The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
Amph'rus beheld his early grave, but grief
Stifled his tongue, and tears gave no relief.
The solemn chords, in dirges o'er the dead,
Thrilled through his heart, and his soft bosom bled.
The days of youth, but newly left behind,
With all their pleasures, rushed upon his mind.
Young Philo's sister he before had loved—
From her his constant bosom never moved;
But long had absence torn their hearts in twain,
And deep the grief when these can meet again.
With tears fair Rosabelle her sorrows spoke,
And all the sister in her bosom woke:
“Philo is now no more—oh! Amph'rus, hear
This last request—I make it with a tear.
Philo, my brother, is untimely gone,
And Paros' sand of genius too is run—
Oh! drink no more—stop, ere the hour come soon,
Which makes your morning sun go down at noon!”
He heard and wept—he trembled for his fate—
He would return, but feared it was too late.
His looks were fresh, but appetite was lost,
His mind from music to despair was tost.
Just like a youth when running down a hill,
And shows his action and his youthful skill,
Who sees, at length, a gulf where he must drop,
But, swift his motion, and he cannot stop;
He takes a spring, to live or rise no more—
He's saved—his effort brings him safely o'er.
Amph'rus beheld before the gulf of death,
The grave wide yawning, his a feeble breath,
Then he forsook strong spirits, drank good beer,
He lives—and yet his noble notes I hear.
When in the minster all the octaves swell,
'Tis Amph'rus' hand can touch the octaves well;
'Tis Amph'rus' hand can touch the soothing lute,
'Tis Amph'rus on the viol or the flute.
In music Amph'rus in full splendour shines,
And will do, like the sun, if he refrain from wines.
But, oh! what morals do the writers make!—
'Tis better far to give advice than take.
Stifled his tongue, and tears gave no relief.
The solemn chords, in dirges o'er the dead,
Thrilled through his heart, and his soft bosom bled.
The days of youth, but newly left behind,
With all their pleasures, rushed upon his mind.
Young Philo's sister he before had loved—
From her his constant bosom never moved;
But long had absence torn their hearts in twain,
And deep the grief when these can meet again.
With tears fair Rosabelle her sorrows spoke,
And all the sister in her bosom woke:
“Philo is now no more—oh! Amph'rus, hear
This last request—I make it with a tear.
Philo, my brother, is untimely gone,
And Paros' sand of genius too is run—
Oh! drink no more—stop, ere the hour come soon,
Which makes your morning sun go down at noon!”
He heard and wept—he trembled for his fate—
He would return, but feared it was too late.
165
His mind from music to despair was tost.
Just like a youth when running down a hill,
And shows his action and his youthful skill,
Who sees, at length, a gulf where he must drop,
But, swift his motion, and he cannot stop;
He takes a spring, to live or rise no more—
He's saved—his effort brings him safely o'er.
Amph'rus beheld before the gulf of death,
The grave wide yawning, his a feeble breath,
Then he forsook strong spirits, drank good beer,
He lives—and yet his noble notes I hear.
When in the minster all the octaves swell,
'Tis Amph'rus' hand can touch the octaves well;
'Tis Amph'rus' hand can touch the soothing lute,
'Tis Amph'rus on the viol or the flute.
In music Amph'rus in full splendour shines,
And will do, like the sun, if he refrain from wines.
But, oh! what morals do the writers make!—
'Tis better far to give advice than take.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |