University of Virginia Library

Child of my heart—thou matchless soul of Song!
Guide of fair Truth, and lead star of Fame,
Etherial in thy talents, as thy mind,
Wise as all wisdom here below could be,
Sublimely tuneful, but not more sublime
Than delicate—nor more refin'd, than good;
For Virtue ever brighthen'd in thy lay,
And beam'd fresh graces thro' thy ardent song;
A song, that dar'd a flight above the spheres,
Cælestially ambitious; Heaven-inspir'd,
Thy hopes angelic, and thy theme a God!—
Thou Muses miracle—thou Nation's pride,
Whose worth, yon silver Queen of night proclaim'd,
When thou her pitying sympathy address'd,
Whose wisdom all our sages loudly praise,
Sages of science, by deep thought made sage,
Whose virtue, Immortality rewards,
Whose GENIUS, scorning narrow human ken,
And the pent limits of this pigmy world,
(Where in a circle circumscrib'd by fate,
The mole-ey'd mortal dimly gazes round,
And boasts his deep sagacity of sight;
Important emmet—pride-elated mite,
Infinite atom—momentary worm—)
Superior soars to scenes behind the cloud,
Oh YOUNG—thou day-bright poet of the night,
Accept sincere the genuine plaint of woe
Maternal—struck immediate from the heart;
An heart that labours deep with various grief!
And thou, Oh Cynthia—thou who lent thine aid
Cærulian; and shed thy influence round,
Chearing the darkness of thy Poet's fate;
A fate envelop'd deep in Fortune's gloom,
Dark beyond all the horrors of the night,
When intercepting clouds repel thy rays,
And not a gleam softens the black opaque,
Genius, cherubic,—near allied to Heaven,
Of heavenly themes ambitious—Oh my Son!
Oh, what a stroke upon the feeling heart!
Oh what a fall to Britain, and to me!
And rises then my sorrow into guilt,
Verges my fondness on impiety,
Reason, religion, duty, all forgot?
I almost mingle blushes with my woe,
Confusion flings her crimson in my cheek,
And colouring Conscience dyes a deeper red!
Fall, did I say?—say rather what a rise!
A rise high-bounding to his native skies,
How great! how vast! how glorious! how profound!
To us how vital—to himself how fair?
He wish'd for Heav'n, and Heav'n has heard his prayer.
Then let me hail his beatific shade—
The well-rewarded spirit bower'd in bliss!—
Yet Nature, feeble Nature, clinging to the chords,
And pressing hard upon the tender strings,
That move the finer feelings in our frame,
With arbitrary rage, demands her right,
And usurer-like exacts the parent-sigh.
Spite of the exultations I should feel,
The hymn of triumph, and the peal of praise,
The tender tyrant tugs about my breast,
Strikes on each pulse, and sluices every vein—
Ah rebel nerves, be still—or if too hard,
The thoughts of losing him the most ador'd,
Bears on thy weaker sense—indulge a pause,
From Nature—Passion—Torture and Thyself.
Oh, turn my soul from the distracting theme,
Probe not the agonizing wound to deep,
Search not the sore with too minute an eye,
But from his dear idea, turn away!