Ode to the Duke of Wellington, and other poems by Robert Charles Dallas ... Written between the ages of eleven and thirteen years |
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LINES BY R. C. DALLAS,
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 | Ode to the Duke of Wellington, and other poems |  |
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LINES BY R. C. DALLAS,
Aged XI. Years. TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE PARKER
[_]
Youngest Son of Sir Peter Parker, Bart, and Nephew to the Author, who died of the Croop, on the 13th of November, 1816; and whose Remains were deposited in the same Grave with his Father's on the 4th of December following. Inscribed to Lady Parker.
------ Quem non virtutis egentem
Abstulit atra dies, et funere mersit acerbo.
—Vir.
Abstulit atra dies, et funere mersit acerbo.
—Vir.
Near yonder spot, with verdure fair,
Where willows bend their drooping shade,
And sweetly blows the morning air
Along the lone sequester'd glade:
Where willows bend their drooping shade,
And sweetly blows the morning air
Along the lone sequester'd glade:
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Beneath the sod, whose grassy vest
Conceals the world's most lovely flow'r,
A form too frail now lies at rest,
Cut off by death's relentless pow'r.
Conceals the world's most lovely flow'r,
A form too frail now lies at rest,
Cut off by death's relentless pow'r.
Vain, vain, alas! was Venus' love,
To soothe the tyrant's ruthless rage;
Nor truth, nor innocence, could move
That iron heart, nor love assuage.
To soothe the tyrant's ruthless rage;
Nor truth, nor innocence, could move
That iron heart, nor love assuage.
But o'er his tomb with plaintive gale
Shall mournful zephyrs sadly blow;
And infant grace shall, weeping, wail
The fate that laid her fav'rite low.
Shall mournful zephyrs sadly blow;
And infant grace shall, weeping, wail
The fate that laid her fav'rite low.
The little flow'r, with placid eye
That loves to gaze on beauty's grave,
And seems to mourn with fragrant sigh
The charms of him no charms could save,
That loves to gaze on beauty's grave,
And seems to mourn with fragrant sigh
The charms of him no charms could save,
Beneath the waving cypress gloom
Shall still adorn this sacred spot;
And e'en in death its latest bloom
Shall sweetly breathe—“forget me not.”
Shall still adorn this sacred spot;
And e'en in death its latest bloom
Shall sweetly breathe—“forget me not.”
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And though the tempest's raging breath
With furious blasts its blossoms tear,
Like the fair form, which cold beneath,
Enwrapt in death lies buried there:
With furious blasts its blossoms tear,
Like the fair form, which cold beneath,
Enwrapt in death lies buried there:
Yet, while affection's gushing tear
Mourns for the soul which thus has fled,
It still shall flourish o'er his bier,
Or droop, in honour of the dead.
Mourns for the soul which thus has fled,
It still shall flourish o'er his bier,
Or droop, in honour of the dead.
Rest thee, sweet Babe! thy early doom,
Shall bring thee now to realms unknown:
The fate which struck thy budding bloom,
Shall bid thee share thy Father's throne.
Shall bring thee now to realms unknown:
The fate which struck thy budding bloom,
Shall bid thee share thy Father's throne.
Yes, lov'd on earth, enshrin'd on high,
Thy blessed Spirit finds its meed;
And gains, amid an happier sky,
The palm to hearts like thine decreed.
Thy blessed Spirit finds its meed;
And gains, amid an happier sky,
The palm to hearts like thine decreed.
Once more, with joy, thy sainted Sire
Shall clasp thee to his beating breast;
And teach thee strike the living lyre,
Which lulls all sorrow, pain to rest.
Shall clasp thee to his beating breast;
And teach thee strike the living lyre,
Which lulls all sorrow, pain to rest.
124
Farewell, till fate shall name the day,
Which bids my dust unite with thine;
And the same grave which shrouds thy clay,
Again shall ope to cover mine!
Which bids my dust unite with thine;
And the same grave which shrouds thy clay,
Again shall ope to cover mine!
Saint Margaret's, Titchfield, Hampshire.
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