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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 *** |