Woodcuts and Verses :: :: University of Virginia Library

Spirit of Heaven, immortal Child,
On whom the great Creator smiled,
Before the date of time!
When Man's new race was call'd to birth,
He bade thee seek the sons of earth,
And teach the thought sublime.

But ah, to few of all the race
Was granted the surpassing grace,
To know the heaven-begot:
Save those, the warm of heart and mind,
The rest beheld thee, and were blind;
They heard, and own'd thee not.

In vain thy glorious voice they heard;
No waken'd pulse within them stirr'd
A tremulous delight:
With dull regard they pass'd thee by,
They saw thy wild prophetic eye,
And wonder'd at the sight.

Not the supreme in power and pride,
The rich, the great, the high-allied,
Thy choicest boons have blest:
O generous Muse, through every age,
Thy gifts have sooth'd, on sorrow's stage,
The poor and the opprest.

Angel of light, the spell is thine
That lifts with raptures all divine
Coy Nature's lowliest child:
In spite of penury and scorn,
For Him is Fancy's sweetest morn,
Dear Nurse of visions wild!

Or if, when Pride so high aspires,
Thy Torch some subtile Spirit fires
In Rank or Fortune's throng,
How shines the Ore, how beams the Crest,
In the majestic splendor drest
Of Genius and of Song!

O many a Soul of feeble power
Oft dares, in hope's delusive hour,
To linger o'er that Torch:—-
Alas! 'tis an enchanted light;
It's flames ascend with Souls of might:
The Weak they vainly scorch.

Yet e'en the Weak may not despair:
Thou canst not quite reject the prayer
Of Him that loves Thee well:
His hand whose skill thy Harp disowns
May sometimes wake imperfect tones
From Love or Pity's Shell.

Oft from his couch of cloudy dreams
He springs with dawn's congenial gleams
To drink the youthful air;
And, wandering through the twilight dews,
In some lone spot he meets thee, Muse,
And then forgets his care.

Where virgin roses chastely blush,
While solemn-sounding waters rush
To kiss thy buskin'd feet,
Lull'd with the fragrance and the sound,
He finds thee wrapt in thought profound,
On some romantic seat.

He knows thee by thine eye inspired,
And by thy stedfast brow, attired
In myrtle's lyric crown,
And by thy wings of stainless white,
That seem prepared for upward flight,
To waft him to renown.

He knows thee by his panting breast,
That throbs with wishes unexprest,
With wishes scarce defined;
And by the thoughts of deep emotion,
That flow, like troubled waves of ocean,
Tumultuous on his mind.

O might he from those Wings presume
To snatch but one etherial plume,
To trace the verse of flame;
Or from that Crown purloin away
One little amaranthine spray
Of poetry and fame!

TO CLIO

Daughter of Memory and Jove!
While flowery braids by Fancy wove
Thy Sisters' brows adorn,
Truth's simple laurel circles thine,
Where not a flower has leave to twine;
For Fancy is thy scorn.

But with that chaplet's sober green
Are mingled gems of ray serene,
Prefer'd when thou wert young
By History's Prince and Father first,
On whose charm'd ear at Samos burst
The dictates of thy tongue—-

And Him who, doom'd his throne to'inherit,
Wept, with a young enthusiast's spirit,
When in the' Olympic ring
That venerable Carian's theme
Flow'd to his soul, like mountain-stream
Into a rising spring—-

By Him who from the' Assyrian field,
Still baffling Power with Wisdom's shield,
Led the Ten Thousand home:
Worthy of Socrates, his mind,
Like fire in a tempestuous wind,
Blazed out in storm and gloom—-

And by that Chæronean just
To whom didst thou the scales intrust
Where fame's true weight is tried:
Oft, while the deeds of heroes pondering,
Unmoved he saw the Graces wandering
By old Cephisus' side.

Thy name with ancient Greece was Glory!
Thy first disciples traced her story
In characters of flame;
And for the splendour thus confer'd,
Well did she choose a golden word,
A Halo for thy name.

But not that favour'd land alone
Distinguish'd by thy presence shone
And paid Thee honour due;
Amidst thy laurel-girded hair
Glow gems of Latian tribute, rare
As Greece presents to view.

There Cæsar's shines: and brighter yet,
Though by too frail a votary set
On thy averted brow,
There beams the gem that Sallust gave:
O how could Pleasure's willing slave
So pure an offering vow!

Though Horace strung the' Alcaic Lyre,
Though Virgil breath'd Mæonian fire,
Yet Rome's Augustan Age
Scarce owes it's lustre more to Them
Than to thy rich historic gem,
The gift of Padua's Sage.

He too by virtuous Pliny loved,
And in imperial courts approved,
Though Flattery's foe profest,
He with no vulgar hand repaid
Thy grace that to his eye display'd
The secret human breast.

These, with that wreath of green combining,
And with a chasten'd radiance shining,
Compose thine antique crown:
O teach us by their blended light
To see the hearts of others right,
And thence correct our own.

Herodotus.

Thucydides.

Xenophon.

The plains of Cunaxa.

Plutarch.

Livy.

Tacitus.

ODE.

How sleeps the Squire who sinks to rest
By gout and gluttony opprest!
When Night, with drowsy wand of lead,
Returns to lull his ponderous head,
She there shall clog a coarser brain
Than Fancy's jest could ever feign.

By pinching Imps his neck is wrung;
By pigmy Fiends his feet are stung;
There Surfeit comes, with sultry face,
To wrap his breast in hot embrace;
And Nightmare shall awhile repair,
To sit a smothering monster there!

HYMN TO NATURE.

Goddess of the green retreats,
Thee my boundless worship greets!
Every hill and every dell
Has for me a druid cell,
Every leafy fane of thine
Holds for me a holy shrine.
Where the river flows and flaunts,
Wide astray from human haunts;
Where the ruin's lonely mass
Clouds it's waters as they pass;

Where the light and frolic fawn
Bounds among the dews of dawn;
Where at noon, by pool or brook,
Crowds the herd in wild-wood nook;
Where at eve from toil released,
Rests the meek disburthen'd beast—-
Wheresoe'er my footsteps roam,
Nature, still I find a home:
And in every bower of thine
Still my worship finds a shrine!

SONG.

[I have found the young Gleaner, the Cherub of Morn]

I have found the young Gleaner, the Cherub of Morn:
Like the red blooming poppy she sleeps in the corn;
Those gay eyes, of the hue
Of the corn-blossoms blue,
Are like daisy's lids clos'd by a summer Eve's dew.

Though her pillow be rugged, serene is her sleep,
While she dreams of the fields that the harvest-men reap;
Like the Lark in it's nest,
When no dangers molest,
Though so rude be her bed, yet so fresh is her rest.

There are those, httle Maid, if adduced to the proof,
Though by Indolence lull'd under Luxury's roof,
Who would joyfully share
Thine exemption from care,
And for that be content thy privations to bear.

Fan softly, I pray thee, thou gale of the west,
Fan softly, sweet gale, the repose of the blest!
For these fair yellow shocks
That thy light pinion rocks
Are the cradle of Innocence nurs'd among flocks.

THE HOURGLASS.

Poets loiter all their leisure,
Culling flowers of rhyme;
Thus they twine the wreath of pleasure
Round the glass of time:
Twining flowers of rhyme.

Fancy's Children, ever heedless!
Why thus bribe the hours?
Death, to prove the trouble needless,
Withers all your flowers:
Why then bribe the hours?

Like the Sand, so fast retreating,
Thus your hopes shall fall;
Life and fame are just as fleeting;
Poets, flowers, and all:
Thus your fancies fall.

SONG.

[Come away to the greenwood bowers]

Come away to the greenwood bowers;
Come away with the May-day posies:
We'll ride in a chair of flowers;
We'll dance on a rope of roses.

There are full-grown sons of pleasure,
Who trust to as frail a stay:
Then swing to the whirling measure;
For sure we're as light as They.

SONG.

[Who with me will wander? straying]

Who with me will wander? straying
Through the purple vines I go;
Laughing with the Nymphs, and playing
Where the richest clusters grow:
Who will wander with me?

Round my staff the tendrils wreathing,
Thus the' autumnal prize I bear;
All it's musky ripeness breathing
Sweets to load the wings of air.
Who will wander with me?

Who with me will wander, joying?
Welcome to the fair and gay;
Never cloy'd, and never cloying;
Here and there, and then away?
Who will wander with me?

THE MAID THAT LOVED THE MOON.

Throw back the locks redundant from those eyes,
Young Florimel! and o'er this moss-grown bench
While bending hawthorns shower
Their blooms, my strange tale hear.

Where stands yon Rustic, there last night I stood,
Beneath the brow of that monastic Arch:
Scarce breath'd the drowsy winds;
The waters caroll'd out

To the pleased Moon; who ne'er with sweeter grace
On Latmus listen'd to the Boy she loved;
Touched by her serious beam
The pale hills sadly smiled.

Soon through those rustling lilachs I beheld
A shape of beauty glide in robes of white:
Hither her steps were bent;
And, ere this seat she gain'd,

Through the long grass a tall majestic Bird
Came floating, to salute the well-known form;
'Twas such as Hebe yoked
To Juno's golden car.

But not with Argus' hundred eyes adorn'd,
Nor freak'd with orient tints like Iris' wings;
White where its quivering plumes
As Juno's milky way.

The stately tenants too of yon green isle,
The Swans, came plunging from their secret bed,
To welcome to their stream
The Wanderer of the Night.

Winnowing the water-lilies as they turn'd
With snowy pinions, by this bank they sail'd,
With fond familiar court
Acknowledging their queen.

Who with bland voice repaid them, and, the while,
With playful fingers the tall Bird caress'd
That proudly trail'd its fan,
Like lucid ivory carved.

These in the moonlight shining—-this fair Bird,
Those spotless Swans, and warbling crystal stream,
And, most, the white-robed Maid,
Beneath this tent of blooms,

Form'd a delightful picture, lovelier far
Than sad Autonoe's hapless hunter saw
By that sequester'd fount,
The secret bath of Nymphs.

To crown the spell, the visionary Maid,
Fixing her dark eyes on the silvery orb,
Sung a fantastic song,
An anthem to the Moon.

Strains wilder issued never from the lips
Of Troy's pale Prophetess, nor mellower tones
Flow'd from the rocky Isles,
The lingering sail to charm.

And charm'd were all that heard her—the tall Bird
Beside her cower'd feet still as a tuft of snow;
The Swans like Halcyons sate
Upon their liquid bed;

And I as if a Spirit sung stood awed:
Yet well I knew the' Enchantress;—'twas that pale
Proud Maid, the Baron's Child,
The Light of Alan-tower.

ODE TO IMAGINATION.

O thou, of Genius Eldest-born,
Endow'd with youth's eternal morn,
Divine Enthusiast, Hail!
Hail to thy proud undaunted guise,
Thy plumed crest, and ardent eyes,
And rich etherial mail.

'Tis thine the Dragon's wings to mount,
And soar to Light's remotest fount,
Beyond the eagle's force;
With young Adventure at thy side,
Who tames at once the Monster's pride,
And speeds his fiery course.

As erst with Thee to glory's height,
The Theban urged his daring flight,
Allow'd those reins to share;
O when will favour'd Bard again
Spring from the grovelling walks of men,
And ride the Wings of Air?

FAIRY-CATCHING.

WE are hunting the Fairy all day long;
Bewitch'd to the chase by his own sweet song;
We've an amber cage and a net of gauze;
But, with toil o'erwearied, we often pause.

Like the phosphor-light that illumes the fen,
So the false elf flits over glade and glen:
Then to cheer us forward he calls and sings;
But if once we're near him, away he springs.

When we press him hard, in a leaf he'll lie,
Or will mount the back of a dragon-fly,
Or will seek the veil that the spider spins,
Or will diving cling to a minnow's fins.

Like the phosphor-light on the dark morass,
He'll return, and perch on a blade of grass:
When the net comes close, and the toil seems o'er,
Then away he flirts, and we hunt once more.

But his voice is rich like a poet's dream,
And excites the spirit like fancy's beam;
So, because he carols a false sweet song,
We are hunting the Fairy all day long.

TO ---

An Absentee.

Shame afflict thee, Slave of Riot,
For an ancient House's fall!
Want's remorse, and Fear's disquiet
Sting thee, heartless Prodigal!

Through those woods that waved so proudly,
Held so long in pious care,
Now the Axe to Echo loudly
Tells thy havoc, worthless Heir!

Now the druid Raven, calling
From his sanctuary of oaks,
While the fane around is falling,
Ruin on thy head invokes.

Where for ages dwelt thy Fathers,
Usury's hirelings now reside;
While Oppression's sickle gathers
Labour's harvest far and wide.

Thou, to gayer shores departed,
Heedest not the peasant's groan;
Soon perchance the callous-hearted
Shall as dully hear thine own.

In thy Sires' emblazon'd Oriel
Soon shall be a Stranger's Shield;
And those halls no last memorial
Of their famous Lords shall yield.

Then their Son, a homeless Wanderer,
Fortune's treacherous die may rue;
While the World rejects the Squanderer
That a noble House o'erthrew.

In a night the' Ephesian Wonder
Felt a wretched Maniac's brand:
So that proud House crumbles under
A mean Gamester's frantic hand.

THE IDLER AND THE ANGLER.

Reclined upon a bank of moss,
Which golden butter-cups emboss,
And violets stud profusely,
Beside the trout-enlivened Stour,
With Pope's dear verse I charm the hour,
In pensive ease reclusely.

Poor Blond alone, my old ally,
Sits in profound demureness nigh,
O'erwatching every page,
And wondering much, as much he may,
What case can thus, the summer-day,
His Master's care engage!

But should Amanda seek the brook,
With sportive line and specious hook,
To tempt the finny race;
At once I quit the charming lays,
On her beguiling eyes to gaze,
And soft dissembling face.

She, with her treacherous smile serene,
Her sly placidity of mien,
And those beguiling eyes,
Throws out the lure with finest art,
More bent to catch a foolish heart
Than seize the watery prize.

Vain Angler! slave to man's applause,
Heartless herself, for hearts she draws,
Then flings them lightly by—-
Yet, though I know and scorn the Cheat,
Bewitched by all her bland deceit,
I cannot, dare not, fly.

“THE FAIR BRIDGES.”

O who, near the throne of the Mistress of Ocean,
The royal Elizabeth, Queen of the Wave,
Stood first to command the unbounded devotion
That Beauty awakes in the hearts of the Brave?

And who, by the conquest of loveliness, there
Usurp'd from her Monarch the Favourite's vow?
'Twas the daughter of Chandos that flourish'd so fair—-
The Pride of the Vine, with the scar on her brow.

Midst the Dames, in the Revel's gay fanciful round,
At the Masque or the Feast, in the Court or the Hall—-
No eyes of a rival resplendence were found:
Bright Katharine sparkled eclipsing them all.

When the Feast in the Halls of the Nobles she graced,
She sat in so rich a profusion of charms,
That it seemed, like the Bride whom the Trojan embraced,
With a glance she might kindle the circle to arms.

At the masque, or the sylvan fantastical sport,
Where the Nymphs and the Dryads embellish'd the scene,
No Lady appear'd of so lofty a port,
As she stood, like Diana, in midst of the Green.

O when was more sweet a young blossom transplanted
Than Sudeley sent forth in a palace to shine?
O where was the Lady whose beauty enchanted
Like the Daughter of Bridges, the Pride of the Vine?

THE CAPTIVE LION.

The Lion of the sacred hill
And he that awed Nemæa's wood
Could never slake, though prowling still,
Their still increasing thirst of blood:
The nations thus by thee accurst
Insatiate found ambition's thirst!
But Ammon's Son those pests appeased,
Though singly to the task he rush'd;
This in his iron grasp he seized,
And That the Muse's olive crush'd:
Who, singly, in thy fortune's wane,
Could lay a hand upon thy mane?

The terror of Etolian plains,
Whose tusk Diana's wrath impell'd,
Not by the herd of trembling swains
But by a kingly host was quell'd:
Thee, in a chase of dire renown,
A field of princes hunted down.
O noble was the sight and sound
When, flashing in the golden sun,
The Grecian lances sung around
Their game in rocky Calydon!
Thy hunting-day had sterner charms
When tens of thousands shone in arms!

Crete's horned plague the captor bore
To' amaze his argive despot's court;
Then, wild in Marathon, once more
'Twas dragged, to furnish Athens sport.
Thou too hast been in thy despair
A show for idle wonder's stare.
That thou wert cruel was thy crime;
That thou art captive is thy fate;
But tyrants in their adverse time
Should more of pity raise than hate;
And noblest natures least of all
Insult the mighty in their fall.

Once he burst forth—-oh, who forgets
That fierce stupendous spring he took,
When plunging through his hunters' nets
Again the slumbering thrones he shook?
Earth scarce is breathing from the shock;
And dare they now thy name to mock!
A Lion to a woman's prayer
His fangs was tempted to resign:
Vainglory, like that treacherous Fair,
Seduced thee to surrender thine;
And thou art now for ever bow'd;
The toils must be the Lion's shroud.

DERWENT-STREAM.

O fair is Matlock's rocky hill;
And fair is Derwent's bowery side:
But Derwent-Stream is fairer still,
As slow it winds it's placid tide!

The Urchin there, in summer-days,
Delights the glowing limb to lave;
Or in his Boat exults to raise
The murmurs of the rippling wave.

Flush'd, giddy Boy! the stream of life
Is not so smooth as Derwent-Stream:
Thou soon shalt know it's stormy strife,
And mourn o'er childhood's happy dream.

But oh, in what assuasive flood,
What waters then of virtue meek,
Shall Passion cool it's boiling blood,
Or Woe refresh it's wither'd cheek?

SONG FOR A SEXAGENARIAN.

The cottage of Monksdale looks gay with its roses;
Esk-Castle looks proud with its ivy-crowned towers:
The Baron of Esk like his ivy was aged;
The Maiden of Monksdale was fresh as her flowers.

The Peer sought the cot for the sake of its Maiden:
The Maid for his castle the Noble revered;
She smiled when she gazed on the star at his bosom,
But sighed when she glanced at his brow and his beard.

He spoke of his wounds from a little blind Archer;
And vowed that unpitied he could not survive:
The gentle Nymph thought, while she tenderly listened,
She cared not how soon he was buried alive.

‘O, remember that fruit is maturest in autumn,
And that time mellows wine,’ said the eloquent Sage:
But when winter, thought she, sheds its snow on the temples,
Old wine, not young love, is the cordial of age.

‘Those towers and their master,’ said he, ‘I surrender
To Beauty's dominion, her smile my reward.’
But the Nymph, who was humble, would fain have consented
To take the old castle without the old Lord.

Yet o'ercome by his ardour, at last she accepted
The conjugal ring and the sceptre of rule;
And to hide the white hairs of her blooming Adorer
She graced his wise head with the Cap of a Fool.

DEATH TO DOCTOR QUACKERY.

HEALTH! and for ever! e'en the Grave
May well for Thee let Nature wave
The sternest of her laws:
And Death may wish immortal life
To One that plies the lance and knife
So boldly in his cause.

I pledge Thee in thine own good wine;
Nor Rhone nor Rhine, nor Douro's Vine
The juice inspiring gave,
But, thanks to thy empiric pains,
The rich, the ripe, the ruddy veins
Of Man, our dupe and slave.

At Thee thy Brother of the School,
Who learns to baffle me by rule,
The sapient shoulder shrugs:
Curse on the Pedant and his Art!
Would thou couldst bleed him at the heart,
Or gorge him with thy drugs.

Or would thou couldst for him distil
Some special drop: thy chemic skill
His learned pride might quell:
No crone that ever mutter'd charm,
Or groped the ditch for things of harm,
Could poison half so well.

E'en Nature's wholesome herbs and sweets
(So well brave Ignorance defeats
The general Mother's will)
To bane in thy Alembic turn,
And steam to mischiefs that will burn,
And venom that will kill.

I pledge thee to the goblet's brim,
For every victim's mangled limb,
For every fix'd disease,
For every wasted artery,
And every kind of bartery
Of bad advice for fees!

Hark! some one rattles at thy gate,
'Tis a sick Miser's Heir, whom Fate
Long hinders of his revel;
He'll lead thee to his kinsman's couch:
Farewell! I speed away to vouch
The tidings to the Devil.

The LAPWING, the OWL, and the NIGHTINGALE.

'TIS now the hour the Wanderer strays
Through covert paths, and woodland ways;
It is the starry-mantled hour,
When slumber lulls each choral bower;
Alone Minerva's wakeful Bird
From some sepulchral Yew is heard.

Wild Hermit! from his sylvan shroud,
He lifts his whooping voice aloud;
To every mute attesting star
He sends his shrill appeal afar,
Sounding like Traveller's cry affrighted,
In some waste solitude benighted.

And now, the startled Plover's wail
Arises on the plaintive gale.
Poor trembler, in her simple dread,
She hears the wily Fowler's tread;
And from her lowly dwelling springs,
To lure him far, on wheeling wings.

But hush, poor Bird, thy clamorous suit;
And Thou, whom day offends, be mute!
For hark, the vernal notes awake
From yonder lone neglected brake.
Dear musical Enthusiast, hail,
Unmatch'd, poetic Nightingale!

Sweet Bird, calumnious minstrels say
That thine is a complaining lay;
They say thy voice will only flow
Obedient to the call of woe.
O who could thus thy warblings wrong,
That ever heard the' ectstatic song!

No: 'tis pure joy's unmingled vein
That prompts that rich and vivid strain:
If sadness touch those breathings sweet,
It is because extremes will meet;
And thus thy rapture's last excess
Will melt in murmuring tenderness.

Fenc'd from the rude approach of men,
Thy haunt is in the deepest glen;
Thou yieldest all, afar from strife,
To calm and song thy little life:
Coy, tender Melodist divine,
A Poet's soul is surely thine.

STANZAS WRITTEN AT SUDELEY CASTLE.

[_]

Addressed to Sir E. B.

WHERE is thy glory, Sudeley? though thy wall
With stubborn strength the hand of Time defies,
The Sun looks down into thy roofless hall,
And through thy courts with splendor's mockery pries.
Where are thine ancient Lords? the Brave? the Wise?
Crumbled to dust in yonder Gothic Fane.
Where are their children's children? None replies.
Swept from their trunk in Chance's hurricane,
The branches wave no more on Cotswold's old domain.

Yet here the Sons of Chandos, in their day
Of greatness, ruled in no ungentle sort:
Here Want was succour'd; Sorrow here grew gay;
And Winchcombe's Castle was no Tyrant's Fort:
Here too the' imperial Dame with Barons girt,
She who could make the Crowns and Nations bow,
Relax'd, at Welcome's voice, her lion-port,
And soften'd into smiles her stately brow:
What wert thou then, famed Pile! ah, changed! What art thou now?

Sudeley Castle.

Now savage elders flourish in thy courts;
The thistle now thy lorn recesses haunts;
Perch'd on thy walls the wild geranium sports,
And the rude mallows, deck'd in purple, flaunts:
Behold, proud Castle, thine inhabitants!
See how their nodding heads the zephyr hail,
As if they mock'd thee with triumphant taunts,
As victory's banners to each passing gale
From some dismantled Fort relate their boastful tale.

Are they not emblems, these obtrusive flowers,
Thus choaking up the sculptured Leopard's trace
And the old Cross on Sudeley's honour'd towers,
Are they not emblems of the motly race
Upraised by Mammon from their humble place?
Those weeds that on the ruins of the Great
Arise in rank luxuriance, and deface
The genealogic types of reverend date,
And flirt new symbols forth, and wear a gaudy state.

Brydges, the proud tear in thy dark eye swells,
When History thy Forefathers' fame displays,
And hoar Tradition garrulously tells
Tales that their shades to the mind's vision raise,
Like forms shewn dimly through a twilight haze:
Fancy the while in her insidious strain,
Whispering sweet words, exaggerates the praise,
The power, and wealth, and chivalry, and train
Of thy baronial Sires—magnificently vain.

Then follows Memory's fancy-withering part:
She bends, as a fond Sister, o'er the Urn
Of Youth's dead Expectations, the sad Heart;
And calls up every woe that thou hast borne;
And murmurs till the bosom is o'erworn
And the plumed spirit of ambition droops.
Thus to regrets life's vernal projects turn;
Pain's poisonous fruit succeeds the flowery hopes
That bloom'd in Denton's vale, and Wotton's sylvan slopes.

Yet why repine?—no more the Lydian stream
Devolves in its old bed the golden tide:
Ancestrel dignities have ceased to beam
Upon the children of a house of pride:
And thou, 'tis true, hast been severely tried:
To the maternal legacy of care
Thy birthright by no brother was denied;
No smooth supplanter kindly claim'd thy share,
As hard Rebecca's Hope beguiled the Patriarch's heir,

Yet, why, too fondly querulous, repine?
Still many a pure delight thy journey cheers;
And, though a way with thorns perplex'd is thine,
Fresh flowers still greet thee in the vale of tears;
And Love walks with thee to the goal of years;
And thou hast treasures, as Cornelia's prized;
And even of worldly state enough appears,
And, if enough, the rest should be despised;
Peace visits not the heart where pride is unchastised.

Of briers the earth, of clouds the heaven to clear,
Hast thou not too the love of lore and song?
If Sudeley now the haughty head could rear
As when its battlements withstood the strong,
And frown'd upon Rebellion; if the throng
Of chivalry and beauty, as of yore,
Still danced its beryl-glittering halls along,
And thou wert lord of hill, and plain, and tower,
While all within was pomp, and all without was power;

Could all the specious pageantry convey
A genuine pleasure to the thoughtful mind,
Which one who loves like thee the Muse's lay,
Within the shades of quiet cannot find?
Ambition's pillars shake with every wind,
And, like these Ruins, soon or late, must fall;
But the green wreaths in Learning's bowers entwined
Will grace the tomb, as o'er yon Chapel-wall
The clustering ivy spreads its rich enduring pall.

THE DIAL.

Time strikes his bell in Grandeur's halls,
To warn the Proud of fate:
Preaching from hallowed towers and walls,
In Mammon's marble ear he calls,
And mocks Ambition's state.

He warns the deaf: they feel the Sun,
And, basking in his ray,
Forget how soon his course is run,
How soon the longest day is done,
The brightest summer day.

Yon Shepherd, whom the city's chime
Scarce reaches 'ere it dies,
Far better notes that voice of Time;
And marks the solar flight sublime
With more regardful eyes.

The village Dialist is He;
Well skill'd the hours to scan;
The Sun, propitious to his plea,
Smiles on his work, and bids it be
A Monitor to Man.

Ye Vain! 'ere night's cold dews benumb
Those limbs, unused to trial,
Before your hour of audit come,
When Death your debts to Time shall sum,
Consult the Shepherd's Dial.

MYRA.

UNBLEST is Woman, when she roves
In Love's unconsecrated groves.
Gay though they look at distance view'd,
There hatches Shame her owlet-brood;
And there from every treacherous copse
Some croaking Sorrow mocks her hopes.

Phantoms of Fear about her glide;
Remorse is ever at her side;
Guilt glitters in her conscious eyes,
And lures the light from cloudy skies,
The baleful light that rides the wind
When storm and thunder shake the mind.

Fair Dreamers of Arcadian dreams!
To you the verse a fable seems.
Will Myra's lot as vainly speak?
Her alter'd eye and faded cheek
Like Your's were Love and Beauty's pride
Before those fatal bowers she tried.

SONG.

[FROM the wing of young Love, as on roses he slumber'd]

FROM the wing of young Love, as on roses he slumber'd,
A feather was cull'd by an amarous Bard,
Who had worn out his pen upon sonnets unnumber'd,
But labour'd in vain to win Beauty's regard.

So refined by that plume was the Poet's expression
That the Nymph of his heart half revoked her disdain,
And, when next he came near, the delightful concession
Of smiles like the morning rewarded his strain.

But the poor Son of Song, unaccustom'd to kindness,
Stood mutely bewilder'd, unable to move,
Till she left him, accusing the Muses of blindness,
That could let such a creature sing sweetly of love.

Stung with shame by the keen parting glance of the Scorner,
The coy Youth withdrew to the forest to weep,
When chance led his feet to a shady green corner
Where the Vine-God lay, fann'd by the Zephyr, asleep.

As a charm for his sadness (we know by examples
Of all climes and ages that Poets are thieves)
He pilfer'd the wreath from the little God's temples,
And bound his own brow with the mystical leaves.

And away from his brow flew at once sorrow's traces;
The bold flush of hope tinged his cheek of despair;
And, as if his freed lips had been kiss'd by the Graces,
Returning, he breath'd all his soul to the Fair;

Till her marble breast heaved like the life-waken'd Idol
Of the Sculptor of Cyprus, her model in shape;
And soon the Bard sung a gay song at his Bridal,
Call'd “Love's best Ally is the God of the Grape.”

THE CROSS IN IRELAND.

FAIR Land, when with her Cross, of yore,
Religion sought thy pagan shore,
Thy sons returned the Stranger's smile
With welcome to the Western Isle;
And listen'd to her truths divine;
And learn'd to love the Cross's Sign;
And, prompted by her voice revered,
Throughout the clime the symbol rear'd.

They raised it where the rivers glide;
And by the mountain torrent's side;
By lake and rock; by wood and wold;
And, near it, as in charmed mould,
Graves oft were form'd for honour'd bones;
Saints slept beneath those sculptured stones,
And drew the pious pilgrim's feet
To many a far and wild retreat.

Still where those old memorials stand
Heaven seems to sanctify the land:
The votary kneels upon the moss,
And prays beside the sacred Cross;
The peasant with regardful eye
And low inflection passes by;
The very children linger there,
And think they breathe a blessed air.

Fair Land, another Stranger came,
And said Religion was her name:
She came with proud dominion arm'd,
And some the fair Seducer charm'd;
But of thine offspring most were true
To Her by whom the Cross they knew;
Who first appear'd, with holy smile,
A Stranger in the generous Isle.

Though Power sustain'd the Rival's cause,
And fetter'd them with angry laws,
Age after age a yoke of pain
Bow'd down and gall'd their necks in vain.
Woe was their faith's confirming seal,
Till power grew weary of his zeal,
And threw a half relenting smile,
Half sullen, o'er the injured Isle.

Whether that smile shall yet be bright,
Or yet gleam on with jealous light,
Isle of the Cross! in weal or woe,
Thy Sons their steady truth will shew
To Her who first with grace divine
Taught them to love the Cross's Sign,
And plant it far, on rock and sod,
In honour of the Saviour-God.

MATRIMONY.

1

O WHY is thy brow, young Knight,
Defaced with the frowns of age?
And why are thy hands, young Knight,
Thus lock'd with the grasp of rage?
And why are thy tender sighs
Exchanged for indignant gloom?
And why do thy rolling eyes
The basilisk's glare assume?

2

Remember thy wooing days;
The damsel was then divine:
Remember thy winning ways,
That made such a goddess thine.
And art thou then changed so much,
By Hymen congeal'd so soon,
As shrink from the Lady's touch,
Almost in the Honey-moon!

3

AND THOU, gentle Lady fair,
Why droops the reproachful brow?
And why, gentle Lady fair,
So little like gentle now?
And why are those looks, so meek,
Now wrathfully cast askance?
And why in thine alter'd cheek
Do now all the Furies dance?

4

Forget not the days of love—
Or were they the days of guile?
Thine emblem was then the Dove—
Or was it but woman's wile?
Or art thou no more the same?
Is all the enchantment o'er?
Is love such an airy name,
And wedlock a yoke so sore?

5

Alas, 'tis unriddled now;
'Twas Folly that link'd your lot:
Her Cap is on either brow,
Conjoin'd in a gordian knot.

6

Thus pair'd in the hopeless yoke,
And gall'd with a ceaseless weight,
And lash'd with vexation's stroke,
Do fools become wise too late.

7

Then joy to thy shoulders, Knight!
And thine, gentle Lady fair!
There Folly has yoked ye tight;
And Wedlock will keep ye there!

SONG.

[BE merry, be merry in Clifton Halls!]

BE merry, be merry in Clifton Halls!
The moon in heaven is bright:
From the towers of the churches Midnight calls;
And the Gay are met within sparkling walls;
For the LORD OF DEATH gives a Dance to-night.

They're merry, they're merry! in painted bowers
They ply the frolic feet;
The Revellers' heads are bound with flowers,
And they wear a Cap of bewitching powers,
By Folly weaved in the loom of Fate.

Disease, and Languor, and Care, and Pain,
Obey the stirring charm;
The Colchian spell is at work again,
And Age trips down with the festive train,
Supporting Beauty with gallant arm.

But who is She that presides the while,
So like a Spirit fair?
She glides about with a fearful smile:
Her cheek is bright; yet the Serpent Guile
Seems lurking under the roses there.

Some word she whispers to all who trace
The labyrinth of Dance,
Which to Age's check gives a hectic grace,
And by Youth is heard with a flushing face,
And a sweetly wild but perturbed glance.

And the moment she sees the hectic blood
The deepening cheek suffuse,
To the LORD OF DEATH she directs a nod,
And receives a smile from the SKELETON-GOD,
Whose eye as a Lover's her step pursues.

‘Be merry, be merry in Clifton Halls,’
That WITCH CONSUMPTION cries!
But hark, from the turret the Grave-Bell calls,
The Feast is spread by the churchyard walls,
And away to banquet with DEATH she flies.

Address TO WISDOM.

O THOU, the Maid divine,
Whose awe-inspiring shrine
Thine own true Priests with trembling rites approach,
Receive a Suppliant's prayer,
Whose steps unhallowed dare
For once before thine altar to encroach.

Far from thy ways of truth,
Seduced by Love and Youth,
His devious feet through wanton paths have stray'd;
Yet, hence, reject not now
The weary wanderer's vow,
Nor spurn his sacrifice, transcendant Maid.

Permit that in thy fane,
To sooth thy just disdain;
With reverent zeal he fan the vestal fires;
Whereon his scorn may throw
Those subtle shafts and bow,
With which false Love awakes the vain Desires.

Then grant, for his resource
'Gainst future tempters, force
The unblunted lance of fortitude to wield;
Or, blue-eyed Virgin, lend
Thy succour, and extend
The sure protection of thy gorgon shield.

Yet never to his heart,
O Maid revered, impart
That awful armour's cold petrific charm:
Change, Goddess, all but this;
But spare pure feeling's bliss:
Turn not to stone a heart by nature warm.

FAREWELL TO LEE PRIORY.

Adieu, the pensive still retreat,
The woodland paths, the classic dome,
Where float the mental visions sweet,
And Fancy finds her genial home.

The Wanderer oft, where'er he roves,
Dear cherished scene, shall think on thee;
In Memory's glass review thy groves,
Thy green luxuriant pastures see.

For not to him a sunny glade
Nor yet a primrose-nook is strange,
Nor tufted knoll, nor secret shade,
Of all thy various ample range.

He knows where in the tangled brake
The goldfinch builds his little cell,
And where their nests the thrushes make,
And where the happy squirrels dwell.

And oft each coy secluded scene
With him the bashful Muse has sought;
Where, veil'd behind the leafy screen,
She best might breathe the thrilling thought.

But most within that circled room,
Where Bards, Historians, Sages live,
In all the fresh and deathless bloom
Their own immortal labours give—

Most in that magical recess,
Sweet Fancy holds poetic reign;
The hours so fleetly onward press,
They mock at the pursuit of pain.

And thence the eye may rest or range
On broken mounds, in brilliant weather,
Where light and shadow blend and change,
Like joy and grief in dance together.

'Tis wild, fair Lee, when winds awake
Among thy boughs with stern turmoil,
To see their stormy pinions shake
The stately elms that love thy soil.

'Tis gentle, at the sun's decline,
To watch the ruddy golden beam,
That flings it's broad and mellow line
Athwart thy smiling conscious stream.

'Tis softer yet to turn and mark
The moon behind yon wood arise,
Disparting, like a crystal bark,
The cloudy billows of the skies:

All lavish, as she slowly sails,
Of light that breaks like Ocean's spray,
And greets thy vaulted gates, and hails
Thy Gothic walls with flickering ray.

Fair walls, from yonder hill how oft
The stranger on his weary road
Turns, as he marks the spire aloft,
To thine embowered serene abode.

And sighing thinks perchance the while
'Twere bliss, absorbed in peace and prayer,
Life's simple tenor to beguile,
An unmolested hermit there.

Far be from me such dreary bliss!
The pulse of social joy congeal'd,
O who, sweet Lee, would change for this
The charm that Love and Friendship yield.

Alas, regret will still attend—
For when was pleasure unalloyed?
While Pity mourns the youthful friend,
The Mother's second hope destroyed.

Yet not for this less dear to view
Thy woods, and spire, and turrets rise;
O not because pale Memory's dew
Will sometimes dim Affection's eyes.

Ah, rather, for this tender woe,
That here he left his latest trace,
Should Memory round thy precincts throw
A holy charm, a soothing grace.

Adieu, fair Lee, a gem of thine
I bear away as now we part,
And it shall have as safe a shrine
As is a true and tender heart.

A flower of thine I bear afar,
And thou art rich in fair young flowers;
Though none to me seems quite so fair,
So sweet as This, in all thy bowers.

I bear it from a fostering soil,
That suffered not it's bloom to perish;
And so on me may Fortune smile
As I the' entrusted treasure cherish.

Adieu! may Peace o'erwatch thy gates;
May Pleasure nestle on thy walls;
And the pure Star of radiant Fates
With cloudless lustre cheer thy halls.

The Valley of the Seven Churches.

When, passing greener vallies by,
Saint Keivin chose his last retreat,
Vale of the Monk, no vulgar eye
Found Glendaloch Religion's Seat.

For there the stern Enthusiast saw
The frowning wilderness he sought,
Hills that chastised the soul with awe,
Shades pregnant with celestial thought.

Hearts from the world he thither drew;
And temples in the desart rose;
And, as on Gideon's fleece the dew,
Sunk on those hearts that blest repose.

Dim, lonely, melancholy vale,
How oft has tolled the Beadsman's knell,
Deepening thy mountains' hollow gale
And sullen waters heavy swell!

Even yet, amidst thy mellow gloom
Death, the presiding Genius, reigns;
He sits on Kingly Thuhal's tomb,
Or stalks among thy shattered fanes.

More charm to nurse vain dreams of bliss
Though sweet Ovoca's banks supply,
Earth has no fitter space than this
For Sage to muse, or Saint to die.

Ah what should gayer bowers avail?
Young dreamer, turn to Keivin's rock;
'Twere sweet to live in Avondale,
But good to die in Glendaloch!

SAINT REIVIN'S BED.

Tis said there is a blessed charm
For those who here devoutly crouch,
Pilgrims for this forget alarm
And crawl to Keivin's stony couch.

If memory of his mind divine
Here waken sin's repentant sighs,
It is indeed a holy shrine
Wherein a precious relique lies.

THE WATERFALL IN GLENDALOCH.

See the vain stream whose headlong course
Has plunged down yonder gulf in foam.
How limpid was its peaceful source!
How dark will be its troubled home!

Thus in Remorse's drear abyss
Young hearts by passion hurried fall,
Where troubled waters foam and hiss
And gloom and horror darken all.

SONNET III.

Her form was like a Grace of Parian marble;
Her step was stately like the walk of Dian;
Her song excelled the Thracian nightbird's warble;
She woke the lyre's enchantment like Amphion,
Or him whose music tamed the pard and lion;
Her eye was bright as the divinest star
That sparkles on the sword of stern Orion,
But like Aurora's when her summer car
Bore that beloved one to the floating isle,
It lit with orient warmth her conscious smile.
Should she not have some crystal dome in air,
Where earth might worship her, yet not defile?
Beauty! behold the palace of the Fair—
She feasts the worms in you sepulchral pile.

TO A LADY

Where the wild-daisy springs, there all fresh from his flight
And all blithe as he sings, will the glad Lark alight;
Where the starry tuft blossoming hides his young nest,
There his softly-descending wing loves the buds best.

Where afar in the thorny vale sweet-briers swell,
There the Nightingale chaunts his full roundelay well;
'Tis to sooth his love's vernal choice, hush'd in repose,
That he pours forth his mellow voice from the wild-rose.

As that wild-daisy lovely art Thou, my young Bride,
Thou art sweet as this wild-rose all new in its pride!
Thou art That without speck; thou art This without thorn;
And thy bosom is pure as their dew in the morn!

Not so dear is his nest to the Lark from on high,
Nor the glance of his mate to the Nightingale's eye,
As thy smile is to me through the cloud of my cares;
And the song sung to thee should be sweeter than their's!

Though the skill is denied to tune melody's string,
Thus the will, my young Bride, to thy beauty would sing;
Because my soul's pleasure is all where thou art;
For wherever the treasure is there is the heart.

MAY-DAY. A SONG.

Where's a green sunny isle on the depths of Lough-Mask,
Where the sand-snipes all joy on the pebbled shore bask;
Where from rocks sing the Whitethroats enchantingly sweet,
To appease the chafed billows that fret at their feet.

There are shades in that isle to veil lovers' kind glances;
There's a green in the midst for each light foot that dances:
Thither then let the oars dash the shallop along;
For we'll there give the morning to dance and to song.

Let the mountains send down their fair damsels to-day;
Let the boats fraught with music too follow away:
We'll debark on that isle with the mountains' fair daughters;
But the music shall come stealing over the waters.

To the witch-time of twilight we'll dance and we'll sing,
Till the dew-slippered fairies come claiming the ring;
Then thy harp, my sweet Bride, shall their angry spell break,
And shall win Thee the love of those elfs of the lake.

There's an octagon temple on that sunny isle,
Where the wine in cold cups of rock-crystal shall smile;
There those fairies shall join in the feast of the gay,
And shall pledge Thee, my Bride, the young Queen of the May.

THE MUSE OF LOUGH-CORRIB.

When the stars shine out in the clear blue sky,
And the air is the breath of May,
O give me a Muse with a sweet mild eye,
And give her a harp to play.

Let us sit remote in a mountain scene,
On the shore of a lovely lake:
Let the moon look down on the small isles green,
And the waves that around them break.

Let the harp then tremble through all its strings,
With its tenderest fall and flow,
Let it breathe such a spell as a bright dream brings,
When the mind is subdued with woe.

O, be Thou the Muse, for thine eye is mild;
And thine be the harp, my Bride!
For the mountains here are sublimely wild,
And fair is Lough-Corrib's side.

'Tis a lovely lake with its hundred isles,
And thy harp has a tender tone;
And 'tis fit that Thou with thy harp and smiles
Be the Muse of these regions lone!

Lough-Corrib, a lake of great extent and beauty in the West of Ireland.

Epitaphial Lines

[_]

Supposed to be inscribed near the Royal Vault at Windsor, after the Interment of Princess Charlotte and her Infant.

“The people lifted up their voice and wept! and they called the name of that place, Weepers.” Judges, ii. 5.

If ever eye was dimm'd with pity's tear,
If ever bosom heaved with sorrow's moan,
Such eye should melt, such bosom sadden here,
Where royal stem and branch both, both, lie prone.

A mother, who a mother's joy ne'er knew,
A child, whose birth and death together met;
A sun, ere mid-day clouded from our view,
A star, that in its dawn of rising set.

And this—upon the closing of a day
When Mercy's arm, once shielding England's throne,
Preserv'd successors to the regal sway:
For two successions now a people groan.

Yes; every parent seems to mourn a child,
And every child a future monarch mourns:
Appalling is the blast that hath despoil'd,
And shrunk a nation's hope in twofold urns.

Oh! may it, like a thrilling bolt from heaven,
Pierce every heart with anguish for its sin;
That to the foolish, warning may be given,
And to the wise, more watchfulness within.

So may we all, with penitence to God,
With living faith in his redeeming Son,
Bend meekly low beneath the chastening rod,
And say—in all things, Lord, thy will be done!

For Thou art Wisdom,—therefore cannot err;
Art Goodness,—and inflict'st not willing pain:
Oh! grant our land no deadlier scourge incur,
By rendering even this—all, all in vain!

Nov. 20, 1817.

November 5.