 | Poems, by Joseph Cottle |  |
Tales might have once inspir'd compassion's sigh,
Or rous'd resentment, darting from the eye,
Which now no longer melt the pitying breast.
Lost in the lapse of time, with Heav'n they rest!
Of frantic maiden o'er the hostile plain
Seeking her Love amid the high-heap'd slain,
Till in the slaughter'd rank she eyes his face,
And, dying, clasps him in her fond embrace.
Or youth, from peaceful home to battle led,
And, wounded, left to perish with the dead;
Whilst, with faint-glimmering eye and visage pale,
He marks around the screaming Vultures sail,
Lifts one faint arm to turn their beaks away,
Yet strives in vain to scare them from their prey.
Even now some cottage child may starve for bread,
And lisping call upon its father—dead;
At whose approach, when eve her shadows threw,
To meet its Sire the pratling Infant flew.
Saw with delight the Loaf his arm sustain'd,
And shar'd the meal his honest toil had gain'd;
Now in the wars laid low, no longer gay
It pines and sobs its little heart away;
Whilst the rack'd Mother hides her anguish deep,
And, weeping, bids her baby cease to weep.
Would but one child thus early learnt to fare!
Would but one scene of such distress there were.
Or rous'd resentment, darting from the eye,
Which now no longer melt the pitying breast.
Lost in the lapse of time, with Heav'n they rest!
Of frantic maiden o'er the hostile plain
Seeking her Love amid the high-heap'd slain,
Till in the slaughter'd rank she eyes his face,
And, dying, clasps him in her fond embrace.
Or youth, from peaceful home to battle led,
And, wounded, left to perish with the dead;
90
He marks around the screaming Vultures sail,
Lifts one faint arm to turn their beaks away,
Yet strives in vain to scare them from their prey.
Even now some cottage child may starve for bread,
And lisping call upon its father—dead;
At whose approach, when eve her shadows threw,
To meet its Sire the pratling Infant flew.
Saw with delight the Loaf his arm sustain'd,
And shar'd the meal his honest toil had gain'd;
Now in the wars laid low, no longer gay
It pines and sobs its little heart away;
Whilst the rack'd Mother hides her anguish deep,
And, weeping, bids her baby cease to weep.
Would but one child thus early learnt to fare!
Would but one scene of such distress there were.
| Poems, by Joseph Cottle | |