Poems, on various subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

Forgive, neglected shade! my pensive lay,
While o'er thy tomb I hang my rural wreath;
The modest violet to thee I'll pay,
That bloom'd and dy'd upon yon barren heath.

Bring, artless Virgins, ev'ry rural sweet,
And cull the hare-bell from the mountain's brow;
On whose brown breast, untrod by cautious feet,
The languid flow'r is fainting seen to blow.

146

Ah! see in vain it plays on Zephyr's wing,
In vain it humbly bends to ev'ry blast;
Its beauties drop ungather'd as I sing,
And o'er the precipice by winds are cast.

Emblem of Merit in a frozen world,
Thine azure tints shall yet our garland grace;
Like thee this joyless Youth was quickly hurl'd,
From Hope's fair height, to Death's unlov'd embrace.

“Blush! blush! ye patrons of the tuneful Nine,”
(Hark! his sad Ghost sings on the buoyant air)
“Ye saw me feebly grasp Apollo's shrine;
“Ye saw the God 'mid all his rays appear.

147

“Wrapt in his glories did my Spirit stand;
“Breathless I panted with the transport new;
“But Mis'ry came and seiz'd my helpless hand:
“She led me on; I vainly shriek'd to you.

“Why did you see the haggard fiend prevail,
“When Phœbus gave whate'er a God could give?
“With cruel Mis'ry, Song could ne'er avail;
“She pierc'd my heart, my raptures ceas'd to live.

“Scorning to fawn at laughing Insult's knee,
“My woes were doubled, deeper rais'd my groan;
“More sharp, more exquisite, came Agony;
“And latent Anguish seal'd me for her own.

148

“I ask no laurel, claim no late-born sigh;
“Yet should some rustic Muse, in Nature drest,”
“Strike her soft bosom with a tearful eye,
“While keen Emotion's in her strain confest,

“Resting on yon white cloud, I will be near.”—
Hush'd dies the sound, shrill as the midnight wind;
Now deck the garland, nor your flow'rets spare,
With mournful Cypress, and the Yew entwin'd.

High on this Willow hangs the silent lyre,
So late attun'd to faithful Ella's woe;
Still is that finger, quench'd that heav'nly fire,
Whose touch commanded our best tears to flow.

149

Yet soft, ye Maids! press the green turf with heed,
Where hapless Genius lies by Pride opprest;
Nor hail yon pow'rful Wretch who urg'd the deed,
But leave to Heav'n his cold ungentle breast.

Here strew your flow'rs—here plant the earliest rose
That grew unknown near Clifton's green-clad hill:
Her languid hue shall cank'ring Grief disclose;
Her fall—the mind with just reflection fill.

Now rest, too hapless Chatterton, whose strain
My bosom warms while singing Bawdin's fate;
Yet shalt thou live! nor shall my song be vain
That dares not thine, but dares to imitate.

Primrose.