 | Outlines of Edinburgh, and Other Poems |  |
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
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LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING A WATERING PLACE.
Adieu, gay scenes; and oh! adieu
Cheeks brown and fair, eyes black and blue:
And take a parting sigh from me,
Harper, and flute, and fiddlers three:
To sweet sequester'd shades I go,
But not on light fantastic toe;
With leaden footstep, I shall seek
Lanes long, and lonely;—this day week!
Cheeks brown and fair, eyes black and blue:
And take a parting sigh from me,
Harper, and flute, and fiddlers three:
To sweet sequester'd shades I go,
But not on light fantastic toe;
With leaden footstep, I shall seek
Lanes long, and lonely;—this day week!
Here all will then be fair and bright,
Beneath as soft a candlelight;
And beaus and belles will dance about,
A few with grace,—a few without;
Here tutor'd feet will lightly skip,
And rose bud lips weak tea will sip;
And fascinated eyes will seek
For pretty partners—this day week!
Beneath as soft a candlelight;
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A few with grace,—a few without;
Here tutor'd feet will lightly skip,
And rose bud lips weak tea will sip;
And fascinated eyes will seek
For pretty partners—this day week!
The kindling lamps will beam as soon,
The band will play as sweet a tune;
Delighted swains will rove about,
And lead delighted damsels out;
Beaus the fair hands of belles will touch,
And whisper nothings—meaning much;
And some in louder tone will speak,
Unmeaning somethings—this day week!
The band will play as sweet a tune;
Delighted swains will rove about,
And lead delighted damsels out;
Beaus the fair hands of belles will touch,
And whisper nothings—meaning much;
And some in louder tone will speak,
Unmeaning somethings—this day week!
And say will one remember then,
A man—the most forlorn of men;
Who goes upon four wheels away,
Because he must not—dare not stay?
Will some fair nymph with eager glance,
Search for his figure in the dance,
And then will sorrow shade her cheek
When he is absent—this day week?
A man—the most forlorn of men;
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Because he must not—dare not stay?
Will some fair nymph with eager glance,
Search for his figure in the dance,
And then will sorrow shade her cheek
When he is absent—this day week?
No—not a belle who then glides in,
Will make a point of looking thin;—
No hollow eyes of him bereft
Will turn aside from right and left;
No wasted form will steps forget,
And feebly totter through pousette,
Or for his sake with changing cheek,
Go to the bottom—this day week!
Will make a point of looking thin;—
No hollow eyes of him bereft
Will turn aside from right and left;
No wasted form will steps forget,
And feebly totter through pousette,
Or for his sake with changing cheek,
Go to the bottom—this day week!
No! not a charm will cease to be,
No ringlets will uncurl for me;
No form will shrivel for my sake,
No smile will fade, no heart will break:
Here all will then as lightly pass,
Though I shall be turn'd out to grass;
Oh! in the shades I'll die with pique,
I'll blow my brains out—this day week.
No ringlets will uncurl for me;
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No smile will fade, no heart will break:
Here all will then as lightly pass,
Though I shall be turn'd out to grass;
Oh! in the shades I'll die with pique,
I'll blow my brains out—this day week.
My head a green grass turf shall own,
And at my quiet heels a stone;
For on your head no rose I'll view,
And at your heels no satin shoe;
Then I shall have no power to steal
A look at your divine profile;
I shall not scent your huile antique,
Nor tie your cloak on—this day week!
And at my quiet heels a stone;
For on your head no rose I'll view,
And at your heels no satin shoe;
Then I shall have no power to steal
A look at your divine profile;
I shall not scent your huile antique,
Nor tie your cloak on—this day week!
My feet I shall not then inclose,
In dancing pumps, nor silken hose;
But muddy pathways I shall choose,
In most exceedingly thick shoes:
This waistcoat white as unsunn'd snow,
Shall to my old portmanteau go;
Another waistcoat I'll bespeak,
I'll buy a straight one—this day week.
In dancing pumps, nor silken hose;
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In most exceedingly thick shoes:
This waistcoat white as unsunn'd snow,
Shall to my old portmanteau go;
Another waistcoat I'll bespeak,
I'll buy a straight one—this day week.
I rave, I rave, just now I said
A green grass turf should grace my head;
And when men sleep in such a spot,
Waistcoats, and coats become them not:
But if you should forget me here,
My pallid phantom shall appear;
While lights burn blue, my voice shall speak
And scare your senses—this day week.
A green grass turf should grace my head;
And when men sleep in such a spot,
Waistcoats, and coats become them not:
But if you should forget me here,
My pallid phantom shall appear;
While lights burn blue, my voice shall speak
And scare your senses—this day week.
Just as the steward has call'd a dance,
My apparition shall advance;
While harmony forsakes each fiddle,
My bones shall rattle down the middle;
I'll lead you out!—each step we take,
The sea shall foam, the earth shall quake!
Tea cups shall crack, and glasses leak
Containing negus—this day week!
My apparition shall advance;
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My bones shall rattle down the middle;
I'll lead you out!—each step we take,
The sea shall foam, the earth shall quake!
Tea cups shall crack, and glasses leak
Containing negus—this day week!
August, 1820.
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AN ADDRESS,
Spoken by Mr. Bartley before the Tragedy of Adelighita, at Mrs. Bartley's benefit, to introduce a young Lady in the character of Imma.
(Mr. B. just shows his head at the stage door.)
Stop, Mr. Leader—can't you stop a minute?
I've got a speech to speak, and must begin it;
Imma's quite dress'd—and Michael Ducas partly,
Lothair is talking stuff to Mrs. Bartley;
Pray cease—and lay aside your violin—
The Manager declares I must begin:
(Enters.)
I've got a speech to speak, and must begin it;
Imma's quite dress'd—and Michael Ducas partly,
Lothair is talking stuff to Mrs. Bartley;
Pray cease—and lay aside your violin—
The Manager declares I must begin:
Ladies! before yon curtain shall arise
To cause your sobs, your sympathies, and sighs;
Before poor Mrs. Adelghita's griefs
Call forth your extra pockethandkerchiefs,
And Lewis shows you in his Tale of Terrors,
How single belles, should shrink from single errors,—
I come—a kind reception to implore,
For one, who never ventur'd here before;
Who unaccustom'd to fictitious tears,
Now shrinks with real doubts, and real fears.
To cause your sobs, your sympathies, and sighs;
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Call forth your extra pockethandkerchiefs,
And Lewis shows you in his Tale of Terrors,
How single belles, should shrink from single errors,—
I come—a kind reception to implore,
For one, who never ventur'd here before;
Who unaccustom'd to fictitious tears,
Now shrinks with real doubts, and real fears.
She is no stranger here; in former days
The young Musician oft receiv'd your praise,
And now she throws aside her harp to choose
The nobler pleasures of the sister muse:
Her touch was sweet, nor has she lost her skill,
I hope you'll find the minstrel touching still,
And though in new and untried paths she's straying,
Perhaps without her harp, you'll praise her playing.
The young Musician oft receiv'd your praise,
And now she throws aside her harp to choose
The nobler pleasures of the sister muse:
Her touch was sweet, nor has she lost her skill,
I hope you'll find the minstrel touching still,
And though in new and untried paths she's straying,
Perhaps without her harp, you'll praise her playing.
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Then ladies! pray be kind, but hold! I know
That prayer is needless,—you are always so;
And gentlemen!—pray let us hope to find
That you're to-night less critical than kind:
I beg—but no! I'll beg applause from no man,
You must be kind—the novice is a woman.
That prayer is needless,—you are always so;
And gentlemen!—pray let us hope to find
That you're to-night less critical than kind:
I beg—but no! I'll beg applause from no man,
You must be kind—the novice is a woman.
Ask not a mien from error quite exempt,
Seek not perfection in a first attempt;
The voice will lose its strength and firmness too,
When inexperienc'd youth first faces you:
The heart will palpitate, the cheek will burn,
'Till your applause bids confidence return.
Seek not perfection in a first attempt;
The voice will lose its strength and firmness too,
When inexperienc'd youth first faces you:
The heart will palpitate, the cheek will burn,
'Till your applause bids confidence return.
The noble ship first launch'd upon the tide
Tosses with every breeze from side to side;
Turns to and fro, with undirected motion,
A useless mass upon the foaming ocean;
But ably manag'd every storm she braves,
She sails to glory, and she rules the waves!
Tosses with every breeze from side to side;
Turns to and fro, with undirected motion,
A useless mass upon the foaming ocean;
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She sails to glory, and she rules the waves!
We have a launch to-night; with sails unfurl'd,
She comes upon a new, a dangerous world;
Be you her pilots, give her welcome here,
Let sunshine gild the dawn of her career,
Hereafter on your present smiles relying,
Perhaps she'll sail away with colours flying.
She comes upon a new, a dangerous world;
Be you her pilots, give her welcome here,
Let sunshine gild the dawn of her career,
Hereafter on your present smiles relying,
Perhaps she'll sail away with colours flying.
And now my task is done; yet can I see
Yon crowded circles look so kind on me,
And yet of Imma's feelings speak alone?
Ah no! let gratitude pour forth my own,
And hers, who well remembers, when she came
Like this young candidate for future fame,
As young—as fearful—'till your smiles remov'd
All fears—and rais'd her in the course she lov'd.
Yon crowded circles look so kind on me,
And yet of Imma's feelings speak alone?
Ah no! let gratitude pour forth my own,
And hers, who well remembers, when she came
Like this young candidate for future fame,
As young—as fearful—'till your smiles remov'd
All fears—and rais'd her in the course she lov'd.
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This is the place where by your favor first
Her hopes were kindled, and her talents nurs'd;
And oh may every wanderer, who strays
Far from the patrons of his early days,
Should fate conduct him homeward, proudly find,
His former friends thus eloquently kind;
May beauty, smiles, and worth surround him thus,
And give him all the joy—you give to us.
Her hopes were kindled, and her talents nurs'd;
And oh may every wanderer, who strays
Far from the patrons of his early days,
Should fate conduct him homeward, proudly find,
His former friends thus eloquently kind;
May beauty, smiles, and worth surround him thus,
And give him all the joy—you give to us.
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PŒSTUM.
What tow'ring Fanes through countless ages spar'd,
Stand on you plain in grandeur unimpair'd!
No rich proportions of Corinthian style,
No lighter graces deck the noble pile;
But rais'd in Doric mould, those massive forms,
Have brav'd the warfare of a thousand storms.
Stand on you plain in grandeur unimpair'd!
No rich proportions of Corinthian style,
No lighter graces deck the noble pile;
But rais'd in Doric mould, those massive forms,
Have brav'd the warfare of a thousand storms.
Amid the wreck where stone is hurl'd from stone,
In undiminish'd strength they stand alone;
Still may each simple ornament be trac'd,
Each touch which time has soften'd, not effac'd;
Though o'er their front age spreads a wild flower wreath,
The fluted marble rests unchang'd beneath.
In undiminish'd strength they stand alone;
Still may each simple ornament be trac'd,
Each touch which time has soften'd, not effac'd;
Though o'er their front age spreads a wild flower wreath,
The fluted marble rests unchang'd beneath.
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Here Posidonia rose, her dawning sway
Shone o'er the waters of yon lovely bay;—
Still in the midst yon circling ruins serve
To mark the arena's wide extending curve:
These walls once echo'd all the busy strife,
The joys, the fears, the schemes of human life;
Ambition's dream, the warrior's dauntless soul,
The poet's fancy spurning earth's control;
And beauty—matchless in her bright career,
And deem'd almost immortal—triumph'd here:—
Shone o'er the waters of yon lovely bay;—
Still in the midst yon circling ruins serve
To mark the arena's wide extending curve:
These walls once echo'd all the busy strife,
The joys, the fears, the schemes of human life;
Ambition's dream, the warrior's dauntless soul,
The poet's fancy spurning earth's control;
And beauty—matchless in her bright career,
And deem'd almost immortal—triumph'd here:—
Those triumphs are no more,—those forms are flown,
And Time's dark mantle clothes the crumbling stone.
Mighty in arms the Roman conqu'ror came,
And chang'd her laws, her language, and her name;
Augustan minstrels in a foreign tongue,
Of Pœstum's twice expanding roses sung;
Or chose her violets meek unearthly hue,
And rank'd their sweets with hybla's honied dew.
Her children, outcasts in their native home,
Shrunk from the sound of Pœstum and of Rome.
While o'er that home by youthful hopes endear'd,
Triumphant foes their eagle banners rear'd.
Yet still the vanquish'd natives yearly met,
And talk'd of days—the heart can ne'er forget;
Still murmur'd Posidonia's name with tears,
And spoke the language of their happier years.
And Time's dark mantle clothes the crumbling stone.
Mighty in arms the Roman conqu'ror came,
And chang'd her laws, her language, and her name;
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Of Pœstum's twice expanding roses sung;
Or chose her violets meek unearthly hue,
And rank'd their sweets with hybla's honied dew.
Her children, outcasts in their native home,
Shrunk from the sound of Pœstum and of Rome.
While o'er that home by youthful hopes endear'd,
Triumphant foes their eagle banners rear'd.
Yet still the vanquish'd natives yearly met,
And talk'd of days—the heart can ne'er forget;
Still murmur'd Posidonia's name with tears,
And spoke the language of their happier years.
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Soon all was chang'd, each sound of life was hush'd,
The ruthless Arab o'er the ramparts rush'd;
The brand was hurl'd, and like the struggling breath—
The last convulsive energies of death;—
With fatal splendour fir'd, her towers illume
The mountains, and the waves, and all is gloom.
The ruthless Arab o'er the ramparts rush'd;
The brand was hurl'd, and like the struggling breath—
The last convulsive energies of death;—
With fatal splendour fir'd, her towers illume
The mountains, and the waves, and all is gloom.
All save yon lonely forms which stand on high,
In Doric strength, and bold simplicity,
O'er these the with'ring flame, the wintry blast,
And desolation's terrors powerless pass'd;
As if their Gods with tutelary sway,
Watch'd o'er the sacred pile, to shield it from decay.
In Doric strength, and bold simplicity,
O'er these the with'ring flame, the wintry blast,
And desolation's terrors powerless pass'd;
As if their Gods with tutelary sway,
Watch'd o'er the sacred pile, to shield it from decay.
The ruins of an amphitheatre remain, the walls of the city may be traced, and are in some places six feet high.
The Romans on conquering Posidonia changed its name to Pœstum, and also changed its language. But at a yearly festival the old inhabitants met and spoke in their native tongue. Athenæus XIV.
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LINES TO A FRIEND IN AFFLICTION.
Let not your spirit be depress'd,
Though sorrow now obscures your way;
Hope must not leave so young a breast,
Hope still may paint a brighter day.
Though sorrow now obscures your way;
Hope must not leave so young a breast,
Hope still may paint a brighter day.
Repeat not now the sad amount
Of pleasures past; that task is vain;
But turn to cheering thoughts, and count
The joys, and friends that yet remain.
Of pleasures past; that task is vain;
But turn to cheering thoughts, and count
The joys, and friends that yet remain.
Though former dreams of bliss depart,
One pang at least you have not known;
Their loss indeed might wound your heart,
If caus'd by follies of your own.
One pang at least you have not known;
Their loss indeed might wound your heart,
If caus'd by follies of your own.
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A youthful soul should ne'er despond,
Grief soon forsakes a guiltless brow;
Be nobly firm; and look beyond
The shadows that surround you now.
Grief soon forsakes a guiltless brow;
Be nobly firm; and look beyond
The shadows that surround you now.
Look to the friends whose ardent zeal
The day of trial summons forth;
Look to the friends that warmly feel,
And dry the tears of suffering worth.
The day of trial summons forth;
Look to the friends that warmly feel,
And dry the tears of suffering worth.
As those who guard from rain, and cold,
Some tender plant in wintry hours;
With more than common joy behold,
The beauty of its summer flowers:
Some tender plant in wintry hours;
With more than common joy behold,
The beauty of its summer flowers:
So will your friends enraptur'd view
All sorrows from your course remove;
And think each virtue own'd by you,
An overpayment of their love.
All sorrows from your course remove;
And think each virtue own'd by you,
An overpayment of their love.
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TO ANNA
And must I now restore again
Those gifts still dear to me?
Shall no memento now remain,
To waken thoughts of thee?
Then take them back; I cannot know
More grief, since thou art gone;
Yet I will view them ere they go,
And kiss them one by one.
Those gifts still dear to me?
Shall no memento now remain,
To waken thoughts of thee?
Then take them back; I cannot know
More grief, since thou art gone;
Yet I will view them ere they go,
And kiss them one by one.
Take back thy Picture; feebly trac'd
Thy form is copy'd there;
And my first gift, the rose, is plac'd
Amid thy clustering hair:
Thy smiling eyes' unearthly blue
Defy'd the artist's skill;
Yet since those eyes I cannot view,
I'll keep the copy still.
Thy form is copy'd there;
And my first gift, the rose, is plac'd
Amid thy clustering hair:
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Defy'd the artist's skill;
Yet since those eyes I cannot view,
I'll keep the copy still.
Take back the Ring, which never yet
Hath left me night or day;
This heart, alas! can ne'er forget,
Though relics pass away:
Take back the ring—but, oh! too tight,
Too well it fits to move!
If Time can hands and rings unite,
Time ought to strengthen Love.
Hath left me night or day;
This heart, alas! can ne'er forget,
Though relics pass away:
Take back the ring—but, oh! too tight,
Too well it fits to move!
If Time can hands and rings unite,
Time ought to strengthen Love.
Take back the Ivory Tablet too,
It trembles in my grasp;
Tears have not chang'd its snowy hue,
Nor soil'd its silver clasp:
Its page records my faithful vow,
My love—my loss—my grief;
But hold—that theme's forbidden now,
I must not send that leaf.
It trembles in my grasp;
Tears have not chang'd its snowy hue,
Nor soil'd its silver clasp:
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My love—my loss—my grief;
But hold—that theme's forbidden now,
I must not send that leaf.
Take back the Box, where link'd in one,
Our names together twine;
The only place where now your own
Can ne'er be torn from mine:
Yet some, with alter'd glance, may find
Our names united thus;
I'll keep the gift,—it calls to mind
The joys they snatch'd from us.
Our names together twine;
The only place where now your own
Can ne'er be torn from mine:
Yet some, with alter'd glance, may find
Our names united thus;
I'll keep the gift,—it calls to mind
The joys they snatch'd from us.
No, Anna, no! though you return
Each pledge of mine again,
I gaze on yours, and strive to learn
The same sad task—in vain;
Endear'd by former hours of bliss
Those gifts were priz'd before;
Endear'd by all the gloom of this,
I prize them more and more.
Each pledge of mine again,
I gaze on yours, and strive to learn
The same sad task—in vain;
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Those gifts were priz'd before;
Endear'd by all the gloom of this,
I prize them more and more.
The trifling toys which you resign,
Shall never leave me now;
To deck a form less fair than thine,
Or pledge a second vow:
To none but thee my lips repeat
The tale my passion told;
For none but thee my heart shall beat,
Till that sad heart is cold.
Shall never leave me now;
To deck a form less fair than thine,
Or pledge a second vow:
To none but thee my lips repeat
The tale my passion told;
For none but thee my heart shall beat,
Till that sad heart is cold.
They bid me seek, in change of scene,
Forgetfulness of thee;
When wilds and waters intervene
They'll find no change in me;
When one deep sorrow rules the heart,
No cure in flight is found;
A wounded man may shun the dart,
But still retains the wound.
Forgetfulness of thee;
When wilds and waters intervene
They'll find no change in me;
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No cure in flight is found;
A wounded man may shun the dart,
But still retains the wound.
What hope can now my grief console,
Amid life's darkening sea?
What cherish'd thought sustains my soul?
My confidence in thee.
I'll ne'er believe thy future choice
Will bless a happier youth;
I'd silence e'en a friendly voice,
If it should doubt thy truth.
Amid life's darkening sea?
What cherish'd thought sustains my soul?
My confidence in thee.
I'll ne'er believe thy future choice
Will bless a happier youth;
I'd silence e'en a friendly voice,
If it should doubt thy truth.
And though my duty bids me now
All former claims resign,
Though I absolve thee from thy vow,
I cannot cancel mine.
Before we met, Love ne'er gave birth
To one fond smile or tear;
And when we met, I felt that Earth
Held nothing half so dear.
All former claims resign,
Though I absolve thee from thy vow,
I cannot cancel mine.
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To one fond smile or tear;
And when we met, I felt that Earth
Held nothing half so dear.
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A SEA-SIDE REVERIE.
“The voices of the dead, and songs of other years.”
Heber.
Heber.
Is there a place where the souls of the just,
Forsaking mortality's loathsome dust,
In purity rest till that awful day,
When this sorrowing world shall pass away?
When after this short life's terrible close,
And after death's icy and dark repose,
The good and the guilty that trump shall hear—
A summons of joy, or a sound of fear—
That last loud trump, whose awakening call
Shall proclaim the eternal doom of all.
Forsaking mortality's loathsome dust,
In purity rest till that awful day,
When this sorrowing world shall pass away?
When after this short life's terrible close,
And after death's icy and dark repose,
The good and the guilty that trump shall hear—
A summons of joy, or a sound of fear—
That last loud trump, whose awakening call
Shall proclaim the eternal doom of all.
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Is there a place where the spirits of bliss
Can look down on a world so sad as this?
Where, with purest love, they behold the worth
Of the faithful hearts whom they left on earth?
Or can the soul's intellectual flame
Lie torpid and cold with man's mortal frame,
Like that in corruption's arms to await,
An endless pain, or a happier state?
Can the mind of man, the immortal soul,
Which on earth seems bounding from earth's control—
Can that spirit by death to flesh be link'd
All its ardour quench'd, and its hope extinct?
Oh, no! there's a bright and a blissful sphere,
Where it soars when freed from its bondage here;
And it soothes the mourner's heart to think
While in tears he bends o'er the cold grave's brink—
It soothes his sorrowing heart to know,
Though the form he lov'd may moulder below—
The spirit he lov'd—the immortal part—
The truth, and the love, and the goodness of heart,
And the faith which raises the mind to God—
These never can rest in death's dark abode;
And though mortal eyes cannot pierce the gloom,
The mysterious realms beyond the tomb—
Though we know too well, that when life is o'er
The lov'd ones depart, and are seen no more—
Yet we feel (and there's comfort in feeling thus)
They live, though unheard and unseen by us;
And we think, though freed from all earthly ill,
They hover in pity around us still.
Can look down on a world so sad as this?
Where, with purest love, they behold the worth
Of the faithful hearts whom they left on earth?
Or can the soul's intellectual flame
Lie torpid and cold with man's mortal frame,
Like that in corruption's arms to await,
An endless pain, or a happier state?
Can the mind of man, the immortal soul,
Which on earth seems bounding from earth's control—
Can that spirit by death to flesh be link'd
All its ardour quench'd, and its hope extinct?
Oh, no! there's a bright and a blissful sphere,
Where it soars when freed from its bondage here;
And it soothes the mourner's heart to think
While in tears he bends o'er the cold grave's brink—
It soothes his sorrowing heart to know,
Though the form he lov'd may moulder below—
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The truth, and the love, and the goodness of heart,
And the faith which raises the mind to God—
These never can rest in death's dark abode;
And though mortal eyes cannot pierce the gloom,
The mysterious realms beyond the tomb—
Though we know too well, that when life is o'er
The lov'd ones depart, and are seen no more—
Yet we feel (and there's comfort in feeling thus)
They live, though unheard and unseen by us;
And we think, though freed from all earthly ill,
They hover in pity around us still.
Oh! who that has rov'd by the pale moon's light,
In the deep repose of a summer's night—
When the gray mist rests on the meadows green,
And the distant mountains are dimly seen—
When the sea in its rage resounds no more,
But in murmuring whispers seeks the shore,
As calm, as if ever at rest, it flows,
The faithless calm of a lion's repose—
When the tranquil wind is so soft and weak,
That there's warmth in the breeze that fans your cheek—
When nothing is heard but the sea-bird's note,
Or a lively song from a fisherman's boat,
Or the rills which, gushing through arching caves,
At intervals drip in the dark blue waves:—
Oh! who that has rov'd in a night like this,
And thought of the phantoms of boyish bliss—
When every thought must have caus'd a sigh,
And a burning tear for days gone by—
Oh! who has not gaz'd on the clear sky then,
With thoughts never utter'd, though felt by men,
Till his heart was sad, and his eyes were dim,
And the scenes of this world were lost to him;
And, unaided by sight, he seem'd to view
Realms deep in the sky's dark beautiful blue—
Realms brighter than all he had thought most bright—
Delightful, exceeding this world's delight;
With all that his youth thought purest and best,
Made purer and better—by angels blest.
In the deep repose of a summer's night—
When the gray mist rests on the meadows green,
And the distant mountains are dimly seen—
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But in murmuring whispers seeks the shore,
As calm, as if ever at rest, it flows,
The faithless calm of a lion's repose—
When the tranquil wind is so soft and weak,
That there's warmth in the breeze that fans your cheek—
When nothing is heard but the sea-bird's note,
Or a lively song from a fisherman's boat,
Or the rills which, gushing through arching caves,
At intervals drip in the dark blue waves:—
Oh! who that has rov'd in a night like this,
And thought of the phantoms of boyish bliss—
When every thought must have caus'd a sigh,
And a burning tear for days gone by—
Oh! who has not gaz'd on the clear sky then,
With thoughts never utter'd, though felt by men,
Till his heart was sad, and his eyes were dim,
And the scenes of this world were lost to him;
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Realms deep in the sky's dark beautiful blue—
Realms brighter than all he had thought most bright—
Delightful, exceeding this world's delight;
With all that his youth thought purest and best,
Made purer and better—by angels blest.
With feelings like these, I have often stood
Near the ocean, in night's calm solitude,
And gaz'd from the beach and its sounding surge,
To the misty horizon's utmost verge,
Where one soften'd tint is perceiv'd alone,
And water and sky seem to melt in one;
And then while the tremulous moonbeams shine
On the waves, in a dazzling and golden line,
Which, unquench'd and glowing, appears to glide
Like a lava stream through the darker tide:
Then, whilst on the waters I mutely gaze,
I think of the pleasures of other days;
And the faces and forms so sadly dear:
And the words I heard, but no more can hear;
And the tales that can never again be told;
And the pressure of hands that now are cold;—
'Tis then we encourage the fond belief,
That those whom we grieve for behold our grief;
That from them we receive the Hope, which takes
The severest pang from a heart that aches;
And when we remember that they are blest,
And that we are in sorrow, we feel 'tis best
To follow their steps in Death's awful track,
Without one selfish wish to call them back.
Near the ocean, in night's calm solitude,
And gaz'd from the beach and its sounding surge,
To the misty horizon's utmost verge,
Where one soften'd tint is perceiv'd alone,
And water and sky seem to melt in one;
And then while the tremulous moonbeams shine
On the waves, in a dazzling and golden line,
Which, unquench'd and glowing, appears to glide
Like a lava stream through the darker tide:
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I think of the pleasures of other days;
And the faces and forms so sadly dear:
And the words I heard, but no more can hear;
And the tales that can never again be told;
And the pressure of hands that now are cold;—
'Tis then we encourage the fond belief,
That those whom we grieve for behold our grief;
That from them we receive the Hope, which takes
The severest pang from a heart that aches;
And when we remember that they are blest,
And that we are in sorrow, we feel 'tis best
To follow their steps in Death's awful track,
Without one selfish wish to call them back.
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RETROSPECTION.
WRITTEN AT WINCHESTER.
Like the successive clouds, that fly
Across an April morning sky,
Mingling in a few short hours,
The brightest rays, and darkest show'rs,
Thus varied are the days I've seen,
Thus fleeting have my moments been;
Dangerous when dazzling most,
Scarce present, ere for ever lost.
Across an April morning sky,
Mingling in a few short hours,
The brightest rays, and darkest show'rs,
Thus varied are the days I've seen,
Thus fleeting have my moments been;
Dangerous when dazzling most,
Scarce present, ere for ever lost.
Sometimes tranquil, and serene;
Sometimes sad my hours have been;
Sometimes gloomy, sometimes gay,
Months and years have pass'd away.
Sometimes sad my hours have been;
Sometimes gloomy, sometimes gay,
Months and years have pass'd away.
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How swift on Time's unceasing wave,
We glide from childhood to the grave!
Hour by hour,—and day by day,
The happy dreams of youth decay;
For present ills a balm we borrow,
In expectation of to-morrow;
Yet still alas! to-morrow's sun,
Finds us in sorrow journeying on.
Forgetful of life's former gloom,
We live in hopes of joy to come;
Till imperceptibly our prime,
Is wither'd by the storms of Time.
We glide from childhood to the grave!
Hour by hour,—and day by day,
The happy dreams of youth decay;
For present ills a balm we borrow,
In expectation of to-morrow;
Yet still alas! to-morrow's sun,
Finds us in sorrow journeying on.
Forgetful of life's former gloom,
We live in hopes of joy to come;
Till imperceptibly our prime,
Is wither'd by the storms of Time.
Hope builds some fair and flimsy scheme,
And disappointment ends the dream;
We mourn awhile for visions gone,
Time sooths us,—and we still hope on!
Poor mortals! thus the ants prepare
Their little nests with busy care;
Too soon may truant's footsteps spoil
The cells they form'd with so much toil;
They build—and find their labour vain—
The fabric falls,—they build again.
And disappointment ends the dream;
We mourn awhile for visions gone,
Time sooths us,—and we still hope on!
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Their little nests with busy care;
Too soon may truant's footsteps spoil
The cells they form'd with so much toil;
They build—and find their labour vain—
The fabric falls,—they build again.
Winton! these feelings are more sage,
More fit for my maturer age,
Than those wild thoughts for ever past,
Which charm'd me when I left thee last:
More sage—more sad; and it were strange,
If fleeting years had wrought no change,
And I could wander here, and find
The boyish heart I left behind.
More fit for my maturer age,
Than those wild thoughts for ever past,
Which charm'd me when I left thee last:
More sage—more sad; and it were strange,
If fleeting years had wrought no change,
And I could wander here, and find
The boyish heart I left behind.
Yes, here I rove, but there are none
Who knew me here, they all are gone;
All the young crew, the best, the worst,
The gayest—wildest—all disperst!
I stand alone, and find the place
Devoted to another race;
Who gaze at me with boyish air;
The counterparts of what we were.
Who knew me here, they all are gone;
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The gayest—wildest—all disperst!
I stand alone, and find the place
Devoted to another race;
Who gaze at me with boyish air;
The counterparts of what we were.
Yes, o'er the field we sported thus,
As if the world were made for us;
Earth's brightest joy, a noisy play,
And life's best gift—a holiday!
As if the world were made for us;
Earth's brightest joy, a noisy play,
And life's best gift—a holiday!
Too soon does boyhood's artless grace
To manhood's lofty form give place;
And manhood's spirit,—vigour, strength,
To feeble age must yield at length:
But thoughtless boyhood is array'd
With more of sunshine, less of shade;
Than we e'er view upon the page
Of manhood, or declining age:
Warm imagination, then
Overlooks the ills of men;
And glancing o'er the prospect wide,
Dwells only on the brightest side.
To manhood's lofty form give place;
And manhood's spirit,—vigour, strength,
To feeble age must yield at length:
But thoughtless boyhood is array'd
With more of sunshine, less of shade;
89
Of manhood, or declining age:
Warm imagination, then
Overlooks the ills of men;
And glancing o'er the prospect wide,
Dwells only on the brightest side.
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SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ---
Is she another's!—Is she not
Still mine, still constant,—still the same!
Can she,—can Rosa have forgot
My love—my fond acknowledg'd claim.
Still mine, still constant,—still the same!
Can she,—can Rosa have forgot
My love—my fond acknowledg'd claim.
From her own lips the tale must come,
From her—who if that tale be truth;
Has thrown a dark—a chilling gloom
O'er the fair prospects of my youth.
From her—who if that tale be truth;
Has thrown a dark—a chilling gloom
O'er the fair prospects of my youth.
Rosa must tell of shame like this,
Her foes would seek belief in vain;
If she has clos'd my dawning bliss,
She will not shudder at my pain.
Her foes would seek belief in vain;
If she has clos'd my dawning bliss,
She will not shudder at my pain.
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She must convince me that the past,
Was all delusion,—all mistake!
And I perhaps may learn at last,
To love deceit—for Rosa's sake.
Was all delusion,—all mistake!
And I perhaps may learn at last,
To love deceit—for Rosa's sake.
Let none to me her faults impart,
I mourn'd those faults,—but never blam'd;
And though her follies break my heart,
I will not hear those follies nam'd.
I mourn'd those faults,—but never blam'd;
And though her follies break my heart,
I will not hear those follies nam'd.
Ah! when I think the time has been
When I was flatter'd, and preferr'd;—
The fascinating smiles I've seen,—
The fond—unmeaning vows I've heard.
When I was flatter'd, and preferr'd;—
The fascinating smiles I've seen,—
The fond—unmeaning vows I've heard.
Those smiles so beautifully sweet,—
Those vows implicitly believ'd;
Oh! if they were indeed deceit,
'Tis dreadful to be undeceiv'd.
Those vows implicitly believ'd;
Oh! if they were indeed deceit,
'Tis dreadful to be undeceiv'd.
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Perhaps my tongue but faintly told
The tale—it scarcely dar'd to tell;
Perhaps she thought my manner cold,
Too cold for one who lov'd her well.
The tale—it scarcely dar'd to tell;
Perhaps she thought my manner cold,
Too cold for one who lov'd her well.
But hope and joy were then at stake,
My fate upon her answer hung;
Ah! surely Rosa then might make
Excuses for a faltering tongue.
My fate upon her answer hung;
Ah! surely Rosa then might make
Excuses for a faltering tongue.
Why is it that when hearts adore
One faultless mind; one form, one face;
If love is cross'd—they love no more—
Another ne'er can fill the place.
One faultless mind; one form, one face;
If love is cross'd—they love no more—
Another ne'er can fill the place.
Is it because in after years,
We seek its counterpart in vain;
Youth quits his dream of love with tears,
And trembles e'er he trusts again.
We seek its counterpart in vain;
Youth quits his dream of love with tears,
And trembles e'er he trusts again.
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May my gay rival's love protect
The treasure I must now renounce;
Nor cause her by unkind neglect
To sigh for him she valu'd once.
The treasure I must now renounce;
Nor cause her by unkind neglect
To sigh for him she valu'd once.
I must forget her now—but no!
I feel that this can never be:—
The last—best wish I can bestow,
Is—that she ne'er may think of me.
I feel that this can never be:—
The last—best wish I can bestow,
Is—that she ne'er may think of me.
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WRITTEN WHEN ABSENT FROM ANNA.
Whate'er our fate may be, 'tis sweet to think
We are not quite forgotten when we rove;
We cannot be quite wretched, if one link
Still binds us to a being we can love:
In town, or solitude, in camp or grove,
Who would not wish some lovely hand to trace
Our distant wanderings, where'er we move?
E'en home itself must be a distant place,
Till brighten'd by the smile of some familiar face.
We are not quite forgotten when we rove;
We cannot be quite wretched, if one link
Still binds us to a being we can love:
In town, or solitude, in camp or grove,
Who would not wish some lovely hand to trace
Our distant wanderings, where'er we move?
E'en home itself must be a distant place,
Till brighten'd by the smile of some familiar face.
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He who has lov'd, must know too well how soon
A trifling circumstance may throw a shade
Upon his pleasure.—A remember'd tune
Recalls the image of some fav'rite maid,
Who danc'd it with him; then how quickly fade
The noise and bustle of the festive night!
The ball, the play, the lively serenade,
And ev'ry moment of their past delight,
In one swift glance of thought were brought before his sight.
A trifling circumstance may throw a shade
Upon his pleasure.—A remember'd tune
Recalls the image of some fav'rite maid,
Who danc'd it with him; then how quickly fade
The noise and bustle of the festive night!
The ball, the play, the lively serenade,
And ev'ry moment of their past delight,
In one swift glance of thought were brought before his sight.
He who has never lov'd, can never know
Feelings like these: his soul can ne'er aspire
Beyond realities of joy and woe;
Self is the aim and end of his desire:
But love's imagination soars far higher;
Its sorrows are more keen, but it o'erpays
All sense of sorrow with affection's fire:
Tempests and sun-beams mingle in his ways;
Who would not have his storms, to bask beneath his rays?
Feelings like these: his soul can ne'er aspire
Beyond realities of joy and woe;
Self is the aim and end of his desire:
But love's imagination soars far higher;
Its sorrows are more keen, but it o'erpays
All sense of sorrow with affection's fire:
Tempests and sun-beams mingle in his ways;
Who would not have his storms, to bask beneath his rays?
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He who has flown with rapture to receive
A long expected letter; he can tell
What bliss a line from her he loves can give;
And though upon the page perhaps may dwell
The sad expressions of a fond farewell;
He finds in every accent of despair,
A fond assurance that she loves him well:
And while he reads the tokens of her care,
He almost views the form of her who plac'd them there.
A long expected letter; he can tell
What bliss a line from her he loves can give;
And though upon the page perhaps may dwell
The sad expressions of a fond farewell;
He finds in every accent of despair,
A fond assurance that she loves him well:
And while he reads the tokens of her care,
He almost views the form of her who plac'd them there.
Dear is the occupation which he heard
Her lips approve, and precious to him then
The volumes she perus'd, for every word
Which she has look'd upon, appears to gain
A magic force; as if it could retain
The lustre of her glances. Love has thrown
A spell o'er all she did, her songs remain
Sweetest to him; a sweetness not their own;
'Tis that her lips have left a charm on every tone.
Her lips approve, and precious to him then
The volumes she perus'd, for every word
Which she has look'd upon, appears to gain
A magic force; as if it could retain
The lustre of her glances. Love has thrown
A spell o'er all she did, her songs remain
Sweetest to him; a sweetness not their own;
'Tis that her lips have left a charm on every tone.
FINTS
| Outlines of Edinburgh, and Other Poems | |