Poems and other Pieces :: :: University of Virginia Library

An INVOCATION to MELANCHOLY.

A FRAGMENT.

“I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud; nor the soldier's, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's which is politick; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these: but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples extracted from many objects, and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my travels, on which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.”
—As you like it.—Shak.

Goddess of downcast eye, upon whose brow
Misfortune's hand seems dimly to have drawn
Her tints of pining hue, to thee belong
The visionary tribes of busy thought
That croud in nameless shapes the mental eye;
Ah! teach me, gentle maid, with hermit step,

Thy haunts to find, and ever at thy shrine,
By fairy hands with mournful cypress hung,
To bend unseen an humble votary.

Lost in sweet silent thought at eventide,
Thou wakeful lov'st to sit by river dank,
In shade of glen remote, or bosom'd bower,
And ponder pleasures past with fond regret,
Like wither'd flowers that once indeed were sweet,
'Till rous'd by softest voice of village maid,
In russet weeds bedight, with dainty hand,
Who turns the snow-white wool on simple wheel,
Cheating slow time with rustic madrigal:
Thou meet'st the faintest sunbeam of the East
That gilds the heath-thyme and the broomleaf wild;
Ere shepherd's boy has left his lowly cot,
And heard the woodland cuckow's mattin voice;
Ere Dian's nymphs, who, clad in April green,
Face the keen gale on Cynthus' beetling brow,
Have dash'd the sparkling dew with buskin'd feet,
Or shook with mellow horn the distant dale.

When bleak December chills with icy hand
The drooping features of the lingering year,
And warns the wilder'd wanderer of home,
I meet thee listening to the hollow blast,
With musing ear, what time by winter's fire
The social family of boon content
Their evening group with smiling faces form.

Yours is the hopeless youth whom luckless love
Has crown'd unseemly with a willow wreath,
In sad requital for his vows sincere;
His last fond sigh is yours, his longing look,
When lost for aye he quits his own heart's love,
And views her parting step and waving hand.
Lead him, indulgent Power! to tangled glade
That mellow gleams beneath mild evening's star;
Or tall green forest hush'd in deep repose,
With hamlets thin besprent, and ruins grey,
That know no footstep save the traveller's;
Where Taliessin in fam'd days long past,
And many a bard whose tuneful hand is cold,
Call'd forth their fabling numbers, and awoke
The lion souls of Cambria's warlike sons;
Near Teivi's haunted stream, or Menai's flood,
Whose banks with wild embroidery Nature fring'd,
And left her shaggy outline, that disdains
The tawdry finish of the harlot art.
Here lap his soul in bland forgetfulness,
Teach him in peace to wear the heavy hour,
And on the dimple of his faded cheek,
From whence the rose has long a truant been,
A few kind tears for pity's sake let fall.
As on he thunders 'midst a shrinking world
With threatning gait and blood-stain'd sword in hand,
With tacit sigh, as sacred as the tears,
That Angels shed when envious Satan fell,
Thou view'st Ambition for a brittle crown

Cut his fell passage through the hearts of kings;
His little day in clouds for ever set,
At last unknell'd Oblivion's prey he falls,
Left to the naked blast, and e'en deny'd,
The cheap and nauseous breath of rabble vile;
No lay unletter'd marks the spot remote
Where his poor ashes with the common herd
Of clay-cold mortals find their last abode;
No face of friend, in decent sorrow sunk,
His name remembers or his turf protects.
If such the rugged path that leads to fame,
Each splendid hope and nobler aim forgot,
Oh God! I'd rather be a looby peasant,
Eat my brown bread and fatten in the sun
On bench by highway side, or cottage door,
Than wait th' insulting nod of abject power,
Than dog and fawn with base humility,
To catch her pamper'd ear and Proteus smile.

With thee o'er many a scatterd wreck of fate,
Much may I love to cast a pensive eye;
The Castle's shatter'd front of rough aspect,
High on the naked hill like faulcon perch'd;
The moated hall in lap of lonely dell,
From 'midst embrowning trees obscurely seen;
Oft may I mark with you, with you exclaim,
“In days of yore with old magnificence
“Here dwelt the baron bold or gallant knight;
“Here in this hall their massy armour hung;

“Here, at the gorgeous tilt or tournament,
“Oft would the bards awake th' enlivening string
“Of airy harps to deeds of chivalry;
“Struck by the magic of whose minstrel chime,
“The sun-burnt ploughman as he hied him home,
“Would oft uplift his brow in mute amaze,
“And catch with ravish'd ear the far-off sound:
“Here oft the rafter'd roofs full blithly sung
“With tunes of Chevy Chace and Hardiknute;
“Nor wanting were there, to inspire the dance,
“Kind blue-ey'd maids full fair and peerless deem'd,
“Who lent their tempting looks and softest smiles.”

Ah! let me rove with thee at dusky eve
That desolated pile of Gothic mould,
Where the lone lapse of yon sequester'd stream,
Winding its wave neglected near the spot,
With the wild music of its murmuring,
Suits the sad genius of the sacred place;
Where Superstition o'er the paly lamp
Long with sunk eye her midnight vespers sung;
Give me to stand aghast, as by the Moon,
Her supplicating martyr'd form half seen,
Bent on the fragment of a broken cross,
I view, while darkling pours Nyctimene
Her deathlike watch-song in the ear of Night;
Or from the lengthening aile, or fretted roof,
Brushes with sailing wing the stagnant dew:
Here Time who daily, in his viewless flight,

Still wider throws oblivion's deep'ning shade,
Now on the mouldering tomb in grim state sits,
And laughs at all the baseless hopes of man.

Child of the potent spell and nimble eye,
Young Fancy, oft in rainbow vest array'd,
Points to new scenes that in succession pass
Across the wond'rous mirror that she bears,
And bids thy unsated soul and wandering eye
A wider range o'er all her prospects take:
Lo, at her call, New-Zealand's wastes arise!
Casting their shadows far along the main,
Whose brows cloud-cap'd in joyless majesty,
No human foot hath trod since time began;
Here death-like silence ever-brooding dwells,
Save when the watching sailor startled hears,
Far from his native land at darksome night,
The shrill-ton'd petrel, or the penguin's voice,
That skim their trackless flight on lonely wing,
Through the bleak regions of a nameless main:
Here danger stalks and drinks with glutted ear
The wearied sailor's moan, and fruitless sigh,
Who, as he slowly cuts his daring way,
Affrighted drops his axe, and stops awhile,
To hear the jarring echoes lengthen'd din,
That fling from pathless cliffs their sullen sound:
Oft here the fiend his grisly visage shews,
His limbs of giant form in vesture clad
Of drear collected ice and stiffened snow,
The same he wore a thousand years ago,
That thwarts the sun-beam and endures the day.

'Tis thus, by Fancy shewn, thou kenn'st entranc'd
Lone tangled woods, and ever stagnant lakes,
That know no zephyr pure or temperate gale,
By baleful Tigris banks, where, oft they say,
As late in sullen march for prey he prowls,
The tawny lion sees his shadow'd form,
At silent midnight by the moon's pale gleam,
On the broad surface of the dark deep wave;
Here parch'd at midday oft the passenger
Invokes with lingering hope the tardy breeze,
And oft with silent anguish thinks in vain
On Europe's milder air and silver Springs.

Thou unappall'd canst view astouding fear
With ghastly visions wild, and train unblest
Of ashy fiends, at dead of murky night,
Who catch the fleeting soul, and slowly pace
With visage dimly seen and beckoning hand,
Of shadowy forms that ever on the wing
Flit by the tedious couch of wan despair,
Methinks I hear him with impatient tongue,
The lagging minutes chide, whilst sad he sits
And notes their secret lapse with shaking head,
See, see, with tearless glance they mark his fall
And close his beamless eye, who trembling meets,
A late repentance, and an early grave.

With thine and elsin fancy's dreams well pleas'd,
Safe in the lowly vale of letter'd ease,

From all the dull buffoonery of life,
Thy sacred influence grateful may I own,
Nor 'till old age shall lead me to my tomb
Quit thee and all thy charms with many a tear.

On Omole or cold Soracte's top,
Singing defiance to the threatning storm,
Thus the lone bird in winter's rudest hour
Hid in some cavern shrouds its ruffled plumes,
And through the long, long night, regardless hears
The wild wind's keenest blast and dashing rain.

TO CYNTHIA,

A FRAGMENT.

Fair are thy cold chaste beams, thy virgin face,
Of mild etherial hue and sweet aspect,
How many know thee not, nor aught regard
Thy tints delicious that are wont appear
On evening's shadowy mantle moist and grey!
What though, dear Maid, thou bear'st a borrow'd beam,
The sickly sister of the gaudy Sun,
How have I gazed thy beauties! when alone
At close of day, pacing in mournful mood
The yellow margin of the steril main,
Shagg'd with the sleet-worn summit of the cliff,
'Till oft emparadised, I deem'd the scene
Some looser cozenage of vagrant fancy,
Or fairy phantasm, that delusive thought,
Forms from the remnant of a passing dream.
Ah! who but you bears witness to the vows
That faultering speak of unrequited love?
To Whom but thee does Poesy unfold
The honey'd numbers of her bashful lay?
This mortal coil shook off, the Poet's eye,
Dimm'd with the dazzling radiance of the sun,
Full fondly flies to thee, and far retired,
With inspiration by thy silver light,

Surveys the changeful features of the world,
Flitting around the throng'd ideas wait,
Like charmed spirits obedient to his call,
To each its place he gives, whilst at his beck
Sudden the shade imperfect starts to life
And meets in form confest its Maker's eye.—

TO PHILOMEL,

A FRAGMENT.

No noise I heard, but all was still as death,
Save that at times a distant dying note
Of spirit unseen, or Heaven's minstrelsy,
Would indistinctly meet my ravish'd ear,
Such as was never heard from harp or lute,
Or waked into a voice by human hand.
Ah, Philomel, the strain was thine!—

Verses written on a Winter's Night.

Who heeds it when the lightning's forked gleam
The rifted towers of old Cilgarran strikes?
Keen from the piercing East, or when the blast
In deathful speed at midnight howls along
The drifted desart, or the frozen main,
Or to the earth on Mona's chasmy side

Bends the broad knotted oak—yet sad it is
To think that at this very hour, perhaps,
The self—same blast, with angry visiting
May play the russian with a vermil cheek,
Scatter at will the few and tatter'd weeds,
And dim with bitter tears the radiant eye,
Of some unnoticed daughter of Distress,
To think that she may want Compassion's sigh,
That in no single eye through the wide world,
Save mine alone, her gentle image lives.
Ye happier souls, whose winter days are none,
Who bask in sunshine of prosperity,
And feel no flint in all the paths of life,
How little know ye what affliction is!
To pine alone with sad disquietude,
To sojourn long and late with nakedness,
In torments new to watch the slow decline
Of each returning day without a hope,
And with dejection meet the merry morn;
To lose good hours, and hear with aching heart
The train of blushless Folly sweeping by,
Nor dare, though hunger knaws, to dog its heels,
Before old age comes on, and beckons death,
Wrinkles to meet, that Laughter never fills,
But mournful streams of unremitting tears;
And when the fiends of life their worst have done
To have the memory clean forgotten,
Ere the poor body rots and falls to dust.—

To the Memory of Miss Lucy S---n

[_]

A young Woman, who, being betrayed into much undeserved misfortune, was at last thrown upon the town; and, concluding her life at the age of two and twenty with Suicide, was inhumanly refused burial by the parish in which she died.

Hark, hark, methinks a calling voice I hear!
A voice I well remember once was dear,
“I gave you all ,” exclaims some shade unblest,
“The poor return I ask is only rest;
“From Heaven's delaying hand no vengance due,
“For what is done, I deprecate on you;
“Love's mis-led child in youth's gay morn I die,
“Ah! lend a little earth for charity!”
Tis she—grief-sunk, yet why that haggard eye,
Those tears, that phrensy'd step, and inward sigh,
Those clasping hands, with deepen'd anguish wrung,
And Angel-tress in wild disorder flung?
Full fondly had I hoped some luckier day,
However distant, still might lend its ray,
Thy winter-smitten hues again to rear,
Life's bitter storms but ill disposed to tear,
And bid thy tender frailties reassume
Fair Virtue's injur'd grace, and banish'd bloom,
That Peace, with joy-fledged wing, within thy breast
Might still find warm her long-forsaken nest:

Much have I wish'd to me that angry Heaven
And angel-like reclaiming power had given
For ever to have won thee from distress,
And lodged thee in the arms of Happiness,
Before the sated world had left its prey,
And flung thee like a faded flower away;
Vain wish how blind to fate!—'twas e'en deny'd,
At life's last hour to linger by thy side,
With kind concern to assist each sinking sense,
And lend fresh warmth to faltering penitence;
When dim with Death's eclipse thy speaking eye
In trembling hope held converse with the sky,
Or through th' eventful past seem'd sick to run,
And fain had found th' eventful tale undone.
Let Levite prudence with contented sneer
Reserve for meaner clay his abject tear,
Ah! may he long this luckless dust forego
And hoard for kindred minds his sordid woe;
Though thy pale bones beneath the common sky,
Cold as the heart he bears, forgotten lie,
Their martyr cause to other souls they trust,
And leave relentless Caution to be just:
Well pleas'd her tear-wet mantle to have laid
O'er thy sad wounds by fell misfortune made,
Pity shall ever place her best thoughts there,
And kiss the spot proscribed without a fear,
With vindicating voice shall damn to rest
Base Censure's fiend-like bark, and Scandal's Jest,
Telling weak man to him it ne'er was given,
To mark the bounds of mercy out to Heaven.—

See Shakespear's Lear.

THE BEGGAR's DOG.

Ye pamper'd favourites of base mankind,
Whether with riches poor, or learning blind,
From your distracted views oh pause awhile,
And hear a brother's tale without a smile;
And let contrition note how much is due
To all the generous cares I owe to you.
Whilst fatt'ning pomp secure in cumb'rous state
His scanty crumbs withheld, and barr'd his gate,
Nor sullen deign'd with scorn's averted eye
The cheaper tribute of a selfish sigh,
The neediest suppliant of sorrow's train
For bread I hungering saught, and saught in vain;
Each petty solace thus by you deny'd,
With sleepless watch Fidelio supplied,
When Winter wet with rain my trembling beard,
My falling tear he felt, my groan he heard,
When my grey locks at night the wild wind rent,
Like wither'd moss upon a monument,
What could he more, against the pitiless storm
He lent his little aid to keep me warm?
Even now as parting with his latest breath,
He feels the thrilling grasp of coming death,
With all that fond fidelity of face,
That marks the features of his honest race,
His half-uplifted eye in vain he moves,
And gasps to lick the helpless hand he loves—

VERSES sent to Mrs. H--- ---, at her Cottage.

Ye unendearing tribes of care and strife,
Who haunt the 'wildering paths of crouded life;
Ye dazling phantoms of delusive state;
Ah fly these limits lone, and seek the great.
Alas! your guilty forms but ill agree
With the soft features of Simplicity!
Here Harriett dwells—full studious to be blest
With the mild sunshine of a mind at rest,
From all the world this spot remote has chose
Well pleas'd to meet the mansion of repose;
And, as of scenes to which she has bade adieu,
With lingering glance she takes a backward view;
Oft sighs to find the gentler virtues dwell
Beneath the straw-built roof and mossy cell.
Spirits of bliss, whose ever-guardian care,
With wakeful watch unseen protects the fair;
Your happier thoughts of heavenly hue impart,
They'll find a kindred soil in Harriett's heart,
Of her warm soul refine each pure intent,
And touch the tender chords of sentiment,
Where feelingly alive those charms we trace
That Beauty first had promised in her face.

SONNET

To Miss Aikin (now Mrs. Barbauld), written in a blank leaf of Sir William Davenant's Gondibert.

The luckless leaf of this most dainty flower
That Time's inclement cloud from early day,
(Gathering with wizard stealth its silent power)
Would fain in wintry grave have hid for aye,
Much good befall thy care, kind maid! resumes
Its youthful pride and summer hues at last,
By thy soft hand attired again it blooms,
And sweet again shall smell uninjur'd by the past,
Far from the Muse's bay-enwoven bower,
Like a lone vulture at her mangled spoil.
May time o'er evil works for ever cower,
Nor know the limits of so sweet a soil,
Or e'en, when thou art dead, obscure thy tomb,
Fate has deny'd him touch thy laurel's living bloom.

A Parody on Gray's Elegy, written in a Country Church-yard, the Author leaving College.

Et dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos.
Virg.

The sullen Tom proclaims the parting day
In bullying tone congenial to his place,
The Christ Church misses homeward trip to pray
And High-street leave to solitude and space;

O'er the dim scene in stillness steals the night,
Save where the whistling 'prentice bars the shutter,
Or rapid mail-coach wheels its droning flight,
Or tinkling plates forebode th' approach of supper;

Save near yon tower, where now she sits and sighs,
Curses some miscreant Raph that Luckless Lass,
And as his sixpence by the Moon she tries
Shakes her despairing head and finds it brass.

Beneath those domes in Gothic grandeur grey
Where rears that spire its old fantastic crest,
Snug in their mouldy cells from day to day
Like bottled wasps the Sons of Science rest;

Th' unwelcome call of business-bringing morn,
The dull ox lowing from his neighbouring shed,
The tythe pig's clarion, or sow gelder's horn,
Ne'er 'wake these fatt'ning sleepers from their bed;

Their bile no smoking chimneys e'er provoke,
No busy breeding dame disturbs their nap,
Their double chins no squalling bantlings stroke,
Climbing their knees for rattles, or for pap;

Let not pert Folly mock their lecture's toil,
Their annual Gaudy's joys, and meetings mellow,
Nor Quin's ghost hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple commons of a Fellow;

The boast of cooks, the lordly venison,
The rich ragou, and liver-tickling jelly,
Down the red lane inevitably run
And at the best can only fill the belly.

Nor you, ye spinsters, these poor men abuse,
(Tis want of money rather than of wit)
If thus their backward threepence they refuse,
To your inviting charms and Billy Pitt ;

Can Madan's voice provoke the dull cold clay,
Or Price's system that implies a wife ,
Or aught the rosy goddess has to say,
When once a man is bent on single life?

Perhaps mid these unsocial yews is placed,
Some head once member of the “Chosen Few ,”
Hands that the dazzling diamond might have graced,
Or tipt with extasy the billet-doux;

But Fashion to their eyes her motley page
Rich with the rags of France would ne'er unroll;
Through this they lost “The Ton,” “the Thing,” “the Rage,”
And all the soft enamel of the soul.

Full many a bawdy pun and joke obscene,
Penn'd as he pass'd by some unlucky dog,
On the lone ale-house window lurk unseen,
Or waste their waggish sweetness in a bog.

Some birth-day Colonel, with undaunted breast,
May here do generals, or defy the proctor,
Some lee-shore Admiral here at calm may rest,
And mutely read wall lectures for a doctor.

To rule each cackling circle coxcomb smitten,
To cheat their tradesmen and despise their betters,
To spell their titles in the Red-Book written,
(Should fate have kindly taught them but their letters.)

Their lot forbids—nor circumscribes alone
Their decent virtues, but their crimes, you'll find,
Forbids with fawning face to dog the throne,
And 'whelm with war and taxes half mankind,

The surly pangs of stubborn truth to hide,
To hush the tumults of rebellious shame,
To feast the pamper'd taste of glutton Pride
With sweet sauce piping hot from Learning's flame.

Far from the turbid paths of madd'ning strife
Their fire-side wishes never learn to stray,
Along the turnpike road of even life,
They keep the jog-trot tenour of their way;

Yet even their bones from surgeons to protect,
Some friendly tablet in the chapel aile,
With sniv'ling cherubs, and fat angels deck'd,
Excites the casual tribute of a smile,

The name bedizon'd by the pedant Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supplies,
Who many an L.L.D.— and A.B.— strews,
That bid th' admiring Freshman read and rise.

For who at Hymen's block in youthful bloom,
His scholarship and freedom e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the common room,
Nor sighing cast one farewell wish behind?

To some dear friend by stealth remembrance flies,
A festive glass the drooping mind requires,
His far-off phiz keen Fancy's eye descries,
Even in his pipe still live the wonted fires;

For me who, mindful of the life I loved,
In these weak lines its happiness relate,
And with fair images of past joys moved
Compare my present with my former state;

Should e'er in future day some roaming friend ,
(The lions gazing whilst his horses wait)
In breathless speed his steps to Trin. Coll. bend,
And waste an idle question on my fate,

“Haply old Kitt, with iron tears, may say ,
“To read the lessons oft I've seen the lad,
“Brushing from broken cap the dust away,
“Limp with a paper band across the quad;

“His listless length at breakfast would he lay
“There in that sunless corner cobweb hung,
“Gods, how he crack'd his eggs and drank his tea,
“And pored upon the kettle as it sung!

“Hard by yon gate now painted as in scorn,
“Muttering rude rhymes he stood and fancies wild,
“Rack'd with a dose of salts like one forlorn,
“Or craz'd with duans, or cross'd with bastard child;

“One morn I miss'd him in the chapel train,
“Along the court, and near his well-known fire,
“The eggs were placed, the kettle boil'd in vain,
“No more he came his breakfast to require.

“Next post the tidings came; in due array
“At Hymen's shrine the youth was seen to bend;
“Here may'st thou read, 'tis English all, a lay,
“The farewell tribute of some lonely friend .

Mr. Pitt's tax upon births.

Dr. Price on Population.

A club in Oxford of that name, chiefly consisting of noblemen and men of fortune.

For the cast of this natural thought the author is indebted to a most inimitable passage in Churchill.

The Personage here alluded to is no less than the Author's bed-maker, an old soldier much distinguished for his honesty and roughness, and can be only understood by his friends in college.

To a most ingenious and valuable friend the author is indebted for the five concluding stanzas of this piece.

THE CHARACTER.

Here dwelt, ere marriage call'd to joy's refined,
A youth to riot and to noise unknown,
Fair poesy engaged his gentler mind,
And melancholy claim'd him for her own.

Kind was his soul of softest sympathy,
Nor pass'd in vain his friendship unreturn'd;
Each old companion heav'd a parting sigh,
Their master's loss each sorrowing servant mourn'd,

Yet seek not here his virtues to disclose,
Nor learn from hence the tenour of his life,
The best of all can paint the worth she knows,
With equal virtues graced, his sister, friend, and wife.

ROSALIND'S dying Complaint to her Sleeping Child.

Alas! my dearest baby,
I grieve to see thee smile;
I think upon thy rueful lot,
And cold's my heart the while.

'Gainst wind and tide of worldly woe,
I cannot make my way;
To lull thee in my bosom warm,
I feel I must not stay.

My mother will not hear me speak,
My father knits his brow:
Sweet Heavens! were they never young,
That thus they treat me so?

Ye souls unkind, a fate like mine
O never may ye prove!
Nor live to find how bitter 'tis
To miss the man ye love.

My friends they all forsake me
Nor comfort will afford;
They laugh while I am thinking,
My True-Love broke his word.

May God amend their cruel hearts,
For surely they're to blame;
They little know what 'tis to feel
The heaviness of shame.

Th' ungentle hand of rude mischance
Has 'reft my heart of rest,
And frighted hope of chearless eye
Lies strangled in my breast.

'Twas yester-eve at midnight hour,
I waked but to weep,
I kiss'd my baby's pretty hand,
And watch'd it while asleep:

Its cruel far-off father
My tender thoughts embraced,
And in my darling's infant look
His lovely likeness traced

With smileless look a spectre form
Advancing seem'd t' appear,
While Fancy toll'd the death-bell slow
Across my startled ear:

Full well I knew its fearful sound
That sternly seem'd to say,
“Go speed the grass green swerd
“For thou must die to day”—

ODE to the memory of CHATTERTON.

—Hunc inopem vidistis Athenæ
Nil præter gelidas ausæ conferre cicutas.
Juvenal.

Ill-fated youth, adieu; was thine a breast
Where fell Despair might fix her dark resolve,
To mar thy simple heart,
And snatch thee from the world?

Whilst Fancy finds a friend, and Genius charms,
With eagle eye, and high-aspiring thought,
Thy fainted memory
Shall ever sacred live.

When Spring, with scanty vest and maiden smile,
Leads on the sprightly months and infant year,
Her tears of morning dew
Shall wet thy deathbed cold:

When jocund Summer with her honied breath
(Sweetening the golden grain and blithsome gale)
Displays her sun-burnt face
Beneath the hat of straw.

The lily's hanging head, the pansy pale,
(Poor Fancy's lowly followers) in meek
Attire, shall deck thy turf
And withering lie with thee.

When sober Autumn with lack-lustre eye
Shakes with a chiding blast the yellow leaf,
And hears the woodman's song
And early sportman's foot,

When naked Winter, like a Pilgrim grey,
Of veriest rude aspect and joyless brow,
Calls for the carol wild
And trims the social fire,

Remembrance oft in Pity's pensive ear,
At silent eve shall sorrowing toll thy knell,
And tell to after-days
Thy tale, thy luckless tale.

EPITAPH .

Passenger,
To be the first in informing you
that over these ashes
No tear was ever shed, and that for many
years,
This turf has wanted a signature,
Is a silent satisfaction to the anonymous writer
of this testimony.
For a moment let oblivion withhold
her exultation:
with sorrow and sincerity,
This plain stone is inscribed (by one whom
he never saw)
To the memory of the Reverend
Peter Elkinton,
a man
Of much genius, and many virtues,
Whose lot it was in this world
To live in neglect without a comfort,
And to die in solitude without a friend.
Great God!
Are not these things noted in thy book!

When the above Epitaph was written, the author was unacquainted with the many acts of friendship which Mr. Elkinton received from the Rev. R. Parr, of Norwich.

Written amidst the ruins of Broomholm Priory, in Norfolk.

Broomholm, thy vaulted roofs and towers sublime,
Yield to the gradual touch of silent Time,
Whose luckless stole in dusky mantlings spread,
Veils the fair prospect of thy once famed head,
And all thy beauty now but dim appears
Through the dark backward of a thousand years,
Scared at the blast that hollow from the main,
Molests with sullen pause her ancient reign,
By the wan moon-beam oft the bird of night
Lengthens her feral note and wheels her flight
O'er the cold limbs that ever mouldering lie
Beneath the winter's wind and summer sky.
What though in vain with curious eye we trace
The tarnish'd semblance of the sacred place,
With eye profane its fading tints explore
That mark the features of the days of yore,
And fain would eager snatch from ruffian Time
The moss-grown fragment of a monkish rhyme;
What though no more at early dawn of day,
Eve's misty hour, or twilight's trembling ray,
With ken full blithe the mariner espies
Thy glittering domes and massy towers arise ;

Far from the dizzy mast he looks in vain
And longs to see his native shore again.
What though no scanty path we here descry
To cheer with foot of man the sorrowing eye,
Rough from the grasp of age thy walls deride
The slighter symmetry of modern pride,
Fancy, still fond, presents the long-drawn aile,
And feels the brooding Genius of the pile;
Her magic spell th'emblazon'd arms supplies,
And gives the gorgeous pane a thousand dyes;
Rebuilds the trophied tomb of many a knight
With high hung helm and ponderous spear bedight:
Still the damp shrines a grateful awe inspire,
Pale burn the lamps, and rapt the stoled choir,
Still the loud organ's peal I seem to hear
That wakes the slumbering soul, and fills the ravish'd ear.

This Priory was formerly a sea-mark.

Prostituted honour,

or LOTHARIO,

A character.

Unmark'd by Censure, unrestrain'd by Fear,
Shall lowborn Vice its shameless forehead rear?
From Honour's height look down with saucy brow,
On all the grovelling world that toils below,
At Poverty's lone cot dare wag its tongue,
And scorn the dirty dunghill whence it sprung?
Thanks to those powers who gave me to deride
Wealth's swelling port, and tinsel'd meanness, pride.
Silent I cannot view with patient eye
Pageants like these that stink and flutter by.
In days of yore with valour for her guide
Justice alone preferr'd the worth she tried;
Our gallant knights, in lov'd Eliza's reign,
France bade be dumb, and heart-struck haughty Spain.
Then the shrill summons of the vigorous chace,
Strung the firm nerve, and flush'd the ruddy face.
Fashion in vain her Proteus form display'd;
No public offerings at her shrine were paid:
She dared not then affrighted sense lay waste,
Or taint the sacred source of public taste.
Alike Refinement tried her soft'ning sway
To catch the sturdy manners of the day:
Her efforts vain! Britannia's favour'd isle
Renounced the lurking evil of her smile.
Ye sons of Fame, whose memories impart
A constant transport to the feeling heart;

From souls like yours we catch a kindred ray,
And feel infused the genius of the day.
Ye Sidneys, Raleighs, whose undaunted eye
Flash'd the keen glance of ancient Liberty,
Your lives with joy the th' enraptur'd Muse survey.
That claim the meed of never-fading praise.
Oh! what a thrilling thought, that deathless Fame
To ages yet unborn shall tell each name
Of those immortal few, for Albion's good,
Who dauntless paid the tribute of their blood!
And as she waves her legend scroll on high
To other climes, in other tongues, shall cry,
“These are the deeds of those who never die!’
No more with dazzling light the regal ray
Shines unobscured and chears the coming day.
Sorrowing the Muse beholds the throne disgraced,
Its lustre tarnish'd and its gifts misplaced,
Daub'd with false honours whilst Lothario's mien
Provokes the threat'ning eye of honest spleen;
Swell'd with base pride, exempt from ev'ry grace,
Vice in his heart, and folly in his face,
Studious to keep the naked poor in awe,
And grind their needy souls with harpy law,
With silly dimpling smirk, and bland grimace,
With smile that gads so sweetly o'er his face,
Methinks I see him labouring to be great
Rais'd on the tottering stilts of awkward state;
First of the tribe who shift with ready art
The ductile feelings of a venal heart;

Sir Knight become, how big dear self-appears,
And whilst the title greets his greedy ears,
He shakes his booby head and wonders what he hears.
Ere lull'd to slumber in the nurse's arms,
The squalling infant thus a coral charms,
Pleas'd it attends the discord for a while
And hugs the glittering bauble with a smile.

To MYRA, after receiving two drawings representing a Violet and a Beggar.

From these sad scenes where care and pale dismay
Darken with deepest cloud the coming day ,
Where Duty breathes in vain its lengthen'd sigh,
And wipes the stagnant tear from Sorrow's eye,
O'er all its hopes views hovering Death prevail,
And mourns the social comforts as they fail;
Say, can a novice Muse, though you inspire,
In artless thanks awake her sadden'd lyre?
For me, whose eye surveys with vain delight
Pieria's stream and famed Parnassa's height
Let M--- all in tears his story tell
Of widow'd dove, or sorrowing Philomel;
With all the tinsel'd harlotry of art
Win the weak mind or touch the tasteless heart:

For me, let P---'s hireling pages chime,
Pert with the pretty cant of servile rhyme;
Unaw'd by power or fame's delusive ray
I value more a violet than a bay.
What though, dear girl, these worthless lays appear
But ill attuned to meet thy nicer ear,
Warm from the heart officious fondness flies,
And fears no frown but that of Myra's eyes.
For her what Gothic soul could e'er repine
To' invoke, those worst of all coquets, the Nine.
In Shandy mood with head on hand reclined
To ev'ry ill of fate and phlegm resigned,
With surly silence, or with cold content,
I hear (on distant scenes my thoughts intent)
The tedious round of chat and compliment;
Perchance the heavy hour in part to kill,
And keep the drowsy mind from standing still,
Comes a dread summons from the fiend quadrille,
With sad civility the tricks I tell,
And gaze without emotion at a belle;
Whilst at my careless play and vacant air,
Gamblers look grave, and tabbies wish to swear;
Till parent Dullness claims her seat again,
Settles their features and assumes her reign.—
At those loved shores where Yare with ceaseless sweep
Joins the dark bosom of the fearful deep,
Full many a truant wish and wayward look
Has absence cast and musing Fancy took,

Where Friendship vacant sinds an elbow chair,
Looks round with joy and longs to linger there,
Where frank Good-humour ev'ry care beguiles
With all the social family of smiles;
Charm'd at the thought, I picture Juliet near ,
Her sprightly glance I feel, her voice I hear,
Attentive sit, and meet, with tacit sigh
The softer cast of pensive Myra's eye;
Dwell long enamour'd on each blooming grace,
That lends its 'luring influence to her face;
With fluttering breast I view her nicest skill,
Teach the keen darts of Venus how to kill
And touch with busy hand each lighter dress,
That guards the dimpled cheek and silken tress;
The filmy gauze, the ribband's dazzling dye,
(A mystic spell to catch the rustic eye),
The waving sash, the feather's nodding plume,
With all the powers of cambric and perfume;
Through such let meaner beauties of the day
Spread wide o'er vanquish'd hearts the female sway,
At ev'ry look and random glance lay low
A dangling coxcomb, or a flimsy beau;
To souls like mine no influence they impart
Who bribe the eye to captivate the heart.
Slaves to the laws of taste, let some admire
Paulo's bold stroke, or vivid Titian's fire;

With critic skill, and just precision trace,
Poussin's learn'd air, or soft Corregio's grace.
In mute amaze let others trembling stand,
And feel the dark sublime of Rosa's hand;
Be mine the task their varied styles to view,
And mark their blended beauties met in you.
When the lone wretch by age and sickness led,
Bides the chill storm, and begs for bitter bread,
Taught by thy moving hand my tears shall flow
The hasty followers of his helpless woe,
Oft as I strive to chase those griefs away
That cloud the sunless evening of his day.
Meanwhile Affection fondly fix'd on you
(The lovely source from whence its pity grew),
Viewing thy beggar form with joy shall boast,
That she who excites it best must feel it most.

This alludes to some scenes of domestic affliction.

Juliet, the sister of the Lady to whom these Verses were addressed.

On a fragment of some verses written by a Lady in praise of solitude.

Myra! dear maid, full many a weary hour
In joyless speed has pass'd, since first mine eye,
Met the faint outline of your early hopes,
Moist with the purest dew of Castaly:
And who, ah who, can willingly resign
The distant shadows of ideal joys,
In youth's fair morn by treacherous Fancy form'd,
That, like the floating rack on yonder sky,
Pass into nought as they had never been?
The time was once when oft the long day through,
Far, far too busy for my present peace,
O'er these the pensive fablings of your Muse
I hung enamour'd, whilst with anxious glance
The kindred feelings of my youthful years,
In visionary view full glad I found,
And blissful dreams familiar to my heart,
O'er which sweet Hope her gilding pale had flung:
Such, O! such scenes with Myra to have shared
Was all my fruitless prayers e'er askt of Fate.
(Filling each space imperfect you had left);
Oft would my partial hand the pencil take,
And bid the sketch unreal hues assume
Bright beams of light and colours not its own:
Mischance stood by and watch'd, and at an hour

When least I thought her near, with hasty hand
All my fair pictured hopes at once defaced.—
The traveller thus, when louring skies impend,
In sorrowing silence leaning on his staff,
From some ascent his weary steps have gain'd,
Breathless looks back, and pausing, ponders well
The lengthen'd landscape past; now hid he finds
Mid far-off mists, and thick-surrounding showers
Each city, wandering stream, and wildering wood,
Where late in joy secure he journied blyth,
Nor met the phantom of a single fear,
Where ev'ry cloud illumin'd by the sun,
Hung lovely, and each Zephyr fragrance breath'd.