 | Poetical Trifles |  |
51
THE CHELSEA PENSIONER.
Beneath that mouldering turret's gloomy shade,
Where yonder pines their wide-spread branches wave,
A gallant Veteran rests his weary head,
And with him sleep his sorrows in the grave.
Where yonder pines their wide-spread branches wave,
A gallant Veteran rests his weary head,
And with him sleep his sorrows in the grave.
No breathing art adorns the sacred ground,
Points the tall spire, or bids the trophy rise,
A scanty turf with twisted osier bound
Scarce marks the spot, where buried honour lies.
Points the tall spire, or bids the trophy rise,
A scanty turf with twisted osier bound
Scarce marks the spot, where buried honour lies.
Ah, what avails him? that in youth's gay prime
Each unremitting toil of war he bore,
Each sickly change of every varying clime,
From Europe's strand to Asia's sultry shore;
Each unremitting toil of war he bore,
Each sickly change of every varying clime,
From Europe's strand to Asia's sultry shore;
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How short the glory of the poor man's deeds!
How slight the fame he fondly thinks his own!
In vain he triumphs, or in vain he bleeds,
Alike unwept, unpitied, and unknown.
How slight the fame he fondly thinks his own!
In vain he triumphs, or in vain he bleeds,
Alike unwept, unpitied, and unknown.
Yet though no plumed steeds, no sable car,
Call forth the hireling's mercenary tear,
No blazon'd banners streaming from afar
Flaunt their vain honours o'er thine humble bier;
Call forth the hireling's mercenary tear,
No blazon'd banners streaming from afar
Flaunt their vain honours o'er thine humble bier;
Yet on the margin of the path-worn green,
Near the lov'd spot where thy cold relics rest,
Fair virtue's angel-form shall oft be seen
To bid the turf lie lightly on thy breast.
Near the lov'd spot where thy cold relics rest,
Fair virtue's angel-form shall oft be seen
To bid the turf lie lightly on thy breast.
The thoughtless many, the misjudging croud,
Whose glance scarce beams beyond the present hour,
May idolize the follies of the proud,
Or bend submissive at the shrine of pow'r;
Whose glance scarce beams beyond the present hour,
May idolize the follies of the proud,
Or bend submissive at the shrine of pow'r;
But with the chosen band, the manly few
Whose sober approbation far outweighs,
In reason's scale, the clamorous fickle crew,
And the vain tumult of their fleeting praise—
Whose sober approbation far outweighs,
In reason's scale, the clamorous fickle crew,
And the vain tumult of their fleeting praise—
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—(Scorning the pageantry of pomp, and place)
Their hearts shall pay the tributary sigh
To that poor virtue, from whose humble base
Towr'd the proud columns that insult the sky.
Their hearts shall pay the tributary sigh
To that poor virtue, from whose humble base
Towr'd the proud columns that insult the sky.
Though she, whose beauty's all-enchanting pow'r
Could every sterner care of life beguile,
Whose charms could sooth reflection's sickening hour,
Or bid the cheerless brow of sorrow smile,
Could every sterner care of life beguile,
Whose charms could sooth reflection's sickening hour,
Or bid the cheerless brow of sorrow smile,
Far from these dreary scenes for ever torn,
No more shall animate each rapturous strain,
Now sweetly smiling, now with looks of scorn,
Hiding her heart, that sunk at giving pain:—
No more shall animate each rapturous strain,
Now sweetly smiling, now with looks of scorn,
Hiding her heart, that sunk at giving pain:—
Yet when emerging from the giddy throng,
When every eye but mine is seal'd in rest,
Pensive I walk these time-mark'd walls among,
And kiss the hallow'd ground her footsteps press'd;
When every eye but mine is seal'd in rest,
Pensive I walk these time-mark'd walls among,
And kiss the hallow'd ground her footsteps press'd;
Here while the scenes of former bliss arise,
(Sad source from whence these tears of anguish flow)
Far from the sneering fool, or censuring wise,
I nurse in solitude the seeds of woe—
(Sad source from whence these tears of anguish flow)
Far from the sneering fool, or censuring wise,
I nurse in solitude the seeds of woe—
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—Deaf to the voice of pleasure, or of fame,
Yet not from pity's milder influence free,
E'en then, not unregardful of thy name,
This aching breast shall heave one sigh for thee.
Yet not from pity's milder influence free,
E'en then, not unregardful of thy name,
This aching breast shall heave one sigh for thee.
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