty varied years have roll'd away, +Still loves to linger, and, with soft decay, +Permits thy cheek to wear a healthy bloom, +In all the grace of age, without its gloom. + +So on some sacred temple's mossy walls, +With feath'ry force, the snow of winter falls! +Yes, venerable parent! may I long +Thus happy hail thee with an annual song. +Till, having clos'd thine eyes in such soft rest +As infants feel when to the bosom prest, +Angels shall bear thy spotless soul away +To realms of pure delight and endless day! + + + + +LINES TO SELINA + + +'Twas when the leaves were yellow turn'd, + Selina, with the gentlest sigh, +Exclaim'd, "For you I long have burn'd, + For you alone, my love! I'll die." + +Unthinking youth! I thought her true, + And, when the trees grew white with snow, +The wint'ry wind with music blew, + So did her love upon me grow. + +The Spring had scarce unlock'd her store, + When lo! in much ungentle strain, +She bade me think of her no more, + She bade me never love again. + +Then did my heart at once reply, + "If you are false, who can be true? +There's nothing here deserves a sigh, + Take this, the last, 'tis heav'd for you." + +Ah! fickle fair! amid the scene + That giddy pleasure may prepare, +A pensive thought shall intervene, + And touch your wand'ring heart with care. + +And when, alone, at eve you rove, + Where arm in arm we oft have mov'd, +Each Zephyr in the well-known grove + Shall whisper that we once have lov'd. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE, + +AT DRONNINGAARD, NEAR COPENHAGEN. + + +Delicious gloom! asylum of repose! + Within your verdant shades, your tranquil bound, +A wretched fugitive[A], oppress'd by woes, + The balm of peace, that long had left him, found. + +Ne'er does the trump of war disturb this grove; + Throughout its deep recess the warbling bird +Discourses sweetly of its happy lore, + Or distant sounds of rural joy are heard. + +Life's checquer'd scene is softly pictur'd here; + Here the proud moss-rose spreads its transient pride; +Close by, the willow drops a dewy tear, + And gaudy flow'rs the modest lily hide. + +Alas! poor Hermit! happy had it been + For thee, if in these shades thy days had past, +If, well contented with the happy scene, + Thou ne'er again had fac'd life's stormy blast! + +And Pity oft shall shed the gen'rous tear + O'er the sad moral which thy days disclose; +There view how restless is our nature here, + How strangely hostile to its own repose. + +[Footnote A: Dronningaard is the first private residence in Denmark: +it belongs to the wealthy family of the De Conincks. The grounds, +which are very extensive, and tastefully laid out, slope down to a +noble lake, twelve English miles in circumference, which is skirted +with fine woods and romantic country-houses. At the end of a +beautiful walk is an elegant marble column, with a tablet, on which +is inscribed by Mr. D.C. "This monument is erected in gratitude to a +mild and beneficent Government, under whose auspices I enjoy the +blessings that surround me." In another part of the grounds, in a +spot of deep seclusion, are the ruins of a Hermitage; and a little +further, in a nook, an open grave and tombstone. The story connected +with this retired spot deserves to be mentioned:--Time has shed many +snows upon the romantic beauties of Dronningaard, since one, who, +weary of the pomp of courts and the tumult of camps, in the prime of +life, covered with honours and with fortune, sought from its +hospitable owner permission to raise a sequestered cell, in which he +might pass the remainder of his days in all the austerities and +privations of an Anchorite. This singular man had, long previously to +the revolution in Holland, distinguished himself at the head of his +regiment, when, in an unhappy moment, the love of aggrandizement took +possession of his heart, and, marrying under its influence, misery +soon followed; and here, in a little wood of tall firs, he raised this +simple fabric: moss warmed it within, and the bark of the birch +defended it without; a stream of rock-water once flowed in a bed of +pebbles before the door, in which the young willow dipped its leaves; +and, at a little distance from a bed of wild roses, the labernum +gracefully rose, and suspended her yellow flowers; and adjoining was a +spot which the Recluse had selected for his grave, of which, like the +monks of La Trappe, he dug a small portion every day until he had +finished it. He composed his Epitaph in French, and had it inscribed +on a stone. If the reader is at much interested as I was in the +history of the poor Hermit, he will be pleased with the translation of +it, which follows, from the pen of my respected and distinguished +friend, William Hayley, Esq. In this solitude he passed several years, +when the plan of his life became suddenly reversed by a letter of +recall, which he received from his Prince, containing the most +flattering expressions of regard. He obeyed the summons, returned to +Holland, and at the head of his regiment most gallantly fought and +fell. + +THE HERMIT'S EPITAPH. + + +Here may he rest, who, shunning scenes of strife, +Enjoy'd at Dronningaard a Hermit's life: +The faithless splendour of a court he knew, + And all the ardour of the tented field, +Soft Passion's idler charm, not less untrue, + And all that listless Luxury can yield. +He tasted, tender Love! thy chatter sweet; +Thy promis'd happiness prov'd mere deceit. +To Hymen's hallow'd fane by Reason led, + He deem'd the path he trod the path of bliss; +Oh! ever-mourn'd mistake! from int'rest bred, + Its dupe was plung'd in misery's abyss: +But Friendship offer'd him, benignant pow'r! +Her cheering hand, in trouble's darkest hour: +Beside this shaded stream, her soothing voice +Bade the disconsolate again rejoice: + Peace in his heart revives, serenely sweet; +The calm content, so sought for as his choice, + Quits him no more in this belov'd retreat.] + + + + +LINES TO MISS E. ATKINSON, + +ON HER PRESENTING THE AUTHOR WITH AN IRISH PEBBLE. + + +Oft does the lucid pebble shine, + Just cover'd by the murm'ring sea; +Thus precious, thus conceal'd, it shews, + Fair maid! thy mind and modesty. + +If searching eyes the stone discern, + Quick will the hand of Art remove +Each ruder part, till, brilliant grown, + It seals the fond record of love. + +And here the sweet connexion ends, + Eliza! 'twixt the gem and thee; +For thou wast polish'd from the first, + By Nature's hand, more happily! + + + + +THE WATER-NYMPH OF THE ROCK. + +[The French is by Bosquillon, which I translated as under, in a +beautiful Swedish island in the Baltic, as I sat by the side of a fine +clear stream of rock-water.] + + +_ORIGINAL_. + +La nymphe qui donne de cette eau +Au plus creux de rocher se cache, +Suivez un example si beau: +Donnez sans vouloir qu'on le sache. + + +_TRANSLATION_. + +The nymph, to whom this stream you owe, + Conceals herself in caves of stone: +Like her your benefits bestow; + Give, without wishing to be known. + + + + +LINES + +UPON MADEMOISELLE DELPHINE SAULOT + +_Singing some equisite Airs_ + +IN THE GARDENS OF MOUSSEAU, NEAR PARIS. + + +In Mousseau's sweet Arcadian dale + Fair Delphine pours the plaintive strain; +She charms the list'ning nightingale, + And seems th' enchantress of the plain. + +Bless'd be those lips, to music dear; + Sweet songstress! never may they move +But with such sounds, to soothe the ear, + And melt the yielding heart to love. + +May sorrow never bid them pour + From the torn heart one suff'ring sigh; +But be thy life a fragrant flow'r, + Blooming beneath a cloudless sky! + + + + +IMPROMPTU TO MADAME C---- + +WRITTEN AT PARIS, + +Upon her appearing equally modestly and elegantly dressed, amidst the +Semi-Nakedness of the Rest of the Female Fashionables. + + +Whilst, in a dress that one might swear +The whole was made of woven air, +Pert Fashion spreads her senseless sway +Over the giddy and the gay +(Who think, by showing all their charms, +Lovers will fly into their arms), +In thee shall Wit and Virtue find +A friend more genial to their mind; +And Modesty shall gain in thee +A surer, chaster, victory. + + + + +SONNET + +UPON A SWEDISH COTTAGE, + +_Written on the Road_, + +WITHIN A FEW MILES OF STOCKHOLM. + + +Here, far from all the pomp Ambition seeks, + Much sought, but only whilst untasted prais'd, +Content and Innocence, with rosy cheeks, + Enjoy the simple shed their hands have rais'd. + +On a gray rock it stands, whose fretted base + The distant cat'ract's murm'ring waters lave, +Whilst o'er its mossy roof, with varying grace, + The slender branches of the white birch wave. + +Around the forest-fir is heard to sigh, + On which the pensive ear delights to dwell, +Whilst, as the gazing trav'ller passes by, + The gray goat, starting, sounds his tinkling bell. +Oh! in my native land, ere life's decline, +May such a spot, so wild, so sweet, be mine! + + + + +LINES + +TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. B---- + + +Ah, stranger! if thy pilgrim footsteps love, + By meditation led, to wander here, +A suff'ring husband may thy pity move, + Who weeps the loss of all his soul holds dear! + +Cold as this mourning marble is that heart, + Which Virtue warm'd with pure and gen'rous heat, +Which to each checquer'd scene could joy impart, + Nor ceas'd to love until it ceas'd to beat. + +Yet, gentle spirit! o'er thine early grave + Shall Consolation, like a seraph, prove, +When Sickness clos'd thy faultless life, she gave + Another angel to the realms above! + + + + +STATE TRICKS + +_Or a Peep into the Cabinet of the Premier Consul_, + +AT ST. CLOUD, + +ON THE NIGHT OF THE 26th OCT. 1803. + +--"they show an outward hideousness, +And speak off half a dozen dang'rous words, +How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst; +And this is all." + +MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, Act V. Scene 4. + + +FIRST CONSUL. + +My dear Talleyrand! I am sorry to send +For you out of your bed; but you know you're my friend: +No secret I hide from your generous breast; +This invasion is always _invading my rest_: +My soldiers, poor devils! are ready to start, +But to stay where I am is the wish of my heart; +And yet I have sworn at their head to appear: +I am puzzl'd to act 'twixt my threats and my fear; +If I go, I am lost!--say, what shall I do? + +TALLEYRAND. + +Why I think I've a snug little project in view: +I have felt for you long, and have ransack'd my brain +To relieve you from so much embarrassing pain. +To-morrow our principal tools shall repair +To this spot, to implore you to stay where you are: +Little Jancourt, you know, has a tear at command, +The rest shall have muslin-wrapp'd onions in hand; +An expedient which you, my good Consul, must try, +For a drop never yet wag observ'd in your eye! +And therefore I think 'twould be better for you +The largest to pluck from the beds of St Cloud. +When these fellows appear, they shall fall at your feet, +Portalis shall pen a few words to repeat; +He shall state 'tis the nation's imperial will +That you do not your _dangerous promise_ fulfil; +But snug in this closet put all into motion, +Nor hazard your life with these sons of the ocean. +_You_ shall say, "I have sworn by my glory to go;" } +_They_ shall all of them blubber out "No, no, no, no!} +It must not, thou world's second saviour! be so. } +If you go, mighty Chieftain! and should not escape, +All Gallia, the world, will be cover'd with crape[A]! +Oh! stay where you are; on our knees we implore!" +Then, apparently chok'd, they shall utter no more. +When thrice sixty seconds have nearly expir'd +(Now mind, my dear Consul, and do as desir'd), +You must mimic some hero you've seen at the play, +Of the tragical cast, when his soul melts away +(And, without any compliment 'twixt you and I, +You re'lly have talents and pow'rs very high, +To make the most striking tragedian alive). +But now to the point. You must tenderly strive +To raise these sweet prostrates; then, heaving a sigh, +And wiping the drops that shall stand in each eye, +Like one sorely cross'd, you shall, weeping, exclaim, +"Oh! why do you tear me from conquest and fame? +But still, if the nation commands me, 'tis fit" +(Your breast thumping hard) "that its Chief should submit." +Then you see, if the army of England should sail, +And the schemes of this cursed armada should fail, +In the _Moniteur's_ faithful official page, +I can humbug the people, and soften their rage; +I will tell them, that, had but the nation permitted +Her Chief to have gone, we had ne'er been outwitted; +That merely the terrible glance of his eye +Would have made all those shop-keeping islanders fly; +This will quiet our friends, and, to harass our foes, +A second invasion I'll slyly propose, +In which, in the van, Buonaparte shall pour +His vengeance divine on that mercantile shore. +Not that I, my dear Premier! conceive 'twould be right +To renew with these cursed tough fellows the fight; +But our people 'twill please, until some new occasion +Shall call from this project the eye of the nation. + +FIRST CONSUL. + +It will do, it will do, my dear Tally! thy brain +Has my terrors remov'd, and "a man I'm again." +I will rise with the dawn, for this scene to prepare; +Denon, with his crayons, so swift shall be there; +The Parisians the subject with rapture will trace +In my Nosegay[B]; I'll hang it up full in their face. +I embrace thee, my dear little Tal! with delight; +_Ca ira! Ca ira_! Thy hand, and good night. + +[The First Consul is said to have enjoyed half an hour's uninterrupted +repose that night. What followed, the next day, all Europe +knows, and all Europe laughs at.] + +[Footnote A: Black crape and the bolt of Heaven are the favourite +rhetorical figures of Napoleon the First.] + +[Footnote B: "Nosegay"--The anti-chamber of the Hall of the Arts in +the Louvre, in which there are many fine paintings, is called, by the +Parisians, Buonaparte's Nosegay.] + + + + +LINES + +TO MISS CHINNERY, OF GILLWELL-HOUSE, + +_Upon her appearing in a Dress_ + +WITH MAY-FLOWERS AND LEAVES TASTEFULLY DISPLAYED. + + +Tell me what taught thee to display + A choice so sweet, and yet so rare, +To prize the modest buds of May + Beyond the diamond's prouder glare? + +Say, was the grateful pref'rence paid + To Nature, since, with skill divine, +So many fairy charms she made, + To grace her fav'rite Caroline? + +Or was it Taste that bade thee try + How soon the richest gem must yield, +In beauty and attractive die, + To this wild blossom of the field? + +Whate'er the cause, in Nature's glow + Well does the choice thyself pourtray; +Thine innocence the blossoms show, + Thy youth the green leaves well display. + + + + +SONG. + + +Ah! if my voice is heard in vain, + This fond, this falling, tear +May yet thy dire intent restrain, + May yet dissolve my fear. + +Th' unsparing wound that lays thee low + Will bend thy Julia too: +Could she survive the fatal blow + Who only lives in you? + + + + +LINES + +TO MRS. A. CLARKE. + + +Within his cold and cheerless cell, +I heard the sighing Censor tell + That ev'ry charm of life was gone, +That ev'ry noble virtue long +Had ceas'd to wake the Minstrel's song, + And Vice triumphant stood alone. + +"Poor gloomy reas'ner! come with me; +Smooth each dark frown, and thou shall see + Thy tale is but a mournful dream; +I'll show thee scenes to yield delight, +I'll show thee forms in Virtue bright, + Illum'd by Heav'n's unclouded beam. + +"See Clarke, with ev'ry goodness grac'd, +Her mind the seat of Wit and Taste; + Tho' Wealth invites to Pleasure's bow'r, +See her the haunts of Woe descend; +Of many a friendless wretch the friend, + Pleas'd she exerts sweet Pity's pow'r. + +"See her, with parent patriot care, +The infant orphan-mind prepare, + Assur'd, without Instruction's aid, +The proudest nation soon will show +A wasted form, a hectic glow, + A robb'd, diseas'd, revolting, shade. + +"See her with Prince-like spirit pour +On genuine worth her ample store[A]; + See her, by ev'ry gentle art, +Protect the plant she loves to rear, +And, as she bathes it with a tear, + Grateful it twines around her heart. + +"And there are more, of kindred mind;"-- +When, with a face more bland and kind, + The Sage, in soften'd tone, replied: +"'Twas Error made to me the den +More grateful than the haunts of men; + Henceforth mankind shall be my pride." + +[Footnote A: This alludes to a munificent donation of a very handsome +fortune, which this Lady presented, without any claim of consanguinity +or connexion, to a young Lady of great merit.] + + + + +LINES + +_To the Tune of "Oh! Lady fair! where art thou going_?" + + +Sing, bird of grief! still eve descending, +And soothe a mind with sorrow rending; +Ne'er may I see the blush of morrow, +But close this night the sigh of sorrow; + +Then, if some wand'rer here directed +Shall find my mossy grave neglected, +May he replace the weed that's growing +With the nearest flow'r that's blowing! + + + + +IMPROMPTU LINES + +UPON A VERY HANDSOME WOMAN + +_Keeping the Hotel de Lion Blanc, at Dantzig_. + + +The sign of the house should be chang'd, I'll be sworn, + Where enchanted we find so much beauty and grace; +Then quick from the door let the _lion_ be torn, + And an _angel_ expand her white wings in his place. + + + + +LINES + +UPON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL INFANT SLEEPING ON THE +BOSOM OF ITS MOTHER. + + +Upon its native pillow dear, + The little slumb'rer finds repose; +His fragrant breath eludes the ear-- + A zephyr passing o'er a rose. + +Yet soon from that pure spot of rest + (Love's little throne!) shalt thou be torn; +Time hovers o'er thy downy nest, + To crown thy baby-brow with thorn. + +Ah! thoughtless! couldst thou now but see + On what a world thou soon must move, +Or taste the cup prepar'd for thee + Of grief, lost hopes, or widow'd love, + +Ne'er from that breast thou'd'st raise thine head, + But thou would'st breathe to Heav'n a pray'r +To let thee, ere thy blossom fade, + In one fond sigh exhale thee there. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN AT FREDENSBORG, + +_The deserted Palace of the late Queen Dowager Juliana Maria_[A]. + + + Bless'd are the steps of Virtue's queen! + Where'er she moves fresh roses bloom; +And, when she droops, kind Nature pours +Her genuine tears in gentle show'rs, + That love to dew the willow green + That over-canopies her tomb. + + But, ah! no willing mourner here + Attends to tell the tale of woe: +Why is yon statue prostrate thrown? +Why has the grass green'd o'er the stone? + Why, 'gainst the spider'd casement drear, + So sullen seems the wind to blow? + + How mournful was the lonely bird, + Within yon dark neglected grove! +Say, was it fancy? From its throat +Issu'd a strange and cheerless note; + 'Twas not so sad as grief I heard, + Nor yet so wildly sweet as love. + + In the deep gloom of yonder dell + Ambition's blood-stain'd victims sigh'd; +While Time beholds, without a tear, +Fell Desolation hov'ring near, + Whose angry blushes seem to tell. + Here Juliana shudd'ring died! + +[Footnote A: This palace, called the Mansion of Peace, is in the road +and near to Elsineur; it was the retreat of the ambitious and +remorseless Juliana Maria, the mother-in-law of Christian VII. whose +intrigues and jealousy sent Brandt and Struensee to the scaffold, and +drove the unhappy Matilda, the mother of the present King of Denmark, +from her throne, and the arms of her royal husband. Juliana died here. +The palace and grounds, parts of which are beautiful, were, when I +visited them in 1804, much neglected.] + + + + +SONG + +Upon the Admiration of the Valour and amiable Qualities of Lord +Nelson, expressed by Junot, now Duke of Abrantes, who, by the +Chances of War, was for a short Time the British Hero's Prisoner. + + +A wreath from an immortal bough +Should deck that gen'rous victor's brow, +Who hears his captive's grateful praise +Augment the thanks his country pays; +For him the minstrel's song shall flow, +The canvass breathe, the marble glow. + + + + +LINES + +UPON A LADY DYING + +_Soon after she had been wrecked on the Cornish Coast_, + +LEAVING A LITTLE INFANT BEHIND HER. + + +Sweet stranger! tho' the merc'less storm +Here sternly cast thy fainting form, +What tho' no kindred hand was near +To wipe away Affliction's tear, + +Yet shall thy gentle spirit own, +Amidst these sea-girt shores unknown, +That Pity pour'd her balmy store, +And kindred hands could do no more. + +Ne'er shall that pang disturb thy rest, +That moves the parted mother's breast; +The object of thy dying fear +Shall want no father's fondness here. + +Oft shall his little lips proclaim, +With April-tears, thy treasur'd name; +His little hands, when summers bloom, +Shall gather flow'rs to deck thy tomb. + + + + +JEU D'ESPRIT + +UPON A VERY PRETTY WOMAN ASKING THE AUTHOR HIS +OPINION OF BEAUTY. + + +Madam! you ask what marks for beauty pass: +Require them rather from your looking-glass! + + + + +LINES + +TO THE MEMORY OF ERASMUS, + +BY OUDAAN, + +Inscribed on the Pedestal of the Statue raised in Honour of the former, +in Rotterdam. + +[_The Original in Dutch_.] + + +_ORIGINAL_. + +Hier rees die groote zon, en ging te Bazel onder! + De Rykstad eer' en vier' dien Heilig in zyn grav; + Dit tweede leeven geevt, die't eerste leeven gav: +Maar 't ligt der taalen, 't zout der zeden, 't heerlyk wonder. + +Waar met de Lievde, en Vreede, en Godgeleerdheid praald, +Word met geen grav gerd nog met zeen beeld betaald: +Dies moet hier't lugtgewele Erasmus overdekken, +Nadien geen mind're plaats zyn tempel kan verstrekken! + + +_TRANSLATION_. + +Erasmus, here, the eloquent and wise, + That Sun of Learning! rose, and spread his beam +O'er a benighted world, thro' low'ring skies, + And shed on Basil's tow'rs his parting gleam. + +There his great relics lie: he bless'd the place: + No proud preserver of his fame shall prove +The Parian pile, tho' fraught with sculptur'd grace: + Reader! his mausoleum is above. + + + + +THE FOLLOWING TWO SONGS + +Were written during a Period when it was confidently believed that the +French would invade our Country. + + +SONG. + +_To the Tune of "Ye Gentlemen of England_." + + +No gentleman of England now sits at home at ease, +But emulates on shore the heroes of the seas; +A common cause unites them, to meet the daring foe, +All they wish, all they ask, is a fav'ring wind to blow. + +Oh! let them come along, and may no tempests low'r, +But fairly may we try our valour and our pow'r, +That Hist'ry may not say, should these robbers be laid low, +To the storm 'tis alone the victory we owe. + +Soon shall these infidels the dreadful diff'rence prove, +'Twixt slaves impell'd by fear, and freemen bound by love; +Our foes shall never rise again, when once they are laid low, +On the sea, on the shore, for justice strikes the blow. + + +SONG. + + + When storms on the ocean + Create high emotion, + It pleases the wish + Of the monarch of fish, +For he gambols and sports in the motion. + + Should a shoal of small fry + Attempt to draw nigh, + With a flap of his tail, + Th' imperial whale +Makes them pay for their rashness, and die. + + Oh! thus, on the seas, + Just with the same ease, + Should the enemy come, + In ship, boat, or bomb, +We will knock them about as we please; + + Till at last they shall cry, + "We are the small fry, + And Britannia's the whale, + By a flap of whose tail, +If we dare to approach her we die." + + + + +SONNET, + +Occasioned by reading an Inscription on the Tombstone of Captain +Christensen, of Krajore, in Norway, who died in consequence of +the Bite of his Dog, when it was mad. + + +Ah! hapless stranger! who, without a tear, + Can this sad record of thy fate survey? +No angry tempest laid thee breathless here, + Nor hostile sword, nor Nature's mild decay. + +The fond companion of thy pilgrim feet, + Who watch'd thee in thy sleep, who moan'd if miss'd, +And sprung with such delight his Lord to greet, + Imbu'd with death the hand he oft had kiss'd. + +And here, remov'd from Love's lamenting eye, + Far from thy native cat'racts' awful sound, +Far from thy dusky forests' pensive sigh, + Thy poor remains repose on alien ground; +Yet Pity oft shall sit beside thy stone, +And sigh as tho' she mourn'd a brother gone. + + + + +IMPROMPTU, + +IN REPLY TO A LADY, + +_Who asked the Author what Childhood resembled_. + + +How like is childhood to the lucid tide + That calmly wanders thro' the mossy dell, +Sweeps o'er the lily by the margin's side, + And, as it kisses, murmurs out, Farewell! + + + + +LINES + +ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY IN GERMANY, + +_Who, until her Sister, honoured the Author by walking with him in +the Evening_. + + +Adieu! dear girl! if we are doom'd to part, +Take with thee, take, the blessing of this heart, +Due to thy gentle mind, and cultur'd sense; +Perhaps 'twill please, but, sure, can't give offence. +Tho', when we met, the solar ray was gone, +And on our steps the moon-beam only shone, +Yet well I mark'd thy form and native grace, +And all the sweet expression of thy face; +And pleas'd I listen'd as thy accents fell, +Accents that spoke a feeling mind so well +Lo, when the birds repose at ev'ning hour, +The sweetest of them carols from her bow'r! +So, when the dews the garden's fragrance close, +The night-flow'r[A] blooms, the rival of the rose! + +[Footnote A: One of the creeping cereuses, usually known by the name +of the night-flower, is said to be as grand and as beautiful as any in +the vegetable system. It begins to open in the evening, about seven +o'clock; is in perfection about eleven, perfuming the air to a +considerable distance, and fades about four in the morning.] + + + + +LINES TO STUDY. + + +O Study! while thy lovers raise +Thy name with all the pow'r of praise, +Frown not, thou nymph with piercing mind! +If in this bosom thou should'st find +That all thy deep, thy brilliant, lore, +Which charm'd it once, now charms no more: +Frown not, if, on thy classic line, +One strange, uncall'd-for, tear should shine; +Frown not, if, when a smile should start, +A sigh should heave an aching heart: +If Mem'ry, roving far away, +Should an unmeaning homage pay, +Should ask thee for thy golden fruit, +And, when thou deign'st to hear her suit, +Should turn her from the proffer'd food, +To tread the shades of Solitude: +Frown not, if, in the humble line, +Ungrac'd by any thought of thine, +Should but that gentle name appear, +Fond cause of ev'ry joy and fear; +I love, tho' rude, I love it more, +Than all thy piles of letter'd lore: +Frown not if ev'ry airy word, +Which Beauty breathes, or Love has heard, +More rich, more eloquently, flow, +To Mem'ry gives a warmer glow, +Than all by thee so much approv'd, +The wit of age on age improv'd. +Go, then! and, since it is denied +That thou shalt be my radiant guide! +Leave me to sigh, to weep, to prove +How little Learning is to Love. + + + + +SONG. + + +Wilt thou, because thy Florio loves, + Forsake the giddy glitt'ring throng, +With him to dwell in peaceful groves, + With him to hear the shepherd's song? + +Can'st thou, without a sigh, resign + The homage by thy charms inspir'd? +To one, oh! say, can'st thou confine + What oft so many have admir'd? + +Sweet maid! oh! bless'd shall be our love, + Till time shall bid it cease to flow; +With thee shall ev'ry moment prove + A little heaven form'd below! + + + + +THE FURY OF DISCORD + + +In a chariot of fire, thro Hell's flaming arch, + The Fury of Discord appear'd; +A myriad of demons attended her march, + And in Gallia her standard she rear'd. + +Thy name, so enchanting, sweet Freedom! she took, + But in vain did she try to assume +Thy smile of content, thy enlivening look, + And thy roseate mountainous bloom. + +For wan was her visage, and phrensied her eye, + At her girdle a poniard she wore; +Her bosom and limbs were expos'd to the sky, + And her robe was besprinkled with gore. + +Nature shudder'd, and sigh'd as the wild rabble past, + Each flow'r droop'd its beautiful head; +The groves became dusky, and moan'd in the blast, + And Virtue and Innocence fled. + +She rose from her car 'midst the yell of her crew; + Emblazon'd, a scroll she unfurl'd, +And on it the dreams of Philosophy drew; + "'Tis the Charter, she cried, of the World." + +Plunder, keen-ey'd and lean, rang with plaudits the sky, + Murder grinn'd as he whetted his steel; +While Blasphemy swore the Redeemer on high + Was the creature of Folly and Zeal. + +The scaffold grew red with the blood of the brave, + Kings turn'd pale on their thrones at her nod; +While Loyalty fled to the gloom of the cave, + And Piety knelt to her God. + +At length, after changing her chiefs at her will, + As their mischievous zeal grew remiss, +She sought a fresh fav'rite, with dexterous skill, + From Obscurity's darkest abyss. + +The pow'rs of her monstrous adoption to try, + 'Midst, Syria! thy waterless waste, +She bade him the blast of thy desert outvie, + And defile all thy relics of taste. + +The chieftain obey'd: with a merciful air + He wrung from thy natives a tear; +But the justice and valour of Britain, e'en there, + Shook his legions, recoiling with fear. + +Well-pleas'd with his crimes, the Fury, with flight, + To her empire safe wafted him o'er; +Whilst the spectres of Jaffa, with ghastly delight, + The murd'rer pursued to the shore. + +Arriv'd, for his brow, lo! a turban she made, + Bright with gems pluck'd from Gallia's crown; +To give him a name, she Rome's hist'ry survey'd, + In the days of her early renown. + +To embellish his guilt, or to soften its shade, + The Arts mournful captives she kept; +And the plund'rer and plunder of Europe display'd + To the wand'rer, who wonder'd and wept. + +To support this apostate imperial shade, + This impious mock'ry of good, +She rais'd a banditti, to whom she convey'd + His spirit for plunder and blood. + +The chiefs of the earth in a panic beheld + The flash of his sabre afar; +They enter'd, but pensively mov'd from the field, + And bow'd to this idol of war. + +Till, fum'd with the incense of slavish applause, + O'er the globe's fairest portion he trod; +And, spurning its liberty, spirit, and laws, + Conceiv'd himself rais'd to a god. + +But England disdain'd to the Tyrant to bend; + Still erect, undismay'd, she was found; +Infuriate, he swore that "his bolt should descend," + And her temples should fall to the ground. + +Yes, here, if his banner is destin'd to wave, + It shall float o'er her temples laid low, +O'er piles of her children, who, loyal and brave, + Such a victory never will know. + +Oh! banish the thought; for, learn 'tis in vain, + Thus, thou maniac Tyrant, to boast; +As soon shall her base be remov'd by the main, + As her empire by thee and thy host. + +The sound is gone forth, 'tis recorded above, + To the mountain it spread from the vale; +"Our God, and our King, and our Country, we love, + And for them we will die or prevail." + +Then hasten the day, if thy threat be sincere, + Let the winds blow thy myriads along; +Then soon may thy boasted armada appear, + And our rocks catch thy death-breathing song. + +Thy guardian, foul deity! hideous with crime, + Shall view, as she moves to our shore, +The Genius of Britain, mild, brave, and sublime, + And shall boast her achievements no more. + +Oh! direful and strange will the contest appear, + Big with freedom to nations afar; +The good, who confide, and the guilty, who fear, + Shall join in the conflict of war. + +In Heaven, with smiles, shall the happy and blest + Lean over its bright-beaming walls, +To guide and support to the regions of rest + The soul of the patriot who falls. + +Britannia! thy Muse, on a rock high and steep, + The fate of the fight shall proclaim; +The strings of her lyre Inspiration shall sweep, + Recording each hero by name. + +The world to its centre shall shake with delight, + As thus she announces their fall; +"They sink! our invaders submit to our might, + The ocean has buried them all!" + + + + +LINES TO ANNETTE. + + +Canst thou, Annette, thy lover see? + His trembling love unfolded hear? + And mark the while th' impassion'd tear, +Th' impassion'd tear of agony? + +Adown his anxious features steal, +Nor then one burst of pity feel? +But, as bereav'd of ev'ry sense, +Look on with cold indifference. +Go, then, Annette, in all thy charms, +Go bless some gayer, happier, arms; +Go, rest secure, thy fear give o'er, +These eyes shall follow thee no more; +And never shall these lips impart +One thought of all that rends my heart. + +Yet, since will burst the frequent sigh, + And since the tear will ever fall, +From thee and from the world I'll fly; + Deserts shall hide, shall silence, all. + + + + +LINES + +SENT WITH SOME INDIAN ROUGE TO MISS W----. + + +Go, faithless bloom! on Delia's cheek + Your boasted captivations try; +Alas! o'er Nature would you seek + To gain one moment's victory? +Her softer tint, sweet look, and gentle air, +Shall prove you're but a vain intruder there. + +But go, display your charms and taste; + Soon shall you blush a richer red, +To find your mimic pow'r surpass'd; + And, whilst upon her cheek you spread +Your vermeil hue, tell her ingenuous heart, +'Tis the first time she ever practis'd art. + + + + +MISS W---- RETURNED THE ROUGE + +_With the following elegant Lines_. + + +When men exert their utmost pow'rs, +To while away the tedious hours, + With soothing Flatt'ry's art, +When ev'ry art and work well skill'd, +And ev'ry look with poison fill'd, + Assail a woman's heart, + +Tho' ardently she'd wish to be +Proof 'gainst the charms of Flattery, + The task is hard, I ween; +Self-love will whisper "'Tis quite true, +Who can there be more fair than you? + Who more admir'd, when seen?" + +Then take this tempting gift of thine, +Nor e'er again wish me to shine + In any borrow'd bloom: +Nor rouge, nor compliments, can charm; +Full well I know they both will harm; + Truth is my only plume. + + + + +LINES TO A YOUNG LADY, + +OCCASIONED BY HER DECLINING AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE + +_Made her by a very accomplished Friend of the Author_. + + +Oh! form'd to prompt the smile or tear, +At once so sweet, yet so severe! +As much for you as him I grieve; +Ah! thoughtless! if you thus can leave +A mind with wit and learning bright, +Where Temper sheds its cloudless light; +Where manly honour, taste refin'd, +With ev'ry virtue, are combin'd; +If you can quit a heart so true, +Which has so often throbb'd for you, +I'll pity, tho' I can't reprove; +And did I, such is Florio's love, +Eager he'd fly to take thy part, +E'en in a war against his heart. + + + + +THE MUSHROOM. + + +Awake, my Muse! awake each slumb'ring string, +And (mighty subject!) of a Mushroom sing, +Fair to the eye, and pleasant to the taste; +Charm'd by the note, a pigmy group, in haste, +Lay down their grainy loads, as slow they move +Thro' lanes of reed and grass, to them a grove! +As if an Orpheus thou, they gather round, +Erect their tiny ears, and drink the sound. +Gray was the sky, save where the eastern ray +O'er fragrant hills proclaim'd th' approaching day; +Rurilla, loveliest virgin of the plain, +With spirits light, and mind without a stain, +Rose from her simple bed, refresh'd with rest; +Ah, Sleep! with marble finger had'st thou prest +Her lovely eyelids till a later hour, +And by a blissful vision's fairy pow'r +Hadst thou impress'd her mind with forms of love, +The walk at eve, the kiss, the murm'ring dove, +The little nymph had never sought the plain, +Nor fill'd with one romantic thought this brain. +In russet gown, with sweet and simple air, +She issued forth, like Hebe, young and fair, +To neighb'ring field, fresh as the rosy dawn; +Nor stile oppos'd her; like a bounding fawn +Graceful she sprang: so prankish was the air, +Had but the love-sick Daphanel been there, +He would have sigh'd: alas! poor love-sick fool! +Thou rather Zephyr dost inflame than cool! +And now, my Muse, the fatal spot disclose, +Where, bath'd with dew, the modest Mushroom rose. +Less fair the swan, by Richmond's flow'ry side, +That in the river views herself with pride, +As, gazing on her, some their stay prolong, +To see her sail in majesty along. +Ill-fated child of earth! thy charms so fair, +As oft with youthful beauty, prove thy snare: +Now, as with dewy-spangled feet is seen +The lovely maid to trace each ringlet green, +Not distant far thy skin of velvet white +She views, and to thee presses with delight +Oh! might some deity, with potent arm, +Arrest her flight, and alter ev'ry charm; +Like Niobe dissolve into a tear, +Or like the Delian virgin, when with fear +She fled!--See on each beauteous limb appear +Soft leaves and flow'rs, the sweetest of the year; +And, taking root, spread round her fragrant breath +O'er the fair form that now she dooms to death: +But, ah! in vain, the pray'r no goddess hears; } +She bends--she plucks--and, bath'd in purple tears,} +The much-priz'd victim in her lap she bears! } +Tears that, preserv'd in crystal, will prolong, +And paint its worth beyond this simple song. + + + + +LINES + +Written _en badinage_, after visiting a Paper-Mill near +Tunbridge-Wells, in consequence of the lovely Miss W----, who excels +in Drawing, requesting the Author to describe the Process of making +Paper, in Verse. + + +Reader! I do not wish to brag; + But, to display Eliza's skill, +I'd proudly be the vilest rag + That ever went to paper-mill. + +Content in pieces to be cut; + Tho' sultry were the summer-skies, +Pleas'd between flannel I'd be put, + And after bath'd in jellied size. + +Tho' to be squeez'd and hang'd I hate, + For thee, sweet girl! upon my word, +When the stout press had forc'd me flat, + I'd be suspended on a cord. + +And then, when dried and fit for use, + Eliza! I would pray to thee, +If with thy pen thou would'st amuse, + That thou would'st deign to write on me. + +Gad's bud! how pleasant it would prove + Her pretty chit-chat to convey, +P'rhaps be the record of her love, + Told in some coy enchanting way. + +Or, if her pencil she would try, + On me, oh! may she still imprint +Those forms that fix th' admiring eye, + Each graceful line, each glowing tint! + +Then shall I reason have to brag, + For thus, to high importance grown, +The world will see a simple rag + Become a treasure rarely known. + + + + +LINES + +TO A PROMISING YOUNG ARTIST. + + +These bays be thine; and, tho' not form'd to shine +Clear as thy colour, faultless as thy line, +Yet shall the Muse essay, in humble verse, +Thy merits, lovely Painting! to rehearse. +As when the demon of the winter storm +Robs each sweet flow'ret of its beauteous form, +The Spirit of the stream, in crystal wave, +Sleeps whilst the chilling blasts above him rave, +Till the Sun spreads his animating fires, +And sullen Darkness from the scene retires, +Then mountain-nymphs discard their robes of snow, +And in green mantles smile in roseate glow, +And rivers, loosen'd from their icy chain, +Spread joy and richness thro' the verdant plain, +Thus, in those climes where skies are ever fair, +Each infant Science breath'd a genial air, +Climes where the Earth her stores to all resign'd, +Nor left one selfish passion to the mind; +On her green lap the swain reclin'd his head, +And found his banquet where he found his bed. +Then Painting grew, and from the shades of flow'rs[A] +There first essay'd her imitative pow'rs, +When, urg'd by plunder, with the torrent's might, +Nerv'd by the storm, and harden'd in the fight, +A race barbarian left their forests wild, +And sought the spot where Love and Learning smil'd. +By Taste unsoften'd, these relentless droves +Burst, fair Italia! thro' thy sacred groves, +Laid ev'ry flow'r of Art and Fancy waste, +And pour'd a winter o'er the realms of Taste, +Each Science trembled at the ruffian sound, +Forsook her shades, and fled her classic ground; +The lofty column prostrate in the dust, +Defac'd the arch, o'erthrown the matchless bust; +The shatter'd fresco animates no more, +And ruthless winds thro' clefted temples roar! +Florence beheld the scene with sad surprise, +And bade the prostrate pile in grandeur rise. +Then, oh! thou truly "Father of the Art[B]!" +'Twas thine superior vigour to impart; +Illustrious Cimabue! it was thine +To soar beyond Example's bounded line, +And, as the Heav'n-directed sceptre's shock, +Produc'd full torrents from the flinty rock, +So streams of taste obey'd thy pencil's call, +And Nature seem'd to start from out the wall. +Hail, beauteous art! oh! that in equal lay +Could but my Muse thy various pow'rs convey! +'Tis thine with silent eloquence to shew +Passion's strong image, Beauty's rapt'rous glow, +To soothe the parted lover's anxious care, +Who owns thee fairest of thy sisters fair; +When waves divide him, still thro' thee to trace +The dear resemblance of that cherish'd face, +Which he so oft with trembling lips has prest, +So often gaz'd upon, so often blest! +Thine too it is to seek the verdant plains +Where Peace resides, where Rustic Beauty reigns; +Or bid the torrent on thy canvass roar, +Or calmly spread the yellow winding shore; +Or show, from some vast cliff's extremest verge, +The frail bark combating the angry surge. +Oft too on some lone turret wilt thou stand, +To trace the fury of th' embattled band, +To darken with the clouds of death the skies, +And bid the scenes of blood and havoc rise! +Such, and far more, thy pow'rs, bless'd art! to thee +Inferior far descriptive Poesy; +And tho' sweet Music, when she strikes the strings, +When thro' the grove with seraph-voice she sings, +The soul, enraptur'd with the thrilling stream, +Would hail the Maid of Harmony supreme! +Yet, while her dulcet sounds enchant, they die;} +So shooting stare illume the midnight sky, } +And, as we wonder, vanish from the eye. } +But when resistless Death, in mournful hour, +Withdraws the drooping painter's mimic pow'r, +Improv'd by time, his works still charm the sight, +And thro' successive ages yield delight +Greece early bade the painter's pencil trace +Each form with force; to force she added grace: +For this her Zeuxis she a garland wove, +For[C] that Apelles won her grateful love. +Chiefly she called on Painting's magic powers +To deck the guardians of her lofty tow'rs; +Here[D] Jove in lightning show'd his awful mien. +There Venus with her doves was smiling seen! +Till ruthless Time, with unabating flight, +O'er Grecian grandeur flung the shades of night +Long did they settle o'er the darken'd world. +Till Raphael's hand the sable curtain furl'd; +A pious calm, an elevated grace, +Then on the canvass mark'd th' Apostle's face; +Devout applauses ev'ry feature drew, +E'en[E] such as graceful Sculpture never knew. +In nearer times, and on a neighb'ring shore, +Painting but feebly shone, obscur'd by pow'r. +See Rubens' soul indignantly advance, +Press'd by the pride and vanity of France; +Behold, [F] in fulsome allegory spread, +The gaudy iris o'er the victor's head! +See Genius, deaf to Nature's nobler call, +Waste all its strength upon the banner'd hall! +E'en now, tho' Gallia, in her blood-stain'd car, +Spreads over Europe all the woes of war, +Still with consummate craft she tries to prove +How much the peaceful charms engage her love: +Treasures of art in lengthen'd gall'ries glow, +And[G] Europe's plunder Europe's plund'rers show! +Yet of her living artists few can claim +Half the mix'd praise that waits on David's fame. +Thrice happy Britain! in thy favour'd isle +The sister Arts in health and beauty smile! +Tho' no Imperial Gall'ries grace thy shores, +Tho' wealth the public bounty seldom pours, +Yet private taste rewards thy painter's toil, +And bids his genius grace his native soil. +Bless'd country! here thy artists can supply +Abundant charms to fix th' admiring eye: +In furtive splendour ne'er art thou array'd, +No plunder'd country mourns thy ruthless blade, +Sees its transported treasures torn away, +To grace a fierce ambitious Tyrant's sway. +Long in this isle, where Freedom finds repose, +Whilst, raving round her, loud the tempest blows, +Oh! long befriended, may the Arts excel, +And bless the sacred spot they love so well! + +[Footnote A: "_Then painting grew, and from the shades_," +&c.--The shadows of plants, and indeed of every object in Nature, +must, at a very early period, have furnished ideas of imitation.] + +[Footnote B: _"Then, oh! thou_," &c.--After the ravages of the +northern barbarians, painting was revived in Italy, about the +fourteenth century, by Cimabue, who was hence styled the Father of +Painting.] + +[Footnote C: "_For that Apelles_," &c.--Painting attained so +great a perfection amongst the Greeks, under Zeuxis, that Apelles +found nothing wanting but grace, which in those times he bestowed upon +the art, as Corregio did after Raphael.] + +[Footnote D: "_Here Jove in_," &c.--The Greeks excelled in the +delineation of their deities, to whom they attributed all the human +passions: their Jupiter they elevated to the highest degree of +majesty, their Venus to the utmost pitch of human beauty.] + +[Footnote E: "_E'en such as graceful Sculpture_," &c.--From +Cimabue to Raphael, the painters were employed by the church; and they +gave a character to the Prophets, Apostles, and our Saviour, which was +never known to the ancient sculptors. The power which the former +possessed of uniting dignity to humility is without a parallel.] + +[Footnote F: "_Behold, in fulsome allegory_," &c.--As long as +the French school adhered to the principles of the Italian school, it +produced many great masters; however, the art certainly degenerated +after Raphael, by being employed in adulatory allegory, in honour of +Princes, as is to be seen in the works of Rubens and Le Brun at Paris, +artists of great talents, which they were led to misapply, through the +supreme vanity of Louis the Fourteenth.] + +[Footnote G: "_And Europe's plunder_," &c.--Those who have +visited the Napoleon Gallery at Paris can attest the truth of this +observation, as those who are acquainted with the modern state of +painting in France well know, and, knowing, cannot but be surprised +at, the small number of French painters of any tolerable celebrity.] + +FINIS. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Sir John Carr + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 10367-8.txt or 10367-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/3/6/10367/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Jonathan Ingram, Josephine Paolucci and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems + +Author: Sir John Carr + +Release Date: December 2, 2003 [EBook #10367] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Jonathan Ingram, Josephine Paolucci and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + +POEMS, + +BY + +SIR JOHN CARR. + + + +Non ulla Musis pagina gratior, +Quam quae severis ludicra jungere +Novit, fatigatamque nugis +Utilibus recreare mentem. + + + +1809. + + + + +POEMS. + + + +DEDICATION. + +TO + +LADY WARREN, + +&c. &c. &c. + +_MADAM_, + +In dedicating the following Poems to your Ladyship, I cannot help +regretting that they are not more worthy of such an honour; that I +might consequently have used it as an humble mode of expressing +my sense of the happy and enlightened hours which I have passed in +your Ladyship's society, and of the polite attentions which I +have at various times received from you, and the gallant object of +your connubial affection, particularly at the House of British Embassy +at Petersburgh, where you afforded to the Ladies of the North a just +representation of the dignified virtue, cultivated mind, and +attractive beauty, of the higher order of females of your own country. + +I have the honour to remain, + +Madam, + +Your Ladyship's + +Obedient faithful Servant, + +JOHN CARR. + +_Temple. June_ 1809 + + + + +PREFACE. + + +This Volume is submitted to the Public with all that diffidence which +ought to attend the publication of Verses, many of which were written +in the gay and happy era of boyhood, and others in subsequent periods +of maturer life, as a relief from more arduous pursuits. + +They lay no pretensions to the depth and solidity of the effusions of +the Muse in her elevated flights; they are the few wild notes of the +simple shepherd, and do not even affect to imitate the rich cadence of +the scientific musician. + +If the Author might, without the imputation of vanity, select for them +a place in the Temple of Poetry, he would endeavour to class them in +that niche which is appropriated for the reception of the light and +playful _Vers de Societe_. + +Should the Reader find them but little worthy of his approval, he will +not have reason at the same time to condemn their prolixity: their +brevity will, at least in some degree, atone for their want of fire +and fancy. + +It is thought proper to state that some of the following Poems have +appeared before at various times, in a fugitive shape; and that the +Poetry in the Author's Tours is here collected. + + + + +POEMS, + +&c. &c. + + + + +VERSES + +WRITTEN IN A GROTTO + +_In a Wood on the Side of the River Dart_, + +IN DEVONSHIRE. + + +Tell me, thou grotto! o'er whose brow are seen +Projecting plumes, and shades of deep'ning green,-- +While not a sound disturbs thy stony hall, +While all thy dewy drops forget to fall,-- +Why canst thou not thy soothing charms impart, +And shed thy quiet o'er this beating heart? +Tell me, thou richly-painted river! tell, +That on thy mirror'd plane dost mimic well +Each pendent tree and every distant hill, +Tipp'd with red lustre, beauteous, bright, and still,-- + +Can I not, gazing on thy tranquil tide, +Shed ev'ry grief upon thy rocky side? +Or must I rove thy margin, calm and clear, +The only agitated object near? +Oh! tell me, too, thou babbling cold cascade! +Whose waters, falling thro' successive shade, +Unspangled by the brightness of the sky, +Awake each echo to a soft reply,-- +Say, canst thou not my bosom-grief befriend, +And bid one drop upon my heart descend? +When all thy songsters soothe themselves to sleep. +Ah! must these aching eyes for ever weep? +And must their frequent waters, like thine own, +Drop, idly drop, on unimpressive stone? +Or, when my beauteous fair shall deign to grace +The humid foliage of thy mossy base, +Canst thou not tell how many a rock below +Impedes to kiss thy waters as they flow? +In _her_ mind canst thou not the feeling rear +To stop, or thus caress, each genuine tear? + +Teach her, oh! teach her, then, thou cold cascade! +Pour all thy lessons for the lovely maid! +And thou, bless'd grotto! let thy silence prove +Her mute consenting answer to my love! +And thou, bright river! as thou roll'st along, +Bear on thy wand'ring wave a lover's song! +Strong as thy current, as thy waters pure, +Teach her to feel the passion I endure! + + + + +LINES TO THE MEMORY OF MY DEAR BROTHER, + +W.T.P. CARR, ESQ. + + +--manibus date lilia plenis: +Purpureos spargam flores. + +_Aeneid_, lib. vi. + + +Tho' no funereal grandeur swell my song, +Nor genius, eagle-plum'd, the strain prolong,-- +Tho' Grief and Nature here alone combine +To weep, my William! o'er a fate like thine,-- +Yet thy fond pray'r, still ling'ring on my ear, +Shall force its way thro' many a gushing tear: +The Muse, that saw thy op'ning beauties spread, +That lov'd thee living, shall lament thee dead! +Ye graceful Virtues! while the note I breathe, +Of sweetest flow'rs entwine a fun'ral wreath,-- +Of virgin flow'rs, and place them round his tomb, +To bud, like him, and perish in their bloom! +Ah! when these eyes saw thee serenely wait +The last long separating stroke of Fate,-- +When round thy bed a kindred weeping train +Call'd on thy voice to greet them, but in vain,-- +When o'er thy lips we watch'd thy fault'ring breath-- +When louder grief proclaim'd th'approach of death,-- +Thro' ev'ry vein an icy horror chill'd, +Colder than marble ev'ry bosom thrill'd. +Unsettled still, tho' exercis'd to grieve, +Scarce would my mind the alter'd sight believe; +Familiar scenes a transient calm inspire, +Poor flutt'ring Fancy fann'd the vain desire, +'Till with sad proof thy wasted relics rise, +And restless Nature pours uncall'd-for sighs. +Ah! long, my William! shall thy picture rest, +Time shall not wear it, imag'd in my breast; +Yes, thou shall live while fond remembrance lives, +'Till he who mourns thee asks the line he gives. +No common joy, no fugitive delight, +Regret like this could in my breast excite; +For then my sorrow had been less severe, +And tears less copious had bedew'd the bier. +From the same breast our milky food we drew, +Entwin'd affection strengthen'd as we grew; +Why further trace? The flatt'ring dream is o'er-- +Thy transient joys and sorrows are no more! +All, all are fled!--And, ah! where'er I turn, +Insulting Death directs me to thy urn, +Throws his cold shadows round me while I sing. +Damps ev'ry nerve, and slackens ev'ry string. +So, when the Moon trims up her waning fire, +Sweep the night-breezes o'er th'Aeolian lyre; +Ling'ring, perchance, some wild pathetic sound +Lulls the lorn ear, and dies along the ground. +Ye kindred train! who, o'er the parting grave, +Have mourn'd the virtues which ye could not save. +Ye know how Mem'ry, with excursive pow'r, +Extracts a sweet from ev'ry faded hour;-- +From scenes long past, regardless of repose, +She feeds her tears, and treasures up her woes. +Thou tuneful, mute, companion[A] of my care! +Where now thy notes, that linger'd in the air? +That linger still!--Vain thy harmonious store,-- +Thy sweet persuasive triumphs are no more. +Thy mournful image strikes my wand'ring eye; +Sad, near thy silent strings, I sit and sigh. +Cold is that band which Music form'd her own, +When ev'ry chord resign'd its sweetest tone. +Ah! long, fair source of rapture, shall thou rest, +Silent and sad, neglected and unprest, +'Till years, lov'd shade! superior pow'rs resign, +Or raise one note more eloquent than thine. +Tho' with'ring Sickness mark'd thee in the womb, +And form'd thy cradle but to form thy tomb, +Yet, like a flow'r, she bade thee reach thy prime, +The fairer victim for the stroke of Time. +When fond Invention vainly sought thine ease, +The wave salubrious and the morning breeze,-- +When even Sleep, sweet Sleep! refus'd thy call, +Sleep! that with sweet refreshment smiles on all,-- +When, till the morn, thine eyes, unclos'd and damp, +Trac'd thy sad semblance in the glimm'ring lamp,-- +When from thy face Health's latest relic fled, +Where Hope might flatter, with reluctant tread,-- +Still, darting forward from the weight of woe, +Thy soul with all its energy would glow; +Still with the purest passion wouldst thou prove +The glow of friendship and the warmth of love. +And ah! to sacred Memory ever nigh, +Thy wit and humour claim the passing sigh: +When, thro' the hour, with unresisted skill, +I've seen thee mould each feature to thy will,-- +When friends drew round thee with attentive ear, +Pleas'd with the raill'ry which they could not fear. +Oh! how I've heard thee, with concealing art, +Join in the song, tho' sorrow rent thy heart; +How have I seen thee too, with venial guile, +O'er many an anguish force the faithless smile,-- +Seen suffering Nature check each sigh, each fear, +To rob maternal fondness of a tear! +Alas! those scenes are past!--Vain was the pray'r +That ask'd of Fate to soften and to spare; +Ah! vain, if wit and virtue could not save +Thy youthful honours from an early grave. +But yet, if here my warm fraternal love +May claim alliance with the realms above; +If kindred Nature, with perpetual bloom, +Transplanted springs, and lives beyond the tomb; +Thy pitying soul shall smile upon my grief, +Shall feel a pang that wishes not relief; +In visions still shall shield me as I go, +Along this gloomy wilderness of woe; +Shall still regard me with peculiar pride, +On earth my brother, and in heav'n my guide! +Methinks I see thee reach th' empyrean shore, +And heav'n's full chorus hails one angel more; +While 'mid the seraph-forms that round thee fly, +Thy father meets thee with ecstatic eye! +He springs exulting from his throne of rest, +Extends his arms, and clasps thee to his breast! + +[Footnote A: The piano-forte, on which he excelled.] + + + + +PARODY + +ON + +"_The Golden Days of good Queen Bess_." + + +To my Muse give attention, and deem it not a mystery +If I jumble up together music, poetry, and history, +To sing of the vices of wicked Queen Bess, sir, +Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir, + Detested be the memory of wicked Queen Bess, sir, + Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir. + +In saying she would die a maid, she, England! did amuse ye. +But what she did, and what she died--I hope you will excuse me: +A gallant Earl a miracle of passion for her fed, sir; +She kiss'd him, and she clos'd the scene by striking off his head, sir! + Detested be, &c. + +Oh! rude ungrateful Scotland! had thy desolated Queen, sir, +No blue eyes ever known, nor had she beauteous been, sir, +The envy of our old rival hag she might have baffled, sir, +Nor with her guiltless blood have crimson'd o'er the scaffold, sir. + Detested be, &c. + +She dress'd just like a porcupine, and din'd just like a pig, sir, +And an over-running butt of sack she swallow'd at a swig, sir! +Her brawny maids of honour ate and drank confounded hard, sir, +And droves of oxen daily bled within her palace-yard, sir! + Detested be, &c. + +In ruling she was wonderous tyrannical and surly; +If a patriot only touch'd on the Queen or Master Burleigh, +She'd send a file of soldiers in less than half an hour, sir, +Just to bid him make his speeches to the prisons of the Tow'r, sir! + Detested be, &c. + + + + +REBECCA, + +_A Ballad_. + + +Rebecca was the fairest maid +That on the Danube's borders play'd; +And many a handsome nobleman +For her in tilt and tourney ran; +While fair Rebecca wish'd to see +What youth her husband was to be. + +Rebecca heard the gossips say, +"Alone from dusk till midnight stay +Within the church-porch drear and dark, +Upon the vigil of Saint Mark, +And, lovely maiden! you shall see +What youth your husband is to be." + +Rebecca, when the night grew dark, +Upon the vigil of Saint Mark, +(Observ'd by Paul, a roguish scout, +Who guess'd the task she went about,) +Stepp'd to St Stephen's Church to see +What youth her husband was to be. + +Rebecca heard the screech-owl cry, +And saw the black bat round her fly; +She sat, 'till, wild with fear, at last +Her blood ran cold, her pulse beat fast; +And yet, rash maid! she stopp'd to see +What youth her husband was to be. + +Rebecca heard the midnight chime +Ring out the yawning peal of time, +When shrouded Paul, unlucky knave! +Rose like a spectre from the grave; +And cried, "Fair maiden, come with me. +For I your bridegroom am to be." + +Rebecca turn'd her head aside, +Sent forth a hideous shriek, and died! +While Paul confess'd himself, in vain, +Rebecca never spoke again! +Ah! little, hapless maid! did she +Think Death her bridegroom was to be. + +Rebecca! may thy story long +Instruct the giddy and the young. +Fright not, fond youths! the timid fair; +And you too, gentle maids! beware; +Nor seek by lawless arts to see +What youths your husbands are to be. + + + + +LINES + +TO AN AURICULA, BELONGING TO ----. + + +Thou rear'st thy beauteous head, sweet flow'r +Gemm'd by the soft and vernal show'r; + Its drops still round thee shine: +The florist views thee with delight; +And, if so precious in _his_ sight, + Oh! what art thou in _mine_? + +For she, who nurs'd thy drooping form +When Winter pour'd her snowy storm, + Has oft consol'd me too; +For me a fost'ring tear has shed,-- +She has reviv'd my drooping head, + And bade me bloom anew. + +When adverse Fortune bade us part, +And grief depress'd my aching heart, + Like yon reviving ray, +She from behind the cloud would move, +And with a stolen look of love + Would melt my cares away. + +Sweet flow'r! supremely dear to me, +Thy lovely mistress blooms in thee, + For, tho' the garden's pride, +In beauty's grace and tint array'd, +Thou seem'st to court the secret shade, + Thy modest form to hide. + +Oh! crown'd with many a roseate year, +Bless'd may she be who plac'd thee here, + Until the tear of love +Shall tremble in the eye to find +Her spirit, spotless and refin'd, + Borne to the realms above! + +And oft for thee, sweet child of spring! +The Muse shall touch her tend'rest string; + And, as thou rear'st thine head, +She shall invoke the softest air, +Or ask the chilling storm to spare, + And bless thy humble bed. + + + + +LINES + +TO LADY WARREN, + +_On the Departure of Sir John Borlase Warren, K.B_. + +TO TAKE THE COMMAND OF A SQUADRON. + + +Oh! why does sorrow shade thy face, +Where mind and beauty vie with grace? +Say, dost thou for thy hero weep, +Who gallantly, upon the deep, +Is gone to tell the madd'ning foe, +Tho' vict'ry laid our Nelson low, +We still have chiefs as greatly brave, +Proudly triumphant on the wave? +Dear to thy Country shall thou be, +Fair mourner! and her sympathy +Is thine; for, in the war's alarms, +Thou gav'st thine hero from thine arms; +And only ask'd to sigh alone, +To look to heav'n, and weep him gone. +Oh! soon shall all thy sorrow cease, +And, to thine aching bosom, peace +Shall quick return;--another tear +To love and joy, supremely dear, +Shall give thy gen'rous mind relief-- +That tear shall gem the laurel leaf. + + + + +LINES + +TO MISS ----, + +ACCOMPANIED BY A ROSE AND A LILY. + + + +I look'd the fragrant garden round + For what I thought would picture best + Thy beauty and thy modesty; +A lily and a rose I found,-- + With kisses on their leaves imprest, + I send the beauteous pair to thee. + + + + +SONG. + + +Nature's imperfect child, to whom +The world is wrapt in viewless gloom, +Can unresisted still impart +The fondest wishes of his heart. + +And he, to whose impervious ear + The sweetest sounds no charms dispense, +Can bid his inmost soul appear + In clear, tho' silent, eloquence. + +But we, my Julia, not so blest, + Are doom'd a diff'rent fate to prove,-- +To feel each joy and hope supprest + That flow from pure, but hidden, love. + + + + +IMPROMPTU LINES, + +UPON ANACREON MOORE'S SAYING THAT HE DISLIKED +SINGING TO MEN. + + +By Beauty's caresses, like Cupid, half-spoil'd, +Thus Music's and Poesy's favourite child +Exclaim'd,--"'Tis, by Heaven! a terrible thing +Before a _he_-party to sit and to sing!" +"By my shoul! Master Moore, you there may be right," +Said a son of green Erin; "tho' dear to my sight +Are all the sweet cratures, call'd women, I swear, +Yet I think we can feel just as well as the fair: +Tho' you'd bribe us with songs, blood and 'ounds! let me say, +I'd not be a woman for one in your way." + + + + +LINES TO JULIA. + + +Tho', Julia, we are doom'd to part, +Tho' unknown pangs invade this heart, +For thee the light of love shall burn, +To thee my soul in secret turn: +Upon this bosom, swell'd with care, +The thought of thee shall tremble there +'Till Time shall close these weeping eyes, +And close the soothing source of sighs. +So, in the silence of the night, +Shines on the wave the lunar light; +With its soft image, bright, imprest, +It heaves, and seems to know no rest: +Its agitation soon is o'er; +It sighs, and dies along the shore! + + + + +LINES + +_To the Memory of Mrs. A.H. Holdsworth_, + +LATE OF MOUNT GALPIN, DEVONSHIRE. + + +Tyrant of all our loves and friendships here, + Behold thy beauteous victim!--Ah! tis thine +To rend fond hearts, and start the tend'rest tear + Where joy should long in cloudless radiance shine. + +Alas! the mourning Muse in vain would paint, + Blest shade! how purely pass'd thy life away, +Or, with the meekness of a favour'd saint, + How rose thy spirit to the realms of day. + +'Twas thine to fill each part that gladdens life, + Such as approving angels smile upon;-- +The faultless daughter, parent, friend, and wife,-- + Virtues short-lived! they set just as they shone. + +Thus, in the bosom of some winding grove, + Where oft the pensive melodist retires, +From his sweet instrument, the note of love, + Charms the rapt ear, but, as it charms, expires. + +Farewell, pure spirit! o'er thine early grave + Oblivion ne'er shall spread her freezing shade; +Nature shall bid her richest foliage wave + Where her reposing fav'rite child is laid. + +There widow'd fondness oft, when summers bloom. + Shall with thy infant pledge of love repair; +Oft shall they kneel beside thy mossy tomb, + And tears shall dew the flow'rs that blossom there. + + + + +LINES + +_Written upon a Watch-String_, + +MADE AND PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ----. + + +Say, lovely Charlotte! will you let me prove +What diff'rent thoughts thy taste and beauty move? +This woven chain, which graceful skill displays, + Leads me to think of time, and heave a sigh; +But when on thee and on thy charms I gaze, + Time unremember'd moves, or seems to die. + + + + +LINES + +_Upon a Diamond Cross_, + +WORN ON HER BOSOM BY MISS C.M. + + +Well on that neck, sweet Kitty! may you wear + The sparkling cross, with hopes to soften Heaven; +For trust me, tho' so very young and fair, + Thou hast some little sins to be forgiven:-- +For all the hopes which wit and grace can spread, + For all the sighs which countless charms can move, +Fall, lovely Kitty! on thy youthful head; + Yet fall they gently--for the crime is love. + + + + +LINES TO FORTUNE, + +Occasioned by a very amiable and generous Friend of mine +munificently presenting Miss E.S. with a Donation of +Fifteen Thousand Pounds. + + +Oh, Fortune! I have seen thee shed + A plenteous show'r of treasure down +On many a weak and worthless head, + On those who but deserv'd thy frown. + +And I have heard, in lonely shade, + Her sorrows hapless Merit pour; +And thou hast pass'd the drooping maid, + To give some pamper'd fav'rite more. + +But tho' so cold, or strangely wild, + It seems that worth can sometimes move; +Thou hast on gentle Emma smil'd, + And thou hast smil'd where all approve:-- + +For Nature form'd her gen'rous heart + With ev'ry virtue, pure, refin'd; +And wit and taste, and grace and art, + United to illume her mind. + +So dew-drops fall on some rare flow'r, + That merits all their fost'ring care, +As tho' they knew that, by their pow'r, + Grateful 'twould wider scent the air. + + + + +A SONG. + +THE LOVER + +THE LUTE OF HIS DECEASED MISTRESS. + + +Alas! but like a summer's dream + All the delight I felt appears, +While mis'ry's weeping moments seem + A ling'ring age of tears. + +Then breathe my sorrows, plaintive lute! + And pour thy soft consoling tone, +While I, a list'ning mourner mute, + Will call each tender grief my own. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN IN A COTTAGE BY THE SEA-SIDE + +(_In which the Author had taken Shelter during a violent Storm_), + +UPON SEEING AN IDIOTIC YOUTH SEATED IN THE CHIMNEY-CORNER, CARESSING A +BROOM. + + +'Twas on a night of wildest storms, + When loudly roar'd the raving main,-- +When dark clouds shew'd their shapeless forms, + And hail beat hard the cottage pane,-- + +Tom Fool sat by the chimney-side, + With open mouth and staring eyes; +A batter'd broom was all his pride,-- + It was his wife, his child, his prize! + +Alike to him if tempests howl, + Or summer beam its sweetest day; +For still is pleas'd the silly soul, + And still he laughs the hours away. + +Alas! I could not stop the sigh, + To see him thus so wildly stare,-- +To mark, in ruins, Reason lie, + Callous alike to joy and care. + +God bless thee, thoughtless soul! I cried; + Yet are thy wants but very few: +The world's hard scenes thou ne'er hast tried; + Its cares and crimes to thee are new. + +The hoary hag[A], who cross'd thee so, + Did not unkindly vex thy brain; +Indeed she could not be thy foe, + To snatch thee thus from grief and pain. + +Deceit shall never wring thy heart, + And baffled hope awake no sighs; +And true love, harshly forc'd to part, + Shall never swell with tears thine eyes. + +Then long enjoy thy batter'd broom, + Poor merry fool! and laugh away +'Till Fate shall bid thy reason bloom + In blissful scenes of brighter day. + +[Footnote A: It is generally believed by the peasants of Devonshire +that idiotcy is produced by the influence of a witch.] + + + + +LINES + +_To a Laurel-Leaf_, + +SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ----. + + +Tho' unknown is the hand that bestow'd thee on me, + Sweet leaf! ev'ry fibre I'll warm with a kiss: +With the fame of her beauty thou well dost agree, + Whose presence shews conquest, whose triumph is bliss! + + + + +LINES + +OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF LIEUTENANT J----, + +_Who was killed by a Pistol-Shot_, + +ACCIDENTALLY DISCHARGED BY HIS FRIEND, + +CAPTAIN B----. + + +With horror dumb, tho' guiltless, stood + Beside his dying friend, +The hapless wretch who made the blood + Sad from his side descend! + +"Give me thy hand; lov'd friend, adieu!" + The gen'rous suff'rer cried! +"I do forgive and bless thee too;" + And, having said it, died! + +And Pity, who stood trembling near + Knew not for which to shed, +So claim'd by both, her saddest tear-- + The living or the dead! + + + + +LINES + +TO AN ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY, + +Whose Timidity frequently agitated her, when pressed to gratify her +Friends by her Musical Talents. + + +'Tis said (and I believe it too) + That genuine merit seeks the shade; +Blushing to think what is her due, + As of her own sweet pow'rs afraid:-- + +Thus, lovely maid! on fluttering wings, + Thy pow'rs a thousand fears pursue, +Which, like thy own harmonious strings, + When press'd _enchant_, and _tremble_ too! + +The pity, which we give, you owe, + For mutual fears on both attend; +While anxious thus you joy bestow, + We fear too soon that joy will end! + + + + +LINES + +TO MISS L---- D----. + + +When Heav'n, sweet Laura! form'd thy mind, +With genius and with taste refin'd, + As if the union were too bright, +It spread the veil of diffidence, +That ev'ry ray, at first intense, + Might shine as soft as lunar light. + +To frame a form then Nature strove, +And call'd on Beauty and on Love, + To lodge the mind they priz'd so well: +Completed was the fair design; +Thus blended dew-drops mildly shine + Within the lily's spotless bell! + + + + +LINES[A] + +_Written in a beautiful Spot_, + +THE FAVOURITE RETREAT OF DELIA. + + +Streams ever limpid, fresh, and clear, +Where Delia's charms renew'd appear, +Ye flow'rs that touch'd her snowy breast, +Ye trees whereon she lov'd to rest, +Ye scenes adorn'd where'er she flies, +If grief shall close these woe-worn eyes, +May some kind form, with hand benign, +My body with this earth enshrine, +That, when the fairest nymph shall deign +To visit this delightful plain, +That, when she views my silent shade, +And marks the change her love has made, +The tear may tremble down her face, +As show'rs the lily's leaves embrace; +Then, like the infant at the breast, +That feels a sorrow unexprest, +That pang shall gentle Delia know, +And silent treasure up her woe. + +[Footnote A: I am indebted to Petrarch for some of the imagery +contained in these Lines.] + + + + +VALENTINE VERSES, + +_Sent to my young Friend, Miss Emma Trevelyan_, + +OF WALLINGTON-HOUSE, NORTHUMBERLAND. + + +Emma! 'tis early time for thee +To hear the sounds of minstrelsy, +That breathe around the rosy shrine +Of honest old Saint Valentine. + +Too young art thou for strains of love; +'Tis not thy passion I would move; +Instead of lover's strains, I send +The cordial wishes of a friend. + +Nobly has Nature done her duty, +To give thee of thy mother's beauty +So large a share--oh! then be thine +The mental charms that in her shine! + +And may thy father's taste refin'd +Still add new graces to thy mind; +And may'st thou to each charm impart +The gen'rous frankness of his heart. + +Then, my sweet Emma! thou shall move +In many a heart more genuine love +Than ever warm'd poetic line, +Or sigh'd in any Valentine. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN UPON SEEING A BLIND YOUNG WOMAN IN NORTH WALES, + +Who supports herself, and an aged and infirm Mother, by selling +Stockings and Gloves of her own Knitting, which she offers to +Travellers as they pass by; in doing which she has been known +to run close by the Side of a Carriage for several Miles. + +POOR BLIND BET. + + +The morning purple on the hill, + The village spire, the ivy'd tow'r, +The sparkling wheel of yonder mill, + The grove, green field, and op'ning flow'r, + Are lost to thee! + +Dark child of Nature, as thou art! + Yet thy poor bosom heaves no sigh; +E'en now thy dimpling cheeks impart + Their knowledge of some pleasure nigh:-- + 'Tis good for thee! + +Thou seem'st to say "I've sunshine too; + 'Tis beaming in a spotless breast; +No shade of guilt obstructs the view, + And there are many not so blest, + Who day's blush see. + +"Dear are those eyes, by mine ne'er seen, + Which I protect from many a tear; +Kind stranger! 'tis on yonder green + A mother's aged form I rear: + Oh! buy of me!" + + + + +LINES + +UPON SEEING ---- + +_At one of the annual Banquets given in Guildhall_. + + +Gorgeous and splendid was the sight; +From myriad lamps a fairy light +Enshrin'd in wreaths the Gothic wall, +And heav'nly music fill'd the hall! + +But there was one--(alas! that I +Had ever seen)--the melody +Her voice surpassed, and brighter far +Her eyes than ev'ry mimic star! + +I gaz'd, until, oh! thought divine! +I fancied she I saw was mine; +But soon the beauteous vision flew-- +The stranger-form I lov'd withdrew. + +Yet still she lives within my breast, +There mem'ry has her form imprest:-- +Thus, when some minstrel's strain is done, +Sounds seem to breathe, for ever gone! + + + + +YARRIMORE. + +[These Lines were written for a Lady who set them to Music.] + + +My poor heart flutters like the sea + Now heaving on the sandy shore; +It seems to tell me you shall be + Never again near Yarrimore. + +Far, far beyond the waves, I bend + Mine eyes, if I can land explore; +But o'er the waves I find no end,-- + Yet there they say's my Yarrimore. + +The hut he built is standing still, + Deck'd with the shells he cull'd from shore; +Our bow'r is waving on the hill, + But where, alas! is Yarrimore? + +Within that bow'r I'll sit and sigh, + From dawn of day till day is o'er; +And, as the wild winds o'er me fly, + I'll call on gentle Yarrimore! + + + + +LINES TO MISS ----, + +Upon her appearing at a Ball in an elegant Plaid Dress, + +AND HAVING REPEATEDLY BEFORE EXPRESSED HER PREFERENCE +OF THE SCOTISH NATION. + + +Is it that plaided thus you wish to prove +How northern is the region of your love? +Ah, Mary! tho', within that far-fam'd clime, +Deeds have been done that mock the wreck of Time; +Tho' there the brave have bled, or, o'er the wave, +On distant shores have found a glorious grave; +Tho' there the mountain-nymph of song has pour'd +Her loftiest strain, to bless the hero's sword; +Still, lovely wand'rer, with a jealous eye, +O'er Scotia's hills we see thy fancy fly; +For _here_ the warrior oft has rais'd his sword, +The patriot too his noble blood has pour'd; +_Here_ too the sweet Recorder of the brave +Has sat and sung upon her hero's grave. +Then cease, romantic maid! ah, cease to rove; +The very wood-dove loves its native grove: +Oh! then, let Nature bid thy guileless heart +Here shed its love, and all its warmth impart; +And on the land that gave thee birth bestow +The fondness which it claims, and treasures too. + + + + +A SONG. + +TO THE MOON. + + +Thou, lamp! the gods benignly gave, + To light a lover on his way; +Thou, Moon! along the silv'ry wave, + Ah! safe this flutt'ring heart convey:-- + +Sweet is thy light, and sweet thy shade, + The _guide_ and _guardian_ of our bliss, +A lover's panting lips to lead, + Or veil him in the ravish'd kiss. + +Her white robe floats upon the air; + My Lyra hears the dashing oar: +Ye floods, oh! speed me to my fair! + My soul is with her long before. + +Oh! lightly haste, thy lover view, + And ev'ry anxious fear resign; +Ye tow'rs, no longer fear'd, adieu! + The treasure which ye held is mine! + + + + +LINES + +_Upon the Death of the Lady of Lieutenant-Colonel Adams_, + +WHO LATELY DIED OF A DECLINE IN THE EAST INDIES. + + +When Time a mellowing tint has thrown + O'er many a scene to mem'ry dear. +It scatters round a charm, unknown + When first th' impression rested there. + +But, oh! should distance intervene, + Should Ocean's wave, should changeful clime. +Divide--how sweeter far the scene! + How richer ev'ry tint of time! + +E'en thus with those (a treasur'd few) + Who gladden'd life with many a smile, +Tho' long has pass'd the sad adieu, + In thought we love to dwell awhile. + +Then with keen eye, and beating heart, + The anxious mind still seeks relief +From those who can the tale impart, + How pass their day, in joy or grief. + +If haply health and fortune bless, + We feel as if on us they shone; +If sickness and if sorrow press, + Then feeling makes their woes our own. + +'Twas thus of Mira oft I thought, + Oft dwelt upon the scenes she grac'd: +Her form in beauty's mould was wrought, + Her mind the seat of sense and taste. + +Long, hov'ring o'er her fleeting breath, + Love kept his watch in silent gloom; +He saw her meekly yield to Death, + And knelt a mourner at her tomb. + +When the night-breeze shall softly blow, + When the bright moon upon the flood +Shall spread her beams (a silv'ry show), + And dark be many a waving wood,-- + +When, dimly[A] seen, in robes of white, + A mournful train along the grove +Shall bear the lamp of sacred light, + To deck the turf of those they love,-- + +Then shall the wood-dove quit its bow'r, + And seek the spot were she is laid; +Its wild and mournful notes shall pour + A requiem to her hallow'd shade. + +And Friendship oft shall raise the veil + Time shall have drawn o'er pleasures past, +And Fancy shall repeat the tale + Of happy hours, too sweet to last! + +But when she mourns o'er Mira's bier, + And when the fond illusion ends, +Oh! then shall fall the genuine tear + That drops for dear departed friends! + +[Footnote A: Mr. Hodges, in his Travels in India, page 28, mentions, +that between Banglepoor and Mobgheir, it is the custom of the women of +the family to attend the tombs of their friends after sun-set; and +observes, "it is both affecting and curious to see them proceeding in +groups, carrying lamps in their hands, which they place at the head of +the tomb."] + + + + +LINES + +TO MISS C. + +_On her leaving the Country_. + + +Since Friendship soon must bid a fond adieu, +And, parting, wish your charms she never knew, +Dear Laura hear one genuine thought express'd, +Warm from the heart, and to the heart address'd:-- +Much do I wish you all your soul holds dear, +To sooth and sweeten ev'ry trouble here; +But heav'n has yielded such an ample store, +You cannot ask, nor can I wish you, more; +Bless'd with a sister's love, whose gentle mind, +Still pure tho' polish'd, virtuous and refin'd, +Will aid your tend'rer years and innocence +Beneath the shelter of her riper sense. +Charm'd with the bright example may you move, +And, loving, richly copy what you love. +Adieu! and blame not if an artless pray'r +Should, self-directed, ask one moment's care:-- +When years and absence shall their shade extend, +Reflect who sighs adieu, and call him--friend. + + + + +LINES + +TO A ROBIN. + +_Written during a severe Winter_. + + +Why, trembling, silent, wand'rer! why, +From me and Pity do you fly? +Your little heart against your plumes +Beats hard--ah! dreary are these glooms! +Famine has chok'd the note of joy +That charm'd the roving shepherd-boy. +Why, wand'rer, do you look so shy? +And why, when I approach you, fly? +The crumbs which at your feet I strew +Are only meant to nourish you; +They are not thrown with base decoy, +To rob you of one hour of joy. +Come, follow to my silent mill, +That stands beneath yon snow-clad hill; +There will I house your trembling form, +There shall your shiv'ring breast be warm: +And, when your little heart grows strong, +I'll ask you for your simple song; +And, when you will not tarry more, +Open shall be my wicket-door; +And freely, when you chirp "adieu," +I'll wish you well, sweet warbler! too; +I'll wish you many a summer-hour +On top of tree, or abbey-tow'r. +When Spring her wasted form retrieves, +And gives your little roof its leaves, +May you (a happy lover) find +A kindred partner to your mind: +And when, amid the tangled spray, +The sun shall shoot a parting ray, +May all within your mossy nest +Be safe, be merry, and be blest. + + + + +LINES TO DELIA, + +ON HER WEARING A MUSLIN VEIL. + + +Say, Delia, why, in muslin shade, + Ah! say, dost thou conceal those eyes? +Such little stars were never made, + I'm sure, to shine thro' misty skies. + +Say, are they wrapt in so much shade, + That they may more successful rise, +Starting from such soft ambuscade, + To catch and kill us by surprise? + +Or, of their various pow'rs afraid, + Is it in mercy to our sighs, +Lest love, o'er many a heart betray'd, + Should sob "a faithful vot'ry dies"? + +Then, oh! remove the envious shade; + Let others wear, who want, disguise: +We all had sooner die, sweet maid, + To see, than live without, those eyes. + + + + +VERSES + +TO THE TOMB OF A FRIEND. + + +Dearer to me, thou pile of dust! + Tho' with the wild flow'r simply crown'd, +Than the vast dome or beauteous bust, + By genius form'd, by wit renown'd. + +Wave, thou wild flow'r! for ever wave, + O'er my lov'd relic of delight; +My tears shall bathe her green-rob'd grave + More than the dews of heav'n by night. + +Methinks my Delia bids me go, + Says, "Florio, dry that fruitless tear! +Feed not a wild flow'r with thy woe, + Thy long-lov'd Delia is not here. + +"No drop of feeling from her eye + Now starts to hear thy sorrows speak; +And, did thy bosom know one joy, + No smile would bloom upon her cheek. + +"Pale, wan, and torpid, droops that cheek, + Whereon thy lip impress'd its red; +Those eyes, which Florio taught to speak, + Unnotic'd close amid the dead!" + +True, true, too idly mourns this heart; + Why, Mem'ry, dost thou paint the past? +Why say you saw my Delia part, + Still press'd, still lov'd her, to the last? + +Then, thou wild flow'r, for ever wave! + To thee this parting tear is given; +The sigh I offer at her grave + Shall reach my sainted love in heaven! + + + + +TIME AND THE LOVER. + + +Oh, Time! thy merits who can know? + Thy real nature who discover? +The absent lover calls thee slow,-- + "Too rapid," says the happy lover. + +With bloom thy cheeks are now refin'd, + Now to thine eye the tear is given; +At once too cruel and too kind,-- + A little hell, a little heaven. + +Go then, thou charming myst'ry, go!-- + Yes, tho' thou often dost amuse me, +Tho' many a joy to thee I owe, + At once I thank thee and abuse thee. + + + + +A ROUNDELAY. + + +Wide thro' the azure blue and bright +Serenely floats the lamp of night; +The sleeping waves forget to move, +And silent is the cedar grove; +Each breeze suspended seems to say-- +"Now, Leline, for thy Roundelay!" + +My Delia's lids are clos'd in rest; +Ah! were her pillow but my breast! +Go, dreams! one gentle word impart, +In whispers place me by her heart; +While near her door I'll fondly stray, +And sooth her with my Roundelay. + +But, ah! the Night draws in her shade, +And glimm'ring stars reluctant fade: +Yet sleep, my love! nor may'st thou feel +The pangs which griefs like mine reveal: +Adieu! for Morning's on his way, +And bids me close my Roundelay. + + + + +FAREWELL LINES + +TO + +_BRISTOL HOT WELLS_. + + +Bristol! in vain thy rocks attempt the sky, + The wild woods waving on their giddy brow; +And vainly, devious Avon! vainly sigh + Thy waters, winding thro' the vales below;-- + +In vain, upon thy glassy bosom borne, + Th' expected vessel proudly glides along, +While, 'mid thy echoes, at the break of morn + Is heard the homeward ship-boy's happy song;-- + +For, ah! amid thy sweet romantic shade, + By Friendship led, fair drooping Beauty moves; +Thy hallow'd cup of health affords no aid, + Nor charm thy birds, that chant their woodland loves. + +Each morn I view her thro' thy wave-girt grove, + Her white robe flutt'ring round her sinking form; +O'er the sweet ruin shine those eyes of love, + As bright stars beaming thro' a midnight storm. + +Here sorrowing Love seeks a sequester'd bow'r. + Calls on thy spring to calm his troubled breast; +Bright Hope alights not on his pensive hour, + Nor can thy favour'd fountains yield him rest. + +Despair across his joys now intervenes, + And sternly bids the little cherub fly; +While his eyes close amid thy beauteous scenes. + His last sighs bless the form that bids him die. + +Farewell, then, Bristol! thou canst yield no joy, + Thy woods look darken'd with funereal gloom, +Sickness and Sorrow on thy green banks sigh, + And all thy form is but a beauteous tomb. + +Ah! may each future suff'rer, hov'ring near, + Rais'd by thy genial wave, delighted view +Returning joy and health, supremely dear, + Long lost to him who sadly sighs adieu! + + + + +A SONG. + + +These shades were made for Love alone,-- + Here only smiles and kisses sweet +Shall play around his flow'ry throne, + And doves shall sentinel the seat. + +Come, Delia! 'tis a genial day; + It bids us to his bow'r repair:-- +"But what will little Cupid say?"-- + "Say! sweet?--why, give a welcome there." + +There not a tell-tale beam shall peep + Upon thy beauty's rich display,-- +There not a breeze shall dare to sweep + The leaves, to whisper what we say. + + + + +LINES + +ON LADY W---- APPEARING AT THE EXHIBITION. + + +When lovely Delphine sought the crowded scene, + The painter's mimic pow'r no longer mov'd; +All turn'd to gaze upon her beauteous mien, + None envied her, for, as they look'd, they lov'd. + +Amid the proud display of forms so fair, + Of each fine tint the pencil can impart, +Nature with rapture seem'd to lead her there, + To prove how she could triumph over Art. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN AT BRIGHTON. + + +From Mirth's bright circle, from the giddy throng, + How sweet it is to steal away at eve, +To listen to the homeward fisher's song, + Whilst dark the waters of the ocean heave;-- + +And on the sloping beach to bear the spray + Dash 'gainst some hoary vessel's broken side; +Whilst, far illumin'd by the parting ray, + The distant sail is faintly seen to glide. + +Yes, 'tis Reflection's chosen hour; for then, + With pensive pleasure mingling o'er the scene, +Th' erratic mind treads over life again, + And gazes on the past with eye serene. + +Those stormy passions which bedimm'd the soul, + That oft have bid the joys it treasur'd fly, +Now, like th' unruffled waves of Ocean, roll + With gentle lapse--their only sound a sigh. + +The galling wrong no longer knits the brow, + Ambition feels the folly of her aim; +And Pity, from the heart expanding, now + Pants to extend relief to ev'ry claim. + +Thus, as I sit beside the murm'ring sea, + And o'er its darkness trace light's parting streak, +I feel, O Nature! that serenity + Which vainly poetry like mine can speak! + +O'er the drear tract of Time, Remembrance views + Some dear, some long-departed, pleasure gleam;-- +So o'er the dark expanse the eye pursues + Upon the wat'ry edge a transient beam. + +The spot fraternal love has sacred made, + Solemn, yet sweet, like groves in twilight gloom, +Mem'ry revisits, and beneath its shade + Faintly it sees each faded joy re-bloom. + +By Fancy led, from Death's cold bed of stone, + Lovely, tho' wan, what cherish'd form appears? +Oh! gentle Anna[A]! at thy name alone, + Genius, and Grace, and Virtue, smile in tears. + +Half-wrapp'd in mist I see thy figure move, + O'er thy pale cheek appears its wonted smile; +With lunar lustre beam those looks of love, + That once could life of ev'ry care beguile: + +Faintly I hear thy angel-voice again; + There's music in the sweet and dying sound; +Like Philomela's soft and echo'd strain, + It spreads a soothing consolation round. + +Adieu, bless'd shade!--Imagination roves + To distant regions, o'er th' Atlantic wave; +Ah! not to genial skies, or fragrant groves, + To drop a tear upon a kindred grave. + +Hard was thy fate, Eliza[B]!--It was thine, + Tho' wit thy mind, tho' beauty grac'd thy form, +Behind Affliction's weeping cloud to shine, + With star-like radiance, in a night of storm. + +Fierce from the sun the fiery fever flew, + And bade the burning sand become thy tomb! +O'er thee no willow drops its mourning dew, + Nor spotless lilies o'er thy bosom bloom! + +Oh! when we stood around our brother's bier, + And wept in life's full bloom to see him torn, +Ah! little did ye think that such a tear + As then ye shed so soon your fate would mourn. + +Farewell, dear shades! accept this mournful song, + At once the tribute of my grief and love; +Fain would it try your virtues to prolong, + Here priz'd and honour'd, and now bless'd above. + +[Footnote A: Mrs. Hodges, a sister of the author.] + +[Footnote B: Mrs Fountaine, another sister of the author, who +accompanied her husband to Africa, and died at the Government-house, +in one of the British settlements on that coast, where she survived +but a short time the death of three of her children.] + + + + +ECHO. + + +Echo! thou sweet enchantress of the grove! +Oh! cease to answer to the tones of love; +Or teach my Delia in thine art divine, +Thou loveliest nymph! to hear and answer mine! + + + + +OCCASIONAL LINES + +_Repeated at an elegant Entertainment_ + +GIVEN BY LIEUTENANT-COLONEL D---- TO HIS FRIENDS + +IN THE RUINS OF BERRY CASTLE, DEVONSHIRE.[A] + + +By your permission, Ladies! I address ye, +And for the boon you grant, my Muse shall bless ye. +I do not mean in solemn verse to tell +What fate the race of Pomeroy befell; +To trace the castle-story of each year, +To learn how many owls have hooted here; +What was the weight of stone, which form'd this pile, +Will on your lovely cheeks awake no smile: +Such antiquarian sermons suit not me, +Nor any soul who loves festivity. +Past times I heed not; be the present hour +In life, while yet it blooms, my chosen flow'r, +For well I know, what Time cannot disown, +Amidst this mossy pile of mould'ring stone, +That Hospitality was never seen +To spread more social joy upon the green; +Or, when its noble and capacious hall +Rang with the gambol gay, or graceful ball, +More beauty never charm'd its ancient beaux +Than what its honour'd ruins now enclose. +Thanks to the clouds, which from the soaking show'r +Preserve the vot'ries of the present hour; +For, strange to tell, beneath the chilling storm, +Lately the rose reclin'd her frozen form; +Yet since, beneath the favour of the weather, +We are (a laughing group) conven'd together, +Pray let the Muse pursue her merry route, +To shew what pass'd before we all set out. +To some fair damsel, who, intent to charm, +Declares she thinks the weather fine and warm, +Such words as these address her trembling ear-- +"I really think we shall have rain, my dear; +Pray do not go, my love," cries soft mama; +"You shall not go, that's flat," cries stern papa. +A lucky sunbeam shines on the discourse, +The parents soften, and Miss mounts her horse. +Each tickled with some laugh-inspiring notion, +Behold the jocund party all in motion: +Some by a rattling buggy are befriended, +Some mount the cart--but not to be suspended. +The mourning-coach[B] is wisely counter-order'd +(The very thought on impious rashness border'd), +Because the luckless vehicle, one night, +Put all its merry mourners in a fright, +Who, to conduct them to the masquerade, +Sought from its crazy wheels their moving aid. +Us'd to a soleme pace, the creaking load +Bounded unwillingly along the road; +Down came the whole--oh! what a sight was there! +O'er a blind Fiddler roll'd a Flow'r-Nymph fair; +A glitt'ring Spaniard, who had lost his nose, +Roar'd out, "Oh! d--n it, take away your toes;" +A blooming Nun fell plump upon a Jew, +Still to the good old cause of traffic true, +Buried in clothes, exclaim'd the son of barter, +"Got blesh my shoul! you'll shell this pretty garter?" +Here let me pause;--the Muse, in sad affright, +Turns from the dire disasters of that night; +Quite panic-struck she drops her trembling plumes, +And thus a moralizing theme assumes:-- +Know, gentle Ladies, once these shapeless walls, +O'er whose grey wreck the shading ivy crawls, +Compos'd a graceful mansion, whose fair mould +Led from the road the trav'ller, to behold. +Oft, when the morning ting'd the redd'ning skies, +Far off the spiral smoke was seen to rise; +At noon the hospitable board was spread, +Then nappy ale made light the weary head; +And when grey eve appear'd, in shadows damp, +Each casement glitter'd with th' enliv'ning lamp; +Here the laugh titter'd, there the lute of Love +Fill'd with its melody the moon-light grove: +All, all are fled!--Time ruthless stalks around, +And bends the crumbling ruin to the ground: +Time, Ladies, too (I know you do not like him, +And, if a fan could end him, you would strike him), +Will with as little gallantry devour +From your fair faces their bewitching pow'r; +Then, like these ruins, beauteous in decay, +Still shall you charm, and men shall still obey: +Then, with remembrance soft, and tender smile, +Perchance you'll think upon this mossy pile; +And, with a starting tear of joy declare, +"Oh! how we laugh'd, how merry were we there!" + +[Footnote A: The manor of Berry was given by William the Conqueror to +one of his Normans, Ralph de la Pomerai, who built on it the castle +which still bears his name, and in whose family it continued till the +reign of Edward VI. when it was sold by Sir Thomas Pomeroy to Edward +Seymour, Duke of Somerset, from whom it has descended to the present +Duke. + +The castle is seated upon a rock, which rises almost perpendicularly +from a narrow valley; through this valley winds a small stream of +water, which drives the mill seen through the foliage of the +surrounding woods from the turrets of the castle. + +In approaching the castle from the south, the path leads down the +side of a hill through a thick wood; and on the north side of the +valley, opposite the rock on which the castle stands, is a high ridge, +partly covered with oak: these hills completely shut in the ruins on +both sides. The valley stretches a considerable way both to the east +and west, and opens a view at either end into the adjacent country. + +From the ivy-covered ruins of the fortress which now remain, it is +scarcely possible to say what was its ancient form; but it is most +generally supposed to have been quadrangular, having only one +entrance, a large double portcullis, at the west end of the southern +front, turreted and embattled, as was the whole of the front, with a +tower at its eastern end, corresponding with that on the west. This +front, with its gateway and turrets, are perhaps the only remains of +the original structure. Winding steps, now almost worn away, lead to +what once was a chapel, over the portcullis, and thence to the top of +the turrets. + +In more modern times a magnificent building was erected within the +walls of the castle by the Seymour family; but, although upwards of +L20,000 were said to have been expended on it, it was never finished, +and now the whole forms one common ruin, which, as it totters on it +base, the spectator contemplates with awe, while he sighs over the +remains of fallen grandeur.] + +[Footnote B: A party from Totness went to Lord Courtenay's masquerade +in this way, there being no other conveyance to be had, and met with +the ridiculous accident here alluded to.] + + + + +LINES + +TO SIR ROBERT KER PORTER, + +KNIGHT OF THE IMPERIAL ORDER OF ST. JOACHIM, + +_Upon his approaching Nuptials with the Princess Shebatoff_. + + +To save the credit of the dame, + Poets and painters all agree + That Mistress Fortune cannot see, +And on her bandage cast the blame; + +When honours on th' unworthy wait, + When riches to the wealthy flow, + When high desert, oppress'd by woe, +Is left to struggle on with Fate. + +But, Porter! when on thee she smil'd, + The fillet from her eyes she mov'd, + To view the merit all approv'd-- +A mind inform'd, a heart unsoil'd. + +She saw thy virtues bright appear; + A son that mothers seldom know, + A brother with affection's glow, +The soldier brave[A], the friend sincere. + +With honours then thy name she grac'd, + And call'd on Love to bless thy arms + With princely rank, with Virtue's charms, +And all the pow'rs of wit and taste. + +[Footnote A: Sir R.K. Porter was attached to the staff in the late +campaign in Spain, and was in nearly every engagement with the enemy.] + + + + +THE FOLLOWING LINES IN FRENCH, + +_Are inscribed upon the Pedestal of a Statue of Cupid_, + +IN A GARDEN AT UTRECHT. + + +_ORIGINAL_. + + N'offrant qu'un coeur a la Beaute, + Nud comme la Verite, + Sans armes comme l'Innocence, + Sans ailes comme la Constance, + Tel fut l'Amour dans le siecle d'or, +On ne le trouve plus, quoiqu'on le cherche encore. + + +_TRANSLATION_. + +To Beauty give your heart, your sighs, +No other off'ring will she prize; +As Truth should unadorn'd appear, +Behold! the god is naked here! +Like Innocence, he has no arms +But those of sweet, of native, charms; +No wish or pow'r has he to fly, +Like thy pure spirit, Constancy! +Such in the golden age was Love; +But now, oh! whither does he rove? + + + + +THE RHINGAU SONG. + +This is the favourite Song with the Inhabitants of the vine-covered +Region of the Rhingau, an extensive District along the Banks of the +Rhine, where the finest Wines are produced. + + +_ORIGINAL_. + +Bekrantzt mit laub den liebe vollen becher, + Und trinkt ihn froelich leer; +In Gauz Europa ihr herren zecher, + Ist solch, ein wein micht mehr. + +Ihn bringt das vaterland aus seiner fulle, + Wie waer er sonst so gut? +Wie waer er sonst so edel, stille, + Und doch voll kraft und muth? + +Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsre reben: + Gesegnet sey der Rhein! +Da wachsen sie am ufer hin, und geben + Uns diesen labe wein. + +So trinkt ihn dann, und lasst uns alle wege + Uns freun, und froelich seyn; +Und wuesten wir, wo jemand traurig laege, + Wir gaben ihm den wein. + + +_TRANSLATION_. + +With wine-leaves crown the jovial cup, + For, search all Europe round, +You'll say, as pleas'd you drink it up, + Such wine was never found. + Such wine, &c. + +Our fathers' land this vine supplies; + What soil can e'er produce +But this, tho' warm'd with genial skies, + Such mild, such gen'rous juice? + Such mild, &c. + +Then shall the Rhine our smiles receive, + For on its banks alone +Can e'er be found a wine to give + The soul its proper tone. + The soul, &c. + +Come, put the jovial cup around, + Our joys it will enhance, +If any one is mournful found, + One sip shall make him dance. + One sip, &c. + + + + +LINES TO HEALTH, + +_Upon the Recovery of a Friend from a dangerous Illness_. + + +Sweet guardian of the rosy cheek! + Whene'er to thee I raise my hands +Upon the mountain's breezy peak, + Or on the yellow winding sands, + +If thou hast deign'd, by Pity mov'd, + This fev'rish phantom to prolong, +I've touch'd my lute, for ever lov'd, + And bless'd thee with its earliest song! + +And oh! if in thy gentle ear + Its simple notes have sounded sweet, +May the soft breeze, to thee so dear, + Now bear them to thy rose-wreath'd seat! + +For thou hast dried the dew of grief, + And Friendship feels new ecstacy: +To Pollio thou hast stretch'd relief, + And, raising him, hast cherish'd me. + +So, whilst some treasur'd plant receives + Th' admiring florist's partial show'r, +The drops that tremble from its leaves + Oft feed some near uncultur'd flow'r. + +For late connubial Fondness hung + Mute o'er the couch where Pollio lay; +Love, Hope, and Sorrow, fixed her tongue, + Thro' sable night till morning grey. + +There, too, by drooping Pollio's side, + Stood Modesty, a mourner meek, +Whilst Genius, mov'd by grief and pride, + Increas'd the blush which grac'd her cheek; + +For much the maiden he reprov'd + For having spread her veil of snow +Upon the mind he form'd and lov'd, + Till she was seen to mourn it too. + +O Health! when thou art fled, how vain + The witchery of earth and skies, +Love's look, or music's sweetest strain, + Or Ocean's softest lullabies! + +Oh! ever hover near his bow'r, + There let thy fav'rite sylphs repair; +Fence it with ev'ry sweet-lipp'd flow'r, + That Sickness find no entrance there. + +So shall his lyre, untouch'd so long, + The tone with which it charm'd regain; +Sweet spirit! thou shall teach his song, + With mine, to breathe the grateful strain. + + + + +AN IRISH SONG + + +Poor Molly O'Flannagan (Lord rest her soul!) +Drank so deeply of whiskey, 'twas thought she would die; +Her fond lover, Pat, from her _nate_ cabin stole, +And stepp'd into Dublin to buy her a pie. + Oh! poor Molly O'Flannagan! + +Tho' chin-deep in sorrow, yet fun he lov'd well; +A pie-man pass'd near, crying "Pies" at his _aise_; +"Here are pies of all sorts."--"Oh! if all sorts you sell, +Then a _twopenny magpie_ for me, if you _plaise_!" + Oh! poor Molly O'Flannagan! + + + + +THE SONG OF GRIEF + + +By the walk of the willows I pour'd out my theme, +The breath of the evening scarce dimpled the stream; +By the waters I stood, like an image of Woe, +And my tears, like the tide, seem'd to tremble and flow. + +Ye green scatter'd reeds, that half lean to the wave, +In your plaintive, your musical, sighs, could ye save +But one note of my charmer, to soften my doom, +I would stay till these willows should arch me a tomb! + +For ye know, when I pour'd out my soul on the lute, +How she hung down her head, so expressively mute! +From my hand she would take it, still breathing my pain; +She would touch it--return it--and smile at the strain. + +Ye wild blooming flow'rs, that enamel this brink, +Like me could ye feel, and like me could ye think, +How sadly would droop ev'ry beautiful leaf! +How soon would your sweetness be wasted with grief! + +She is gone, in a cloud, like the star of the night! +She has left me, heart-broken, to mourn at her flight,-- +To think of the hours she endear'd by her love. +To sigh till again I shall join her above! + + + + +LINES + +UPON HEARING MISS ---- SING AT AN EVENING PARTY. + +THE NIGHTINGALE'S COMPLAINT. + + +The Moon had bespangled the murmuring wave, +The dew-drop had moisten'd the moss of the cave, +The summer night-breeze, like a sigh, was just heard, +When thus flow'd the strains of the dark-warbling bird: + +"I hear a strange melody breathe thro' the grove, +Now swelling with joy, and now melting with love; +Tho' sweet is the sound, yet it should not invade, +Unbidden, my lonely dominion of shade. + +"As long as the stars that now twinkle shall shine, +This willow's my throne, and all nature is mine: +Perchance 'tis the breeze on your desolate lute; +Its strings are now sighing, so long that were mute. + +"Ah! no, silly bird that I am! shall I grieve? +Shall Envy alarm, and shall Folly deceive? +'Tis the voice of Eliza! I hear it again, +Enraptur'd I hear it, nor envy the strain." +Then Philomel flutter'd with tremulous wing +To Eliza--more happy to listen than sing! + + + + +LOVE AND THE SPRING-FLOWER. + + +'Tis pity, ev'ry maiden knows, +Just as she cools, Love warmer grows; +But, if the chill be too severe, +Trust me, he'll wither in a tear. + +Thus will the spring-flow'r bud and blow, +Wrapp'd round in many a fold of snow; +But, if an ice-wind pierce the sky, +'Twill drop upon its bed, and die! + + + + +LINES + +UPON THE REV. MR. C----'S IMPROMPTU COMPOSITIONS + +OF SOME OF BOWLES'S SONNETS. + + +No sweeter verse did e'er inspire +A kindred Muse with all its fire; +Nor sweeter strains could Music lend, +To sooth the sorrows of her friend. + +Associate Genius bids them flow +With sounds that give a charm to woe; +We weep as tho' it were our own, +As if our hearts were play'd upon. + + + + +SONNET. + + +The leaves are flutter'd by no tell-tale gales, + Clear melts the azure in the rosy west, +Scarce heard, the river winds along the vales, + And Eve has lull'd the vocal grove to rest. + +To yon thick elms, my Delia! let us rove, + As slow the glories of the day retire; +There to thy lute breathe dulcet notes of love, + While thro' the vale they linger and expire. + +Those honey'd tones, that melt upon the tongue,-- + Thy looks, serener than the scenes I sing,-- +Thy chaste desires, which angels might have sung, + Alone can quiet in this bosom bring, +Which burns for thee, and, kindled by thine eyes, + Bears a pure flame--the flame that never dies! + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN AT KILKENNY, + +ON THE THEATRICALS OF THAT CITY. + + +Amid the ruins of monastic gloom, + Where Nore's meand'ring waters wind along, +Genius and Wealth have rais'd the tasteful dome, + Yet not alone for Fashion's brilliant throng;-- + +In Virtue's cause they take a noble aim; + 'Tis theirs in sweetest harmony to blend +Wit with Compassion, Sympathy with Fame, + Pleasure the means, Beneficence the end[A]. + +There, if on Beauty's cheek the tear appears + (Form'd by the mournful Muse's mimic sigh), +Fast as it falls, a kindred drop it bears, + More sadly shed from genuine Misery. + +Nor, if the laughter-loving Nymph delight, + Does the reviving transport perish there; +Still, still, with Pity's radiance doubly bright, + Its smiles shed sunshine on the cheek of Care. + +So, if Pomona's golden fruit descend, + Shook by some breeze, into the lake below, +Quick will the dimple, which it forms, extend, + Till all around the joyous circles flow. + +Bless'd be the liberal mind, th' undaunted zeal, + That bade loud Folly from the Stage retire; +That teach us how to think, and how to feel, + And once again our godlike Bard admire! + +Thus aided, see his rescued genius spring; + Again he pours the phrenzy of his song; +With EV'RY FEATHER[B] in his eagle wing, + Once more in majesty he soars along. + +Oft, deck'd with smiles, his spirit shall explore, + Erin! thy beauteous vales and classic ground; +And ev'ry ripple of thy winding Nore + To him shall sweetly as his Avon's sound. + +_22d Oct. 1805_. + +[Footnote A: The theatricals of Kilkenny are supported by gentlemen of +rank and fashion in Ireland, and the profits are applied to charitable +purposes.] + +[Footnote B: Alluding to several fine passages of Shakspeare, which +have been long omitted in representation, but restored at the +theatricals of Kilkenny.] + + + + +EPIGRAM, + +UPON SEEING THE DILAPIDATED STATE OF + +_BETHLEM HOSPITAL_. + + +Well with the _purpose_ does the _place_ agree; +For e'en the very house is _crack'd_, you see. + + + + +EPIGRAM + +ON THE GRAVE OF ROBESPIERRE. + + +_ORIGINAL_. + +Passant, ne pleure point son sort; +Car, s'il vivait, tu serais mort. + + +_TRANSLATION_. + +Nay, passenger, don't mourn his lot; +If he had liv'd, why you had not. + + + + +AN INDIAN MASSACRE-SONG. + + +See, the waves clasp the Sun, as he sinks from our sight, +And Despair sullen rides on the wings of the night; +Lo! he comes, and reproaches our arms with delay,-- +Then arise, let us go where Revenge points the way! + +In the deed should we fall, (since who'll e'er breathe a slave?) +Our free souls shall repose in the realms of the brave; +In the song we shall live, and fresh heroes inspire, +While the son shall exult in the fate of his sire. + +Then know, ye white race! ye too long shake the rod; +By this arm ye shall soon be dismiss'd to your God! +Then demand, if he bade ye torment, why he gave +All the soul of a man to the breast of a slave? + +Then prepare; know our hatchets atone for our wrong, +And our hearts, like our hatchets, are stubborn and strong: +Sleep your last! ye no more shall the morning survey, +Nor shall sorrow arise with the break of the day. + +Yes, remember the lashes that pierc'd thro' our flesh! +See the wounds of our fathers; they open afresh! +In the winds, hark! blue Avrin attends to our call; +I, your chief, will be first in your glories, or fall! + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN ON DELIA, LISTENING TO HER CANARY-BIRD. + + +When thoughtless Delia unconcern'd surveys + Her plumy captive, as he leans to sing, +Lo! while she smiles, the fascination stays + The little heaven of its airy wing. + +Ah! so she tastes the sorrows I impart, + Smiles at the sound, but never feels my pain; +And many a glance deludes my captive heart + To sigh in numbers, tho' I sigh in vain! + + + + +THE HECTIC. + + +Upon the breezy cliff's impending brow, + With trembling step, the Hectic paus'd awhile; +As round his wasted form the sea-breeze blew, + His flush'd cheek brighten'd with a transient smile: + +Refresh'd and cherish'd by its balmy breath, + He dreamt of future bliss, of years to come; +Whilst, with a look of woe, the spectre, Death, + Oft shook his head, and pointed to his tomb. + +Such sounds as these escap'd his lab'ring breast:-- + "Sweet Health! thou wilt revisit this sad frame; +Slumber shall bid these aching eyelids rest, + And I shall live for love, perchance for fame." +Ah! poor enthusiast!--in the day's decline +A mournful knell was heard, and it was thine! + + + + +VERSES TO MISS M. G----, + +ACCOMPANIED WITH A DRIED HELIOTROPE, + +_Which she had presented to the Author a Year before_. + + +Time, since thou gav'st this flow'r to me, + Has often turn'd his glass of sand; +Perchance 'tis now unknown to thee + That once its breath perfum'd thy hand. + +Oh, lovely maid! that thou may'st see + How much thy gifts my care engage, +I've sent the cherish'd flow'r to thee + Without a blemish, but from age. + +Kiss but its leaves;--one kiss from thee, + And all its sweetness 'twill regain; +And, if I live in memory + Thus honour'd, send it back again! + + + + +LINES + +TO MRS. B----, AT BRISTOL HOT WELLS + + +Tho' nought, amid these darkened groves, + But various groups of death appear, +Scar'd at the sight, tho' fly the Loves, + And Sickness saddens all the year, + +Yet, Clara, where you deign to stay, + Your sense and manners charm us so, +E'en sick'ning Sorrow's self looks gay, + And smiles amid the wreck of woe. + + + + +LINES + +TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH, + +UPON THE PRINTS + +_From her beautiful Drawings of the Birth and Triumph of Cupid_. + + +Once, for a palace, Painting left her grove, + And taught her royal fav'rite's hand to trace +A beauteous maiden's tale of little Love, + His silken wings, soft limbs, and laughing face! + +Then Nature wept o'er each expressive line, + To think the sweet creation so confin'd, +That such a boy, so fair, and so divine, + Was but the playful prattler of her mind; + +And had he near the royal easel flown, + And seen the features of this mimic brother, +He would have known the portrait for his own, + And claim'd the beauteous painter for his mother. + + + + +EPITAPH + +TO THE MEMORY OF A WORTHY MAN, + +_THE REV. MR. SLEEP_, + +CURATE OF KINGSWEAR CHURCH, DEVON, + +_Whose devotional Elocution was remarkably impregnated with +soporific Qualities_. + + +Reader! since Parson Sleep is gone, +And lies beneath yon humble stone, +Whene'er to Kingswear Church we go, + Holy the sabbath-day to keep +(Indeed 'tis right it should be so), + We never more shall go to _sleep_. + + + + +LINES, + +SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A FEMALE FRIEND, + +_Upon an Infant recommended to her Care by its dying Mother_. + + +Bless'd be thy slumbers, little love! + Unconscious of the ills so near; +May no rude noise thy dreams remote, + Or prompt the artless early tear;-- + +For she who gave thee life is gone, + Whose trust it was thy life to rear, +Now in the cold and mould'ring stone + Calls for that artless early tear. + +Sleep on, thou little dreamer! sleep; + For, long as I shall tarry here, +I'll soothe thee; thou shalt never weep, + Tho' flows for thee the tend'rest tear. + +Then be thy gentle visions blest, + Nor e'er thy bosom know that fear, +Which thro' the night disturbs my rest, + And prompts Affection's trembling tear. + + + + +LINES + +ON THE CALEDONIAN HARP BEING SUCCEEDED + +BY THE HIGHLAND BAGPIPES. + + +In days that long have glided by, +Beneath keen Scotia's weeping sky, +On many a hill of purple heath, +In many a gloomy glen beneath, +The wand'ring Lyrist once was known +To pour his harp's entrancing tone. +Then, when the castle's rocky form +Rose 'mid the dark surrounding storm, +The Harper had a sacred seat, +Whence he might breathe his wild notes sweet. +Oh! then, when many a twinkling star +Shone in the azure vault afar, +And mute was ev'ry mountain-bird, +Soft music from the harp was heard; +And when the morning's blushes shed +On hill, or tow'r, their varying red, +Oh! then the harp was heard to cheer, +With earliest sound, th' enraptur'd ear; +Then many a lady fair was known, +With snowy hand, to wake its tone; +And infant fingers press'd the string, +And back recoil'd, to hear it sing. +Sweet instrument! such was thy pow'r, +'Twas thine to gladden ev'ry hour; +The young and old then honour'd thee, +And smil'd to hear thy melody. + +Alas! as Time has turn'd to dust +The temple fair, the beauteous bust, +Thou too hast mark'd his frowning brow; +No Highland echo knows thee now: +A savage has usurp'd thy place, +Once fill'd by thee with ev'ry grace; +Th' inflated Pipe, with swinish drone, +Calls forth applauses once thine own. + + + + +A SONG. + + +When stormy show'rs from Heav'n descend, +And with their weight the lily bend, +The Sun will soon his aid bestow, +And drink the drops that laid it low. + +Oh! thus, when sorrow wrings the heart, +A sigh may rise, a tear may start; +Pity shall soon the face impress +With all its looks of happiness. + + + + +VERSES + +ON AN AUTUMNAL LEAF. + + +Think not, thou pride of Summer's softest strain! + Sweet dress of Nature, in her virgin bloom! +That thou hast flutter'd to the breeze in vain, + Or unlamented found thy native tomb. + +The Muse, who sought thee in the whisp'ring shade, + When scarce one roving breeze was on the wing, +With tones of genuine grief beholds thee fade, + And asks thy quick return in earliest Spring. + +I mark'd the victim of the wintry hour, + I heard the winds breathe sad a fun'ral sigh, +When the lone warbler, from his fav'rite bow'r, + Pour'd forth his pensive song to see thee die;-- + +When, in his little temple, colder grown, + He saw its sides of green to yellow grow, +And mourn'd his little roof, around him blown, + Or toss'd in beauteous ruin on the snow; + +And vow'd, throughout the dreary day to come, + (More sad by far than summer's gloomiest night), +That not one note should charm the leafless gloom, + But silent Sorrow should attend thy flight. + + + + +SONG. + +THE WORDS ADAPTED TO "THE COSSAKA," + +_One of the most ancient of the Russ Airs_. + + +Has Time a changeling made of thee? +Oh! no; and thou art all to me: +He bares the forest, but his pow'rs + Impair not love like ours. + +Tho' sever'd from each other's sight, +When once we meet we shall unite, +As dew-drops down the lily run, + And, touching, blend in one. + +For thee this bosom learnt to grieve, +Another never made it heave; +When present, oh! it was thy throne, + And, absent, thine alone. + +Then may my trembling pilgrim feet +In safety find thy lov'd retreat! +And, if I'm doom'd to drop with care, + Still let me perish there! + + + + +TO MISS ATKINSON, + +ON THE EXTREME DIFFIDENCE WHICH SHE + +DISPLAYS TO STRANGERS. + + +Just as a fawn, in forest shade, + Trembling to meet th' admiring eye, +I've seen thee try to hide, sweet maid! + Thy charms behind thy modesty. + +Thus too I've seen at midnight steal + A fleecy cloud before the wind, +And veil, tho' it could not conceal, + The brilliant light that shone behind. + + + + +LINES + +Upon reading the Journal of a Friend's Tour into Scotland, in which +the picturesque Scenery and the Character of the People are fairly +and liberally stated. + + +Much injur'd, Scotia! was thy genuine worth, +When late the[A] surly Rambler wandered forth + In brown[B] surtout, with ragged staff, + Enough to make a savage laugh! +And sent the faithless legend from his hand, +That Want and Famine scour'd thy bladeless land, + +That with thee Nature wore a wrinkled face, +That not a leaf e'er shed its sylvan grace, + But, harden'd by their northern wind, + Rude, deceitful, and unkind, +Thy half-cloth'd sons their oaten cake denied, +Victims at once of penury and pride. + +Happy for thee! a lib'ral Briton here, +Gentle yet shrewd, tho' learned not severe. + Fairly thy merit dares impart, + Asserts thy hospitable heart, +Proves that luxuriance smiles upon thy plains, +And wit and valour grace thy hardy swains. + +[Footnote A: Dr. Johnson, author of the Rambler.] +[Footnote B: Alluding to his dress, as described by Mr. Boswell.] + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN UPON A HILL, + +_On leaving the Country_. + + +Ah! sweet romantic spot, adieu! +Ere your green fields again I view, +These looks may change their youthful hue. + +Dependence sternly bids me part +From all that ye, lov'd scenes! impart, +Far from my treasure and my heart. + +Tho' winter shall your bloom invade, +Fancy may visit ev'ry shade, +Each bow'r shall kiss the wand'ring maid. + +To busier scenes of life I fly, +Where many smile, where many sigh, +As Chance, not Worth, turns up the die. + + + + +BANKRUPTCY RENDERED EASY. + + +The Cit, relying on his trade, +Which, like all other things, may fade, + Longs for a curricle and villa: +This Hatchet splendidly supplies, +The other Cock'ril builds, or buys, + To charm himself and Miss Hautilla. + +Then swift, O London! he retires, +To be, from all thy smoke and spires, + From Saturday till Sunday, merry: +On Sunday crowds of friends attend; +His house and garden some commend, + And all admire his port and sherry. + +His mistress urg'd him now to play, +And cut to wealth a shorter way, + Now as a bride she heads his table; +But still our Cit observ'd his time. +Returning at St. Cripple's chime, + At least as near as he was able. + +But soon _she_ could not bear the sight +Of town; for walls with bow'rs unite, + As well as smoke with country breezes; +Without the keenest grief and pride +_He_ could not quit his _mares_, and _bride_: + We yield as soon as passion seizes. + +The clock no more his herald prov'd; +Tuesday, nay Wednesday, morn have mov'd, + Ere trembling shopmen saw their master: +Observing neighbours whisper'd round, +That ease might do, with plenty crown'd; + If not, that ruin came the faster. + +His cash grew scarce, his business still, +At variance were his books and till + (For wolves devour when shepherds slumber); +His creditors around him pour, +Seize all his horses, household store, + And only give him up the lumber! + + + + +LINES + +_Written at the Sea-Side in Devonshire_, + +IN THE MONTH OF NOVEMBER, + +WHEN THE SHIPS FROM NEWFOUNDLAND RETURN. + + +Still Summer lingers on these peaceful shores, + Nor yet she quits her rose-erected bow'r; +Tho' oft in many a dew-drop she explores + Her beauties fading in each passing hour! + +Tho' Winter's boist'rous child, November, strays + Amid those scenes that wak'd the poet's lyre, +Shakes his green canopy, and loves to raise, + Of sapless leaves, an altar for his sire. + +Soon shall his wild and stormy sway be o'er; + These lovely scenes shall feel his shortest reign; +And thou, sweet Summer! charming as before, + Shall but retire to dress thyself again. + +Yet Heaven guides, full provident and kind, + With sweet economy, the source of joy, +From grief extracts some comfort for the mind, + And fresh hopes flatter ere the lost annoy. + +See where Connubial Love yon rock ascends, + To hail each sail, while fav'ring breezes blow; +There many an hour she o'er the margin bends, + Her bosom trembling like the floods below. + +Nearer the ocean's graceful burden glides; + Cleav'd by its prow, the lines of water yield: +While adverse mountains, with protective sides, + The Heav'n-directed wand'ring seaman shield. + +The anchor dropp'd, he springs upon the shore, + His wife and children press to meet his kiss; +Half-told, a thousand things they prattle o'er, + And, safe at home, renew their former bliss. + + + + +EPIGRAM, + +ON WINNING A YOUNG LADY'S MONEY AT CARDS. + + +How fairly Fortune all her gifts imparts; +We win your money, Ann, and you our hearts. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN IN A FINE WINTER'S DAY, + +_At the Shooting-Box of my Friend, W. Cope, Esq_. + +NEAR ORPINGTON, KENT. + + +Tho' leafless are the woods, tho' flow'rs no more, +In beauty blushing, spread their fragrant store, +Yet still 'tis sweet to quit the crowded scene, +And rove with Nature, tho' no longer green; +For Winter bids her winds so softly blow, +That, cold and famine scorning, even now +The feather'd warblers still delight the ear, +And all of Summer, but her leaves, is here. +Here, on this winding garden's sloping bound, +'Tis sweet to listen to each rustic sound, +The distant dog-bark, and the rippling rill, +Or catch the sparkling of the water-mill. +The tranquil scene each tender feeling moves; +As the eye rests on Holwood's naked groves, +A tear bedims the sight for Chatham's son, +For him whose god-like eloquence could stun, +Like some vast cat'ract, Faction's clam'rous tongue, +Or by its sweetness charm, like Virgil's song, +For him, whose mighty spirit rous'd afar +Europe's plum'd legions to the hallow'd war; +But who, ah! hapless tale! could not inspire +Their recreant chiefs with his heroic fire; +Who, as _they_ pass'd the tyrant Conqu'ror's yoke, +Felt, as the bolt of Heav'n, the ruthless stroke; +And having long, in vain, the tempest brav'd, +Could breathe no longer in a world enslav'd. + + + + +LINES ON A LITTLE BIRD + +_Singing at the Window of the Author_, + +SOON AFTER THE DEATH OF A BELOVED SISTER. + + +Go, little flutt'rer! seek thy feather'd loves, + And leave a wretched mourner to his woe; +Seek out the bow'rs of bliss, seek happier groves, + Nor here unheeded let thy music flow. + +Yet think me not ungrateful for thy song, + If meant to cheer me in my lone retreat; +Ah! not to thee, my little friend! belong + The pow'rs to soothe the pangs of adverse fate. + +Fly, then! the window of the wretched, fly! + And be thy harmless life for ever blest; +I only can reward thee with a sigh, + And wish that joys may crown thy peaceful nest. + + + + +EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. + + +By painful sickness long severely prest, +Here sinks, on Nature's sacred lap of rest, +A friend, who, in a life too short, display'd +A mind in virtue bright, without one shade. +Hence with unusual grief is Fondness mov'd, +Hence more than Pity's sighs for one belov'd; +Unshaken Honour sheds a manly tear, +And weeping Virtue stops, a mourner here. + + + + +LINES + +TO THE MEMORY OF AN AMIABLE YOUTH, + +OF GREAT PROMISE, + +Whose afflicted Parents received the Intelligence of his having been +drowned, at the very time when his Arrival was expected from +abroad. + + +Dire were the horrors of that ruthless storm, + That for young Lycid form'd a wat'ry grave; +Oh! many wept to see his fainting form + Unaided sink beneath th' o'erwhelming wave. + +Ah! hapless youth! yet, tho' the billowy waste + Has thus, with ruthless fury, snatch'd away +Thy various charms, thy genius, wit, and taste, + From those who fondly watch'd their rich display,-- + +Their cherish'd, lov'd, impression still shall last; + Mem'ry shall ride triumphant o'er the storm, +Shall shield thy gen'rous virtues from the blast, + And Fancy animate again thy form. + +Yes, gentle youth! to her, tho' little known, + Save by the rich effusions of thy lyre, +Th' admiring Muse shall breathe a mournful tone, + And sounds of grief shall o'er the floods expire. + +But, far more grateful to thy pensive shade, + Parental Fondness mourns her Lycid gone, +Lycid! who to her bosom oft convey'd + The liveliest joys to tend'rest feelings known. + +For her the lustre of the dawning day, + With all its charms, no longer yields delight; +And silent sorrow marks its parting ray, + And saddens ev'ry vision of the night. + +Oh! what ecstatic joys inspir'd her breast, + When, fast advancing to thy native shore, +She thought she saw thee in the bay at rest, + And now in fancy heard th' approaching oar. + +Oh! sad reverse! The dire delusive wind, + Which promis'd fair to bring thee to her breast, +Thy youthful honours to the wave consign'd, + And bore thy spirit to the realms of rest + +Ah! had the song of ancient Bard been true, + Had Genius still the pow'r to soothe the storm, +Harmless had been each blast that round thee blew, + And safe and sacred, 'midst its rage, thy form. + +What tho' no marble urn thy relics hold, + Where grief at midnight hour may sit and sigh, +Like gem in amber, Fancy shall enfold + Thy relics in each wave that murmurs by. + +Still shall she listen to thy glowing song, + And dwell with rapture on each vivid line, +Shall round thy lyre, neglected and unstrung, + Of sweetest flow'rs a fun'ral wreath entwine. + +Ah! since thy tuneful song no more shall flow, + Nor here again thy op'ning virtues shine, +May those who, Lycid! lov'd thee living, know + To bear the sorrows of a loss like thine! + +And, while they linger yet another hour + On life's extended, tempest-beaten, strand, +Waiting the gale that shall convey them o'er, + To hail their Lycid in a happier land, + +Oh! may religion lull each sigh to rest, + Teach them a God, in mercy rob'd, to praise, +To know that ev'ry act of his is best, + And, tho' mysterious, still to prize his ways! + + + + +EPIGRAM + +ON THE AUTHOR AND ELIZA FREQUENTLY DIFFERING +IN OPINION. + + +To such extremes were I and Bet + Perpetually driven, +We quarrell'd every time we met, + To kiss, and be forgiven. + + + + +LINES + +TO MY MOTHER, + +_On her attaining her 70th Year_. + + +Oh! with what genuine pleasure do I trace +Each line of that long-lov'd, accustom'd, face, +Where Time, as if enchanted, and imprest +With all the virtues of thy peaceful breast, +Tho' sev'nty varied years have roll'd away, +Still loves to linger, and, with soft decay, +Permits thy cheek to wear a healthy bloom, +In all the grace of age, without its gloom. + +So on some sacred temple's mossy walls, +With feath'ry force, the snow of winter falls! +Yes, venerable parent! may I long +Thus happy hail thee with an annual song. +Till, having clos'd thine eyes in such soft rest +As infants feel when to the bosom prest, +Angels shall bear thy spotless soul away +To realms of pure delight and endless day! + + + + +LINES TO SELINA + + +'Twas when the leaves were yellow turn'd, + Selina, with the gentlest sigh, +Exclaim'd, "For you I long have burn'd, + For you alone, my love! I'll die." + +Unthinking youth! I thought her true, + And, when the trees grew white with snow, +The wint'ry wind with music blew, + So did her love upon me grow. + +The Spring had scarce unlock'd her store, + When lo! in much ungentle strain, +She bade me think of her no more, + She bade me never love again. + +Then did my heart at once reply, + "If you are false, who can be true? +There's nothing here deserves a sigh, + Take this, the last, 'tis heav'd for you." + +Ah! fickle fair! amid the scene + That giddy pleasure may prepare, +A pensive thought shall intervene, + And touch your wand'ring heart with care. + +And when, alone, at eve you rove, + Where arm in arm we oft have mov'd, +Each Zephyr in the well-known grove + Shall whisper that we once have lov'd. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE, + +AT DRONNINGAARD, NEAR COPENHAGEN. + + +Delicious gloom! asylum of repose! + Within your verdant shades, your tranquil bound, +A wretched fugitive[A], oppress'd by woes, + The balm of peace, that long had left him, found. + +Ne'er does the trump of war disturb this grove; + Throughout its deep recess the warbling bird +Discourses sweetly of its happy lore, + Or distant sounds of rural joy are heard. + +Life's checquer'd scene is softly pictur'd here; + Here the proud moss-rose spreads its transient pride; +Close by, the willow drops a dewy tear, + And gaudy flow'rs the modest lily hide. + +Alas! poor Hermit! happy had it been + For thee, if in these shades thy days had past, +If, well contented with the happy scene, + Thou ne'er again had fac'd life's stormy blast! + +And Pity oft shall shed the gen'rous tear + O'er the sad moral which thy days disclose; +There view how restless is our nature here, + How strangely hostile to its own repose. + +[Footnote A: Dronningaard is the first private residence in Denmark: +it belongs to the wealthy family of the De Conincks. The grounds, +which are very extensive, and tastefully laid out, slope down to a +noble lake, twelve English miles in circumference, which is skirted +with fine woods and romantic country-houses. At the end of a +beautiful walk is an elegant marble column, with a tablet, on which +is inscribed by Mr. D.C. "This monument is erected in gratitude to a +mild and beneficent Government, under whose auspices I enjoy the +blessings that surround me." In another part of the grounds, in a +spot of deep seclusion, are the ruins of a Hermitage; and a little +further, in a nook, an open grave and tombstone. The story connected +with this retired spot deserves to be mentioned:--Time has shed many +snows upon the romantic beauties of Dronningaard, since one, who, +weary of the pomp of courts and the tumult of camps, in the prime of +life, covered with honours and with fortune, sought from its +hospitable owner permission to raise a sequestered cell, in which he +might pass the remainder of his days in all the austerities and +privations of an Anchorite. This singular man had, long previously to +the revolution in Holland, distinguished himself at the head of his +regiment, when, in an unhappy moment, the love of aggrandizement took +possession of his heart, and, marrying under its influence, misery +soon followed; and here, in a little wood of tall firs, he raised this +simple fabric: moss warmed it within, and the bark of the birch +defended it without; a stream of rock-water once flowed in a bed of +pebbles before the door, in which the young willow dipped its leaves; +and, at a little distance from a bed of wild roses, the labernum +gracefully rose, and suspended her yellow flowers; and adjoining was a +spot which the Recluse had selected for his grave, of which, like the +monks of La Trappe, he dug a small portion every day until he had +finished it. He composed his Epitaph in French, and had it inscribed +on a stone. If the reader is at much interested as I was in the +history of the poor Hermit, he will be pleased with the translation of +it, which follows, from the pen of my respected and distinguished +friend, William Hayley, Esq. In this solitude he passed several years, +when the plan of his life became suddenly reversed by a letter of +recall, which he received from his Prince, containing the most +flattering expressions of regard. He obeyed the summons, returned to +Holland, and at the head of his regiment most gallantly fought and +fell. + +THE HERMIT'S EPITAPH. + + +Here may he rest, who, shunning scenes of strife, +Enjoy'd at Dronningaard a Hermit's life: +The faithless splendour of a court he knew, + And all the ardour of the tented field, +Soft Passion's idler charm, not less untrue, + And all that listless Luxury can yield. +He tasted, tender Love! thy chatter sweet; +Thy promis'd happiness prov'd mere deceit. +To Hymen's hallow'd fane by Reason led, + He deem'd the path he trod the path of bliss; +Oh! ever-mourn'd mistake! from int'rest bred, + Its dupe was plung'd in misery's abyss: +But Friendship offer'd him, benignant pow'r! +Her cheering hand, in trouble's darkest hour: +Beside this shaded stream, her soothing voice +Bade the disconsolate again rejoice: + Peace in his heart revives, serenely sweet; +The calm content, so sought for as his choice, + Quits him no more in this belov'd retreat.] + + + + +LINES TO MISS E. ATKINSON, + +ON HER PRESENTING THE AUTHOR WITH AN IRISH PEBBLE. + + +Oft does the lucid pebble shine, + Just cover'd by the murm'ring sea; +Thus precious, thus conceal'd, it shews, + Fair maid! thy mind and modesty. + +If searching eyes the stone discern, + Quick will the hand of Art remove +Each ruder part, till, brilliant grown, + It seals the fond record of love. + +And here the sweet connexion ends, + Eliza! 'twixt the gem and thee; +For thou wast polish'd from the first, + By Nature's hand, more happily! + + + + +THE WATER-NYMPH OF THE ROCK. + +[The French is by Bosquillon, which I translated as under, in a +beautiful Swedish island in the Baltic, as I sat by the side of a fine +clear stream of rock-water.] + + +_ORIGINAL_. + +La nymphe qui donne de cette eau +Au plus creux de rocher se cache, +Suivez un example si beau: +Donnez sans vouloir qu'on le sache. + + +_TRANSLATION_. + +The nymph, to whom this stream you owe, + Conceals herself in caves of stone: +Like her your benefits bestow; + Give, without wishing to be known. + + + + +LINES + +UPON MADEMOISELLE DELPHINE SAULOT + +_Singing some equisite Airs_ + +IN THE GARDENS OF MOUSSEAU, NEAR PARIS. + + +In Mousseau's sweet Arcadian dale + Fair Delphine pours the plaintive strain; +She charms the list'ning nightingale, + And seems th' enchantress of the plain. + +Bless'd be those lips, to music dear; + Sweet songstress! never may they move +But with such sounds, to soothe the ear, + And melt the yielding heart to love. + +May sorrow never bid them pour + From the torn heart one suff'ring sigh; +But be thy life a fragrant flow'r, + Blooming beneath a cloudless sky! + + + + +IMPROMPTU TO MADAME C---- + +WRITTEN AT PARIS, + +Upon her appearing equally modestly and elegantly dressed, amidst the +Semi-Nakedness of the Rest of the Female Fashionables. + + +Whilst, in a dress that one might swear +The whole was made of woven air, +Pert Fashion spreads her senseless sway +Over the giddy and the gay +(Who think, by showing all their charms, +Lovers will fly into their arms), +In thee shall Wit and Virtue find +A friend more genial to their mind; +And Modesty shall gain in thee +A surer, chaster, victory. + + + + +SONNET + +UPON A SWEDISH COTTAGE, + +_Written on the Road_, + +WITHIN A FEW MILES OF STOCKHOLM. + + +Here, far from all the pomp Ambition seeks, + Much sought, but only whilst untasted prais'd, +Content and Innocence, with rosy cheeks, + Enjoy the simple shed their hands have rais'd. + +On a gray rock it stands, whose fretted base + The distant cat'ract's murm'ring waters lave, +Whilst o'er its mossy roof, with varying grace, + The slender branches of the white birch wave. + +Around the forest-fir is heard to sigh, + On which the pensive ear delights to dwell, +Whilst, as the gazing trav'ller passes by, + The gray goat, starting, sounds his tinkling bell. +Oh! in my native land, ere life's decline, +May such a spot, so wild, so sweet, be mine! + + + + +LINES + +TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. B---- + + +Ah, stranger! if thy pilgrim footsteps love, + By meditation led, to wander here, +A suff'ring husband may thy pity move, + Who weeps the loss of all his soul holds dear! + +Cold as this mourning marble is that heart, + Which Virtue warm'd with pure and gen'rous heat, +Which to each checquer'd scene could joy impart, + Nor ceas'd to love until it ceas'd to beat. + +Yet, gentle spirit! o'er thine early grave + Shall Consolation, like a seraph, prove, +When Sickness clos'd thy faultless life, she gave + Another angel to the realms above! + + + + +STATE TRICKS + +_Or a Peep into the Cabinet of the Premier Consul_, + +AT ST. CLOUD, + +ON THE NIGHT OF THE 26th OCT. 1803. + +--"they show an outward hideousness, +And speak off half a dozen dang'rous words, +How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst; +And this is all." + +MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, Act V. Scene 4. + + +FIRST CONSUL. + +My dear Talleyrand! I am sorry to send +For you out of your bed; but you know you're my friend: +No secret I hide from your generous breast; +This invasion is always _invading my rest_: +My soldiers, poor devils! are ready to start, +But to stay where I am is the wish of my heart; +And yet I have sworn at their head to appear: +I am puzzl'd to act 'twixt my threats and my fear; +If I go, I am lost!--say, what shall I do? + +TALLEYRAND. + +Why I think I've a snug little project in view: +I have felt for you long, and have ransack'd my brain +To relieve you from so much embarrassing pain. +To-morrow our principal tools shall repair +To this spot, to implore you to stay where you are: +Little Jancourt, you know, has a tear at command, +The rest shall have muslin-wrapp'd onions in hand; +An expedient which you, my good Consul, must try, +For a drop never yet wag observ'd in your eye! +And therefore I think 'twould be better for you +The largest to pluck from the beds of St Cloud. +When these fellows appear, they shall fall at your feet, +Portalis shall pen a few words to repeat; +He shall state 'tis the nation's imperial will +That you do not your _dangerous promise_ fulfil; +But snug in this closet put all into motion, +Nor hazard your life with these sons of the ocean. +_You_ shall say, "I have sworn by my glory to go;" } +_They_ shall all of them blubber out "No, no, no, no!} +It must not, thou world's second saviour! be so. } +If you go, mighty Chieftain! and should not escape, +All Gallia, the world, will be cover'd with crape[A]! +Oh! stay where you are; on our knees we implore!" +Then, apparently chok'd, they shall utter no more. +When thrice sixty seconds have nearly expir'd +(Now mind, my dear Consul, and do as desir'd), +You must mimic some hero you've seen at the play, +Of the tragical cast, when his soul melts away +(And, without any compliment 'twixt you and I, +You re'lly have talents and pow'rs very high, +To make the most striking tragedian alive). +But now to the point. You must tenderly strive +To raise these sweet prostrates; then, heaving a sigh, +And wiping the drops that shall stand in each eye, +Like one sorely cross'd, you shall, weeping, exclaim, +"Oh! why do you tear me from conquest and fame? +But still, if the nation commands me, 'tis fit" +(Your breast thumping hard) "that its Chief should submit." +Then you see, if the army of England should sail, +And the schemes of this cursed armada should fail, +In the _Moniteur's_ faithful official page, +I can humbug the people, and soften their rage; +I will tell them, that, had but the nation permitted +Her Chief to have gone, we had ne'er been outwitted; +That merely the terrible glance of his eye +Would have made all those shop-keeping islanders fly; +This will quiet our friends, and, to harass our foes, +A second invasion I'll slyly propose, +In which, in the van, Buonaparte shall pour +His vengeance divine on that mercantile shore. +Not that I, my dear Premier! conceive 'twould be right +To renew with these cursed tough fellows the fight; +But our people 'twill please, until some new occasion +Shall call from this project the eye of the nation. + +FIRST CONSUL. + +It will do, it will do, my dear Tally! thy brain +Has my terrors remov'd, and "a man I'm again." +I will rise with the dawn, for this scene to prepare; +Denon, with his crayons, so swift shall be there; +The Parisians the subject with rapture will trace +In my Nosegay[B]; I'll hang it up full in their face. +I embrace thee, my dear little Tal! with delight; +_Ca ira! Ca ira_! Thy hand, and good night. + +[The First Consul is said to have enjoyed half an hour's uninterrupted +repose that night. What followed, the next day, all Europe +knows, and all Europe laughs at.] + +[Footnote A: Black crape and the bolt of Heaven are the favourite +rhetorical figures of Napoleon the First.] + +[Footnote B: "Nosegay"--The anti-chamber of the Hall of the Arts in +the Louvre, in which there are many fine paintings, is called, by the +Parisians, Buonaparte's Nosegay.] + + + + +LINES + +TO MISS CHINNERY, OF GILLWELL-HOUSE, + +_Upon her appearing in a Dress_ + +WITH MAY-FLOWERS AND LEAVES TASTEFULLY DISPLAYED. + + +Tell me what taught thee to display + A choice so sweet, and yet so rare, +To prize the modest buds of May + Beyond the diamond's prouder glare? + +Say, was the grateful pref'rence paid + To Nature, since, with skill divine, +So many fairy charms she made, + To grace her fav'rite Caroline? + +Or was it Taste that bade thee try + How soon the richest gem must yield, +In beauty and attractive die, + To this wild blossom of the field? + +Whate'er the cause, in Nature's glow + Well does the choice thyself pourtray; +Thine innocence the blossoms show, + Thy youth the green leaves well display. + + + + +SONG. + + +Ah! if my voice is heard in vain, + This fond, this falling, tear +May yet thy dire intent restrain, + May yet dissolve my fear. + +Th' unsparing wound that lays thee low + Will bend thy Julia too: +Could she survive the fatal blow + Who only lives in you? + + + + +LINES + +TO MRS. A. CLARKE. + + +Within his cold and cheerless cell, +I heard the sighing Censor tell + That ev'ry charm of life was gone, +That ev'ry noble virtue long +Had ceas'd to wake the Minstrel's song, + And Vice triumphant stood alone. + +"Poor gloomy reas'ner! come with me; +Smooth each dark frown, and thou shall see + Thy tale is but a mournful dream; +I'll show thee scenes to yield delight, +I'll show thee forms in Virtue bright, + Illum'd by Heav'n's unclouded beam. + +"See Clarke, with ev'ry goodness grac'd, +Her mind the seat of Wit and Taste; + Tho' Wealth invites to Pleasure's bow'r, +See her the haunts of Woe descend; +Of many a friendless wretch the friend, + Pleas'd she exerts sweet Pity's pow'r. + +"See her, with parent patriot care, +The infant orphan-mind prepare, + Assur'd, without Instruction's aid, +The proudest nation soon will show +A wasted form, a hectic glow, + A robb'd, diseas'd, revolting, shade. + +"See her with Prince-like spirit pour +On genuine worth her ample store[A]; + See her, by ev'ry gentle art, +Protect the plant she loves to rear, +And, as she bathes it with a tear, + Grateful it twines around her heart. + +"And there are more, of kindred mind;"-- +When, with a face more bland and kind, + The Sage, in soften'd tone, replied: +"'Twas Error made to me the den +More grateful than the haunts of men; + Henceforth mankind shall be my pride." + +[Footnote A: This alludes to a munificent donation of a very handsome +fortune, which this Lady presented, without any claim of consanguinity +or connexion, to a young Lady of great merit.] + + + + +LINES + +_To the Tune of "Oh! Lady fair! where art thou going_?" + + +Sing, bird of grief! still eve descending, +And soothe a mind with sorrow rending; +Ne'er may I see the blush of morrow, +But close this night the sigh of sorrow; + +Then, if some wand'rer here directed +Shall find my mossy grave neglected, +May he replace the weed that's growing +With the nearest flow'r that's blowing! + + + + +IMPROMPTU LINES + +UPON A VERY HANDSOME WOMAN + +_Keeping the Hotel de Lion Blanc, at Dantzig_. + + +The sign of the house should be chang'd, I'll be sworn, + Where enchanted we find so much beauty and grace; +Then quick from the door let the _lion_ be torn, + And an _angel_ expand her white wings in his place. + + + + +LINES + +UPON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL INFANT SLEEPING ON THE +BOSOM OF ITS MOTHER. + + +Upon its native pillow dear, + The little slumb'rer finds repose; +His fragrant breath eludes the ear-- + A zephyr passing o'er a rose. + +Yet soon from that pure spot of rest + (Love's little throne!) shalt thou be torn; +Time hovers o'er thy downy nest, + To crown thy baby-brow with thorn. + +Ah! thoughtless! couldst thou now but see + On what a world thou soon must move, +Or taste the cup prepar'd for thee + Of grief, lost hopes, or widow'd love, + +Ne'er from that breast thou'd'st raise thine head, + But thou would'st breathe to Heav'n a pray'r +To let thee, ere thy blossom fade, + In one fond sigh exhale thee there. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN AT FREDENSBORG, + +_The deserted Palace of the late Queen Dowager Juliana Maria_[A]. + + + Bless'd are the steps of Virtue's queen! + Where'er she moves fresh roses bloom; +And, when she droops, kind Nature pours +Her genuine tears in gentle show'rs, + That love to dew the willow green + That over-canopies her tomb. + + But, ah! no willing mourner here + Attends to tell the tale of woe: +Why is yon statue prostrate thrown? +Why has the grass green'd o'er the stone? + Why, 'gainst the spider'd casement drear, + So sullen seems the wind to blow? + + How mournful was the lonely bird, + Within yon dark neglected grove! +Say, was it fancy? From its throat +Issu'd a strange and cheerless note; + 'Twas not so sad as grief I heard, + Nor yet so wildly sweet as love. + + In the deep gloom of yonder dell + Ambition's blood-stain'd victims sigh'd; +While Time beholds, without a tear, +Fell Desolation hov'ring near, + Whose angry blushes seem to tell. + Here Juliana shudd'ring died! + +[Footnote A: This palace, called the Mansion of Peace, is in the road +and near to Elsineur; it was the retreat of the ambitious and +remorseless Juliana Maria, the mother-in-law of Christian VII. whose +intrigues and jealousy sent Brandt and Struensee to the scaffold, and +drove the unhappy Matilda, the mother of the present King of Denmark, +from her throne, and the arms of her royal husband. Juliana died here. +The palace and grounds, parts of which are beautiful, were, when I +visited them in 1804, much neglected.] + + + + +SONG + +Upon the Admiration of the Valour and amiable Qualities of Lord +Nelson, expressed by Junot, now Duke of Abrantes, who, by the +Chances of War, was for a short Time the British Hero's Prisoner. + + +A wreath from an immortal bough +Should deck that gen'rous victor's brow, +Who hears his captive's grateful praise +Augment the thanks his country pays; +For him the minstrel's song shall flow, +The canvass breathe, the marble glow. + + + + +LINES + +UPON A LADY DYING + +_Soon after she had been wrecked on the Cornish Coast_, + +LEAVING A LITTLE INFANT BEHIND HER. + + +Sweet stranger! tho' the merc'less storm +Here sternly cast thy fainting form, +What tho' no kindred hand was near +To wipe away Affliction's tear, + +Yet shall thy gentle spirit own, +Amidst these sea-girt shores unknown, +That Pity pour'd her balmy store, +And kindred hands could do no more. + +Ne'er shall that pang disturb thy rest, +That moves the parted mother's breast; +The object of thy dying fear +Shall want no father's fondness here. + +Oft shall his little lips proclaim, +With April-tears, thy treasur'd name; +His little hands, when summers bloom, +Shall gather flow'rs to deck thy tomb. + + + + +JEU D'ESPRIT + +UPON A VERY PRETTY WOMAN ASKING THE AUTHOR HIS +OPINION OF BEAUTY. + + +Madam! you ask what marks for beauty pass: +Require them rather from your looking-glass! + + + + +LINES + +TO THE MEMORY OF ERASMUS, + +BY OUDAAN, + +Inscribed on the Pedestal of the Statue raised in Honour of the former, +in Rotterdam. + +[_The Original in Dutch_.] + + +_ORIGINAL_. + +Hier rees die groote zon, en ging te Bazel onder! + De Rykstad eer' en vier' dien Heilig in zyn grav; + Dit tweede leeven geevt, die't eerste leeven gav: +Maar 't ligt der taalen, 't zout der zeden, 't heerlyk wonder. + +Waar met de Lievde, en Vreede, en Godgeleerdheid praald, +Word met geen grav geerd nog met zeen beeld betaald: +Dies moet hier't lugtgewele Erasmus overdekken, +Nadien geen mind're plaats zyn tempel kan verstrekken! + + +_TRANSLATION_. + +Erasmus, here, the eloquent and wise, + That Sun of Learning! rose, and spread his beam +O'er a benighted world, thro' low'ring skies, + And shed on Basil's tow'rs his parting gleam. + +There his great relics lie: he bless'd the place: + No proud preserver of his fame shall prove +The Parian pile, tho' fraught with sculptur'd grace: + Reader! his mausoleum is above. + + + + +THE FOLLOWING TWO SONGS + +Were written during a Period when it was confidently believed that the +French would invade our Country. + + +SONG. + +_To the Tune of "Ye Gentlemen of England_." + + +No gentleman of England now sits at home at ease, +But emulates on shore the heroes of the seas; +A common cause unites them, to meet the daring foe, +All they wish, all they ask, is a fav'ring wind to blow. + +Oh! let them come along, and may no tempests low'r, +But fairly may we try our valour and our pow'r, +That Hist'ry may not say, should these robbers be laid low, +To the storm 'tis alone the victory we owe. + +Soon shall these infidels the dreadful diff'rence prove, +'Twixt slaves impell'd by fear, and freemen bound by love; +Our foes shall never rise again, when once they are laid low, +On the sea, on the shore, for justice strikes the blow. + + +SONG. + + + When storms on the ocean + Create high emotion, + It pleases the wish + Of the monarch of fish, +For he gambols and sports in the motion. + + Should a shoal of small fry + Attempt to draw nigh, + With a flap of his tail, + Th' imperial whale +Makes them pay for their rashness, and die. + + Oh! thus, on the seas, + Just with the same ease, + Should the enemy come, + In ship, boat, or bomb, +We will knock them about as we please; + + Till at last they shall cry, + "We are the small fry, + And Britannia's the whale, + By a flap of whose tail, +If we dare to approach her we die." + + + + +SONNET, + +Occasioned by reading an Inscription on the Tombstone of Captain +Christensen, of Krajore, in Norway, who died in consequence of +the Bite of his Dog, when it was mad. + + +Ah! hapless stranger! who, without a tear, + Can this sad record of thy fate survey? +No angry tempest laid thee breathless here, + Nor hostile sword, nor Nature's mild decay. + +The fond companion of thy pilgrim feet, + Who watch'd thee in thy sleep, who moan'd if miss'd, +And sprung with such delight his Lord to greet, + Imbu'd with death the hand he oft had kiss'd. + +And here, remov'd from Love's lamenting eye, + Far from thy native cat'racts' awful sound, +Far from thy dusky forests' pensive sigh, + Thy poor remains repose on alien ground; +Yet Pity oft shall sit beside thy stone, +And sigh as tho' she mourn'd a brother gone. + + + + +IMPROMPTU, + +IN REPLY TO A LADY, + +_Who asked the Author what Childhood resembled_. + + +How like is childhood to the lucid tide + That calmly wanders thro' the mossy dell, +Sweeps o'er the lily by the margin's side, + And, as it kisses, murmurs out, Farewell! + + + + +LINES + +ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY IN GERMANY, + +_Who, until her Sister, honoured the Author by walking with him in +the Evening_. + + +Adieu! dear girl! if we are doom'd to part, +Take with thee, take, the blessing of this heart, +Due to thy gentle mind, and cultur'd sense; +Perhaps 'twill please, but, sure, can't give offence. +Tho', when we met, the solar ray was gone, +And on our steps the moon-beam only shone, +Yet well I mark'd thy form and native grace, +And all the sweet expression of thy face; +And pleas'd I listen'd as thy accents fell, +Accents that spoke a feeling mind so well +Lo, when the birds repose at ev'ning hour, +The sweetest of them carols from her bow'r! +So, when the dews the garden's fragrance close, +The night-flow'r[A] blooms, the rival of the rose! + +[Footnote A: One of the creeping cereuses, usually known by the name +of the night-flower, is said to be as grand and as beautiful as any in +the vegetable system. It begins to open in the evening, about seven +o'clock; is in perfection about eleven, perfuming the air to a +considerable distance, and fades about four in the morning.] + + + + +LINES TO STUDY. + + +O Study! while thy lovers raise +Thy name with all the pow'r of praise, +Frown not, thou nymph with piercing mind! +If in this bosom thou should'st find +That all thy deep, thy brilliant, lore, +Which charm'd it once, now charms no more: +Frown not, if, on thy classic line, +One strange, uncall'd-for, tear should shine; +Frown not, if, when a smile should start, +A sigh should heave an aching heart: +If Mem'ry, roving far away, +Should an unmeaning homage pay, +Should ask thee for thy golden fruit, +And, when thou deign'st to hear her suit, +Should turn her from the proffer'd food, +To tread the shades of Solitude: +Frown not, if, in the humble line, +Ungrac'd by any thought of thine, +Should but that gentle name appear, +Fond cause of ev'ry joy and fear; +I love, tho' rude, I love it more, +Than all thy piles of letter'd lore: +Frown not if ev'ry airy word, +Which Beauty breathes, or Love has heard, +More rich, more eloquently, flow, +To Mem'ry gives a warmer glow, +Than all by thee so much approv'd, +The wit of age on age improv'd. +Go, then! and, since it is denied +That thou shalt be my radiant guide! +Leave me to sigh, to weep, to prove +How little Learning is to Love. + + + + +SONG. + + +Wilt thou, because thy Florio loves, + Forsake the giddy glitt'ring throng, +With him to dwell in peaceful groves, + With him to hear the shepherd's song? + +Can'st thou, without a sigh, resign + The homage by thy charms inspir'd? +To one, oh! say, can'st thou confine + What oft so many have admir'd? + +Sweet maid! oh! bless'd shall be our love, + Till time shall bid it cease to flow; +With thee shall ev'ry moment prove + A little heaven form'd below! + + + + +THE FURY OF DISCORD + + +In a chariot of fire, thro Hell's flaming arch, + The Fury of Discord appear'd; +A myriad of demons attended her march, + And in Gallia her standard she rear'd. + +Thy name, so enchanting, sweet Freedom! she took, + But in vain did she try to assume +Thy smile of content, thy enlivening look, + And thy roseate mountainous bloom. + +For wan was her visage, and phrensied her eye, + At her girdle a poniard she wore; +Her bosom and limbs were expos'd to the sky, + And her robe was besprinkled with gore. + +Nature shudder'd, and sigh'd as the wild rabble past, + Each flow'r droop'd its beautiful head; +The groves became dusky, and moan'd in the blast, + And Virtue and Innocence fled. + +She rose from her car 'midst the yell of her crew; + Emblazon'd, a scroll she unfurl'd, +And on it the dreams of Philosophy drew; + "'Tis the Charter, she cried, of the World." + +Plunder, keen-ey'd and lean, rang with plaudits the sky, + Murder grinn'd as he whetted his steel; +While Blasphemy swore the Redeemer on high + Was the creature of Folly and Zeal. + +The scaffold grew red with the blood of the brave, + Kings turn'd pale on their thrones at her nod; +While Loyalty fled to the gloom of the cave, + And Piety knelt to her God. + +At length, after changing her chiefs at her will, + As their mischievous zeal grew remiss, +She sought a fresh fav'rite, with dexterous skill, + From Obscurity's darkest abyss. + +The pow'rs of her monstrous adoption to try, + 'Midst, Syria! thy waterless waste, +She bade him the blast of thy desert outvie, + And defile all thy relics of taste. + +The chieftain obey'd: with a merciful air + He wrung from thy natives a tear; +But the justice and valour of Britain, e'en there, + Shook his legions, recoiling with fear. + +Well-pleas'd with his crimes, the Fury, with flight, + To her empire safe wafted him o'er; +Whilst the spectres of Jaffa, with ghastly delight, + The murd'rer pursued to the shore. + +Arriv'd, for his brow, lo! a turban she made, + Bright with gems pluck'd from Gallia's crown; +To give him a name, she Rome's hist'ry survey'd, + In the days of her early renown. + +To embellish his guilt, or to soften its shade, + The Arts mournful captives she kept; +And the plund'rer and plunder of Europe display'd + To the wand'rer, who wonder'd and wept. + +To support this apostate imperial shade, + This impious mock'ry of good, +She rais'd a banditti, to whom she convey'd + His spirit for plunder and blood. + +The chiefs of the earth in a panic beheld + The flash of his sabre afar; +They enter'd, but pensively mov'd from the field, + And bow'd to this idol of war. + +Till, fum'd with the incense of slavish applause, + O'er the globe's fairest portion he trod; +And, spurning its liberty, spirit, and laws, + Conceiv'd himself rais'd to a god. + +But England disdain'd to the Tyrant to bend; + Still erect, undismay'd, she was found; +Infuriate, he swore that "his bolt should descend," + And her temples should fall to the ground. + +Yes, here, if his banner is destin'd to wave, + It shall float o'er her temples laid low, +O'er piles of her children, who, loyal and brave, + Such a victory never will know. + +Oh! banish the thought; for, learn 'tis in vain, + Thus, thou maniac Tyrant, to boast; +As soon shall her base be remov'd by the main, + As her empire by thee and thy host. + +The sound is gone forth, 'tis recorded above, + To the mountain it spread from the vale; +"Our God, and our King, and our Country, we love, + And for them we will die or prevail." + +Then hasten the day, if thy threat be sincere, + Let the winds blow thy myriads along; +Then soon may thy boasted armada appear, + And our rocks catch thy death-breathing song. + +Thy guardian, foul deity! hideous with crime, + Shall view, as she moves to our shore, +The Genius of Britain, mild, brave, and sublime, + And shall boast her achievements no more. + +Oh! direful and strange will the contest appear, + Big with freedom to nations afar; +The good, who confide, and the guilty, who fear, + Shall join in the conflict of war. + +In Heaven, with smiles, shall the happy and blest + Lean over its bright-beaming walls, +To guide and support to the regions of rest + The soul of the patriot who falls. + +Britannia! thy Muse, on a rock high and steep, + The fate of the fight shall proclaim; +The strings of her lyre Inspiration shall sweep, + Recording each hero by name. + +The world to its centre shall shake with delight, + As thus she announces their fall; +"They sink! our invaders submit to our might, + The ocean has buried them all!" + + + + +LINES TO ANNETTE. + + +Canst thou, Annette, thy lover see? + His trembling love unfolded hear? + And mark the while th' impassion'd tear, +Th' impassion'd tear of agony? + +Adown his anxious features steal, +Nor then one burst of pity feel? +But, as bereav'd of ev'ry sense, +Look on with cold indifference. +Go, then, Annette, in all thy charms, +Go bless some gayer, happier, arms; +Go, rest secure, thy fear give o'er, +These eyes shall follow thee no more; +And never shall these lips impart +One thought of all that rends my heart. + +Yet, since will burst the frequent sigh, + And since the tear will ever fall, +From thee and from the world I'll fly; + Deserts shall hide, shall silence, all. + + + + +LINES + +SENT WITH SOME INDIAN ROUGE TO MISS W----. + + +Go, faithless bloom! on Delia's cheek + Your boasted captivations try; +Alas! o'er Nature would you seek + To gain one moment's victory? +Her softer tint, sweet look, and gentle air, +Shall prove you're but a vain intruder there. + +But go, display your charms and taste; + Soon shall you blush a richer red, +To find your mimic pow'r surpass'd; + And, whilst upon her cheek you spread +Your vermeil hue, tell her ingenuous heart, +'Tis the first time she ever practis'd art. + + + + +MISS W---- RETURNED THE ROUGE + +_With the following elegant Lines_. + + +When men exert their utmost pow'rs, +To while away the tedious hours, + With soothing Flatt'ry's art, +When ev'ry art and work well skill'd, +And ev'ry look with poison fill'd, + Assail a woman's heart, + +Tho' ardently she'd wish to be +Proof 'gainst the charms of Flattery, + The task is hard, I ween; +Self-love will whisper "'Tis quite true, +Who can there be more fair than you? + Who more admir'd, when seen?" + +Then take this tempting gift of thine, +Nor e'er again wish me to shine + In any borrow'd bloom: +Nor rouge, nor compliments, can charm; +Full well I know they both will harm; + Truth is my only plume. + + + + +LINES TO A YOUNG LADY, + +OCCASIONED BY HER DECLINING AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE + +_Made her by a very accomplished Friend of the Author_. + + +Oh! form'd to prompt the smile or tear, +At once so sweet, yet so severe! +As much for you as him I grieve; +Ah! thoughtless! if you thus can leave +A mind with wit and learning bright, +Where Temper sheds its cloudless light; +Where manly honour, taste refin'd, +With ev'ry virtue, are combin'd; +If you can quit a heart so true, +Which has so often throbb'd for you, +I'll pity, tho' I can't reprove; +And did I, such is Florio's love, +Eager he'd fly to take thy part, +E'en in a war against his heart. + + + + +THE MUSHROOM. + + +Awake, my Muse! awake each slumb'ring string, +And (mighty subject!) of a Mushroom sing, +Fair to the eye, and pleasant to the taste; +Charm'd by the note, a pigmy group, in haste, +Lay down their grainy loads, as slow they move +Thro' lanes of reed and grass, to them a grove! +As if an Orpheus thou, they gather round, +Erect their tiny ears, and drink the sound. +Gray was the sky, save where the eastern ray +O'er fragrant hills proclaim'd th' approaching day; +Rurilla, loveliest virgin of the plain, +With spirits light, and mind without a stain, +Rose from her simple bed, refresh'd with rest; +Ah, Sleep! with marble finger had'st thou prest +Her lovely eyelids till a later hour, +And by a blissful vision's fairy pow'r +Hadst thou impress'd her mind with forms of love, +The walk at eve, the kiss, the murm'ring dove, +The little nymph had never sought the plain, +Nor fill'd with one romantic thought this brain. +In russet gown, with sweet and simple air, +She issued forth, like Hebe, young and fair, +To neighb'ring field, fresh as the rosy dawn; +Nor stile oppos'd her; like a bounding fawn +Graceful she sprang: so prankish was the air, +Had but the love-sick Daphanel been there, +He would have sigh'd: alas! poor love-sick fool! +Thou rather Zephyr dost inflame than cool! +And now, my Muse, the fatal spot disclose, +Where, bath'd with dew, the modest Mushroom rose. +Less fair the swan, by Richmond's flow'ry side, +That in the river views herself with pride, +As, gazing on her, some their stay prolong, +To see her sail in majesty along. +Ill-fated child of earth! thy charms so fair, +As oft with youthful beauty, prove thy snare: +Now, as with dewy-spangled feet is seen +The lovely maid to trace each ringlet green, +Not distant far thy skin of velvet white +She views, and to thee presses with delight +Oh! might some deity, with potent arm, +Arrest her flight, and alter ev'ry charm; +Like Niobe dissolve into a tear, +Or like the Delian virgin, when with fear +She fled!--See on each beauteous limb appear +Soft leaves and flow'rs, the sweetest of the year; +And, taking root, spread round her fragrant breath +O'er the fair form that now she dooms to death: +But, ah! in vain, the pray'r no goddess hears; } +She bends--she plucks--and, bath'd in purple tears,} +The much-priz'd victim in her lap she bears! } +Tears that, preserv'd in crystal, will prolong, +And paint its worth beyond this simple song. + + + + +LINES + +Written _en badinage_, after visiting a Paper-Mill near +Tunbridge-Wells, in consequence of the lovely Miss W----, who excels +in Drawing, requesting the Author to describe the Process of making +Paper, in Verse. + + +Reader! I do not wish to brag; + But, to display Eliza's skill, +I'd proudly be the vilest rag + That ever went to paper-mill. + +Content in pieces to be cut; + Tho' sultry were the summer-skies, +Pleas'd between flannel I'd be put, + And after bath'd in jellied size. + +Tho' to be squeez'd and hang'd I hate, + For thee, sweet girl! upon my word, +When the stout press had forc'd me flat, + I'd be suspended on a cord. + +And then, when dried and fit for use, + Eliza! I would pray to thee, +If with thy pen thou would'st amuse, + That thou would'st deign to write on me. + +Gad's bud! how pleasant it would prove + Her pretty chit-chat to convey, +P'rhaps be the record of her love, + Told in some coy enchanting way. + +Or, if her pencil she would try, + On me, oh! may she still imprint +Those forms that fix th' admiring eye, + Each graceful line, each glowing tint! + +Then shall I reason have to brag, + For thus, to high importance grown, +The world will see a simple rag + Become a treasure rarely known. + + + + +LINES + +TO A PROMISING YOUNG ARTIST. + + +These bays be thine; and, tho' not form'd to shine +Clear as thy colour, faultless as thy line, +Yet shall the Muse essay, in humble verse, +Thy merits, lovely Painting! to rehearse. +As when the demon of the winter storm +Robs each sweet flow'ret of its beauteous form, +The Spirit of the stream, in crystal wave, +Sleeps whilst the chilling blasts above him rave, +Till the Sun spreads his animating fires, +And sullen Darkness from the scene retires, +Then mountain-nymphs discard their robes of snow, +And in green mantles smile in roseate glow, +And rivers, loosen'd from their icy chain, +Spread joy and richness thro' the verdant plain, +Thus, in those climes where skies are ever fair, +Each infant Science breath'd a genial air, +Climes where the Earth her stores to all resign'd, +Nor left one selfish passion to the mind; +On her green lap the swain reclin'd his head, +And found his banquet where he found his bed. +Then Painting grew, and from the shades of flow'rs[A] +There first essay'd her imitative pow'rs, +When, urg'd by plunder, with the torrent's might, +Nerv'd by the storm, and harden'd in the fight, +A race barbarian left their forests wild, +And sought the spot where Love and Learning smil'd. +By Taste unsoften'd, these relentless droves +Burst, fair Italia! thro' thy sacred groves, +Laid ev'ry flow'r of Art and Fancy waste, +And pour'd a winter o'er the realms of Taste, +Each Science trembled at the ruffian sound, +Forsook her shades, and fled her classic ground; +The lofty column prostrate in the dust, +Defac'd the arch, o'erthrown the matchless bust; +The shatter'd fresco animates no more, +And ruthless winds thro' clefted temples roar! +Florence beheld the scene with sad surprise, +And bade the prostrate pile in grandeur rise. +Then, oh! thou truly "Father of the Art[B]!" +'Twas thine superior vigour to impart; +Illustrious Cimabue! it was thine +To soar beyond Example's bounded line, +And, as the Heav'n-directed sceptre's shock, +Produc'd full torrents from the flinty rock, +So streams of taste obey'd thy pencil's call, +And Nature seem'd to start from out the wall. +Hail, beauteous art! oh! that in equal lay +Could but my Muse thy various pow'rs convey! +'Tis thine with silent eloquence to shew +Passion's strong image, Beauty's rapt'rous glow, +To soothe the parted lover's anxious care, +Who owns thee fairest of thy sisters fair; +When waves divide him, still thro' thee to trace +The dear resemblance of that cherish'd face, +Which he so oft with trembling lips has prest, +So often gaz'd upon, so often blest! +Thine too it is to seek the verdant plains +Where Peace resides, where Rustic Beauty reigns; +Or bid the torrent on thy canvass roar, +Or calmly spread the yellow winding shore; +Or show, from some vast cliff's extremest verge, +The frail bark combating the angry surge. +Oft too on some lone turret wilt thou stand, +To trace the fury of th' embattled band, +To darken with the clouds of death the skies, +And bid the scenes of blood and havoc rise! +Such, and far more, thy pow'rs, bless'd art! to thee +Inferior far descriptive Poesy; +And tho' sweet Music, when she strikes the strings, +When thro' the grove with seraph-voice she sings, +The soul, enraptur'd with the thrilling stream, +Would hail the Maid of Harmony supreme! +Yet, while her dulcet sounds enchant, they die;} +So shooting stare illume the midnight sky, } +And, as we wonder, vanish from the eye. } +But when resistless Death, in mournful hour, +Withdraws the drooping painter's mimic pow'r, +Improv'd by time, his works still charm the sight, +And thro' successive ages yield delight +Greece early bade the painter's pencil trace +Each form with force; to force she added grace: +For this her Zeuxis she a garland wove, +For[C] that Apelles won her grateful love. +Chiefly she called on Painting's magic powers +To deck the guardians of her lofty tow'rs; +Here[D] Jove in lightning show'd his awful mien. +There Venus with her doves was smiling seen! +Till ruthless Time, with unabating flight, +O'er Grecian grandeur flung the shades of night +Long did they settle o'er the darken'd world. +Till Raphael's hand the sable curtain furl'd; +A pious calm, an elevated grace, +Then on the canvass mark'd th' Apostle's face; +Devout applauses ev'ry feature drew, +E'en[E] such as graceful Sculpture never knew. +In nearer times, and on a neighb'ring shore, +Painting but feebly shone, obscur'd by pow'r. +See Rubens' soul indignantly advance, +Press'd by the pride and vanity of France; +Behold, [F] in fulsome allegory spread, +The gaudy iris o'er the victor's head! +See Genius, deaf to Nature's nobler call, +Waste all its strength upon the banner'd hall! +E'en now, tho' Gallia, in her blood-stain'd car, +Spreads over Europe all the woes of war, +Still with consummate craft she tries to prove +How much the peaceful charms engage her love: +Treasures of art in lengthen'd gall'ries glow, +And[G] Europe's plunder Europe's plund'rers show! +Yet of her living artists few can claim +Half the mix'd praise that waits on David's fame. +Thrice happy Britain! in thy favour'd isle +The sister Arts in health and beauty smile! +Tho' no Imperial Gall'ries grace thy shores, +Tho' wealth the public bounty seldom pours, +Yet private taste rewards thy painter's toil, +And bids his genius grace his native soil. +Bless'd country! here thy artists can supply +Abundant charms to fix th' admiring eye: +In furtive splendour ne'er art thou array'd, +No plunder'd country mourns thy ruthless blade, +Sees its transported treasures torn away, +To grace a fierce ambitious Tyrant's sway. +Long in this isle, where Freedom finds repose, +Whilst, raving round her, loud the tempest blows, +Oh! long befriended, may the Arts excel, +And bless the sacred spot they love so well! + +[Footnote A: "_Then painting grew, and from the shades_," +&c.--The shadows of plants, and indeed of every object in Nature, +must, at a very early period, have furnished ideas of imitation.] + +[Footnote B: _"Then, oh! thou_," &c.--After the ravages of the +northern barbarians, painting was revived in Italy, about the +fourteenth century, by Cimabue, who was hence styled the Father of +Painting.] + +[Footnote C: "_For that Apelles_," &c.--Painting attained so +great a perfection amongst the Greeks, under Zeuxis, that Apelles +found nothing wanting but grace, which in those times he bestowed upon +the art, as Corregio did after Raphael.] + +[Footnote D: "_Here Jove in_," &c.--The Greeks excelled in the +delineation of their deities, to whom they attributed all the human +passions: their Jupiter they elevated to the highest degree of +majesty, their Venus to the utmost pitch of human beauty.] + +[Footnote E: "_E'en such as graceful Sculpture_," &c.--From +Cimabue to Raphael, the painters were employed by the church; and they +gave a character to the Prophets, Apostles, and our Saviour, which was +never known to the ancient sculptors. The power which the former +possessed of uniting dignity to humility is without a parallel.] + +[Footnote F: "_Behold, in fulsome allegory_," &c.--As long as +the French school adhered to the principles of the Italian school, it +produced many great masters; however, the art certainly degenerated +after Raphael, by being employed in adulatory allegory, in honour of +Princes, as is to be seen in the works of Rubens and Le Brun at Paris, +artists of great talents, which they were led to misapply, through the +supreme vanity of Louis the Fourteenth.] + +[Footnote G: "_And Europe's plunder_," &c.--Those who have +visited the Napoleon Gallery at Paris can attest the truth of this +observation, as those who are acquainted with the modern state of +painting in France well know, and, knowing, cannot but be surprised +at, the small number of French painters of any tolerable celebrity.] + +FINIS. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Sir John Carr + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 10367.txt or 10367.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/3/6/10367/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Jonathan Ingram, Josephine Paolucci and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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