University of Virginia Library

HOPE.

HOME.

“Go and Sin no more.” John 8th Chap.

LINES

WRITTEN ON A LADY'S TELLING THE AUTHOR TO FORGET HER.

ADDRESSED TO MISS B---

A DREAM

One night, as slumb'ring in soft sleep I lay:
And tasted rest from all the toils of day,
A dream of fancy to my mind disclos'd
Some poor man in death, by my side repos'd:
With unrelenting pride, I sternly said,
“Wretch! think not here to lay thy vulgar head,
Nor dare presume, with such insolence more,
To mix the high with low, the rich with poor.”
“Wretch, indeed!” with just anger he replied,
“Elsewhere such wretches seek, thyself deride:
All here are equal, none are left behind,
I, on my dunghill, thou, on thine reclin'd.”

SYMPATHY.

REFLECTIONS AT THE SETTING SUN.

While the mild air is fann'd by cooling breeze,
And whisp'ring murmurs of departing day
Melodious sound on mine attentive ear,
O! let me range to silent meadow green,
Aud there, under some shady beech reclin'd,
In contemplation view the setting sun.
Mark! the ruddy streak from light-drooping cloud,
That beams so bright with alternate flick'rings;
What mingl'd hues, of varied colours soft,
'Twixt burnish'd lustre of silv'ry whiteness,
Shine around the golden rays of Phœbus!
Each lofty mountain of towering height,
That through the day, has felt the sultry heat
Of burning sun, now humid coolness feels.
Creation seems refresh'd with evening shade.
The nodding trees, that spread their foliage green,
The sweet flowers, which scent with genial odour,
The rural music of the rustling leaves,
In lovely charms, bedeck the beauteous scene:
While, from the brow of yon dusky hill,
The Shepherd loit'ring comes, with toil fatigu'd;
His fleecy care around him plaintive bleat,
As homeward to close penn'd up folds they go.—
And here, while misty evening closes on,
And Nature seems her graces to unfold,
Wrapp'd in busy thought, to man congenial,
I'll calmly pass the hour, from cares repos'd.—
How Fancy's visions float my dizzy brain,
And paint before me scenes for ever gone!
Oh! childhood's happy time! blest stage of life,
Season of guileless pleasures unalloy'd,
Now do I see thee, with keen Mem'ry's eye,
In innocence and loveliness complete.
Each fleeting joy, of past infantine years,
Appears display'd to my rapturous view:
When young Ambition bloom'd, unblighted, gay,
Inexperienc'd led, to smile at prospect;
When vernal flowers bestrew'd the fleeting hour,
Nor Fortune's sullen blast reversive, swept
Away those rich scenes of captivation sweet.
That period gone—what alterations dire!
What chasms deep, have ope'd their yawning jaws,
To engorge within their hapless victim!
Friends once belov'd, who lock'd in dear embrace,
The choice companions of their early years,
Sleep now beneath the silent grave repos'd.
Where are those arms of parental fondness,
That so oft have clasp'd, 'mid throbs ecstatic,
With all the ardour of Love's pure spirit,
The happy child to Affection's bosom?
Devour'd, perchance, by cold and clammy Death,
Bloodless and stiff become, they cank'ring lie.
Say, fell Death, what dread havock thou hast made,
Raging in gory, red-stain'd butcheries?
What cheeks hast thou with scalding tears bedew'd?
What bursting heart, hast thou with inward throes
To madness riv'd, by agonies of grief?
But still, O Pleasure! rich gifts have show'r'd down,
Replete, diffusive, from thy bounteous hand.
Unnumber'd happy hours have flitted by,
Basking in the sunshine of tranquil ease.
When home was seen, with bland endearing ties,
To weave its fragile web of mystic joys.
Yes, those indeed were gifts, how richly fraught!
Earth was deem'd unworthy to retain them.
Yet Life, with all its bitter sweeten'd cares,
That weeps o'er such lachrymous distractions,
Keeps Hope, to suck the poison from the grief.—
But, hark! the dull peals of some tolling bell,
Ring through the thick air, low sounds lugubrous,
And bid me leave this calm and peaceful spot.—
Thy wond'rous ways, O Providence! to man,
How veil'd in mystery inscrutable!
With mercy temper'd is thy ev'ry act:
And whene'er in great wisdom thou ordain'st
That dire Misfortune's sting should mar our bliss,
Then grant, that each may with submission bow
To thy all-wise, supreme, and high decree.
And since thou alone perfect good canst know,
Make us, through each devious track of life,
Reclining on thy arm, with God-head nerv'd,
In mild obedience meet th' appointed doom.

TO MISS ---

THE WARRIOR'S DEATH.

TRANSLATION OF A LATIN PASTORAL POEM,

WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. JOHN FLETCHER.

PALÆMON.
Say, Alphesibæus, what makes thee sad
Thy lonely footsteps take, in sorrow clad?
By hungry wolf, perchance, some lambkin slain,
No longer frisking skips the sunny plain?

ALPHESIBÆUS.
My flock, Palæmon 's safe; no lamb is torn;
Damon is dead! 'tis this that makes me mourn.
For him, these eyes bedew'd with tears you see;
For him, my soul laments most tenderly.
One hour gone, with hard toil and sickness dead,
We bore him to his last, cold earthy bed.
To tell his name, no marble tomb is worth,
'Twill live unfading in immortal birth.

PALÆMON.
Since Damon's fled, the swan hath ceas'd to sing,
The raven and the crane their chattering;
The black crow alone, now saddening moans,
While Philomela sounds her mellow tones.

ALPHESIBÆUS.
But he, 'mid heaven's bright arch, can there behold
The silky clouds beneath his feet unfold;
May see the weeping flock he nurs'd and rear'd,
By Gospel light from doubt and error clear'd.
How happy he! but us, what griefs attend,
What sad afflicting cares our bosoms rend!
Ye Swains! in dismal notes of sorrow mourn!
This epitaph, shall on his tomb be borne—
“Here Damon lies, known to the stars in fame,
The boast of his kind, an unequall'd name.”

PALÆMON.
Cull the dewy flowers of varying hue,
The snow-white lily, and hyacinth blue;
The cassia and violet of modest bloom,
To scatter o'er lov'd Damon's humble tomb:
Whose stainless name from clime to clime shall sound,
While honied bees shall sip the sweets around,
While finny breed shall swim the briny deep,
Or goat shall climb the craggy mountain's steep.

ALPHESIBÆUS.
Like the cypress 'mid wild vines lifts its head,
And alder tree o'ertops in tam'risk bed;
So shall Damon's land, in high honour shine,
That sent forth one so pure, so near divine.

PALÆMON.
My friend, due praises may we ever give,
We praise him most, when most like him we live.

LINES TO A FRIEND, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY.

My Muse, lov'd friend, on this auspicious day,
Would take her lyre, and strike each grateful chord:
And while congratulations waft around,
Oh! let her guide thee to a theme of praise;
To ponder deep on that Eternal Power,
Which has fost'ring led thee to manhood's bloom.
Since life first diffus'd its beams o'er thy soul,
What mighty arm has watch'd o'er all thy ways,
And kept thy tott'ring steps from dang'rous falls?
Who, when in childhood, thou didst crad'ling lie,
Spreading soft tender arms in artless mood,
Gave gradual energy to thy young limbs,
Pouring in each day the sap nutritious?
Who form'd utterance for the simple tongue,
And bade it speak with unaffected grace,
The wants that feeble infancy attend?
'Twas God! who vast in awful splendour sits
Amid skies celestial sublimely shrin'd,
Yielding to man his kind unweari'd care.
Twice twelve years have now o'er thy head revolv'd,
The fleeting moments of reversing time
Have wing'd their swift interminable flight,
Whilst thou, frail man, remain'st a wond'rous proof
Of mercies, how inexhaustibly great!
Think, O think! that since this brief flight of time,
Millions beneath the tomb forgotten sleep!
Who, like thyself, once bloom'd unthinking, gay,
Flush'd with the gilded charms of op'ning views.
Then let that life, which has thus long been spar'd
The blighting touch of unrelenting Death,
To Him pour forth the ceaseless strains of praise,
That chastely hallow'd swell the grateful heart.
And thus, as years on years revolving roll,
And future natal days increase thy span,
The blessed peace of heav'n shall be thy lot;
Calmly shalt thou glide down the stream of life,
Thy conscience tranquil, and thy soul at ease.

SAPHO'S HYMN TO VENUS.

FROM THE ITALIAN.

THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.

THE BLISS OF WINE.

IMPROMPTU

ON A LADY'S CUTTING OFF THE WINGS OF A PAPER CUPID.

TO LAURA.

SONG. HASTE THEE WARRIOR.

EXTEMPORARY LINES ADDRESSED TO SOME YOUNG LADIES.

Oh, say! how hard, but pleasing is my task,
When ye, fair race, with pleasing mildness ask
Me to pour forth my strains of infant muse,
Nor kindly name what subject I must choose;
Words from the heart betray the feelings true,
Then let these humbly tell my wish to you.
May you, through this fleet life, e'er happy be,
Blest with calm peace, and sweet security;
Around your lot may mild contentment twine,
The heart unruffl'd, grateful, and benign;
May revolving years each more charming find,
Grac'd with the spotless virtues of the mind;
And, when doom'd hereafter by Heav'n's decree,
May you resigned meet adversity;
May wearying toil and torturing care,
Ne'er pure and harmless joys unfeeling tear;
To crown this bliss, may friendship's sweets attend,
And halcyon pleasures uniting blend;
May He, whose glitt'ring light beams thro' the day,
Illume life's chequer'd path with cheering ray;
Misfortune's woes may that same Power remove,
While Truth and Honour your sure guardians prove.

Death spares not.

THE WANDERER.

AIR. OH, LADY, I'LL REMEMBER THEE!

FROM THE ITALIAN.

LINES ON RECEIVING A ROSE.

Lady, thy blushing gift of growth mature,
A beauteous rose full-blown in lovely bloom,
Was kept by me with soft solicitude,
'Till droop'd its head perfum'd, and leafless died.—
Say, did'st thou cull it fair from prickly stem,
Soft bedew'd with odoriferous sweets,
To pine so soon within a fev'rish grasp?
To leave its beauties, unfann'd by mild gales
That float along their breezy gentleness
With whispering music, o'er Flora's train?
Methought, as languishing I view'd the blush
From thick circling leaves slowly fade away,
'Twas not unlike the healthy cheek of youth
Pale blighted by the with'ry touch of death.—
When rambling through the walks, at early dawn,
Of some cool and flowery garden spot,
Hast thou, lady, amid the clust'ring shrubs,
Close planted round the meandering paths,
Beheld the opening rose from bending stalk
Hang down its tender head, by dew-drops pearl'd?
What lovely mixtures of pure white and red,
Were blended fine, in assemblage complete!
How blooming look'd the little germing buds
Red peeping through the shady pendent leaves!
While pleasing fragrance gave her scented charms.
Alas! no sooner shall to-morrow's wind,
Sweep o'er the earth her loud streperous blast,
Than the stripp'd rose falls crumbling to the ground,—
'Tis thus with gay youth, that sprightly gambols,
With animation's soul, mid smiling scenes;
While lively health her aid benignant lends,
Imparting to the cheek the vivid hue,
To the bright eye an undiminish'd fire.
But soon as grim and haggard sickness comes,
Pouring her poison in the flowing veins,
Quick all the charms of fleeting youth decay,
And like the rose, when cull'd from parent stem,
Has nought but wrecks of beauty's faded form.

A FRAGMENT.

Free from the toiling cares of busy life,
Onesummer's eve I fled the noisy town
To taste the sweets of rural solitude.
Alone I wander'd through the silent fields,
Sometimes, stooping to cull a flow'ret sweet
That shew'd its head amid the waving grass,
Now rich and plenteous for the mower's scythe;
Sometimes, climbing the gentle sloping bank,
I pluck'd from the hedge a blushing dog-rose,
Whose thin form'd leaves then scented fresh and mild,
Fill'd with fragrance from its beauteous parent.
The hay-harvest season had now begun;
Around in distant fields, were seen employ
The sweating labourers with circling swoop,
Cutting the flexile stalks of shady green,
From smiling Nature's annual produce.
With pleasing interruptions, such as these,
In calm and peaceful thought, I sought my way
Close by the side of a meand'ring brook
That purl'd its limpid stream in gentle course
Beneath the gloom of thick o'erhanging boughs.
Tracing the current through each cool retreat,
I came at last, beside a woody copse:
And there, neath the spread of a tow'ring tree
I pensive listen'd to the buz of eve.
But suddenly, the soft melodious thrill
Of some plaintive voice, my attention seiz'd.
Oh! 'twas Music by Melancholy sooth'd;
Oft did the mimic Echo sweet rebound
In heighten'd tones, and shake the liquid air;
Again, the deep notes of sorrowing woe
Came on the ear to still Compassion's tear;
Like the mellow notes of Æolic lyre,
Each rapturous strain was fraught with mildness;
Stealing the soul's soft sense of sympathy,
As steals the breeze of gentle Zephyrus
The pleasing scent of circumjacent herbs.
She sang of love—of disappointed love;
How that when young, in modesty adorn'd,
Blooming in all the charms of guileless youth,
She had been allur'd from her native home
By the seductive arts of treach'rous man:
Who, by fair promises replete with guile,
Snar'd her impassion'd heart, and then forsook;
And villain-like, unprotected left her,
To bear alone the pangs of sinful love,
The bitter taunts of reputation lost!
Since that time, what phrenzies of anguish dread,
What torturing thoughts had rack'd her bosom!
To think, that she most pitiless had left
Her father's humble roof, where mild coutent
Had e'er beam'd through each fleet infantine year
On her lonely fortune. Oh! she had been
The cherish'd child of his affection pure,
The sole remaining prop of with'ring age;
Who should have eas'd with kind and lenient hand,
The cumb'ring cares that droop'd his feeble soul,
And smooth'd the bed for weary limbs to rest.
But, alas! how merciless she had prov'd,
How ill requited was a father's love!
Stung to the heart to see his daughter lost,
Her honour blasted, and his comforts gone,
He pin'd in silence, and unpitied died.
And this, of all her woes, did grieve her most,
That ingratitude for paternal care
Had caus'd tears to flow o'er his wrinkl'd face,
And steep'd in sorrow locks then snow'd by age.
Her happy hours were now for ever fled;
Sorrow alone her restless thoughts could calm;
And oft she would go at still evening hour
To moisten with repentant tears his grave:
This was her solace, even there to weep,
And sigh in anguish o'er his troubles past.
I could no longer list; and softly went
To soothe the fair mourner—but she was gone!

SONG.

[Oh, would my heart! oh, would my heart!]

IMPROMPTU.

AURORA.

The silent gloom of sable Night dispers'd,
Forth from her saffron couch Aurora comes
In ruby chariot, drawn by milky steed,
To ope with blushing hand the eastern gates.
Veil'd in majesty from the clouds she bursts,
Sheds o'er the teeming ground her matin dew,
And in the flowers their balmy odour breathes,
While Nox and Somnus from her presence fly.
Each twinkling star and constellation bright
That spangling throng the sky at evening hour,
Dazzl'd by her fair beauties, disappear.
All Nature seems at her approach reviv'd;
The herbs and trees, in verdant clothing drest,
With fair and opening charms her bounty prove.
The songsters sweet that tune their woodland lays
'Till murky Darkness warn them to retire,
With renovation flap their plumed wings,
Soon as young Morn her early visit pays,
And skim the air in high ethereal flight,
To welcome Light with a warb'ling carol.
The varied colours in arch'd rainbow seen,
Equal not in splendour the rising dawn;
Thrones pil'd on thrones seem heap'd up cerulean,
While mellow tinges of diffusive hue,
In flick'ring beauties dart, though soft, sublime.
Pillowing aloft, some cloud majestic
Heaves round and round its sumptuous vesture,
Its orb displaying lovely Nature's tints;
Now smooth convolv'd in soft voluptuous forms,
It rolls most graceful in the airy space,
While all the vaulted canopy appears
Illum'd by splend'rous beams of radiant light.
To raise the grandeur of this mighty scene,
The pale crescent of the silvery moon,
Oft shews retir'd her brightness fading dim,
Perchance a lucid contrast to effect,
'Twixt rising splendour and setting glory.—
O Light ineffable! pure gift of Heav'n!
When pour'ing o'er the circumambient earth
Thy vigorous charms, to life nutritious,
How art thou form'd to teach the pious mind,
His vast power and antemundane greatness,
Who from darkness produced thyself so chaste
And from the womb of a chaotic gloom,
Did form a world with beauty so replete,
With bright celestial graces so adorn'd,
That what of mortal dregs participates,
Ne'er can yet discern its full perfections;
Nor with ample praises wondering tell
The exalted wisdom of Him who made it.

RETROSPECT.

THE LADY OFFERING HER LOOKING GLASS TO VENUS.

Venus, take the glass I vow'd to thee,
To see this face I cannot brook;
Since what I have been, I cannot be,
Oh! let me never in it look.

A WISH

IMITATED.

[Poor little rambling, quivering, dandling thing]

FALSE BLUSHES.

IMITATION FROM BOETHIUS.

BAGATELLE.

Wise Solomon once said, each hour has its bliss:
I think I remember it—sweet maid, do not you?
Then pretty coy Phyllis come give me one kiss,
And I vow I'll believe this sage oracle true.

IMITATED.

[When fond by the side of my Laura I'm sighing]

THOUGHTS ON WEALTH.

O! say ye avaricious sons of men,
Who think to bask in plentitude of bliss
When fulgent heaps of gold shall shine around;
Ye ambitious! who plough the boist'rous main,
Who fly the peaceful scenes of native growth,
And seek the desert haunts of sultry climes
That ye may grasp the glitt'ring bauble, wealth,
Have ye not found your expectations vain?
Have ye not felt that courted riches give
To those who leave the paths of sweet content,
Nought else but self-deluding, phantom joys?
The tow'ring mind of high aspiring man
That ne'er seeks repose from scheming projects,
Alas! too often views with sanguine eye
Those meretricious charms that please him most.
Oh! could he but restrain that tyrant wish,
That fain would hold with unrestricted power
Each passing joy that fleets and dies away,
What dire impending griefs might be escap'd!
That hang o'er his ill-destin'd head, conceal'd,
And burst at last with loud and dreadful rage,
While he, poor hapless victim of an hour,
Is wrapp'd in heedless dalliance of delight.—
Wealth! thou alluring quest of feeble minds,
Thou bland deceiver of the human race,
How form'd are thy gay trappings to mislead!
How suited to display thy coz'ning sweets,
While deep lurking lies the deadly poison!
To steer along thy madd'ning blind career,
Proof to the wheed'ling spell that oft attracts
And with enticing bait would rend extinct,
Each light that faintly beams from virtue pure,
Needs far more the gift of stoic firmness
Than does stinted penury's tatter'd lot;
Whose poor weakness is heav'ns most precious boon,
To shame the vaunts of th' ostentatious proud:
Teaching by secret, but severe reproof,
That man, how e'er his present lot be blest,
Can only be but steward of his gains.
The dizzy din that lulls the rich to sleep
Sounds softly sweet on unexperienc'd years!
The great know alone the snares of greatness.
They whose bosoms for high affluence fret,
Who wish to drink the cup of sweet'n'd brim,
Think not of those tumultuous cares that mar
The fancied pleasures of that envied state;
Ne'er pause amid the wild excess of joy
Which the imagin'd bliss of wealth begets,
To view the precipice that threatens near.
This mad abstraction from all prudent thought,
Forms the sad cause of deep unnumber'd woes,
That with their bending weight encumber life.
This, the primeval spring in saintless souls,
Of those pois'nous crimes that try virtue's blush,
And plunge the mind in its chaotic gloom.
Th' inconsiderate at e'en the name of wealth,
Picture a prospect silver'd o'er with charms.
To couch beneath bright canopies of gold,
To surfeit amid soft luxuriant joys,
To rest the head on downy pillows smooth,
While mellow music lures them to repose;
To feed the eye with ev'ry rapturous sight,
The appetite with ev'ry wanton wish,
And prove what vice can will, or wealth obtain,
To th' unthinking crowd how rich a prospect!
Him, whose grovelling and untutor'd mind
Dreams of none other bliss but that on earth,
The pamper'd ease of affluence will please.
He forms the genial soil where temp ral views
Should build their vision'ry fabric of hope:
But he, whose soul to higher thoughts aspires,
Whose mental strength with penetrative glance
Rejects the borrow'd gloss of boasted pomp,
Who sees things real, not what they seem to be,
(Cloth'd in the specious semblance of disguise),
To him, the gilded charms of flatt'ring wealth
No dazzling radiance have to blind his sight.
Mark, the troubles which throng around the rich!
Mark, the restless toils that unceasing tire!
Then say, which is that lot which most beguiles,
That smoothens most the flinty walks of life:
The one, with more than rich abundance blest,
Or that, which safe from poverty's cold blast,
Can amply taste those pure and artless joys,
Which spring from competence—lovely state!
That most blessed medium which makes not man
Himself forget, where Fortune gently smiles.
Riches with their allurements oft entice
From the quiet ways of innocuous worth;
Spreading unseen their net of texture fine,
They lead their victim to the maze of vice,
E'er thought has time to stir him from his dream,
And show the gulf that's yawning to receive.
First, subtle Pride stalks forth with crested plume,
And claims each tittle of supreme respect;
While honey-mouth'd Flatt'ry light tripping comes
To court the fav'rite with her flimsy train,
Cramming him with tales of perfection false;
While he, who in a middle state of life
Could pass his days with unassuming airs,
Now prims his look, and vainly learns to boast.
And what of all, must most affect his weal,
His proneness to enjoy imperious rule
Rends him oblivious of that Mighty One,
Whose vast and spotless Majesty must frown,
When man dares contemn the Power who made him;
Next pale-fac'd Envy, with her gangrene touch
To blighten tries by machinations dark,
Those fading gifts she cannot hope to share.—
These, with ten thousand heartless cares attend
Too oft on those, who not content to share
Without exuberance, their fated lot,
Repining seek for gold to rob their peace.
Ne'er yet was perfect bliss the gift of wealth;
Not all that's dug from Chili's golden mines,
Can buy alone those calm and halcyon hours
Which cheer the heart that throbs a humble breast.
How oft does sorrow cloud the Monarch's brow
When stretch'd in grandeur on his royal couch,
Nor let him taste the calm of sweet repose!
Whilst the simple peasant that toils for bread,
Labouring 'neath the heat of mid-day sun,
Can safely lock his eyes in balmy sleep.
Happiest he! who with enough to shield
His head from the rude pelting storms of fate,
In contentment lives, nor sighs for greatness;
Who sees in riches nought but tempting sweets,
Nought but fleeting shadows of ideal joys.

WE PART TO MEET AGAIN!

To G. H. S---Esq.

I'm quite sick of commentators,
And of hungry critic praters;
Who have not else to feed our sense,
Except it be their impudence—
They think themselves quite learned sure
By rendering what is plain obscure,
And tagging on to every line
Whate'er their empty brains combine.
Each pigmy now with “doctæ quæ
Dam” starving poor noticulœ,
Rends each small author big in size,
(Sad ruin to poor student's eyes!)
And crams in words of vast import
To which the reader may resort,
And after racking his poor brains,
Well curse the critic for his pains.
Of all this vile cajoling art,
I've had enough—and more than part:
Since, alas! my sweet profession
Wills me make this true confession;
When others sleep the midnight hour
While Morpheus sheds his balmy pow'r,
I oft am doom'd to ponder o'er
Some volume rare that weighs a score,
That erudite I may dispute,
'Bout mighty grave, and smart acute:
To prove my genius has expansion,
I taste the niceties of scansion;
Of the sense, 'tis little matter,
Give me critic's gab and chatter;
My ears are full of accents' tick,
Of spondee long, or tribrac quick;
If e'er I wish'd to prove severe
And make scholastic rules appear,
I'd give out some lengthy chorus
With all the notes of those before us!
Be sure my friend, you nicely scan;
Peruse Dunbar, and then Hermann;
Alas! high buskin'd Sophocles,
Torn so rudely now in pieces;
Let me in deepest mire be sunk
E'er I again read Master Brunek,
Although he be deep read in lore
Of all the classic bards of yore.
And would you wish to be sublime
To take a flight once on a time?
Be true game, and soar with Pindar,
Never let his metres hinder;
With raptures read his Carmina,
Nor pass o'er his own Fragmenta,
That you may be quite skill'd d'ye see
To pass at University;
Next tumble o'er with learned ease
Those trite varias lectiones;
To be quite grand with classic fuss,
Read th' Annotationibus;
The best edition, to be plain,
Is that of puzzling Gottel Heyne.
Oh! had I but the power to cite
The ancient spirits into light,
Great Homer, and Euripides,
With fulsome Aristophanes;
Some wise professors then would see,
Although they write so learnedly,
The essence of the book they spoil,
And wisdom with their comments foil.
Believe me tir'd of Grecian books;
You know how much they pale my looks;
And soon I mean to visit thee
And cheat an hour with jollity;
For thou art warm'd with friendship's flame.
A friend in deed, and not in name;
Thy mind deep intellect can span,
Thy manners show the gentleman.
With thee I love in social hour,
To taste the sweets of freedom's power;
No rank disguise with selfish art
Can blight the goodness of thy heart;
No cynic feelings cloud thy mind,
Absorbing all that's soft and kind;
No envy does thy passions cloy,
Nor would'st thou crush an honest joy;
Thy manly beaming eye proclaims
What native virtue inward flames—
Forgive me this, nor deem it praise
Such as flattery's self would raise;
No words can speak my thanks to thee,
The rest my heart must tell to me.
While with wine our table's crown'd
And friendly chit and chat goes round,
We'll drink to love, and friendship's health.
To freedom, and our country's wealth.
And since we both are often vain,
To mingle with the muse's train,
We wo'n't forget the poet's score;
Our first shall be to noble Moore,
The crowned pride of poesy,
That charms with sweetest minstrelsy:
I'm sure he liv'd on Helicon,
Or else he is Apollo's son,
And such a magic key has got,
(A present from the Muse I wot),
That he unlocks each finer sense
And shows the soul's omnipotence;
Then maddens with the poet's fires
Bewitching as his strain inspires.
My infant muse can ill relate,
The praises due to one so great;
But may my heart be carrion food
Before it feel ingratitude!
Moore is not warped with feelings hard,
But deigns to help a youthful bard,
These honest lines cannot disclose
The gratitude my heart well knows—
Warm thanks to others I should give,
In mem'ry's bosom they must live;
But stop, my friend, 'tis getting late,
I'm sure you're weary of this prate;
Until thy presence joy impart
Accept the greetings of my heart:
'Till death shall chill this hand of mine,
Believe me S--- I'm truly thine.

[Mine be a little moss-grown cot]

[Dark Night! thou herald of the musing hour]

Dark Night! thou herald of the musing hour,
Thou oft times soother to the sleepless mind;
Descend, and with thy dreary hush impart
To wakeful spirits their own pensive gloom;
For thou art dear to me—a solemn scene,
When the soul's grasp can stretch in wide expanse,
Seizing the fitful forms of ideal dreams;
And by fancy's power, into substance mould
The airy images which thought creates.
How strange is thought! how wide its grappling might!
How boundless is the magic of its strength!
What giant force, when mem'ry's soul is warm,
Can firm restrain its rude voluptuous course,
And stop the torrent of its mighty flood?
Oh! more than arrogance that presumes to quell
Each rising billow that swells to vastness,
Majestic in the current of the mind.
Thought! thou art all I have to call mine own!
All that treachery's spoiling hands have left
Me now to play my reeking griefs away,
Or lose them in the wiles of pensiveness;
Borne on thy mystic wings I wander far,
And taste the secret luxuries of woe.
E'en now remembrance bids me think of her,
That startles me as if a spectre rose—
Say not that youthful prime's unmeet to love.
The soul, when buoyant, feels the keenest wound!
Youth too soon, alas! each fond impression knows,
And takes the meteor's glimpse, as if 'twould last:
My love was blasted like th' unripen'd fruit
Whose fair blossom's kill'd by the mildew's blight,
While nought remains except a naked stem!
I said I loved—oh! love's a paltry word
To paint the adoration of the heart!
The ceaseless worship of each purer sense;
The warm embrace of all that could endear;
The wasting of each faculty that lives;
I had no thought but such as went to her,
No wish, save what was breath'd for her own peace.
Alas! that love no longer now exists,
Save when unsteady fancy soars in flight,
And thus decoys my heart with dalliant guile.
The fondest hopes of former days are gone!
No shatter'd wreck remains to warm my heart,
For misery's hollow eye to gaze upon!
Where she, whose smile of innocence did beam,
Far purer than the pearly shine of heav'n?
Whose soft eye was dumb eloquence to me,
Whose voice had more than music melody—
Not pluck'd from out the busy hum of world,
And the fairy flower-strew'd scenes of youth,
Stretch'd in the grove's cold dreariness she lies,
But lives with dastard soul to laugh at one,
Whose greatest weakness was his love too pure!
More cheerless than keen winter's icy looks
Are her's to me—fell mockery and taunt,
Deceitful maid! irresolute and weak,
Poor piteous sample of an inconstant sex—
Where the firmness of thy repeated boast?
How tottering the mind that dared not stem
The vile attack of envy and deceit!
Oh! could I tear yon sun from out the skies,
And split the quiv'ring beams from his bright orb,
I'd plant each tinted ray around my heart,
That thou might'st clearly see 'twas not untrue;
That not a particle did there infest,
Or taint the pureness of its holy love.
But thou wert false—thy smile was made to please,
And after to deceive with its sweet archness;
With angel voice thou knew'st to plead thy tale—
And steal affection from thy listner's heart—
I'll not upbraid—go, ask thy inner self
When nought but heav'n is witness to thy sighs,
While silent conscience speaks the cause of truth—

To------

[The Sabbath is the morn of rest]

To G. H. S--- Esq.

FRIENDSHIP.

ACROSTIC.

In praise of thee, sweet maid, what words can tell
Sincere and true, thy beauty's artless spell!
A charm to all, so pure and yet so kind,
Benign as peace with sweetest grace refin'd:
Emblems of thee the Poet's muse may paint,
Lovely as thou art! words are far too faint:
Lurid the heart that could thy presence flee,
A Cynic's frown must change to look on thee.

OH! THINK OF ME.

TO LESBIA'S SPARROW.

Pretty sparrow, my Love's delight,
Thou little minion in her sight;
Who e'er art wont to find a rest,
When dandling on her downy breast;
While her fair finger tempts thy beak
To bite it in thy playful freak;
Oh! would that I might ease my heart,
And fondle thee with Lesbia's art;
For since I burn with love so warm,
Each airy toy my grief can charm;
Some balmy peace I then might find
To sooth the weepings of my mind.
What maidens call a golden ill,
My bosom would with raptures fill,
To see that coyish zone unbound,
Which has so long been fasten'd round.

ON THE DEATH OF LESBIA'S SPARROW.

Ye cupids and ye am'rous train,
In melting notes of woe complain;
And all who feel a maiden's grief,
Let not your sorrow find relief—
My Lesbia's sparrow's dead and gone!
The sparrow she so doated on;
Which dear she lov'd as her own eye,
Whose death will claim her saddest sigh;
For he bewitch'd with artless mood,
And Lesbia's soft affection woo'd;
And well he knew her charming grace
As child can tell a parent's face;
Within her breast he fondly grew,
Ne'er from its warm enclosure flew;
But hopp'd and flutter'd here and there,
Sole chirping to his mistress dear;
Alas! he's gone to that dark way,
Whence none can e'er return they say:
Curse on ye drear and deathy shades,
Whose gloom each beauteous gift pervades!
The darling bird ye have remov'd,
The bird that was so dearly lov'd—
Sweet pet! e'er since thou hast been dead,
My Lesbia's pretty eyes are red.

THE TEAR.

ACROSTIC.

Heav'n in thine eye of melting brilliant power,
A joyous beam to light the gloomy hour,
Rich in soft grace to steal th' impassion'd heart,
Richer still in each winning, pleasing art,
In language mild, in act polite and free,
Oh! calm and sweet may thy life's journey be,
'Till heav'n to dreamless joys shall summon thee!

TO A LADY, WITH SOME RETURNED LETTERS.

Severe the throbbings of my heart,
Since doomed to act this cruel part:
The thoughts of blessed moments past
Crowd swiftly on, as whirlwind's blast.
How marr'd with anguish is my mind!
How little to its fate resign'd—
But since thou hast proved false to me,
Oh! think not I'll dishonour'd be.
Go, probe thy heart, in silent hours,
When nought is there to still its powers;
When all the soul is in its glow,
And streams of thought begin to flow—
Let conscience with firm response prove,
If I have been untrue in love.
With warmest love I've worshipp'd thee,
With all the soul's idolatry.
I never sought that gold of thine,
Thou wert thyself a richer mine;
No selfish venom stung my breast,
Or robb'd affection's sainted rest.
My love, the child of fondness born,
Was to its parent faithful sworn;
The incense of this heart of mine,
Offered at thy beauty's shrine.
To me, more dear thy pearly eyes
Than all Golconda's boasted prize;
And when thy fortune proved a foe,
I bid the paltry bauble go;
And, though other arms may press thee,
While far richer friends caress thee;
Yet, think this earth does not contain
In all its circling wide domain,
One heart that beats more pure than mine,
For that all-fickle one of thine.
Think'st thou I can e'er forget
The summer morn when last we met?
Then heav'n received thy plighted vow,
(Its echo seems to murmur now),
I gazed upon thy beauteous face,
And marked each softly winning grace;
Each feature, then, seem'd made of sense,
The speechless voice of innocence.
When, far from thee, the winged hours flew,
What scenes in prospect fancy drew!
I thought the blissful hour would come
When I should lead thee to mine home,
And prove by each endearing act,
That time would ne'er from love retract;
Had malady's pale sickly flame,
Spread langour o'er thy weakened frame,
I would have held thine aching head,
And watched, like fondness, by thy bed,
And asked of heaven to hear my prayer,
Breathed forth in holy silence there.
If painful griefs had caused annoy,
And quell'd the flush of honest joy,
I would have wiped the falling tear,
And kissed away thy woman's fear;
Have lull'd the tumults of thy breast,
And sunk in peace the sigh suppress'd.
Oh! yes, I'd prov'd so fond to thee,
Thou would'st have call'd me devotee.
But, thou art false—a hollow friend—
These records of deceit I send;
I ne'er can bear to read these lines,
They tell me all thy false designs;
The written images of art,
Which stole away my thoughtless heart;
Ne'er let again thy fingers write,
What thy whole soul does not indite;
'Tis mean on woman's part to be
So insincere, as thou to me—
But, oh! I ne'er with envy's power
Would mar thy dearest, happiest hour—
To thee may heaven prove bounteous kind
And give thee, A**, a virtuous mind.
Where'er may be thy resting spot
May peace and health twine round thy lot;
May rosy hours be passed by thee,
And unregretted moments flee.
Since this poor world can only give
A fleeting semblance while we live,
When that last messenger shall come
To call thee to thy final home,
May friendship close thy dying eyes,
And mercy waft thee to the skies.

WE PART TO MEET NO MORE.

THERE IS A HOPE.