The Fancy A Selection from the Poetical Remains of the late Peter Corcoran, of Gray's Inn, Student at Law. With a brief memoir of his life [by J. H. Reynolds] |
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STANZAS.
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94
STANZAS.
['Tis vain to grieve for what is past]
“------ And muttered, lost! lost! lost!”
Sir W. Scott, Bart.
Sir W. Scott, Bart.
'Tis vain to grieve for what is past,
The golden hours are gone;
My own mad hand the die hath cast,
And I am left alone:
'Tis vain to grieve—I now can leave
No other bliss—yet still I grieve!
The golden hours are gone;
My own mad hand the die hath cast,
And I am left alone:
'Tis vain to grieve—I now can leave
No other bliss—yet still I grieve!
The dreadful silence of this night
Seems breathing in my ear;
I scarce can bear the lonely light
That burns oppress'd and near;
I stare at it while half reclin'd,
And feel its thick light on my mind.
Seems breathing in my ear;
I scarce can bear the lonely light
That burns oppress'd and near;
I stare at it while half reclin'd,
And feel its thick light on my mind.
95
The sweetest fate have I laid waste
With a remorseless heart;
All that was beautiful and chaste,
For me seem'd set apart:
But I was fashion'd to defy
Such treasure, so set richly by.
With a remorseless heart;
All that was beautiful and chaste,
For me seem'd set apart:
But I was fashion'd to defy
Such treasure, so set richly by.
How could I give up her, whose eyes
Were fill'd with quiet tears,
For many a day,—when thoughts would rise,
Thoughts darken'd with just fears,
Of all my vices!—Memory sees
Her eyes' divine remonstrances.
Were fill'd with quiet tears,
For many a day,—when thoughts would rise,
Thoughts darken'd with just fears,
Of all my vices!—Memory sees
Her eyes' divine remonstrances.
A wild and wretched choice was mine,
A life of low delight;
The midnight rounds of noise and wine,
That vex the wasted night;
The bitter jest, the wearied glee,
The strife of dark society.
A life of low delight;
The midnight rounds of noise and wine,
That vex the wasted night;
The bitter jest, the wearied glee,
The strife of dark society.
96
To those who plung'd me in the throng
Of such disastrous joys,
Who led me by low craft along,
And stunn'd my mind with noise,—
I only wish they now could look
Upon my Life's despoiled book.
Of such disastrous joys,
Who led me by low craft along,
And stunn'd my mind with noise,—
I only wish they now could look
Upon my Life's despoiled book.
When Midnight finds me torn apart
From vulgar revelry,
The cold, still Madness of the heart
Comes forth, and talks with me;
Talks with me, till the sky is grey
With the chill light of breaking day.
From vulgar revelry,
The cold, still Madness of the heart
Comes forth, and talks with me;
Talks with me, till the sky is grey
With the chill light of breaking day.
My love is lost—my studies marr'd,
My friends disgrac'd and chang'd;
My thoughts all scatter'd and impair'd,
My relatives estrang'd:
Yet can I not by day recall
My ruined Spirit from its thrall .
My friends disgrac'd and chang'd;
My thoughts all scatter'd and impair'd,
My relatives estrang'd:
Yet can I not by day recall
My ruined Spirit from its thrall .
These lines to me, who knew Peter's faults and feelings well, are peculiarly touching. They show that, if he had properly directed his mind, he would have been an ornament to society in a higher branch of literature. Pugilism engrossed nearly all his thoughts, and coloured all his writings—but by this little poem it will be seen, that he was in solitude aware of, and grieved at, his own dissipated habits
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