The Works of Thomas Love Peacock :: :: University of Virginia Library

MISCELLANIES

HENRIETTE

Loud and long the church-bells ringing
Spread their signals on the air;
Tow'rds his Ellen lightly springing,
Faithless Edward hastens there.
Can he dare to wed another?
Can he all his vows forget?
Can he truth and conscience smother,
And desert his Henriette?

Pale remorse my steps attending,
Whither can I hope to fly?
When shall all my woes have ending?
Never, never, till I die!
Can the youth who once ador'd me,
Can he hear without regret,
Death has that repose restor'd me,
He has stol'n from Henriette?

Brightly smiles the summer-morning
On my Edward's nuptial day;
While the bells, with joyous warning,
Call to love and mirth away.
How this wretched heart is throbbing!
Ere the ev'ning sun shall set,
Death shall ease my bosom's sobbing,
Death shall comfort Henriette.

Cruel youth, farewell for ever!
False as thou hast been to me,
Ne'er, till Fate my thread shall sever,
Can I turn my thoughts from thee.
Guilt and shame thy soul enslaving,
Thou mayest weep and tremble yet,
When thou seest the willow waving
O'er the grave of Henriette!

THE OLD MAN'S COMPLAINT

On Eternity's confines I stand,
And look back on the paths I have trod:
I pant for the summoning hand,
That shall call me away to my God!

My temples are sprinkled with snow;
The sands of existence decline;
The dwelling is cheerless and low,
The dwelling that soon must be mine.

No longer beside me are found
The forms that of old were so dear;
No longer the voices resound,
That once were so sweet to mine ear.

The wife of my bosom is lost;
Long, long, has she sunk into sleep:
My boy on the ocean was toss'd,
He rests in the caves of the deep.

A villain my daughter betray'd;
Her home and her father she fled:
But Heav'n has in justice repaid
The tears he has caus'd me to shed.

Her peace and her honor he stole;
Abandon'd, despairing, she died:
Remorse quickly seiz'd on his soul,
And he rests in the grave by her side.

Oh! where are the friends of my youth,
The lovely, the good, and the brave?
All flown to the mansions of Truth!
All pass'd through the gates of the grave!

On parents, and children, and friends,
Have mortality's arrows been driv'n;
But swiftly the darkness descends,
And my spirit shall join them in Heav'n!

ON THE DEATH OF CHARLES PEMBROKE, ESQ.

Where yon green tombs their heads promiscuous raise,
With tearful eyes let Friendship mark the spot
Where Pembroke slumbers. Upright and sincere,
For public worth esteem'd, for private lov'd,
Approving Virtue smil'd upon his life,
And soft eyed sorrow consecrates his urn.
Above that spot where rests his honour'd dust,
The sportive child may spend his idle hours,
Unthinking that the silent form below
Was once like him, like him was wont to play,
Unknown to care. Thrice happy innocent!
Thou too shalt fall, and on thy humble grave
Another child, unthinking as thyself,
Light as the lark, and rosy as the morn,
Shall frolic in his turn. Thus 'tis with man:
Like Autumn's leaves the present race decays,
Another race succeeds. But after death
Shall Virtue live, and live to die no more,
In better climes, from mortal eyes retir'd.
There, Pembroke, there thy sainted spirit dwells,
In everlasting rest; there, far remov'd
From all the troubles of the world, enjoys
The sure reward of goodness here below,
Eternal, boundless happiness above.

THE RAIN-BOW

The day has pass'd in storms, though not unmix'd
With transitory calm. The western clouds,
Dissolving slow, unveil the glorious sun,
Majestic in decline. The wat'ry east
Glows with the many-tinted arch of Heav'n.
We hail it as a pledge that brighter skies
Shall bless the coming morn. Thus rolls the day,
The short dark day of life; with tempests thus,
And fleeting sun-shine chequer'd. At its close,
When the dread hour draws near, that bursts all ties,
All commerce with the world, Religion pours
Hope's fairy-colors on the virtuous mind,
And, like the rain-bow on the ev'ning clouds,
Gives the bright promise that a happier dawn
Shall chase the night and silence of the grave.

ELLEN

The marble tomb, in sculptur'd state display'd,
Decks the vile earth where wealthy vice is laid;
But no vain pomp its hollow splendor throws,
Where Beauty, Virtue, Innocence, repose.
The cypress tow'rs, the waving willows weep,
Where Ellen sleeps the everlasting sleep,
Where with a sigh the passing stranger sees
The long rank grave-grass bending in the breeze.

FAREWELL TO MATILDA

Oui, pour jamais
Chassons l'image
De la volage
Que j'adorais.
Parny.

Matilda, farewell! Fate has doom'd us to part,
But the prospect occasions no pang to my heart;
No longer is love with my reason at strife,
Though once thou wert dearer, far dearer than life.

As together we roam'd, I the passion confess'd,
Which thy beauty and virtue had rais'd in my breast;
That the passion was mutual thou mad'st me believe,
And I thought my Matilda could never deceive.

My Matilda! no, false one! my claims I resign:
Thou canst not, thou must not, thou shalt not be mine:
I now scorn thee as much as I lov'd thee before,
Nor sigh when I think I shall meet thee no more.

Though fair be thy form, thou no lovers wilt find,
While folly and falsehood inhabit thy mind,

Though coxcombs may flatter, though ideots may prize,
Thou art shunn'd by the good, and contemn'd by the wise.

Than mine what affection more fervent could be,
When I thought ev'ry virtue was center'd in thee?
Of the vows thou hast broken I will not complain,
For I mourn not the loss of a heart I disdain.

Oh! hadst thou but constant and amiable prov'd
As that fancied perfection I formerly lov'd,
Nor absence, nor time, though supreme their controul,
Could have dimm'd the dear image then stamp'd on my soul.

How bright were the pictures, untinted with shade,
By Hope's glowing pencil on Fancy pourtray'd!
Sweet visions of bliss! which I could not retain;
For they, like thyself, were deceitful and vain.

Some other, perhaps, to Matilda is dear,
Some other, more pleasing, though not more sincere;
May he fix thy light passions, now wav'ring as air,
Then leave thee, inconstant, to shame and despair!

Repent not, Matilda, return not to me:
Unavailing thy grief, thy repentance will be:
In vain will thy vows or thy smiles be resum'd,
For Love, once extinguish'd, is never relum'd.

MIRA

Beneath yon yew-tree's silent shade,
Long, tufted grass the spot discloses,
Where, low in death untimely laid,
Pale Mira's silent form reposes.

The plaintive bird, at ev'ning-close,
Pours there her softly-mournful numbers;
The earth its earliest sweets bestows,
To deck the grave where Mira slumbers.

There Summer's brightest flow'rs appear;
There oft the hollow breeze is swelling;
The passing stranger drops a tear
On Mira's dark and narrow dwelling.

The moralist, with musing eyes,
Loves there his pensive steps to measure:
“How vain is human pride!” he cries,
“How soon is lost each earthly treasure!”

“To snatch the fleeting bubble, joy,
How weak is ev'ry fond endeavour!
We rush to seize the glitt'ring toy;
It bursts, it vanishes for ever!

“How soon our pleasures pass away!
How soon our bliss must yield to sorrow!
The friend, with whom we smile to-day,
May wither in his shroud to-morrow!”

CLONAR AND TLAMIN

IMITATED FROM A LITTLE POEM IN MACPHERSON'S NOTES ON OSSIAN

“The loves of Clonar and Tlamin were rendered famous in the north by a fragment of a lyric poem still preserved which is ascribed to Ossian. It is a dialogue between Clonar and Tlamin. She begins with a soliloquy, which he overhears.”

TLAMIN.

Son of Conglas of Imor! thou first in the battle!
Oh Clonar, young hunter of dun-sided roes!
Where the wings of the wind through the tall branches rattle,
Oh, where does my hero on rushes repose?

By the oak of the valley, my love, have I found thee,
Where swift from the hill pour thy loud-rolling streams;
The beard of the thistle flies sportively round thee,
And dark o'er thy face pass the thoughts of thy dreams.

Thy dreams are of scenes where the war-tempest rages:
Tlamin's youthful warrior no dangers appal:
Even now, in idea, my hero engages,
On Erin's green plains, in the wars of Fingal.

Half hid, by the grove of the hill, I retire:
Ye blue mists of Lutha! why rise ye between?
Why hide the young warrior whose soul is all fire,
Oh why hide her love from the eyes of Tlamin?

CLONAR.

As the vision that flies with the beams of the morning,
While fix'd on the mind its bright images prove,
So fled the young sun-beam these vallies adorning;
Why flies my Tlamin from the sight of her love?

TLAMIN.

Oh Clonar! my heart will to joy be a stranger,
Till thou on our mountains again shalt be seen;
Then why wilt thou rush to the regions of danger,
Far, far from the love of the mournful Tlamin?

CLONAR.

The signals of war are from Selma resounding!
With morning we rise on the dark-rolling wave:
Towards green-vallied Erin our vessels are bounding;
I rush to renown, to the fields of the brave!

Yet around me when war's hottest thunders shall rattle,
Thy form to my soul ever present shall be;
And should death's icy hand check my progress in battle,
The last sigh of Clonar shall rise but for thee.

FOLDATH, IN THE CAVERN OF MOMA FROM THE SAME

FOLDATH, ADDRESSING THE SPIRITS OF HIS FATHERS

In your presence dark I stand:
Spirits of my sires! disclose,
Shall my steps, o'er Atha's land,
Pass to Ullin of the roes?

ANSWER.

Thou to Ullin's plains shalt go:
There shall rage the battle loud:
O'er the fall'n thy fame shall grow,
Like the gath'ring thunder-cloud.

There thy blood-stain'd sword shall gleam,
Till, around while danger roars,
Cloncath, the Reflected Beam,
Come from Moruth's sounding shores.

DREAMS FROM PETRONIUS ARBITER

Somnia, quæ mentes ludunt volitantibus umbris, &c.

Dreams, which, beneath the hov'ring shades of night,
Sport with the ever-restless minds of men,
Descend not from the gods. Each busy brain
Creates its own. For when the chains of sleep
Have bound the weary, and the lighten'd mind
Unshackled plays, the actions of the light
Become renew'd in darkness. Then the chief,
Who shakes the world with war, who joys alone
In blazing cities, and in wasted plains,
O'erthrown battalions sees, and dying kings,
And fields o'erflow'd with blood. The lawyer dreams
Of causes, of tribunals, judges, fees.
The trembling miser hides his ill-gain'd gold,
And oft with joy a buried treasure finds.
The eager hunter with his clam'rous dogs
Makes rocks and woods resound. The sailor brings
His vessel safe to port, or sees it whelm'd
Beneath the foaming waves. The anxious maid

Writes to her lover, or beholds him near.
The dog in dreams pursues the tim'rous hare.
The wretch, whom Fortune's iron hand has scourg'd,
Finds in his slumbers all his woes reviv'd.

PINDAR ON THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN

Ακτις αελιου πολυσκοπε, κατ..

All-enlight'ning, all-beholding,
All-transcending star of day!
Why, thy sacred orb enfolding,
Why does darkness veil thy ray?

On thy life-diffusing splendor
These portentous shades that rise,
Vain the strength of mortals render,
Vain the labors of the wise.

Late thy wheels, through ether burning,
Roll'd in unexampled light:
Mortals mourn thy change, returning
In the sable garb of night.

Hear, oh Phœbus! we implore thee,
By Olympian Jove divine;
Phœbus! Thebans kneel before thee,
Still on Thebes propitious shine.

On thy darken'd course attending,
Dost thou signs of sorrow bring?
Shall the Summer rains, descending,
Blast the promise of the Spring?

Or shall War, in evil season,
Spread unbounded ruin round?
Or the baleful hand of Treason
Our domestic joys confound?

By the bursting torrent's power,
Shall our rip'ning fields be lost?
Shall the air with snow-storms lower,
Or the soil be bound in frost?

Or shall ocean's waves stupendous,
Unresisted, unconfin'd,
Once again, with roar tremendous,
Hurl destruction on mankind?

TO A YOUNG LADY, NETTING

While those bewitching hands combine,
With matchless grace, the silken line,
They also weave, with gentle art,
Those stronger nets that bind the heart.

But soon all earthly things decay:
That net in time must wear away:
E'en Beauty's silken meshes gay
No lasting hold can take:

But Beauty, Virtue, Sense, combin'd,
(And all these charms in thee are join'd)
Can throw that net upon the mind,
No human art can e'er unbind,
No human pow'r can break.