Poems by the late Hon. William R. Spencer A New Edition with Corrections and Additions; To Which is Prefixed A Biographical Memoir by the Editor |
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THE
YEAR OF SORROW.
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 | Poems by the late Hon. William R. Spencer |  |
123
THE YEAR OF SORROW.
Tear from thy guilty brow that vernal wreath,
Chase from thy train those wanton airs which breathe
Of Joy, and Love, and Life! let naught appear
To gratulate thy course, disastrous Year!
Away with all the seasons gawdy trim,
Cold be thy zephyrs, and thy suns be dim!
—Vain is the curse! the laughing hours who draw
Thy car, have heard th' irrevocable law,
The world has felt thy renovating rays,
All nature jubilant resounds thy praise,
Creation lifts to thee her grateful voice,
By Spring's brief charter licensed to rejoice,
And as thy genial steps progressive move,
The lifeless all revive, and all the living love!
These are thy works of grace!—thy works of woe
Man, only man, is privileged to know;
Man, only man, Creation's Lord confess'd,
Amidst his happy realm remains unbless'd;
On the bright earth, his flow'r-embroider'd throne,
Th' imperial mourner reigns and weeps alone!
Sad Year! whilst yet I hold one social joy,
Suspend thy dire commission to destroy.
My heart, so late of many joys possess'd,
Laments for many lost, and trembles for the rest!
Sad years have been when Pestilence was rife,
And all her fiends unmuzzled rush'd on Life;
Then from the general doom no plea could save,
And Vice and Virtue crowded to the grave;
But thou, disastrous Year, hast dealt around,
With horrible selection, every wound;
In ev'ry house where thy death-bolts have sped,
Thy partial warrant mark'd the dearest head;
The prime alone of every happy land,
Where thou hast laid thy desolating hand,
The prime alone, thy murderous sithe could suit,
Youth's sweetest bloom, and Age's richest fruit!
Whilst loud laments of public grief arise,
And nations mourn the Learned and the Wise,
How many kindred hearts are taught to know
The keener anguish of domestic woe!
And art thou gone, Parent and friend revered!
Parent of her by every charm endeared
To this love-beating heart, to whom I owe
All that of bliss mankind can hope below!
Yes, thou art gone! thy Susan, far away,
Smiled no sweet sunshine on thy closing day,
Not on her breast thy drooping forehead hung,
Not to her lips thy summon'd Spirit clung;
Ah! no—whilst others watch'd thy ebbing breath,
And lighten'd by their love the load of death,
Haply thy Susan, in a distant land,
E'en at that hour the scheme of pleasure plann'd
To meet once more on Danube's happy plain,
And clasp a mother to her heart again!
Chase from thy train those wanton airs which breathe
Of Joy, and Love, and Life! let naught appear
To gratulate thy course, disastrous Year!
Away with all the seasons gawdy trim,
Cold be thy zephyrs, and thy suns be dim!
—Vain is the curse! the laughing hours who draw
Thy car, have heard th' irrevocable law,
The world has felt thy renovating rays,
All nature jubilant resounds thy praise,
Creation lifts to thee her grateful voice,
By Spring's brief charter licensed to rejoice,
And as thy genial steps progressive move,
The lifeless all revive, and all the living love!
124
Man, only man, is privileged to know;
Man, only man, Creation's Lord confess'd,
Amidst his happy realm remains unbless'd;
On the bright earth, his flow'r-embroider'd throne,
Th' imperial mourner reigns and weeps alone!
Sad Year! whilst yet I hold one social joy,
Suspend thy dire commission to destroy.
My heart, so late of many joys possess'd,
Laments for many lost, and trembles for the rest!
Sad years have been when Pestilence was rife,
And all her fiends unmuzzled rush'd on Life;
Then from the general doom no plea could save,
And Vice and Virtue crowded to the grave;
But thou, disastrous Year, hast dealt around,
With horrible selection, every wound;
In ev'ry house where thy death-bolts have sped,
Thy partial warrant mark'd the dearest head;
The prime alone of every happy land,
Where thou hast laid thy desolating hand,
The prime alone, thy murderous sithe could suit,
Youth's sweetest bloom, and Age's richest fruit!
Whilst loud laments of public grief arise,
And nations mourn the Learned and the Wise,
125
The keener anguish of domestic woe!
And art thou gone, Parent and friend revered!
Parent of her by every charm endeared
To this love-beating heart, to whom I owe
All that of bliss mankind can hope below!
Yes, thou art gone! thy Susan, far away,
Smiled no sweet sunshine on thy closing day,
Not on her breast thy drooping forehead hung,
Not to her lips thy summon'd Spirit clung;
Ah! no—whilst others watch'd thy ebbing breath,
And lighten'd by their love the load of death,
Haply thy Susan, in a distant land,
E'en at that hour the scheme of pleasure plann'd
To meet once more on Danube's happy plain,
And clasp a mother to her heart again!
Nor shall the mournful chronicle forget
One who with honest truth my friendship met;
To him farewell!—thy morning clouds were past,
And all thy days seem bright'ning to the last;
Youth was thy season of distress and tears,
But pleasure met thee in the vale of years,
Scarce in the vale, ere all thy sand was run,
And thy life ended when thy joys begun;
To thee farewell—and oh! when Summer leads
To Cambria's woodland rocks and streamy meads,
Each scene of Nature's pageantry review'd,
Each scheme of social happiness renew'd,
Each rural day, each festive night shall be,
A dear, a long remembrancer of thee!
O think not fruitless are the griefs which rend
The heart of Friendship o'er a buried friend;
Are they not vouchers of distinguish'd days,
Of active virtues, and decided praise?
The man, when summon'd to the realms of death,
Who unlamented yields his useless breath,
Though no foul crimes done in his mortal state
The fearful hour of retribution wait,
Yet long in cold obstruction dark he lies
Unwept on earth, unwelcomed in the skies!
Whilst every tcar o'er friendship's ashes pour'd
Blots out some frailty from the dread record;
And every sigh breathed on the funeral sod,
Wafts the loved Spirit nearer to his God!
One who with honest truth my friendship met;
To him farewell!—thy morning clouds were past,
And all thy days seem bright'ning to the last;
Youth was thy season of distress and tears,
But pleasure met thee in the vale of years,
126
And thy life ended when thy joys begun;
To thee farewell—and oh! when Summer leads
To Cambria's woodland rocks and streamy meads,
Each scene of Nature's pageantry review'd,
Each scheme of social happiness renew'd,
Each rural day, each festive night shall be,
A dear, a long remembrancer of thee!
O think not fruitless are the griefs which rend
The heart of Friendship o'er a buried friend;
Are they not vouchers of distinguish'd days,
Of active virtues, and decided praise?
The man, when summon'd to the realms of death,
Who unlamented yields his useless breath,
Though no foul crimes done in his mortal state
The fearful hour of retribution wait,
Yet long in cold obstruction dark he lies
Unwept on earth, unwelcomed in the skies!
Whilst every tcar o'er friendship's ashes pour'd
Blots out some frailty from the dread record;
And every sigh breathed on the funeral sod,
Wafts the loved Spirit nearer to his God!
Breathe soft, Italian gales! and ye that wing
The tideless shore, where never-changing Spring
Rules all the halcyon year, breathe soft, and shed
Your kindliest dews o'er pale Eliza's head!
Propitious grant an anguish'd mother's prayer,
And save a wedded lover from despair.
Vain was the hope—in Beauty's earliest pride,
E'en in the porch of life, Eliza died;
Ere yet the green leaf of her days was come
The death-storm rose, and swept her to the tomb!
O thou, whose final will is happiness,
Author of good, permitter of distress,
If still to speechless pangs thine ear be given,
If dumb despair be eloquence in heaven,
O reascend thy mercy-seat! to thee
Religious sorrow bows her filial knee!
Let Faith, thy cherub almoner, bestow
One gleam to cheer, not chase, the night of woe;
Let Patience sooth, not cure, the sacred grief
Which prays not for oblivion, but relief:
Oblivion!—no—the dear, the deep regret
What heart that loved Eliza would forget!
I loved her too; on Arno's classic lawn
My dawning fancy hailed her beauty's dawn;
My youthful lyre first woke her infant taste,
And by her earliest smiles my earliest song was graced;
Oblivion!—no—to life's extremest bourn
All who have loved and lost thee, still shall mourn;
From their last hour, when earthlier passions flee,
Consenting Heaven shall yield one thought to thee,
To thee the theme which sooths their latest sighs,
To thee, the dearest hope which lures them to the skies!
The tideless shore, where never-changing Spring
127
Your kindliest dews o'er pale Eliza's head!
Propitious grant an anguish'd mother's prayer,
And save a wedded lover from despair.
Vain was the hope—in Beauty's earliest pride,
E'en in the porch of life, Eliza died;
Ere yet the green leaf of her days was come
The death-storm rose, and swept her to the tomb!
O thou, whose final will is happiness,
Author of good, permitter of distress,
If still to speechless pangs thine ear be given,
If dumb despair be eloquence in heaven,
O reascend thy mercy-seat! to thee
Religious sorrow bows her filial knee!
Let Faith, thy cherub almoner, bestow
One gleam to cheer, not chase, the night of woe;
Let Patience sooth, not cure, the sacred grief
Which prays not for oblivion, but relief:
Oblivion!—no—the dear, the deep regret
What heart that loved Eliza would forget!
I loved her too; on Arno's classic lawn
My dawning fancy hailed her beauty's dawn;
My youthful lyre first woke her infant taste,
128
Oblivion!—no—to life's extremest bourn
All who have loved and lost thee, still shall mourn;
From their last hour, when earthlier passions flee,
Consenting Heaven shall yield one thought to thee,
To thee the theme which sooths their latest sighs,
To thee, the dearest hope which lures them to the skies!
Again the bell of death! again the grave
Calls for a youthful victim; naught can save,
Greville, thy fading charms, nor prayers, nor art,
Nor all the anguish of thy Henry's heart.
Though thou art gone, fond parent, blameless wife,
Gone in the summer of thy blooming life,
To claim the prize, alas! too early won,
The prize of heaven for every duty done,
Yet shall thy memory live adored on earth,
Where Emma's sorrows consecrate thy worth.
Calls for a youthful victim; naught can save,
Greville, thy fading charms, nor prayers, nor art,
Nor all the anguish of thy Henry's heart.
Though thou art gone, fond parent, blameless wife,
Gone in the summer of thy blooming life,
To claim the prize, alas! too early won,
The prize of heaven for every duty done,
Yet shall thy memory live adored on earth,
Where Emma's sorrows consecrate thy worth.
Nor yet the doleful record can I close,
O hapless house of Grammont! for your woes
I weep, nor ye the cordial tear refuse,
Shed by a friendly though a foreign Muse.
O hapless house of Grammont! honours, fame,
Power, wealth, and worth, had raised your patriot name
So near the regal throne, that the same blow
Which reached your Kings, laid all your glories low!
Yet still Aglaia's angel presence lent
A grace to grief, a charm to banishment.
England, the port for many a noble wreck,
England her ocean lightnings flash'd to check
The demon rage which uproar'd Europe's peace,
England Aglaia's wanderings bade to cease,
And welcomed here; and here Georgiana press'd
The lovely wanderer to her sister breast;
Here, when condemn'd from native joys to part,
Friendship, not Pity, sooth'd her bleeding heart;
Here, when condemn'd in stranger climes to roam,
Exile assumed the cheering smiles of home.
Short was her gleam of brighter years, and ye
O family of woe, were doom'd to see
Content revive her blooms only to throw
A farewell beauty o'er her dying brow,
And Hope rekindle only to illume
The shades of Death, and light her to the tomb!
O hapless house of Grammont! for your woes
129
Shed by a friendly though a foreign Muse.
O hapless house of Grammont! honours, fame,
Power, wealth, and worth, had raised your patriot name
So near the regal throne, that the same blow
Which reached your Kings, laid all your glories low!
Yet still Aglaia's angel presence lent
A grace to grief, a charm to banishment.
England, the port for many a noble wreck,
England her ocean lightnings flash'd to check
The demon rage which uproar'd Europe's peace,
England Aglaia's wanderings bade to cease,
And welcomed here; and here Georgiana press'd
The lovely wanderer to her sister breast;
Here, when condemn'd from native joys to part,
Friendship, not Pity, sooth'd her bleeding heart;
Here, when condemn'd in stranger climes to roam,
Exile assumed the cheering smiles of home.
Short was her gleam of brighter years, and ye
O family of woe, were doom'd to see
Content revive her blooms only to throw
A farewell beauty o'er her dying brow,
130
The shades of Death, and light her to the tomb!
Daughters of Genius, dear to generous hearts,
Charmers of cultured life, ingenuous arts,
Heard ye the knell for Hamilton? oh rend
Your laurell'd tresses, o'er his ashes bend
Your seraph forms, and weep your noblest friend;
Each round his relics take her duteous stand,
Painting be there, whose magic-gifted hand
Can bid the meteor-forms of memory last,
And raise unfleeting visions of the past;
Sculpture, her heroine sister, guard the grave;
She, in her marble panoply, can brave
The battering tempest, or insidious clime,
And foil with brazen shield the sithe of time;
Yours be the task with social skill to raise
The bloodless trophies of his letter'd praise;
Tell how your virgin altars were disgraced
By the rude homage of misguided taste,
Till they received from his enlighten'd mind,
Incense more pure, and worship more refin'd;
Tell that to him was given the generous aim,
The rights of antique beauty to proclaim,
The Gothic fiend from all her realms to chase,
And throne the Grecian goddess in her place.
Nor shall the statesman's patriot view misprize
Talents which aid commercial power to rise;
Have ye not seen, ye plains of Stafford, say,
A new Etruria mould your native clay,
Rough British hands light Grecian forms prepare,
And every mart demand the classic ware?
And shall cold Cynic censurers condemn
Talents not vain, or only vain for them,
Defame pursuits which beautify the mind,
And libel arts which humanize mankind?
Charmers of cultured life, ingenuous arts,
Heard ye the knell for Hamilton? oh rend
Your laurell'd tresses, o'er his ashes bend
Your seraph forms, and weep your noblest friend;
Each round his relics take her duteous stand,
Painting be there, whose magic-gifted hand
Can bid the meteor-forms of memory last,
And raise unfleeting visions of the past;
Sculpture, her heroine sister, guard the grave;
She, in her marble panoply, can brave
The battering tempest, or insidious clime,
And foil with brazen shield the sithe of time;
131
The bloodless trophies of his letter'd praise;
Tell how your virgin altars were disgraced
By the rude homage of misguided taste,
Till they received from his enlighten'd mind,
Incense more pure, and worship more refin'd;
Tell that to him was given the generous aim,
The rights of antique beauty to proclaim,
The Gothic fiend from all her realms to chase,
And throne the Grecian goddess in her place.
Nor shall the statesman's patriot view misprize
Talents which aid commercial power to rise;
Have ye not seen, ye plains of Stafford, say,
A new Etruria mould your native clay,
Rough British hands light Grecian forms prepare,
And every mart demand the classic ware?
And shall cold Cynic censurers condemn
Talents not vain, or only vain for them,
132
And libel arts which humanize mankind?
Fresh flowers which on the fountain brink
The breath of day-spring rears,
Whose dainty blossoms only drink
The rainbow's diamond tears;
The breath of day-spring rears,
Whose dainty blossoms only drink
The rainbow's diamond tears;
Such flowers alone my hand shall wreathe
For Harriet's genial bow'r,
Such flowers alone their sweets shall breathe
On Harriet's bridal hour.
For Harriet's genial bow'r,
Such flowers alone their sweets shall breathe
On Harriet's bridal hour.
Pure as Elysian mornings break,
Fond hopes her fair cheek flush,
Pure as the sinless thoughts which wake
The cherub's infant blush!
Fond hopes her fair cheek flush,
Pure as the sinless thoughts which wake
The cherub's infant blush!
Oh! for a voice, if such there be,
Which sighs have never broke!
Oh! for a harp, whose melody
Of sorrow never spoke!
Which sighs have never broke!
Oh! for a harp, whose melody
Of sorrow never spoke!
133
For thee, Tyrone, their strains should flow,
Since every bliss divine
Which saints believe, or seraphs know,
With Harriet's heart is thine.
Since every bliss divine
Which saints believe, or seraphs know,
With Harriet's heart is thine.
Yes, thine are joys beyond the scope
Of fiction's brightest theme,
Brighter than all which youth can hope,
Or Love, or Fancy dream.
Of fiction's brightest theme,
Brighter than all which youth can hope,
Or Love, or Fancy dream.
Smile on thy green hills, Erin smile,
Thy woes, thy wars shall cease,
An angel to thy troubled isle
Bears Concord, Joy, and Peace!
Thy woes, thy wars shall cease,
An angel to thy troubled isle
Bears Concord, Joy, and Peace!
Ah check the song!—
Too well, when first I tuned the mournful strain,
My boding heart presaged severer pain.
'Tis past—and thou hast struck, disastrous Year!
Thy master-stroke of desolation here.—
'Tis past—young, fair, and faultless Harriet dies,
Lovely in youthful death the slumberer lies;
Still hope and peace her gentle features speak,
Life's farewell smile still lights her fading cheek!
Soft was the voice which call'd her spirit hence,
Death wore no shape to scare her parting sense;
A white-robed messenger of light he seemed,
His looks with smiles of heavenly promise beamed;
Skywards were spread his wings of feathery snow,
And lilies wreath'd his alabaster brow.
Stanmore through all her joy-deserted seats
No lamentation hears, no sigh repeats;
Silent like thee, whose virgin bier they dress,
Silent like thee, whose pale-rose lips they press,
Thy mourners speak no grief, no dirge prepare,
Thy dirge is silence, and their grief despair!
Oh! mourn, illustrious mourners! with my strain
A nation's sympathy accords in vain.
He, who the world's expected mis'ry bears,
Claims the sweet solace of congenial tears;
When unforeseen calamities surprise,
Radiant with life and joy when Harriet dies,
Sorrow beyond communion or control
In dumb distraction settles on the soul.
When Evening's wintry veil th' horizon palls,
Frequent for aid the lated wanderer calls;
When the tornado shakes his demon wings,
And sudden midnight o'er the noon-day flings,
Aghast he sinks beneath th' untimely gloom,
And crazed with speechless horror meets his doom!
Too well, when first I tuned the mournful strain,
My boding heart presaged severer pain.
'Tis past—and thou hast struck, disastrous Year!
Thy master-stroke of desolation here.—
'Tis past—young, fair, and faultless Harriet dies,
Lovely in youthful death the slumberer lies;
Still hope and peace her gentle features speak,
Life's farewell smile still lights her fading cheek!
Soft was the voice which call'd her spirit hence,
Death wore no shape to scare her parting sense;
134
His looks with smiles of heavenly promise beamed;
Skywards were spread his wings of feathery snow,
And lilies wreath'd his alabaster brow.
Stanmore through all her joy-deserted seats
No lamentation hears, no sigh repeats;
Silent like thee, whose virgin bier they dress,
Silent like thee, whose pale-rose lips they press,
Thy mourners speak no grief, no dirge prepare,
Thy dirge is silence, and their grief despair!
Oh! mourn, illustrious mourners! with my strain
A nation's sympathy accords in vain.
He, who the world's expected mis'ry bears,
Claims the sweet solace of congenial tears;
When unforeseen calamities surprise,
Radiant with life and joy when Harriet dies,
Sorrow beyond communion or control
In dumb distraction settles on the soul.
When Evening's wintry veil th' horizon palls,
Frequent for aid the lated wanderer calls;
When the tornado shakes his demon wings,
And sudden midnight o'er the noon-day flings,
Aghast he sinks beneath th' untimely gloom,
And crazed with speechless horror meets his doom!
135
These are thy works of woe, disastrous Year!
Scarce in the midway of thy sad career;
Still onward as thy ruthless course proceeds,
Sepulchral tablets chronicle thy deeds.
The grave's black ministers around thee frown,
A hearse thy car, and funeral plumes thy crown;
O'er thy dark pomp the shrieking night-bird cow'rs,
And tolling death-bells strike thy heavy hours!
Nor stops the rigour of thy tyrant reign
At partial loss and individual pain:
See where beneath the stern oppressor's blow
The world's great family lies sunk in woe!
The tears of nations to my tears reply,
And Europe echoes each domestic sigh.
E'en here, though Britain dread no present foes,
Distracted commerce rues the false repose,
And private feuds, though public discords cease,
Distain with generous blood the lap of peace.
And yet, disastrous Year! thou canst impart
One reconciling boon to cheer my heart!
Revive, revive my Susan's drooping head,
O'er her pale cheek Hygeia's blossoms shed,
Sooth every pang, and every fear remove,
And charm her back to beauty, joy, and love!
Then will I blush for each reproachful tear,
And thank and bless thee still, disastrous Year!
Scarce in the midway of thy sad career;
Still onward as thy ruthless course proceeds,
Sepulchral tablets chronicle thy deeds.
The grave's black ministers around thee frown,
A hearse thy car, and funeral plumes thy crown;
O'er thy dark pomp the shrieking night-bird cow'rs,
And tolling death-bells strike thy heavy hours!
Nor stops the rigour of thy tyrant reign
At partial loss and individual pain:
See where beneath the stern oppressor's blow
The world's great family lies sunk in woe!
The tears of nations to my tears reply,
And Europe echoes each domestic sigh.
E'en here, though Britain dread no present foes,
Distracted commerce rues the false repose,
And private feuds, though public discords cease,
Distain with generous blood the lap of peace.
And yet, disastrous Year! thou canst impart
One reconciling boon to cheer my heart!
136
O'er her pale cheek Hygeia's blossoms shed,
Sooth every pang, and every fear remove,
And charm her back to beauty, joy, and love!
Then will I blush for each reproachful tear,
And thank and bless thee still, disastrous Year!
The Hon. Mrs. Ellis, daughter of the late Lord Hervey, and wife of Charles Ellis, Esq, died at Nice.
It may be objected that the few capital works in bronze which remain to us from antiquity were cast, and not sculptured; yet whoever has examined the masterpieces of this kind, in the collection of R. P. Knight, Esq., must believe that some fine instrument has been employed in perfecting what the mould may have begun:
Excudent alii spirantia mollius æra,alone seems a sufficient authority for a poetical description.
It is generally known that Mr. Wedgewood's Etruria owes its name and the perfection of its forms to the exquisite Etruscan or Grecian models first introduced into this country by Sir William Hamilton; and a late traveller observes, that “the demand for this elegant manufacture is now so universal, that an Englishman in journeying from Calais to Ispahan may have his dinner served every day upon Wedgewood's ware.
The Lady Harriet Hamilton, eldest daughter to John James, Marquis of Abercorn, was shortly to have been married to Henry de la Poer, Marquis of Waterford, Earl of Tyrone.
| Poems by the late Hon. William R. Spencer | |