Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh! poetry, sweet maid, who only deigns
To smile upon the good, the innocent;
To thee I fain would sing, to thee who oft
Hast scattered roses o'er the rigid face
Of youthful woe, for youth has still its griefs,
And separation from the mother dear,
Who oft has watched us in the hour of sleep,
Will wet with sorrow's tear the cheek of youth,
And teach his glowing bosom to repine.
Oh! Ross, to thee I now address my song;
To thee, companion of my earliest lays,
My earliest efforts to awake the lyre.
And though no glowing numbers here are found,
The heart that dictates to my artless pen
Is not less warm, less capable of friendship;
And though my humble muse cannot presume
To claim a sapling from Apollo's wreath,
Yet, as the music of the tuneful choir
May tempt the sparrow to pour forth his lay,
And imitate the warblings of the thrush,
So I, enchanted with the lofty lays
Of abler poets, may attempt to touch
The humble lyre of a rustic muse,
And pour to thee my artless melody.
Perhaps in future hours, when opprest
With all the cares and crosses of the world,
Sweet memory will recal the blissful days
I spent with thee, and with the pensive muse.

MONODY.

Again, again, oh! let me hear you speak,
Call me, embrace me, look on me again;
My hand is on your forehead, it shall seek
To give relief and mitigate your pain;
And yours will soon press mine, 'tis only weak.
Hope cannot be quite lost—life must remain.
I see his bosom heave; I hear his breath—
'Tis sleep, 'tis stupor, anything but Death!

It is not Death, though motionless he be,
That may of ease and slumber be a token;
No friendly glance now beams from those dim eyes,
By those pale lips no feeble words are spoken;
Far better were complaints and painful sighs,
Than silence, silence never to be broken.
Yet still he sleeps—we may in time restore—
No—no—his sleep is Death, he wakes no more!

My task is over, and I'll not repine,
Since all his tedious pangs are at an end;
Beside his bed I shall no more recline,
To all his whisper'd wants no more attend;
I ne'er shall see his moist eyes fixed on mine,
In silent recognition of his friend;
I never more shall cool his fever'd brow,
Or bathe his cheeks—all, all is over now!

He loved me like a brother, and I felt
That I should watch him with a brother's care;
His chamber was my own, I fondly dwelt
Ever beside him, comforting him there.
He sought my aid in all things, and I knelt,
Morning and evening, joining him in prayer:
Whilst tremulous and weak my voice was heard,
He breathed with firm distinctness every word.

He had no cause to tremble, for his mind
(If man's can ever be so) was prepared.
In health and strength affectionate and kind,
All must have loved him; and in death he dared
Look up with faith and hope, and was resigned
To his Creator's will. He hath been spared
The ills of a bad world; but we have lost
One most beloved—'tis we who suffer most.

When last we parted, his young heart was sad;
But we were full of hope, that future days
Would bring a happy meeting; and we had
Delightful plans, projecting many ways
Of being blest together; he was glad
To press my hand, and he would often raise
Schemes of unbounded pleasure, shared with me:
This might have been—but this can never be!

We thought of happy meetings, and we met,
But never to be happy; grief and pain
Had changed his cheerful face; my eyes were wet
With tears I laboured to conceal in vain.
I feel his feeble arms embrace me yet,
Whilst mine were thrown around him, and again
I hear him whisper, in a gentle tone,
“My dear, dear friend, I never had but one.”

I took a last sad look, and turned away,
Leaving him in his grave. I used to share
His innocent pursuits; and all the day
Was happy by his side; yet he lies there
Unconscious of the heavy griefs that prey
Upon my wounded heart. My fervent prayer
He hears not, “that the joys we hope above
May be a state of bliss with those we love.”

Ah! yes, we never, never could sustain
The loss of those we value here below,
Had we not Faith, that we shall meet again
In a far better world;—it must be so.
'Tis this that soothes the sick man in his pain;
'Tis this alleviates the mourner's woe;
And this shall be my comfort; though we sever,
I felt—I feel—it cannot be for ever.

And time that changes all things may subdue
My present depth of anguish; I may rove
With those who soothe my sorrow, and renew
The smiles of former days, but I shall love
In solitary hours to think of you,
And sigh for past delights. We soon remove
The mourner's sable garb; but none can know
How long in secret lurks the mourner's woe.

MOURNFUL RECOLLECTIONS.

Oh, Time! I ask thee not to steal away
My present grief—I wish not to be gay;
Forgetfulness alone can cure regret,
And whilst I live, I never can forget.

Yes, tears will flow, philosophy in vain
May strive to teach forgetfulness of pain;
We hear the cold advice which strangers give,
Mere words—which all bestow—and none receive.

We listen while they speak,—when they are gone
The heart still aches, and tears will still flow on.
Each book, each plant, each trifle, we behold,
Is hallowed by the touch of hands now cold.

Yet leave these relics—seek in change of scene
A potent spell to make your griefs less keen.
Quit all your lost friend valued, and remove
Each trifle that reminds you of his love.
Roam o'er the world, new friends, new joys, to find,
Laugh and be gay—but first leave thought behind.

If change avails not, seek employment then,
Your books, your walks, your pencil, or your pen:
You read—and seek the volumes of his choice—
Where is that one who listened to your voice?
You walk—but whilst you view each lovely scene
Where is the arm on which you used to lean?
You draw—but still those scenes your choice must be,
Which e'en in darkness you distinctly see.
You write—but now the subject of your lay,
Is friendship lost, and pleasure pass'd away.

Some may pass on through life, and quickly find
New ties replacing those they leave behind:
One they called friend may sink into the tomb,
And only cause a momentary gloom;
Awhile they miss in every gay pursuit
The voice once lively, now for ever mute;
Or in the scenes where they have often met,
They deign to breathe a word of cold regret;
But soon their transient, heartless sorrow ends,
They seek for other joys with other friends.

It is an easy task, for hearts at rest,
To talk of brighter days to the distressed;
To shew us joys the future may reveal,
And speak of that composure which they feel.
They may remind us, tears and sighs are vain—
Alas! can hopelessness diminish pain?

They say, when God afflicts us, it is fit
That men should suffer meekly, and submit.
Yes, we submit, and place our trust alone
In one last hope—to go where they are gone.
We know his dispensations must be borne,
We bow to his behest,—yet still we mourn.
Religion teaches us to hope for bliss—
But in another region—not in this.

When I at last beheld his coffin thrust
Into its narrow dwelling—dust to dust,
When motionless I stood upon the brink
Of his cold grave and wept, I could not think
That the mind's purity would pass away,
And, like the body, totally decay:
No—that pure spirit which was wont to shed
A charm o'er all he did, and all he said;
That excellence which made him dear to me,
Was formed for life and immortality.
The mortal part may seek its loathsome prison,
The soul—the part of him we loved, is risen,
Gone—where the pure in heart again shall meet;
Ah, yes!—our prospect would be incomplete,
Did we not hope to share the perfect bliss
Of that bright world, with friends so dear in this,
And recognize those forms in realms above,
Who claimed on earth our fondest, purest love.

[If any poet can express]

If any poet can express
Helena's worth and loveliness
To him I leave these spotless pages;
Were I to labour here for ages,
Language could ne'er convey my thought,
I could not praise her as I ought.

[Oh! think not, Helena, of leaving us yet]

Oh! think not, Helena, of leaving us yet,
Though many fair damsels inhabit our Isle,
Alas! there are none who can make us forget
The grace of thy form, and the charm of thy smile.

The toys of the French, if they hither are sent,
Are endeared by the payment of Custom House duties.
Ah! why do not duty and custom prevent
The rash exportation of pure British Beauties?

Say is there not one (midst the many who sighed
To solicit your favour) one favourite beau?
And have you to all, who popp'd questions, replied,
With that chilling, unkind monosyllable, no?

Your mansion with exquisite swains has been thronged,
With smiles they approach you, in tears they depart,
Indeed, it is said, that a man who belonged
To the Tenth, sighed in vain for a tithe of your heart.

And are you still happy? could no one be found,
Whose vows full of feeling could teach you to feel?
A girl so expert at inflicting a wound
Should surely be now and then willing to heal.

Then leave us not; shall a foreigner own
The form we have worshipped as if 'twere divine?
No, no, thou art worthy a Briton alone,
And where is the Briton who would not be thine?

The sordid will come to thee:—yield not to them,
Nor give up thy heart, though they earnestly ask it,
But say to them, “Gentlemen—is it the gem
That you wish to possess, or the dross of the casket?”

Their hearts are not rent, no, their wounds would be small
Were it not for your rents that they wish to possess.
They're very sincere, for undoubtedly all
Feel an interest for you they cannot express.

Yet, pretty Helena, you must not evade
All Lovers, disgusted by lovers of pelf;
Go look in thy mirror, and own thou wert made
To be loved with devotion, and loved for thyself.

[He is gone! the bright star of a nation is hurled]

He is gone! the bright star of a nation is hurled
From its proud elevation; its lustre is dim.
He is cold as the sod where he sleeps, and this world
With its scorn, or its laurels, is nothing to him.

And both have been his, in the dawn of his life
He has grasped, he hath gained the green garland of fame,
While slander hath struggled with pitiful strife
To point out his errors, and sully his name.

He hath tasted the cup of calamity too,
And its bitterness poisoned his earliest years;
In the withering gloom of his numbers we view,
The grief of a spirit too noble for tears.

He was rash, and his feelings too proudly disdained
One moment's subjection to reason's control;
As well might a wave of the ocean be chained
In its stormy career, as so daring a soul.

He hath felt, and the world loved to tear off the veil
From his agonized feelings, and laugh them to scorn:
It spoke of his follies, and what was the tale?
He had erred,—was an exile,—unhappy,—forlorn.

And oh! if indeed it be true, that a mind
So ennobled by genius, rejected belief
In that God, through whose infinite mercy mankind
Can alone find a solace in sickness or grief,

May that mind ere its last fatal moment have felt
All its error; and spurning mortality's chain,
May the sinner's first prayer have been heard while he knelt
At that throne, where a penitent pleads not in vain

Had he lived, he might yet have shone gloriously forth,
And those talents which oft have been lavishly given
To gild all the fleeting enjoyments of earth,
Might at length have devoted their brightness to Heaven.

[Go, little Ruby Heart! and live]

Go, little Ruby Heart! and live
As dear Helena's guest,
And tell her I would gladly give
The world to be as blest.

Say also she must not forget
(Since heartless I depart)
That she is deeply in my debt,
The item is—a heart.

And tell her too I shall be glad
To dun her when we meet;
And if she'll pay me, I will add,
My hand to the receipt.

[Dear Duchess]

Dear Duchess,
I hope that your grace will permit
Your servant in exile to scribble a bit:
Yet hope not to find an amusing detail
Of the joys of the country—pigs, poultry, and ale;
I fain would amuse you; but what can I do?
I'm dull, but remember I'm absent from you.
I walk in the fields with the cows and the sheep,
I struggle through ditches both dirty and deep;
I gaze on the prospect, the mountains of Wales,
The Severn besprinkled with snowy white sails;
The cottages, too, with pretty spring flowers,
And Thornbury Castle with turreted towers;
But where is Rosetta, the Queen of the May?
With form so bewitching, with spirits so gay,
And with eyes in whose gentle expression we find
The beauty that beams from a beautiful mind.

Ah! where is Rosetta? in pleasure's gay path,
She roves in the Crescent, the idol of Bath;
While I look on donkies, or curly-tailed pigs,
She gazes on lovers who rumble in gigs,
Or those who on foot approach enviably near,
And breathe the soft language of love in her ear.
And does she forget me? Fly, Ruby Heart, fly!
And say, if she smiles upon others—I die:
Bid her seek the back drawing-room, there she will see
The Beacon that ought to remind her of me.

Go, show her the roses I gave her, as yet
They cannot be withered, and can she forget?
Go teach her white fingers to touch my guitar,
And tell her to think that its cadences are
The voices of sweet little seraphs who say,
Forget not poor Felix who sighs far away.

[Oh may'st thou be happy, my early young friend]

Oh may'st thou be happy, my early young friend,
As happy as man in this world can be;
May smiles like thine own thy steps attend,
May hearts like thine own still welcome thee!

I never have met on this chilling earth,
So merry, so kind, so frank a youth!
In moments of pleasure, a smile all mirth;
In moments of sorrow, a heart all truth.

I've heard thee praised, I've seen thee led
By fashion along her gay career;
While beautiful lips have often shed
Their flattering poison in thine ear.

And oh! I have said, he must be changed,
He cannot withstand this constant praise;
He must be spoilt, and his heart estranged
From the friends he loved in his boyish days.

But no! when we met, I found thee still
From vanity's vile contagion free;
With manners that asked and gave good will,
And pleased by their pure simplicity.

Farewell, my friend! may thy youthful bride,
As perfect in mind as in person prove;
And in years to come, may'st thou look with pride
On the being whose charms have won thy love.

Yes—may'st thou be happy, my early friend,
As happy as man in this world can be;
May smiles like thine own, thy steps attend,
May hearts like thine own still welcome thee.

[Cling to the Cross, thou lone one]

Cling to the Cross, thou lone one,
For a solace in thy grief;
Let faith believe its promise,
There is joy in that belief.

Oh lie not down, poor mourner,
On the cold earth in despair;
Why give the grave thy homage?
Does the spirit moulder there?

The unbeliever trusts not
The atonement of the Cross:
Say, where shall he find comfort,
In the gloom of such a loss?

Can He cheer his house of mourning,
With the madden'd cry of mirth?
No! he throws himself despairing
On his all, a clod of earth.

Cling to the Cross, thou lone one,
For it hath power to save.
If the Christian's hope forsake thee,
There's no hope beyond the grave.

TO MRS. AMES.

Her ball is fixed for Friday—
My angel wife exclaims;
May I believe the tidings?
Oh thank you, Mrs. Ames.

She has sent out her servant,
(I can't remember names)
Oh what do you call the fellow?
Your own man, Mrs. Ames.

John, Thomas, William, Robert,
Jehosophat, or James,
No matter—she has sent him
With cards from Mrs. Ames.

And he'll ride round the country
(Unless his nag he lames),
Inviting all the neighbourhood
To wait on Mrs. Ames.

I trust your cold is better.
Oh! vain were sportive games,
Unless you can enjoy them;
Then sneeze not, Mrs. Ames.

Take Ipecacuhana,
Or powders made by James
Take tea, and toast-and-butter
Take comfort, Mrs. Ames.

Shake off your influenza,
Most beautiful of dames;
For Gunter's man is coming.
Behold him, Mrs. Ames.

For needful preparations
The dining-room he claims;
We'll bivouac above stairs;
That's cosey, Mrs. Ames!

But I must tie my neckcloth;
I hear the people's names,
Announced by Payn, the butler,
Oh! Presto, Mrs. Ames.

[I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!]

I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!
I've bent beneath sorrow's cold pressure too long.
I've suffered in silence; how vainly I sought
For words to unburthen the anguish of thought;
Despair haunts the silent endurance of wrong
I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!

I welcome thee back as the Dove to the Ark:
The world was a desert, the future all dark;
But I know that the worst of the storm must be past,
Thou art come with the green leaf of comfort at last.
Around me thy radiant imagining throng,
I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!

I feared thee, sweet Spirit! I thought thou would'st come
With memory's records of boyhood and home;
The home where I laughed away youth, and was told
It would still be my dwelling place when I grew old;
But visions of hope to thy coming belong,
I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!

Thou wilt not, sweet Spirit! thou wilt not, I know,
Mislead to the fruitless indulgence of woe,
That shrinks from the smile that would offer relief,
And seems to be proud of pre-eminent grief—
Thou'lt soothe the depression already too strong:
I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!

There's a chord that I never must venture to wake,
The sorrow a loved one hath borne for my sake;
But her love, which no change in my fortunes could chill,
Her smile of affection that follows me still,
Oh! these are the themes I may proudly prolong,
I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!

I welcome thee back, and again I look forth
With my wonted delight on the blessings of earth;

Again I can smile with the gay and the young;
The lamp is relighted, the harp is restrung.
Despair haunts the silent endurance of wrong,
I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!

[Oh! hadst thou never shared my fate]

Oh! hadst thou never shared my fate,
More dark that fate would prove,
My heart were truly desolate,
Without thy soothing love.

But thou hast suffer'd for my sake,
Whilst this relief I found
Like fearless lips that strive to take
The poison from a wound!

My fond affection thou hast seen,
Then judge of my regret,
To think more happy thou hadst been,
If we had never met.

And has that thought been shar'd by thee!
Ah no, that smiling cheek
Proves more unchanging love for me
Than labour'd words could speak.

But there are true hearts which the sight
Of sorrow summons forth;
Though known in days of past delight,
We knew not half their worth.

How unlike some, who have profess'd,
So much in friendship's name;
Yet calmly pause to think how best
They may evade her claim.

But ah! from them to thee I turn;
They'd make me loathe mankind.
Far better lessons I may learn
From thy more holy mind.

The love that gives a charm to home,
I feel they cannot take.
We'll pray for happier years to come,
For one another's sake.

[Old Boat! I wish a lot were mine]

Old Boat! I wish a lot were mine,
In youth and age resembling thine:
When young and strong, like thee to glide
Over a calm and sunny tide.
For innocent enjoyment fram'd,
Pleasure nam'd with me, when I'm nam'd.
A cheerful aspect still I'd wear,
Sought by the youthful and the fair;
And offering to every guest,
A shelter and a place of rest.

['Twas in a happy summer hour]

'Twas in a happy summer hour,
I watched the building of the bower.
No mansion raised for vain display,
Nor one where labour works his way,
But formed to be the home of pleasure,
Where Virtue spends her blameless leisure.

Farewell, dear friends, oft may we meet
Hereafter in this calm retreat;
May every year add something bright
To your pure portion of delight.
Ah! may you in your daughters find
The mother's form, the mother's mind.
Look on your sons, and proudly see
Their father's high integrity.
And blest with this delightful thought
By us, their virtues have been taught.

Farewell! henceforth each dweller here
Shall to my heart be very dear,
Remembering whene'er I roam,
Cintra has been to me a home.

[May the young Queen be happy, and calm her renown]

I

May the young Queen be happy, and calm her renown,
While the sword in the scabbard reposes;
On the forehead of youth may the sovereign crown
Press no more than a chaplet of roses.
May the Arts, as they did in Elizabeth's reign,
Shed around intellectual glory;
And Victoria's annals be free from the stain
Of the errors that darkened her story.
May the young Queen be happy, unsullied her court,
And the love of her people her pride and support!

II

May the young Queen be happy! should peace pass away
Not a heart in her kingdom would falter;
Her voice would call forth a triumphant array,
In defence of the throne and the altar.
But laurels enough ready gathered we find;
And no spark of right feeling he loses,
Who prays that the olive may now be entwin'd
With the evergreen wreath of the Muses.
May the young Queen be happy, unsullied her court,
And the love of her people her pride and support!