University of Virginia Library

POEMS.

STANZAS

WRITTEN IN APRIL, 1797, SOME MONTHS AFTER THE DEATH OF MY SISTER JANE.

SONNET

OCCASIONED BY A DREAM.

Oft when life's cares, and woes, and fears are fled,
Swept by the wing of hovering sleep away,
Fair dreams enchanting float around my head,
(Enchanting dreams, for of my sisters they),
And all the heaven of my early day
Fresh dawns upon me; and around me glows
Each sparkling eye, with youth, and hope, once gay,
Now closed for ever, or now dimm'd by woes:
My weary spirit tastes of joy again
In sweet illusion, when a creeping thrill
Of horror, boding some impending ill,
Half thought—half felt—renews the sense of pain;
Affrighted sleep spreads his swift wings for flight,
Fair dreams and sister forms quick snatching from my sight.

TO A YOUNG LADY

ON HER APPROACHING MARRIAGE.

Oh! never may the hope that lights thine eye,
Sweet maid! be changed to disappointment's gloom!
Never, th' ingenuous frolic laugh I prize
To the forced smile that care must oft assume!
But may the blissful dream of thy young heart—
That dream from which so many wake too late—
Of joys that love requited shall impart,
Be realized in thy approaching fate!
And may I meet that frolic laugh again,
When time shall mix thy raven locks with grey,
Nor on thy brow detect the trace of pain,
Open as now, ingenuous, and gay;
And calling to thy mind my terrors vain,
“My dream is realized,” oh may'st thou say!

BOUTS RIMÉS

O! that I could my lab'ring thought so dress
That grave rebuke might wear an aspect gay,
So should I wake fair virtue's sleeping ray
In thy young breast, thy riper age to bless.
So shouldst thou crown thy father's visions bright,
And, nobly roused, from Pleasure's shackles free,
Thy genius and thy worth should then agree;
Nor wouldst thou Reason's sober dictates slight.
Then wise and gentle, generous and brave,
Thy brow should thy soul's character assume,
Whose lasting trace should dignify the gloom
Of age one day, nor fade till in the grave.
Awake! awake! disdain each worthless care,
Spurn Pleasure's tinsel chain, and nobly dare!

ON DUNSTONBURGH CASTLE.

Majestic Ruins! that so sadly speak
The glory of past days, and seem to grow
To the huge rock, high, desolate, and bleak,
That curbs the ocean tossing far below;
Shatter'd by time and war, sublime ye stand
In awful solitude!—on either side,
How vast the waste of water, or of land!
Above your head th' expanse of Heaven how wide!
Now round your hoary battlements dark frown
The threat'ning skies! while sudden from the west
The setting sun a radiant beam has thrown,
That gilds each fretted stone on your broad breast.
Touch'd by the glorious light, your turrets now
Gleam on the heavy clouds that roll away
With sullen pride,—again your deep-scarr'd brow
Smiles terrible beneath the evening ray.
So o'er thy ruins too, more awful far,
And far more sad, my country! heaven-born Peace
Her radiance flings, that gilds thy every scar,
While backward rolling, Fate's dark tempests cease.
So smiling terrible, through nature's tears,
Fancy might paint thy veterans, with clasp'd hands,
O'er the void tombs that vain affection rears
To sons, to brothers, fallen in hostile lands;
The gallant youths, alas! thy strength, and pride,
England! who in thy cause, yet not in Freedom's died!

SONNET.

[See the poor captive from his dungeon break]

See the poor captive from his dungeon break,
Where long he pined, and hail the light of day,
With eyes that in the broad effulgence ache,
With smiles that mid deep lines of anguish play!
How eagerly he meets the morning gale,
With lab'ring lungs that each sweet breath would seize!
How fondly views the hill, the plain, the vale,
Green meadows, brooks, fields, flow'rs, and waving trees!
And, “Gods!” he cries, “how dear is Liberty!
Is there in Heaven's large gift a boon beside?
The world is mine, and all the good I see!”
But soon, too soon, his raptures wild subside,
And sighing sad, “Not Freedom's self to me
Is sweet,” he cries, “if one to share it be denied.”

IMITATION OF BURNS.

STANZAS

SUGGESTED BY A CANZONE OF PETRARCH.

FRAGMENT,

ON THE IMPRESS OF THE SEAMEN OF THE FLEET FROM INDIA TO MAN THE KING'S SHIPS.

Mark ye the towering vessels, dimly seen,
That throng the horizon? freighted with the wealth
Of either world, as their proud bosoms stem
The opposing surge, tossing their big sails high,
Exulting!—for they bring their treasure home,
And, laden as they are, have quell'd the foe
Who durst impede their course. The lioness
Thus homeward bears the prey, to nature true,
And in a mother's fond end uring love
Terrible, although th' unerring spear
Aim'd by the hunter gore her panting side:
So, bounding o'er the billows, ride our fleets,
To reach the land that owns the sacred name
Of home; and high among the shrouds, brave hearts
Beat towards that home with strong tumultuous joy.
The deep-scarr'd mariner, in thought already
Snatches the dear ones to his arms, long left
In penury, and for whose sake alone
He dared th' Atlantic surge, the tempest's rage,
The thunder of the foe, and dire disease.
Perchance escaped the fatal fever's sweep,
With alter'd looks, languid and sad, some pine
For inland sweets, green fields, umbrageous woods,
And trickling rills refreshing to the soul.
How many eyes that wept not when they saw,
Weltering in blood, their mangled comrades fall,
Now swim in tears at sight of the white cliffs
That gird their native isle! How many ears
That, unappall'd, have heard the cannons roar,
With quivering nerves now strain the trembling sense
To catch the shout faint-wafted from the strand!
Haply the youth, who utter'd not a groan
When the jagg'd steel erewhile his shatter'd limb
Slow-sever'd, heaves the tender sigh, unmann'd,
To think how joyfully his coming waits
The doting mother—who shall see him thus!
But ah! no more shall he, the deep-scarr'd veteran,
In his fond arms his dear ones clasp; nor he,
Sad pining after late disease, shall gaze
On inland verdure, nor inhale the airs
Fraught with unnumber'd sweets from flow'rets breathed,
Fresh herbs salubrious, and the steamy earth;
Nor they, who with moist eyes descry these cliffs,
Shall view them nearer, nor with eager step
Print the loved soil; nor shall the trembling sense
Aught seize of an applauding country's shouts,
Save the faint sound by pitying winds convey'd.
For lo! forth rushing from the shore, are sped
The fatal barks, with cruel purpose wing'd,
And sudden torn from yet but fancied joys,
Despotic power condemns them, thus o'ertoil'd,
To labours new, and all the ills of war!
And shall their countrymen her bidding do?
Gods! shall they grasp the unsuspecting hand,
Outstretch'd to greet with honest joy these men
As brothers,—and the mandate fell declare?

TO PSYCHE

ON READING HER POEM.

Who hears the lark's wild rapturous carol shrill,
Nor feels with kindred joy his bosom glow?
Who, the lone owl's loud dismal shriek of woe,
Nor starts as with a sense of coming ill?
The mingled bleatings that at evening fill
The dewy air with tender sounds, that flow
From mother's love, all answering hearts avow,
Such sympathy does nature's voice instil!
What wonder, then, if the enchanting lay
In which the soul of love and virtue blend
Their force resistless, and thy heart pourtray,
While all the Nine their fascination lend,
That the rapt fancy the strong spell obey,
Greeting thee, unknown Psyche! as a friend?

PSYCHE'S ANSWER.

Lady, forgive if late the languid lyre,
At length responsive to thy sweetest lay,
Breathe its low trembling chord with weak essay,
To utter all my grateful thoughts inspire;
Forgive, if vacant of poetic fire
I seem with frigid heart and dull delay
The flattering summons careless to obey;
Woo'd, kindly woo'd, so highly to aspire,
And echo the soft name of friend!—for me,
Alas! for me, in anguish and in fear,
The darkling days have since rolled heavily;
But go, my Psyche! in her partial ear
Whisper the sad excuse; and bid her see
In thine, the “sister form” most fair, most dear!

TRANSLATION OF HORACE'S ODE TO GROSPHUS.

SONG.

[Though I may never more behold]

SONG

[Shall this pale cheek no pity claim]

SONG.

NANNIE ATTIE.

SONG.

[The paleness stealing o'er thy cheek]

The paleness stealing o'er thy cheek
To me betray'd thy pitying thought,
And ill thy faltering tongue could speak
The cruel lesson pride had taught:
Oh give me back the lingering smile,
That bade me hope, though you denied!
Oh let me live in doubt awhile,
And follow, blind, my blindfold guide!

SONG.

[The tell-tale Sun is in the sea]

LINES

[Ever still must I adore thee]

SONNET

ON SEEING THE BUST OF THE LATE SAWREY GILPIN.

My friend! my father! here thy heavenly mien,
Here the last smile thy parting spirit hung
On thy cold lips, as passing forth serene
It sought the fount of love from whence it sprung,
Sorrowing I trace, and think how I have seen
Thy meek eye beam sublime, while rapt thy tongue
Told of Heaven's mercy, as each note had been
To win the wanderer home, divinely strung!
The loved, the honour'd, kind, parental air,
Impress'd upon the cold and senseless stone,
My streaming eye, and bursting heart declare,
As when in youth's wild joyous day, long flown,
With smiles benignant, such as fathers wear,
“My child,” thou saidst, as I had been thine own.

WILLIAM AND SARAH:

A BALLAD.

FABLE.

TO MY CHILD,

IN ANSWER TO HER “VISION OF MIRZA.”

Nay, little dreamer, hear me too!
May I not dream as well as you?
I've visions also, I can tell ye.
Methought, that journeying towards Delhi,
High mounted on a camel's back,
(A hump-back'd, ewe-neck'd, eastern hack),
Exhausted, weary, thirsty, hot,
I 'lighted on a verdant spot,
Where as I sat to rest and muse,
Flowers spread their bosoms of all hues;
And lo! these various flowers among
Gay butterflies in bevies throng!
One little troop I chiefly note,
That in the soft airs idly float,
With gorgeous wings of velvet plume,
Wrought, one would swear, in Iris' loom,
And by her pencil taught to glow
With tints prepared to deck her bow.
But now observe the strangest thing!
These butterflies of glorious wing
Seem'd still to float, with one consent,
From flow'r to flow'r, wherever went
A little yellow butterfly,
Of small regard to catch the eye;
Of such are seen the homely race
That England's lukewarm dog-days grace.
Now this fond, fickle, fluttering fly
Leads to a rose-bud blooming nigh,
And when to taste its sweets they think,
It beckons to the chequer'd pink;
Now round the woodbine shapes its flight,
But cannot fix on which t' alight:
Then flitting sideways towards the lily,
It spies the vulgar daffodilly,
Or wheeling with a pironette,
Sudden descries the violet;
Yet scarcely has the perfume caught
Ere orange flowers claim a thought,
Or gaudy tulips strike its fancy,
Or, “freakt with jet,” th' immortal pansy.
And now methought the evening hour
Stole on the scene, and every flower
Profuse, a double perfume flung,
While dews upon the still air hung.
The blue-bells see the planet sink,
And hang their heads, while daisies wink,
And lapt convolvoluses sleep
Till on their lids again he peep.
'Twas now the little yellow thing
Began to droop the cheerless wing,
And labour in its giddy flight,
Clogg'd by the chilly damps of night.
The butterflies in insect tongue,
Now one and all, or said, or sung,
“Look, sisters! whither flies the Sun?
Ah! whither, ere our race be run?
Just now he gave us life and light,
Nor thought we of such things as Night,
And we have no provision made!
The dew will spoil my rich brocade.”
Cries one, “My golden spots look dim,
That in the sun's beam rival'd him!”
Another, “See, my crimson hue
And purple tints are turning blue!”
The thoughtless troop thus put to rout,
Marked an old bee that buzz'd about,
A plodding, bustling, busy soul,
Who still, en passant, something stole,
Poking within their cups her nose,
Ere sleepy flowers their leaves could close.
Her bundling figure they deride,
With thighs like pockets on each side;
The sober bee their quizzing hears,
And thus she buzzes in their ears:
“To sport beneath a summer sun,
And still from sweet to sweet to run,
To aim at all, on none to dwell,
Is not to taste e'en pleasure well:
Learn from old mother Bee this truth:
Some toil may sweeten even youth.”
Haply this hum-drum, drowsy speech,
Like others fared that wisdom preach;
But such a buzzing round my head
Awoke me—in my own tent bed.

IMITATION OF BURNS.

TO MR. YOUNG,

ON HIS READING TAM O' SHANTER WITH PECULIAR SPIRIT.

ALICE AND MARIAN:

A BALLAD.

TO UGO FOSCOLO,

WITH A SNUFF-BOX.

Ugo, not mine to scan the high control,
That wrings for Ortis' woes the honest tear,
And bids us tremble with Ricciarda's fear,
But to the poet's mastery yield my soul!
The patriot course that shall thy name enroll
'Mong those who most have held their country dear—
More dear her glory! and in exile drear
Have borne their honour'd sorrows—Fame's proud scroll
Shall give to after-times!—My task to tell
Of spells that win thee back to lowly earth,
Though in ideal worlds thy genius dwell;
The beaming eye where wit and softness blend!
The homelier radiance of the social hearth,
Haply, e'en now, this bauble from a Friend!