Poems (1806) :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems (1806)

Polwhele, Richard (1760-1838)

VOL. I

Elegiac Pieces.

TO A GENTLEMAN, WHO SHED TEARS IN COMPANY ON THE INTELLIGENCE THAT A FRIEND HAD DIED AT SEA OF A FRENZY FEVER.

LAURA's RINGLET.

IN MEMORY OF THE LATE Mr. RACK, OF BATH.

IN MEMORY OF THE LATE Mr. SLEECH, ARCHDEACON OF CORNWALL.

IN MEMORY OF THE LATE Mrs. DOBSON, OF EXETER.

II.

VOL. II.

LYRIC PIECES.

ODE TO SLEEP,

ODE ON THE ISLE OF MANN,

ODE WRITTEN AFTER A THUNDER-STORM.

ODE WRITTEN IN A PICTURE-GALLERY.

PART OF THE EPICEDIUM OF REGNER LODBROG, TRANSLATED.

ODE ON THE SUSCEPTIBILITY OF THE POETICAL MIND.

HEROIC PIECES.

CLAUDIAN's RAPE of PROSERPINE.

BOOK THE FIRST.

BOOK THE SECOND.

ADDRESSES.

AN ADDRESS, INTRODUCTORY OF Mrs. SIDDONS,

AN ADDRESS, SPOKEN BY Mrs. SIDDONS,

A POETICAL ADDRESS TO A WIDOW LADY, OVER A DISH OF TEA IN HER HERMITAGE.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

SONNET VII. TO A YOUNG LADY, ON HER WEARING A VEIL,

VIII.

SONNET VIII. TO A COLLEGE FRIEND; ON HIS EXPRESSING HIS APPREHENSIONS, THAT THE AUTHOR HAD FORGOTTEN HIM.

SONNET X. TO THE SAME. [A COLLEGE FRIEND]

XI.

SONNET XI. TO THE SAME. [A COLLEGE FRIEND]

SONGS.

SONG I.

II.

SONG II.

III.

SONG III. THE BLUSH OF SIMPLICITY.

IV.

SONG IV. THE FAINTING KISS.

SONG V.

VI.

SONG VI.

VIII.

SONG VIII. To Miss S*****.

EPITAPHS.

ON THOMAS POLWHELE, Esq; LATE OF POLWHELE, BY THE REVEREND J. B. C. OF GLYNN.

ON TWO CHILDREN OF R. POLWHELE, BURIED IN THE SAME GRAVE,

LINES TO THE MEMORY OF BRIGADIER GENERAL HOPE, GOVERNOR OF QUEBEC,

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

PART OF THE EPICEDIUM OF REGNER LODBROG, TRANSLATED.

‘What's surer to the warrior brave,
‘Than to meet death's grisly form—
‘Though he seem to mock the grave,
‘Firm amidst the battle's storm?

‘He alone in sorrow dies,
‘Who hath never felt a pang!
‘Lo, where pale the dastard flies,
‘Eagles stretch the bloody fang.

‘Life its lingering light in vain
‘To the coward soul affords;
‘While he dreads the carnag'd plain,
‘Trembling at the sport of swords.

‘Fairly match'd to battle go:
‘This is glorious—this is great!
‘Striplings, deal the mutual blow,
‘Nor let man from man retreat.

‘Long was this the warrior's fame—
‘Foremost in the roar of arms!
‘'Till such valour marks thy name,
‘ Claim not thou the virgin's charms!

‘Led by destiny, we fight;
‘And, if fate our being bound,
‘Seldom 'tis in mortal might
‘To o'erstep the iron mound.

‘Little did my heart forebode
‘Ella's power to take my life,
‘On the day when vengeance glow'd,
‘Snuffing wild the hostile strife;

‘Fainting when I cover'd o'er
‘Torrents of my fever'd blood;
‘And, in haste, from off the shore
‘Push'd my bark into the flood.

‘Then, on every Scottish bay,
‘All in triumph, had we spread
‘The repast for beasts of prey
‘Gorg'd with bodies of the dead.

‘Yet I glory!—yet I laugh!
‘Since I know, while now I fall,
‘With my comrades I shall quaff
‘Mantling ale in Balder's hall.

‘Yes! on many a festal bench—
‘Yes! our joys shall then be full,
‘When our thirst we shouting quench
‘From the Foeman's hollow skull.

‘Courage never drooping there
‘Groan'd at death, in Odin's dome!
‘Nor with accents of despair
‘To the destin'd hall I come.

‘Now would all Aslauga's race
‘Rush to battle, red with ire,
‘Could they see their father's face;
‘Could they see their writhing sire.

‘To my sons a nurse I've giv'n,
‘Who with valour fill'd their heart—
‘Ah! I feel my body riv'n!
‘Ah! I feel the venom'd smart!

‘Many a viper tears my limbs;
‘Lo! I hurry to my end!
‘Dim in death, each eye-ball swims—
‘Snakes my inmost bosom rend!

‘Yet, I trust, my sons will drench
‘Swift their spears in Ella's breast,
‘From his hands the sceptre wrench;
‘Nor repose in idle rest.

‘Fifty battles have I fought,
‘Rearing the tall standard high:
‘And my early youth was taught
‘Deep in blood the sword to dye.

‘Then I hop'd no earthly king
‘More renown'd than I, drew breath—
‘Ah! I feel the mortal sting!
‘But I must not mourn my death.

‘The terrific Dysæ call!
‘Let me—let me close my song—
‘Odin sent them from his hall—
‘How they beckon! how they throng!

‘On a lofty seat elate,
‘I shall quaff the foaming ale;
‘With the goddesses of fate,
‘And with Odin's self regale.

‘Now my bright career is run!
‘Quivers yet my vital fire!
‘Gasping—panting—lo! 'tis done!
‘With a smile I shall expire!’

None but the brave deserve the fair. Dryden.

His enemy, who had condemned him to death.