Tancred :: :: University of Virginia Library

Tancred

A Tale; And Other Poems. By the Author of Conrad, A Tragedy [i.e. Alfred Bunn]

Bunn, Alfred (1796?-1860)

PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF “THE BROKEN HEART,”

ON THE DEATH OF WALTER JAMES, ESQ.

ON THE DEATH OF SARAH, WIFE OF JOHN GRAY, ESQ. OF NEWCASTLE.

TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. HENRY ARNOLD,

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A LADY, TO A GENTLEMAN, WITH A PRESENT OF A RING.

THE VOYAGE OF TIME.

BATH, TO A FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY.

UPON THE AMATEUR PERFORMANCES AT THE BATH THEATRE.

CHORUS OF OUTLAWS.

SONGS.

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TANCRED.

Far from his much-loved home, from that sweet Isle
By nature favoured with her brightest smile;
Almost to hope, to friends, to country lost,
Young Tancred languish'd on a foreign coast:
Slave to a Moorish despot, he had borne
For two long years the tyranny and scorn
Of proud oppression, whose inventive pains
Lent deeper venom to his galling chains.

The sun had sunk, the toilsome day was o'er—
Stretch'd on the wild and solitary shore,
His thoughts flew homewards, and his sleepless eyes
With mournful gaze were fix'd upon the skies,

Whose starry lamps illum'd the happy strand,
The flower-deck'd vales which blest his native land;
In waking dreams by Fancy's magic aid,
Home, country, kindred, friends, were all pourtray'd;
His bonds were snapp'd, he cross'd the foaming main,
And saw his castle's battlements again;
A thousand welcomes burst upon his ear—
His cheek was moisten'd by a father's tear!
A fairy form of more than mortal charms,
With modest rapture clasp'd him in her arms,
And he was blest!—Yet was that vision sweet
A coinage of the brain, a fond deceit,
Which in the vivid colouring of youth
Was drawn so strongly, that he thought it truth.

Before the capture of his bark, which gave
The bitter lot—life as a fetter'd slave!
Heir to proud titles, by his sire's command,
Tho' his young heart was free, he pledg'd his hand;
So little reck'd he, in those careless years,
Of female charms, of love's fond hopes and fears,

That all in vain the fair Florinda tried,
From rural sports to win him to her side:
But by misfortunes weaken'd, and subdu'd,
To soothe his soul, and cheer his solitude,
Creative Fancy all her art employ'd,
To fill his aching bosom's dreary void.
Deck'd with each charm and attribute divine,
She rear'd an Image on the vacant shrine;
With lavish hand, and bounty unconfin'd,
Adorn'd her person, and enrich'd her mind,
With power to raise a fierce and quenchless flame,
And gave the lovely form Florinda's name.

The moon had risen, Tancred loved its beams,
And starting from his fond illusive dreams,
With a light step he paced the lonely strand,
(His thoughts still clinging to his native land);
Arriv'd at ocean's verge, with glad surprise,
A sight unhoped-for, met his eager eyes,
An empty boat!—with joy he seiz'd an oar,
Leap'd in, and push'd his vessel from the shore.

Abandoned to the faithless element,
Hope to his soul undaunted courage lent;
He gazed upon the wide and pathless sea,
And felt but one sensation—he was free!
With nervous arm throughout the live-long night,
He plied the oars, and morning's rosy light
Broke on his toil; the noon-tide sun had shed
Fierce scorching rays on his unshelter'd head,
E'er his firm spirit yielded to the pain
Which seiz'd his frame, and raged thro' every vein.
Subdued at length by agony intense,
A death-like stupor seized upon each sense;
He sunk exhausted, but he felt not less
His desolate and hopeless wretchedness:
Thirst on his lips, and fever in his blood,
His fragile vessel drifted through the flood,
The ocean desert, horribly sublime,
The only tenant of the burning clime.
Famine within, above, around, beneath,
No hope, no prospect, save a lingering death;
Yet Tancred's soul sustain'd him in that hour,
And evening brought a soft refreshing shower,

Which laved his brow, and cool'd his fever'd brain,
And gave his tortur'd limbs relief from pain.
Another night, another morning came,
His wearied mind, his unresisting frame
Could bear no more.—Oh, must the lonely wave,
So young, so lovely, prove his nameless grave?

Pale and subdued he lay, yet still his bright,
His dark, and flashing eyes retain'd their light;
His sable locks curl'd round his polish'd brow,
Which seemed indeed transform'd to marble now;
His sever'd lips had lost their crimson glow,
Yet showed his pearly teeth's untainted snow,
His graceful limbs, in fair proportion cast,
No sculptur'd Gods, or living form surpass'd;
And floating on that calm and desert sea,
He seemed of ocean's depths, the Deity.

And must he die?—Why is the human mind
So seldom to its mortal lot resign'd,
Even with those whose dreary life has been
Of bitter woe, one dark, unchanging scene?

Tancred was saved!—Death glared upon his prey,
Yet in his grasp the prize was snatch'd away,
His bark, abandoned to the swelling tide,
A wandering vessel's crew at length descried;
They bore him to their deck, nor tried in vain
To call his fleeting soul to life again.

To his dim eye, how grateful was the sight
Of human forms; how vivid the delight
Which thrill'd his senses, as his grief-dull'd ear
Caught the melodious sounds he long'd to hear,—
The accents of his country!—He was free,
'Mid christians, friends, and bound to Sicily,
His own loved island!—every care was o'er,
No grief could touch him on that happy shore.
In sweet forgetfulness of former woes,
His wearied frame enjoy'd a long repose.
He woke refresh'd, and as his strength return'd,
His ardent mind with strong impatience burn'd,
To learn some tidings of his friends.—He sought
The captain of the bark, and deeply fraught
With strong emotion, ask'd the question brief,
“Is Count Orsini still alive?” The chief

Replied, “Speak low, so justly dear to fame,
“That honor'd title now 'tis death to name:
“Hast thou not heard?”—“What?—Tell me all the worst,
“My brain's on fire, my throbbing heart will burst!
“Speak, good Andreas, ere my senses fail.”—
“Alas, alas! it is a dreadful tale,
“And thou art weak.”—“Oh! I am nerved to bear
“All, save suspense,—then quickly tell me where,
“And how he fell? Was it in battle?”—“No—
“I will be brief—six weary months ago
“Our King Fernando died, by poison,—fame
“Was busy with his kinsman Bertram's name,
“The self-created Regent, and 'twas fear'd
“His cousin's children would not long be spar'd.
“The Count Orsini, with a loyal band,
“(The firm supporters of their native land),
“Rallied around, and in an happy hour,
“Snatch'd young Fernando from the tyrant's power:
“They fled by sea—the fragile bark which bore
“The gallant hero from Sicilia's shore,
“Was wreck'd. Toil-spent, in mean disguise array'd,
“Orsini sought a friend—that friend betray'd,

“Basely betray'd for gold, his trusting guest”—
“In mercy hold!—I know, I know the rest—
“He perish'd on a scaffold! What became
“Of him, the treach'rous fiend thou didst not name?”
“The guerdon of his guilt, the forfeit lands
“Of Count Orsini, Altobrand commands:
“These were the price of honor; these the foul,
“The mean incentives of his abject soul.—
“But thou art pale—with horror I descry
“A gloomy wildness in thy flashing eye.
“Oh, if Orsini to thine heart was dear—
“That ghastly smile is dreadful!—let the tear
“Ease thy full breast—the dry and silent grief
“Which scorns the dewy treasures soft relief,
“Will fire thy blood, and sear thy madd'ning brain,
“And bind each tortur'd sense in frenzy's chain:
“Calm thy perturbed spirit; thou shalt find
“A better fortune, and a fate more kind.”

Tancred was silent, and his tearless eye
Alone betrayed the bitter agony

Which wrung his soul, in one short hour depriv'd
Of kindred and of name: he had surviv'd,
E'en in his greenest youth, all that could bless
His future life with hope and happiness,
All save revenge—the soul-inspiring thought
Fierce consolation to his spirit brought;
Quick from the ground he rais'd his kindling eyes,
And calling on the earth, the sea, the skies,
All things immutable and fix'd, to bear
Their witness to his oath, in stern despair
He breath'd the mental vow, of import fell.
His active mind, rous'd by the powerful spell,
Found, tho' ambition's early hopes were cross'd,
Tho' fortune, honors, lovers, friends, were lost,
Tho' the gay world, fraught with such power to bless,
To him was but a barren wilderness;
Still there remain'd one object to engage,
And cheer with hope his lonely pilgrimage,—
'Twas Vengeance! and his heart, by anguish riven,
Spurn'd earth's best joys, and ask'd but this from Heaven!

Now calmly floating on the summer sea,
The vessel nearer drew to Sicily,

And Tancred bade a grateful, warm adieu,
To good Andreas and his jocund crew,
And sought the shore—he landed near the tow'rs,
The much-lov'd shelter of his youthful hours,
And shuddering as he pass'd them, bent his way
Through paths impervious to the light of day:
Their steep and secret mazes led him on
To half the mountain's height, and pleasure shone
Unwonted in his eyes, as he beheld
The favourite spot a boyish whim conceal'd
With jealous fondness from each young compeer,
In all its sacred solitude—Oh, here,
In this wild hermitage, accessible
To him alone, securely he could dwell,
And brood o'er all his wrongs, and meditate
The means to gratify his quenchless hate.—
For other purpose form'd, a calm retreat,
A grateful shelter from the noontide heat,
Young Tancred clear'd the cave, and twin'd the bower—
The fond employment of an happier hour,
And deck'd his fairy palace with the spoils,
The shaggy trophies of his sylvan toils;

And here his bow, and here his javelin hung,
And here were all his much-priz'd treasures flung,
The broad-sword and the dagger; here was seen
The vest of pride, the hunter's simple green;
All that could pleasure to his heart afford
In early youth, profusely here was stor'd.

Doubly endear'd to Tancred was the cell,
Which, in his boyish days he lov'd so well;
In truth, 'twas beautiful! a narrow glade
In front, a smooth and natural platform made;
Bold and fantastic rocks of granite rear'd
Their points behind the cave! 'Mid them appear'd
Gay tufts of limes and almonds, flinging high
Their perfum'd blossoms to the cloudless sky;
Above, in all its icy horrors bleak,
Arose the giant mountain's snow-clad peak;
A crystal rill pour'd forth its fairy tide,
And, having first a tiny lake supplied,
Fell in a shower of spangles from the height,
Then through a pebbly channel urged its flight,

And gurgling, pour'd its pure and silv'ry floods
Thro' the deep masses of the mantling woods,
Which cloth'd the steep precipitous descent,
And to wild rocks their verdant honors lent.
Perch'd like the eagle's eirie in the air,
From Tancred's bower appear'd a prospect fair:
In front the ocean, far as eye could reach,
Roll'd its broad waters to the glittering beach,
And wash'd the outworks of a castle's wall,
Which rear'd its frowning turrets, dark and tall,
Upon the plain below, that far and wide
Spread its rich pastures from the mountain's side;
Whilst to the left a gloomy forest rose,
Meeting the giant cliff's untainted snows.
The desert spot, by nature kindly grac'd,
Deriv'd new beauties from the hand of taste,
Who bade the fig and olive intertwine
With clustering garlands of the rosy vine,
Which screen'd the entrance of the cave, and made
A simple, yet a lovely colonnade;
And all around in rich luxuriance bloom'd
The gayest flowrets, and the breeze perfum'd,

Breath'd nought but fragrance, as it gently play'd
Amid the vernal bower's delightful shade.
Such was the hermitage which smil'd serene,
Soothing the savage wildness of the scene.

Of castled halls, of wide domains bereft,
This narrow mountain-cave alone was left
To Tancred for a resting place: he view'd
With joy its unpolluted solitude;
He cast away his tatter'd weeds, to lave
His fever'd limbs in the sweet lake's cool wave;
And from the bath's delightful freshness, rose
Tranquil, to seek his mossy bed's repose:
His temperate appetite, the earth's plain roots,
The stream's pure bev'rage, and the mountain's fruits
Sufficed: he wore his hunter's garb, but ne'er
Pursued the sylvan game with bow or spear.
On other thoughts intent, his ardent mind
To hopes, and schemes of vengeance, he resign'd;
But vague and bootless all, he gazed for hours
O'er the rich park, and on the castle's towers,

And curs'd the powerless hand which could not rend
The fair dominions from the treach'rous fiend
Who now possess'd them. Weeks and months roll'd on,
And Tancred's harden'd heart seem'd turn'd to stone;
So long of human intercourse depriv'd,
All kindly feelings he had now surviv'd.
The eagle, and the wolf, companions meet,
Secure and fearless shar'd his wild retreat.
Not this the friendship we so often trace,
Between the savage and the social race,
When by domestic arts, to man allied,
The wood's stern monarch quells his native pride;
But here untam'd and fierce, the savage ran
In most unnatural union with man.
Yet 'mid their brutal manners, they betray'd
Their brutal virtues—patience they display'd,
And perseverance—couch'd within his lair,
Or fix'd immoveable in upper air,
The eagle and the wolf, the live-long day
Untiring followed their devoted prey,
With the keen glance which track'd the victim through
Each secret maze, and could each flight pursue,

Till in the fatal circle drawn, the prize
Within their pow'r, and at their mercy lies;
Or baffled, unsubdued by famine's pain,
Slowly withdrew, or tried the chase again.

Tancred's enquiring spirit soon discern'd
Their useful habits, and from them he learn'd
To quell his rage, and seek the happy hour
When chance should give his foeman to his power.
And now he left his secret haunt, and stood
Conceal'd amid the mantling underwood
That lent its friendly covert to the glade,
Where the wild boar, and where the roe-buck stray'd;
For here the chase Count Altobrand pursued,
A trial stern for Tancred's fortitude,
Who saw the gallant train come sweeping by,
Cheer'd by the deep-ton'd bugle's minstrelsy.
Within his narrow leafy citadel
For hours he stood a weary sentinel;
And oft his flashing, penetrating eye,
Glar'd full upon his hated enemy;

But unavailing were his hopes—the train
Kept its firm phalanx till it left the plain.
'Twas only in his dreams that he could meet
His foe alone—how oft his heart would beat
With high emotion, as the vision stole
In bright reality upon his soul!
Grappling upon the mountain precipice,
The struggling wretch amid the dark abyss
He hurl'd with horrid joy, or frowning gave
His corse, yet reeking, to the ocean's wave.
He woke in agony—the foe, secure,
Unharm'd remain'd—Oh, rather than endure
The gnawing anguish of his baffled hate,
He'd seek the castle, and his vengeance sate
Upon his sleeping enemy. He knew
A secret passage; faithful memory drew
The private staircase, and the path which wound
From the wide portal to the utmost bound
Of the vast edifice, and entrance gave,
By springs constructed in each architrave,
To ev'ry chamber—madd'ning at the thought
Of the wide ruin Altobrand had wrought,

But that his native nobleness of heart
Disdain'd to act the dark assassin's part,
He had assail'd him in his sleep, and sent
His guilty soul to endless punishment.

Revolving schemes of vengeance, in the shade
Of his vine-cluster'd bower, supine he laid.
On one eventful day, the scorching sun
But half his enervating course had run,
And the lone exile, tho' so joyless, still
Enjoy'd the cooling freshness of the rill
Which from the fissures of the cavern gush'd,
Making its soothing music—all was hush'd;
So still the air, that not the slightest breeze
Wafted the blossoms from the orange trees;
Sudden a sound unwonted struck his ear—
An human footstep, and so very near,
That ere he could arise to meet his guest,
The bold disturber of his noontide rest,
The invader, enter'd—'twas a thing of light,
A form so dazzling, exquisite, and bright,

That Tancred fancied, to his griefs were given
An Angel visitant from pitying Heaven.
Yet the blue eye, the locks of burnish'd gold,
Which the snow-tinctur'd, polish'd brows enroll'd;
The ruby lip, the panting breast's alarms,
Were mundane all—a lovely mortal's charms!

Wandering amid the mountain's mazy round,
The secret path the beauteous stranger found;
By eager curiosity beguil'd,
Fearless she trod the dark and unknown wild,
And her amazement equall'd Tancred's, when
She rous'd an human inmate of the den;
A form of kindred beauty, the dark eye,
The glossy silken curls of ebon dye,
The noble daring of the mind, which lent
Its lustre to each faultless lineament;
The well-turn'd limbs with manly strength endued,
Stretch'd in an easy, graceful attitude,
A moment's eager, rapid glance reveal'd,
And all her agitating terrors quell'd:

Yet still she turn'd to fly; but Tancred rose,
And strove by gentle greetings to oppose
The swift retreat she meditated—faint
And weary, welcome was the mild restraint
Which forc'd her to remain—the offer'd seat,
Mossy, and shelter'd from the burning heat,
The freshly-gather'd fruit, the cup, which gave
The crystal treasures of the fount's pure wave;
These she accepted with a frank and free,
Tho' modest, yet confiding courtesy.
Recover'd from her first surprize, she gaz'd
Around the cavern and the bower, amaz'd:
She saw the rude-form'd lamp, the humble bed
With shaggy skins of bears and wolves o'erspread;
The garments, and the arms; the winter store
Of figs and raisins, piled upon the floor,
Which gave their strong, tho' silent evidence,
That this must be the only residence
Her host could claim. The full conviction brought
A fresh alarm—she quickly quell'd the thought—
He could not be a robber—Honour sate
Upon his brow enthron'd in regal state:

His eye's undaunted glance, the open smile,
So free from aught like treachery or guile,
Forbade all fear—she would enquire his lot,
The cause which led him to the mountain grot:
Perchance her better fortune might enlarge
His comforts, and her grateful debt discharge.
She spoke; the silvery accents, soft and clear,
Fell like celestial music on his ear;
Raptur'd he listen'd to the melting voice
Which taught his wounded spirit to rejoice;
Sweetly assur'd him in the desert waste,
Of this unfeeling world he yet might taste
The charms of friendship—animating hope
Cheer'd the torn bosom of the misanthrope;
The heart from moody pride not unexempt,
Which deem'd all human pity keen contempt,
And sternly lock'd its secret, and its grief,
From the world's knowledge, and the world's relief,
Now melted, as the sound of kindness stole
With such sweet energy upon his soul.
With youth's unhesitating confidence,
And truth, and nature's powerful eloquence,

He told his story, and the blushing cheek,
The half-drawn sigh, the falling tears, bespeak
The list'ner's deep-felt interest in the tale:
His vessel's capture by a Moorish sail;
His long and toilsome slavery; the chance
Which wrought his wonderful deliverance,
Call'd forth these tender sympathies;—but when
The cause which drove him from the haunts of men,
He told with flaming cheek and flashing eye,
A shriek of wild and fearful agony
Burst from her lips,—she cried in strong despair,
“Oh, basely injur'd, Heaven has heard thy pray'r!
“Sate thy too just revenge—Here, Tancred, here,
“Within this bosom deeply plunge thy spear!
“Nay, start not, shrink not from the deed, for know,
“I am Rosalia, daughter to thy foe!
“A willing victim, if her death may save
“A guilty parent from a blood-stain'd grave.
“Oh let his misery on earth assuage
“Thy vengeance; do not, do not urge thy rage
“Beyond the world's dark confines; give him time,
“Forlorn and wretched, to repent his crime.

“He loves me, nay, adores me; then relent;
“My death will be an ample punishment.
“Oh! if sweet pity ever touch'd thy breast,
“Grant to my agony this last request;
“Give me my father's life, let me expire
“In ling'ring tortures, but, Oh! spare my sire!”

Long cherish'd hate, and ardent new-form'd love,
For mastery in Tancred's bosom strove;
Pale and subdued by flowing tears half-drown'd,
He rais'd the lovely pleader from the ground.
His oath, so deeply sworn, he could not break,
Nor spare the father for the daughter's sake;
Yet by a thousand soothing arts, applied
With eager warmth, to calm her fears he tried;
Nor tried in vain,—the arm around her thrown,
The eye's fond glance, the soft enchanting tone,
Which whisper'd consolation, could not fail,
When fraught with truth and passion, to prevail.
Touch'd by his mighty wrongs, the cruel fate
Which made his youth's sweet spring so desolate;

Struck by his godlike beauty, and the grace
That seem'd so wond'rous 'mid the savage race
With whom he dwelt, Rosalia's feeling heart
Throbb'd with an ardent longing to impart
A ray of hope, a kind consoling beam,
To gladden once again his life's dark dream.
In Tancred's gloomy breast a passion new,
Tho' strange, yet sweet, with rapid progress grew;
It was delightful, once again to feel
The warm sensations o'er his bosom steal;
To love a fellow-creature, and to find,
Oh precious boon! one human being kind.

The hour of parting gave them equal pain,
Yet the sweet promise to return again
Sooth'd Tancred's grief. With watchful fondness, down
The devious path, by tangled shrubs o'ergrown,
He led Rosalia; and when they had gain'd
The confines of the wood, he still remain'd,
Gazing with eyes enraptur'd, as she fled
With agile step along the painted mead.

Oh, never, since the bright-eyed goddess stray'd
To weave her vernal chaplets in the glade,
And climb'd vast Ætna's fearful steps, to cull
The flowers so lonely and so beautiful,
Which lavish'd all their bloom and sweetness there,
Had yet appear'd a form so soft, so fair,
To bless a wond'ring world—like she of old,
Who stole the bright liburnum's clustering gold:
And the rich tints the mountain plant possesses,
To burnish bright her waving silken tresses,
Rosalia's glittering hair, like sunny gleams,
In dazzling ringlets to the zephyr streams;
The violet had lent its dark blue dye,
To melt the lustre of her beaming eye,
Which, bath'd in liquid loveliness, appears
As softly radiant in its smiles or tears.
Tancred, as stern and gloomy as the God
Who bore enraptur'd to his dark abode
The heavenly wand'rer with her flow'ry load,
Now felt as strong a flame within his breast:
All fierce and stormy passions it represt,
And reign'd alone, a sweet unwonted guest.

Till the dear moment, which should give again
A meeting worth a thousand years of pain,
Tancred with fond delight employ'd each hour
In forming decorations for his bower—
He smooth'd the path which led to his retreat,
And mid-way rais'd a mossy shelter'd seat.

Rosalia kept her promise,—the arcade,
The sumptuous hall, where lavish art display'd
Its costly treasures, caus'd a bitter sigh,
They told a guilty tale of treachery,
And chill'd with gloomy sadness that pure mind,
Of late so tranquil,—she could only find
A soothing balm in the fond hope, that still
Her proffer'd friendship, and her guiltless skill,
Might cheer the lonely exile, and impart
Sweet consolation to his stricken heart.

The lovers met, for they were lovers now;
Each felt a vivid spark within them glow:
At first encourag'd under friendship's name,
But soon confess'd to be a warmer flame.

They lov'd with that pure passion, which below,
In this guilt-tainted world, so few can know,
No interest sway'd them, no cold prudence chain'd
The heart's fond impulse, or the tongue restrain'd:
Whatever destiny that Heaven might send,
Their love but with their lives alone could end:
They fear'd not poverty, and if it came,
It could not damp true love's resistless flame;—
The world to them was nothing—they would share
All it bestow'd of comfort or of care;
The pure inheritors of starry thrones,
The white-wing'd spirits of celestial zones,
Might have deserted those bright realms, to taste
A love so passionate, and yet so chaste.

Amid the crimes, the sorrows, and the vice,
Of this bad world, there blooms a paradise,
A bliss divine, most exquisitely sweet
For fond and faithful hearts—Oh, when those meet,
Let good or ill betide them, they can dare
Each change of fortune, and each earthly care

Deride; but ah, how seldom are they seen!
For proud and selfish passions intervene,
To blight the buds of love, and rend apart
Each warm pulsation of the bleeding heart.

All stormy passions hush'd within his breast,
Tancred was now indeed supremely blest!
He thought not of the future—all he sought
Of the world's happiness, Rosalia brought!
Confiding faith, the sweet communion
Which blends two souls in blissful union;
He liv'd but in her smiles; enraptur'd hung
Upon each silvery accent from that tongue
Which charm'd the fiery demons, who possess'd,
Of late, such strong dominion in his breast.
Love grew and flourish'd; ev'ry added hour
Gave strength and beauty to the smiling flow'r,
The rich and fadeless rose of heavenly birth,
Which, like the precious aloe of the earth,
But rarely opes its silken buds, to bless
A chilling climate with its loveliness.

Drawn by love's impulse from his lonely bower,
Tancred each evening sought Rosalia's tower,
To gaze upon her beaming lamp, a star
To his enchanted eyes, more brilliant far
Than those celestial planets flaming high
On Heaven's irradiated canopy.
Wrapt in his cloak, and heedless of the storm
Which gather'd round him, Tancred watch'd the form
Of the belov'd one, who, in pensive mood,
Before the widely-opening lattice stood,
Unconscious of his presence—the rude crash
Of warring elements, the lightning's flash,
Oblig'd her to retreat; but Tancred staid
To catch one parting glance of that dear shade,
Then turn'd to seek the cave—The pathway gain'd,
The sight of human forms his steps restrain'd—
The place, the hour, the strangers' doubtful guise,
Could justify suspicion—were they spies,
Or accidental wand'rers in the glen,
So seldom trodden by the feet of men?
Caution should sway his actions, for his fate
Might now be render'd still more desolate:

These hesitating doubts were chas'd away
By the bright, blazing lightning's mimic day,
Which shew'd in pilgrim's weeds, by famine wan,
A tender stripling, and an aged man,
Who, helpless and fatigued, for Tancred's aid,
In humble, supplicating accents pray'd.
Touch'd by their sorrows, he subdued his hate,
And offer'd to conduct them to the gate
Of Altobrand's proud castle, but in vain—
The elder Pilgrim, reckless of his pain,
Exclaim'd, “In this cold desert will I die,
“Rather than banquet with mine enemy!
“Upon my native land my life will end,
“And I am blest!”—“It is my father's friend,
“Valdarno!” in amazement, Tancred cried.
“Oh, let these agitating tears subside,
“And rally all thy strength—tho' poor my lot,
“Still the rude shelter of a mountain grot
“I yet can offer; food, and fire, and rest,
“And a warm welcome to my much-lov'd guest.”

His firm support and cheering words, endued
His toil-worn friend with strength and fortitude:

They reach'd the bower—Tancred spread the board
With the best cates his dwelling could afford.
The poor repast concluded, he address'd
Valdarno, with confusion in his breast
He could not stifle—“Where does she reside,
“The fair Florinda, late our valley's pride?
“Your daughter; is she married?”—“Sir, the maid
“Has sought the shelter of a cloister's shade,
“In these unhappy times.”—Replied the youth,
(The first time breaking silence), “And in truth,
“The best asylum which this world contains,
“For one whose nobleness of mind disdains
“Its scornful pity—free from earthly care,
“She spends her days in piety and prayer.”
Valdarno now related to his host,
The cause which brought him to his native coast;
The hope that young Fernando might attain
A strengthen'd army, and his crown regain.
To aid the meditated enterprise,
His exil'd friends, each clad in deep disguise,
Had sought the shores of Sicily—the cell
So wild, remote, and inaccessible,

Offer'd a safe retreat, until the hour
Appointed for the trial of their power,
When all conjoin'd should hurl the tyrant down,
And place the rightful sovereign on the throne.

Tancred assur'd him, that his dearest veins
Should drain, to free his country from its chains;
And, till the moment should arrive, which gave
Hope, vigour, and employment to the brave,
His dwelling was their own.—Valdarno's strength,
By toil and famine worn, return'd at length;
But his young kinsman, Julian's health declin'd;
The boy's too tender constitution pin'd
Beneath the meagre fare, the couch of stone
His slight and fragile limbs were pillow'd on.
Tancred, concern'd to see him droop and fade,
By ev'ry kind and feeling art, essay'd
To cheer his fleeting spirits, but in vain;
No fond attention could his life sustain,
Unless nutritious food, and generous wine,
Their strong and pow'rful forces could combine

To warm his flagging pulses, and impart
New strength and vigour to his fainting heart.
Touch'd by his sorrows, Tancred's feeling breast
The dearest secret of his soul confest—
His passion for Rosalia, whose pure mind,
Alike to pity and relieve inclin'd,
In fond compassion for his tender age,
Receiv'd the hapless Julian for her page.

The boy was handsome, tho' his swarthy skin
Seem'd to betray a Moorish origin;
And the coarse matted hair of raven hue,
Which low and thickly on his forehead grew,
Shading his eyebrows, to his aspect lent
A wild expression, slight and elegant:
His unbecoming garments could not hide
His tall and slender figure's graceful pride;
And when in silken livery array'd,
A meet attendant for the lovely maid,
He proudly shone superior to all
His fellow vassals of the crowded hall.

For Tancred's sake Rosalia lov'd her page,
And often sent him to the hermitage,
Where she had never ventur'd since the day
Its sacred solitude was chas'd away
By stranger guests. And now the time drew near,
When Prince Fernando promis'd to appear
And join his friends, who shunning day's broad light,
Veil'd by the friendly covert of the night,
In council met, to arm against the foe,
And plan the dark usurper's overthrow.
But soon confusion, anarchy, and dread,
Throughout the secret, midnight meeting spread:
A rumour reach'd them of Fernando's death!
It was too true, the Prince resign'd his breath,
E'en at the moment when he hop'd to find
The fortune that pursued him, less unkind.

This sad and fatal accident reveal'd
The selfish views his partizans conceal'd:
Beneath a show of patriotic zeal,
And warm attachment to the public weal,

They could not bear to lose the brilliant spoils,
The promis'd recompense of all their toils,
Their expectations from Fernando's reign,
And seek their hopeless banishment again.
By desperation, urged to remedy
The threaten'd evil of their destiny,
Valdarno, and the few to whom alone
The secret of Fernando's death was known,
Resolv'd to lock it in their breasts, and cheat
The fond Sicilians with a fair deceit:
A false Fernando, who should lead them on,
And, by their bounty plac'd upon the throne,
Must bend in all things to their will, and shower
His gifts on those who could uphold the power
Their hands had rais'd.—With one united voice,
The plotting chiefs on Tancred fix'd their choice.

By guileful sophistry, Valdarno strove
To make his fiery proselyte approve
The meditated plan,—he tried each art
To dazzle and delude his youthful heart;

But 'twas in vain; each selfish wish had flown,
Love in his bosom reign'd, and reign'd alone.
The dark cabal, the cold intrigue of state,
Only excited his contempt and hate.
Indignant, and disgusted at the view
Of human crimes, in horror he withdrew,
And, favour'd by the darkness of the hour,
Unseen retreated to Rosalia's tower.
Her lamp was burning; suddenly a thought
Came o'er his mind—the secret path he sought,
And stealing thro' obscurity and gloom,
Enter'd at midnight his paternal home.

Sad feelings wrought to agony, opprest
His riven soul, and struggled in his breast;
His dire and fatal oath, with horrid force
Struck on his memory, and strong remorse
Assail'd him for his disregarded vow:
The weak and feeble mind which could allow
A woman's smile to melt the stern resolve,
And the heart wedded to revenge, involve

In an unholy passion, which by Heaven
Could never ask, or hope to be forgiven.

But love, resistless, quenchless, unsubdued,
In Tancred's faithful breast was soon renew'd.
He gave his brief repentance to the wind,
And to Rosalia all his soul resign'd.
She was alone, and, mingled with surprize,
Pleasure unwonted sparkled in her eyes,
When, by a magic touch, the wall remov'd
To give admittance to the man she lov'd!

“Calm, thy perturbed spirit, sweet!” (he cried):
“I come to claim thee as my promis'd bride!
“Oh fly with me from this accursed land;
“We'll seek some island, whose untainted strand
“By human footsteps never has been trod,
“And on the sacred unpolluted sod
“I'll rear a fairy palace, that, sweet shade,
“No dark ambitious passions shall invade,
“But love alone gain entrance; and possess
“Supreme dominion in the wilderness,

“Where thou, of innocence the beauteous queen,
“Shall gild with radiant smiles the peaceful scene;
“Giving and tasting bliss as exquisite
“As the unvitiated pure delight
“Which Angels felt before their fall, ere sin
“Deriv'd from this bad world its origin.
“Thy pure heart will not barter joys so great,
“For the cold tinsel fopperies of state,
“Which woo thee here; then let us fly this clime,
“Least the too subtle fiends should tempt to crime
“The soul abhorrent, which they long to steep
“In kindred sins, as leperous and deep.”

Rosalia wept—“Forgive these tears,” she cried—
“My best, my only love, whate'er betide,
“Or weal or woe, to share thy fate with thee,
“Through life's uncertain and tempestuous sea,
“Is bliss divine, but not unmix'd with shame,
“Oh! were my duty and my love the same,
“I were indeed most blest!—Nay, do not frown,
“Believe me, Tancred, I am all thine own.

“Name but the hour, my life's supreme delight!
“And thy Rosalia will partake thy flight,
“Blest, if her true affection can assuage
“Thy grief, and soothe thee on thy pilgrimage.”

“Lur'd by the prospect of a fav'ring gale,
“To-morrow from the bay a bark will sail:
“Meet me at evening near the crystal fount,
“Which bubbling sparkles from the rocky mount,
“Crown'd by the bright acacia's rosy flowers,
“Where we have spent our purest, sweetest hours,
“By virtue blest—the blighting touch of vice
“Has tainted this enchanting Paradise,
“And we must fly—Oh then, remember, love,
“At eve, the fountain and the tufted grove.”

Rosalia promis'd—At the dawn of day,
Tancred reluctant tore himself away,
To join his subtle traitor-friends, and task
His pure unsullied mind, to wear a mask
Of friendship for a crew so deeply stain'd
With the foul sins his sickening soul disdain'd.

With lover's haste, before the destin'd hour,
Tancred, impatient left his sheltering bower,
To seek the fountain—Waiting near the wood,
For his approach, the page, young Julian, stood,
And wildly seiz'd him by the vest, and cried,
“Return! return! for ruin dark and wide
“Awaits thee here—by Heav'n thou art betray'd!
“An armed band are lurking in the glade,
“To drag thee to a dungeou, by command
“Of the apostate child of Altobrand.”
“Liar accurs'd! 'tis false, deceitful slave!”
Tancred exclaim'd—“Release me, or my glaive
“Shall pierce thy guilty heart.”—“Hear me, my Lord!”
Cried Julian, clinging round him—“plunge thy sword
“Within this bosom—in the pangs of death,
“In agonies intense, my quivering breath
“Shall urge thee to return—for well I know,
“Thy lov'd Rosalia is thy direst foe!
“Think'st thou that she would sacrifice each good,
“So dearly purchas'd by thy father's blood,
“To share thy poverty? Of conquest vain,
“Around thy fetter'd heart she bound the chain,

“To swell her pride.”—“Silence that lying tongue!”
Cried Tancred, as in madd'ning rage he flung
In horror from his grasp the trembling page,—
“And, young deceiver, thank thy tender age,
“Which screens thee from my justly-kindled wrath.”
Then in strong confidence pursued the path
Which led him to the sweet acacia's shade.
Within the bower appear'd the lovely maid,
Alone—entranc'd, enraptur'd at the view,
To meet her lover, fair Rosalia flew,
And clasp'd him in her arms—“Now thou art here,”
She fondly cried, “Farewell all doubt, all fear,
“We never part again!”—The gentle words
Were scarcely utter'd, when an hundred swords
Flam'd o'er their heads—she shriek'd in wild alarm,
And fell from Tancred's unsupporting arm,
Who, struck with horror, mute, and motionless,
In anxious fondness struggled to repress
The dark conviction of her guilt—in vain!—
The deep-laid treachery was all too plain.
No wish remain'd but death—his shackled hand
Broke from its bondage, and regain'd a brand!

With supernatural strength endued, the crowd
Before a single arm an instant bow'd:
But 'twas a bootless effort, rallying round,
Hemm'd in on all sides, quell'd, disarm'd, and bound,
Tancred was hurried to a dungeon's gloom,
To him alike, a palace or a tomb!
Reckless, regardless of external things,
His soul deep stricken, only felt the stings
Implanted there by falshood—stunn'd, confus'd,
He deem'd his shatter'd senses were abus'd,
And all was chaos!—Agony intense,
With strong dominion rul'd o'er ev'ry sense.
Hopeless he clung to hope, to feel again
The dark conviction madd'ning in his brain,
That she, his star! his life! his soul! his Heaven!
With an unshrinking hand and heart, had riven
The bosom that ador'd her!—then subdued,
Bereft of firmness, strength, and fortitude,
He wept, conjuring her to vindicate
Her soul from guilt, nor leave him desolate.
Then raving, shriek'd aloud in frenzy's pains,
And curs'd his fate, and madly shook his chains!

Hours roll'd away—in that drear solitude,
No warm and cheering sun-beams could intrude,
To tell its wretched inmate that the birth
Of welcome daylight had illumin'd earth.
Exhausted by contending passions—torn
By grief, and rage, enfeebled, and forlorn,
Upon the cold earth Tancred laid his head,
Perchance within this world, his latest bed;
Not the long slavery, the fate severe,
Which early check'd with woe his life's career;
His deep-felt anguish for his murder'd sire,
His lonely exile, and the hardships dire,
Which he had suffer'd in the world, had power
To shake his soul like this accursed hour!
Wasted and thin, his haggard brow of care,
His pallid cheek, his sunk eye's deep despair,
Had heap'd upon his wrinkled forehead, years,
The offsprings sad of misery and tears,
The shadow of his former self—his soul
Yielding to agony's supreme controul,
He laid him down, his fruitless struggles o'er,
In restless torture on the dungeon's floor.

Again his heart was sooth'd by hope's sweet dawn!
Sudden, his prison's fast'nings were withdrawn—
Was it Rosalia?—No; the lamp's strong light,
Which glar'd upon his dim, and grief-dull'd sight,
Shew'd Julian's form—“I come to set thee free!”
The page exclaim'd,—“thy bitter enemy
“Now sleeps,—to liberty and friends restor'd,
“Arm'd by thy wrongs, thy keen and vengeful sword
“Shall immolate thy foes, blot out thy shame,
“And lead thee on to fortune and to fame.
“Rouse thee, my Lord, this moment we command—
“The next may be the slave of Altobrand.”
“Leave me,” cried Tancred, “to my fate; my doom
“Is fix'd—the friendly darkness of the tomb
“Surrounds me here, 'tis soothing to my woes,
“And sun-beams would disturb my soul's repose;
“With bitter mockery, the little space
“Which now divides me from my resting place,
“A yawning sepulchre, I'll wear away,
“Deep shelter'd from the glaring light of day,
“And man's more hated presence; then begone!
“One word, one blissful, heavenly word alone,

“Could win me to thy will,—remove the foul
“Dark guilt which stains the idol of my soul:
“Say that she still is true, and I will kneel,
“And worship at thy feet; or plunge thy steel
“In mercy in my breast, and as I bleed,
“I'll bless, and thank thee for the gentle deed.”
“Oh fly, my Lord, nor sate the cruel rage
“Of human fiends,” exclaim'd the soul-struck page:
“They'll drag thee to a scaffold.”—“Can the wheel,
“The rack's keen pangs, e'er equal those I feel?”
Cried Tancred—“No!—I spurn my body's pains,
“Here, in my sou, 'tis here that anguish reigns!
“And death in any shape the boon I crave,—
“My sole, my dearest hope, an early grave.”
“Then we will die together,” Julian cried:
“From this too faithful heart, the crimson tide
“Of life shall flow, ere man or fiend shall tear
“My clinging arms from thee!—my deep despair,
“My tears, my agony!—Oh, should they fail
“To wake thy pity, nor my love prevail,
“Spite of thy scorn, thy anger, or thy hate,
“Whate'er the dreadful doom, I'll share thy fate.”

A horrid laugh, the mockery of mirth,
Distorted Tancred's features, as from earth
He fiercely sprang: he shriek'd,—“Deceiver, fly!
“Nor dare deride my bitter agony
“With cruel jests,—friendship and love! the sound
“Can only now inflict a deadly wound.
“Depart! thy sight is hateful to mine eyes,
“All human beings are mine enemies.”
“Revile me, hate me, curse me, if you will,
“Yet I will love thee, will adore thee still;
“My sufferings for thy sake I will not urge,
“Tho' they have borne me, even to the verge
“Of madness.—Tancred, is my form so chang'd,
“Thy cruel, fickle heart so much estrang'd,
“That this dark-tinted skin, this thin disguise,
“Can hide thy poor Florinda from thine eyes?—
“Yes, I am she! and by thy sever'd troth,
“Thy broken vows, thy disregarded oath,
“I solemnly adjure thee to depart
“From this dread spot, and rouse thy noble heart
“To deeds of vengeance!—crush the guilty slave,
“Whose hate denied thy father's bones a grave;

“Nor with a coward, craven spirit, bend
“Before the fury of the treach'rous fiend
“Who lords it o'er thy castle—Armed bands,
“With hearts as firm, and faithful as their brands,
“Await thee in the glen—then haste away!
“Long ere the first faint dawn of opening day
“Thou art aveng'd!”—“My father's sacred name,”
Tancred exclaim'd, “has nerv'd my sinking frame—
“Lead on! I'll chuse the noblest path to death,
“And soothe with sweet revenge my parting breath.”
He rush'd from out the castle to the glade,
Where Count Valdarno and his friends, array'd
In martial guise, awaited his command,
To storm the lofty tow'rs of Altobrand.

Short greetings pass'd—the mind so highly wrought,
So deeply wrung, condens'd in one dread thought,
Was mute and passive; but Florinda strove,
With all the assiduity of love,
To spare him aught that could increase the pain
Which thrill'd his nerves, and agoniz'd his brain:

She brought his arms, attended by his side;
With quick invention instantly replied,
For Tancred, to each question and request
The reckless crowd unthinkingly address'd.

“Forgive,” said Tancred, “this too honest heart,
“Which will not bend to falshood or to art;
“This stricken soul, oppress'd with endless woe,
“Love or affection ne'er again can know:
“I go to seek a grave, and yonder dome,
“My early shelter, my paternal home,
“Will be to-night my everlasting tomb!
“But should the will from which I dare not swerve,
“Spite of my toil, this wretched life preserve,
“'Tis thine—farewell! the tow'rs appear—I fly
“To meet my fate, revenge myself, and die!”

Impatient to begin the deadly feud,
The band with eager haste his steps pursued,
Tracking their path with blood, not long conceal'd,
Wild shrieks and groans their entrance dire reveal'd,

And rous'd the slumbering host—with deaf'ning clang,
Throughout the halls the horrid tumult rang—
A brief but mortal combat—heaps of dead
And dying, all the chamber floors o'erspread;
The few remaining vassals unsubdued,
Fled to their lord, and then the fight renew'd.
Cheering his band with eyes emitting flame,
Like the red fiend of vengeance, Tancred came:
The sabre's edge no mortal could withstand,
Cut its bright gleaming way to Altobrand.
What in one moment check'd his uprear'd hand,
And gave the hated wretch, his soul abhorr'd,
A death beneath Valdarno's eager sword!
Oh, 'twas an Angel! to her throbbing breast,
Her father's form in agony she prest—
Her radiant garments stain'd with blood, her hair
Wild and dishevell'd, fix'd in mute despair,
Rosalia stood!—Ere Tancred could regain
His scatter'd senses, and the fight sustain,
A foeman aim'd a desperate blow—the stroke
Rosalia saw, and, madly shrieking, broke
From the warm reeking corse—with one wild bound
She met the weapon, and receiv'd the wound!

“Tancred!” she faintly cried, “my death will prove
“My fervent truth, my everlasting love—
“Oh, thou art much deceiv'd—that faithless page,
“Rous'd by his artifice my father's rage—
“I—I am innocent—my falt'ring tongue,
“My breaking heart, by bitter anguish wrung,
“Attest my faith!—one last embrace!—again
“Thine own Rosalia to thy bosom strain.
“Oh, thou believ'st me true, and that pure hand,
“By my unhappy father's blood unstain'd,
“I, the blest cause that check'd the fatal strife,
“And with my own, preserv'd thy precious life—
“Oh, thus to die is happiness supreme!
“Our early love, fond youth's enchanting dream,
“Was bliss too great for earth!”—Her failing breath,
Her closing eyes, announc'd approaching death.
In strong, and wild delirium, Tancred cried
To Heaven, and man, for help, and vainly tried
To stanch the wound—the fleeting life sustain,
And call the parting soul to earth again—
The gentle spirit fled!—Aghast, amaz'd,
Upon the lifeless body Tancred gaz'd

In speechless agony!—The sword, which gave
The lovely victim to an early grave,
Had stay'd the deadly combat—grief profound,
And hate, and disappointment, reign'd around
In death-like silence—Struggling to retrieve
Her self-possession, and her plans achieve,
With quivering lips, oppress'd by conscious shame,
Florinda tried to vindicate her fame:
She spoke—the accents, faint, subdued, and low,
Rous'd Tancred fiercely from his trance of woe.

“Viper and fiend!” he cried, “thy work behold!
“Well has thy guilt-sear'd spirit toil'd for gold.
“Profane not love's pure name,—a marble breast
“One gentle thrill of pity had confess'd
“At grief like mine—revoke the poor pretence,
“And seize with joy thy sin's foul recompense.
“I give thee all—From Heaven's bright regions hurl'd,
“Riot and revel in this guilty world;
“In kindred bliss thy lep'rous soul immerse,
“And with my riches, take my bitter curse!

“Oh, treach'rous devil! Fiend! thou! thou! hast riven
“My happiness on earth, my hopes of Heaven:
“My struggling soul, by agony opprest,
“Will bear no more, yet death denies its rest:
“Hell is my portion here—in realms above,
“'Mid blessed Spirits dwells my angel love,
“Parted for ever!—Oh, this madd'ning brain,
“Thy gentle accents ne'er shall soothe again!
“Receive me, fiends! and equal, if you can,
“The ruthless, merciless, foul deeds of man!”
Plunging his gleaming dagger in his side,
The hapless Tancred call'd on Heaven, and died!

[_]

[The three following Poems, are selected from a Collection of Fables, written at a very early period of life.]

AVARICE.

Within a narrow winding vale,
Where violets scent the summer gale,
And thrushes sing from ev'ry tree
Their songs of love and liberty;
Close to a streamlet's rocky bed,
A Cottage rears its humble head.
The jasmine, rose, and eglantine,
Around the rustic porch entwine;
Close to the highest chimney creep,
And through the tiny casements peep:
A garden, kept with nicest care,
And fill'd with flow'rets fresh and fair,
Where daisies, pinks, and lilies bloom,
And roses shed their rich perfume,

And myrtles clad in lively green,
Complete the beauty of the scene.
But far more lovely was the Maid
Who dwelt amid their verdant shade;
Her tresses wav'd in golden rings,
And, fann'd by Zephyr's balmy wings,
Display'd a forehead arch'd, and high,
And white as polish'd ivory.
Her guileless mind, and gentle heart,
Were free from vanity and art;
Each thought, each feeling she exprest,
Sprang from an uncorrupted breast.
Of temper mild, of beauty rare,
So young, so gay, so good, so fair,
Oh! very few of womankind,
Were half as blest as Rosalind.
Above the vale, 'mid fertile lands,
A venerable Castle stands;
Though time has sapp'd, and winds have rent
The turret high, and battlement,
The stately pile its tow'rs uprears,
And triumphs o'er despoiling years;

But dark and gloomy is the shade
Afforded by the colonnade,
And golden sun-beams strive in vain
To pierce the dusky window pane,
Or through the ivy penetrate,
Which clambers o'er the postern gate.
The tow'rs a lovely view command,
But all within is coldly grand.
The heires of these wide domains
But seldom view'd her native plains;
She thought the castle wild, and rude,
And could not bear its solitude;
Lov'd the gay feast in splendid hall,
The promenade, and midnight ball;
Yet even these in turn resign'd
By her capricious, fickle mind,
She sought her wild sequester'd glen,
And left the busy haunts of men,
And, dress'd in all the pride of fashion,
Sought for rustic admiration.
But Envy soon within her breast
Rear'd its gaunt form, and snaky crest;

For ev'ry heart its homage paid
To Rosalind, the Village Maid;
For she, they cried, beyond compare,
Was much more good, and far more fair:
A name for each the peasants chose—
A Tulip one, and one a Rose—
And hate for her they lov'd so well,
Gnaw'd the proud heart of Claribel.
When the shrill bugle's lively strain
Was heard o'er hill and rock, and plain,
Upon a gallant, snow-white steed
Young Edwin rode along the mead,
And where the babbling waters flow,
Chas'd the fleet hare, or bounding doe;
Yet oft he left the jocund throng
To listen to a simple song,
Which floated on the morning wind
From the sweet lips of Rosalind;
And as he heard the melting lay
Sigh'd his fond heart and soul away,
And linger'd till the moon's pale light
Announc'd the swift return of night.

Oh! how delightful were the hours
He spent amid the myrtle bowers!
Each artless thought, how sweet to trace
Upon a fair expressive face,
Or cull a fragrant wreath, to bind
The lovely brows of Rosalind!
And often thro' the grove he stray'd,
To meet the blooming Cottage Maid;
And fondly seated by her side,
Forgot his youthful dreams of pride,
When, fir'd by hope, he spurn'd the fate
Which chain'd him to a low estate,
And long'd to quit his humble home,
To seek the city's lofty dome,
And 'mid the crimson fields of fame,
Win with his sword a noble name;
But now, he only wish'd to bind
His fate with that of Rosalind.
The lovely maiden's blushing cheek
Full well her thoughts, and feelings speak;
And in her eye-beams he descried
The truth her trembling lips denied;

Till fondly urg'd, she dar'd impart
The treasur'd secret of her heart:
Oh! what a thrill of pleasing pain
Rush'd wildly thro' each nerve and vein—
He lov'd, and was belov'd again!

Rage, jealousy, and envy, swell
The cruel breast of Claribel:
The gaudy Tulip tried each art
To win young Edwin's fickle heart;
And all her wealth and power display'd,
To lure him from his Cottage Maid.
Oh, short the tale, and quickly told—
His peace was lost, his honour sold,
He left fair Rosalind for gold!
And she, the lovely, blighted Rose,
Found in the grave a calm repose,
A soothing balm for all her woes!
The false, deceitful, guilty pair,
Knew nought but misery and care;
And Edwin felt he had resign'd
For pomp, tranquillity of mind.

In vain he drain'd the flowing bowl—
It could not cheer his sinking soul:
In search of happiness he tried
The country's sports, the city's pride;
But vain was every endeavour,
Peace had flown away for ever!

DISCONTENT.

BELINDA AND HER SYLPH.

SYLPH.
Of Nature's charms, and Fortune's gifts possest,
Belinda, say, what care disturbs thy breast?
Reveal it to your faithful Sylph, and prove
How great his power, and how true his love.

BELINDA.
Oh listen, whilst my sorrows I impart,
Nor wonder at the grief which rends my heart:
Imprison'd in a city's dark domains,
And bound by ceremony's irksome chains,
I sigh for rural meads and sylvan woods,
Romantic vallies, and pellucid floods;
And fancy paints a sweet sequester'd glen,
Far from the noisy haunts of busy men,

Where ivy'd oaks and mossy chesnuts lave
Their branches in the streamlet's crystal wave,
And shelter from the noontide sun's bright ray,
A little cottage, and a garden gay,
With fruit and flowers—the Honeysuckle trails,
Its fragrant tendrils o'er the rustic pales;
Its bright festoons the gold Liburnum throws
Around the clusters of the Guelder Rose,
And Lilies shed their richest perfume round,
And fragrant Violets blossom on the ground.
Could fond imagination realize
This blissful dream, there's nought beneath the skies
That I would covet—free from care and strife,
There would I pass my tranquil, happy life!
Content 'mid woods and wilds alone to dwell,
I'd bid the world a long, a last farewell.
Belinda ceas'd, and fleet as quickest thought,
Her Sylph a little fairy vessel brought,
Of gold and pearls—he spread the silken sail
O'er diamond masts, to catch the balmy gale,
And seated by his side, thro' cloudless skies,
In wonder lost, the fair Belinda flies.

The ship descending, anchor'd near a glade,
Where flow'ring myrtles form'd a pleasing shade,
And velvet turf a verdant carpet made.
“Hail, happy spot!” Belinda, raptur'd, cries—
“Thou seat of bliss! thou earthly paradise!
“In thy delightful groves, and rosy bowers,
“For ever will I spend my happy hours!”
Mistaken Maid!—the demon Discontent
Within thy snowy breast was closely pent,
And ere the sun had hid his golden beam
Thrice, in the cool, transparent, silver stream,
He shed his baleful influence around,
And poison'd that sweet tract of fairy ground.

Belinda wastes her hours in bitter sighs,
And to her Sylph for aid unceasing cries.
He comes, but not as formerly, serene;
Stern is his brow, and alter'd is his mien,
Contempt and anger sparkle in his eye;
He hears her plaints, but deigns not to reply;
He bears her home, and then indignant flies
Away, for ever, to his native skies.

AMBITION.

A fair green valley call'd young Edgar lord,
Earth, air, and sea, supplied his festal board.
Madeira's grape, and Lusitania's vine,
Pour'd large libations of their richest wine;
An hundred oxen graz'd on fertile meads,
Abundant corn-fields fed his gallant steeds;
A famous breed, well train'd for hunt and race,
Swift in the course, and matchless in the chase:
His garden, fill'd with ev'ry lovely flower,
Form'd one luxuriant and blooming bower,
Where Zephyrs wafted to the azure sky
Odours more sweet than gales from Araby.
The fabled golden fruit could scarcely vie
With his, of yellow, red, and purple dye;
The streaky apple, and the mellow pear,
The velvet plum, and melting peach, were there.
When tir'd of rural sports and exercise,
The pages of the learned and the wise,

Select and chosen by the hand of taste,
Supplied a pure, delightful, mental feast.
Nor was this all—embosom'd in a wood,
Beside a rippling brook, a Cottage stood.
Whose fairy hands adorn'd that lovely spot?
Whose magic fingers rear'd that pebbly grot?
Who twin'd the bower, and who form'd the grove?
A blue-ey'd maiden, worthy of his love.
Oh many a noble Lord, and wealthy Swain,
Had vow'd and sigh'd, and sigh'd and vow'd, in vain.
Unpractis'd in coquettish female arts,
She found no pleasure in entrapping hearts;
Far from the busy world she liv'd retir'd,
Nor ever felt a wish to be admir'd;
Her Edgar's love, and that delightful scene,
Form'd all the happiness of Jacqueline.

Yet bless'd beyond his peers, supremely blest,
Ambition robb'd young Edgar's heart of rest;
His large possessions fail'd to give him ease,
His fiery soul disdain'd all thoughts of peace;
He long'd to have his name enroll'd on high,
And lead whole armies on to victory.

His mind was warp'd by glory's idle dream,
War fill'd his thoughts, and conquest was his theme;
He would not listen to the bitter sighs,
Or heed the tears that fell from those blue eyes;
Saw with indifference her alter'd mien,
Nor sooth'd the breaking heart of Jacqueline.
'Gainst all domestic joys his breast was steel'd—
He burn'd for conquests in the bloody field;
And active fancy oft pourtray'd his name
The first and highest in the list of fame!
He saw the beaten foe in haste retreat;
Beheld ten thousand prostrate at his feet;
Heard the loud shout ascending to the sky,
Which proudly link'd his name with victory!
A quenchless thirst for glory fill'd his brain;
Mad for renown, he left his native plain;
Ungrateful for the blessings it had given,
Quitted an angel sent to him from Heaven.

Oh! who shall paint the anguish, deep and keen,
Which wrung the gentle heart of Jacqueline!
Like a pale flowret blighted by the wind,
Her beauty faded, and her health declin'd:

The Rose her hand had planted round her tomb,
Sheds all its richest sweets, and wastes its bloom;
The Honeysuckle, wild and careless, strays,
Untrimm'd, uncultur'd, blossoms, and decays;
Her garden shares the general distress,
And seems a sad, and cheerless wilderness,
Where restless sprites, who love the moon's pale light,
Lament and wander thro' the livelong night;
E'en the blue sky no longer smiles serene,
But mourns in darkest clouds for Jacqueline!

And how far'd Edgar? Did his ardent soul,
Which scorn'd to bend to Cupid's soft controul,
Surmount all danger, ev'ry toil defy,
And bear away the palm of victory?
No! tho' his heart was firm, his courage high,
And valour sparkled in his eagle eye;
Tho' strong his sword, his daring spirit brave,
He found an early, and ignoble grave!
A fell disease, which sprung from hardships dire,
Stole thro' his veins, and set his blood on fire:

Stretch'd on a lowly couch, and left to die,
Without a single friend to close his eye,
Distracting fancy sang a mournful strain,
And dwelt on pleasures past, and present pain;
Pointed to laurel wreaths he must not share,
And bade his hopeless, trembling soul despair!
Told what he was, and what he might have been,
In his paternal home, with Jacqueline;
And till he drew his last convulsive breath,
Augmented all the bitterness of death!
No heartstruck mourners crowded to his bier,
No lov'd companions shed the tender tear;
No costly tomb by grateful nations rear'd
O'er his obscure, untimely grave, appear'd;
No proud inscriptions met the stranger's gaze,
No swelling epitaphs rehears'd his praise:
His corse, confounded with the vulgar herd
Of peasants, clowns, and soldiers, was interr'd!
An humble mound of earth, alone disclos'd
The narrow spot wherein his bones repos'd;
No splendid orator his glories rung—
He died unknown, unchronicled, unsung!

PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF “THE BROKEN HEART,”

ALTERED FROM FORD, BUT NEVER ACTED.

“Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
“The deep unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
“Full many a flower is doom'd to blush unseen,
“And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”
Thus sang a much-lov'd Bard, nor sang in vain,
An ardent spirit kindled at the strain!
A friend to Genius, but an humble friend,
A trifling aid was all that he could lend;
Yet fir'd by hope, he ventur'd to engage
Upon a long and toilsome pilgrimage,
To seek for jewels in the gloomy mine,
Where the bright sun had never deign'd to shine;
To cull the flow'ret in the distant glen,
Far from the classic haunts of learned men;

To chase the brightest gem, the rose impearl'd,
And give the long-lost treasures to the world:—
'Mid heaps of dross the sterling ore he found,
But rudely set, in cumbrous frame-work bound,
But deep within the dull unpolish'd mould,
Lay sparkling diamonds, and the purest gold.
With trembling hands its heavy case he rent,
And tore away each useless ornament,
Whose leaden foliage conceal'd a gem
Well worthy of a monarch's diadem.
But vain his toil, its recompense as vain,
If your applause to-night he cannot gain;
And vain his hopes, if you deny your praise
To the neglected Bard of former days,
Whose lay he fitted to a modern stage,
With all the chaste refinements of the age.
Oh! raise the long-forgotten Poet's name,
And cheer a youthful candidate for fame!
Bind the bright laurel-wreath around the tomb,
And bid a chaplet o'er his temples bloom:
On each your much-priz'd smiles and plaudits shed,
Reward the living, and exalt the dead!

Gray.

A WISH.

“Oh, that to me the wings were given,
“That bear the turtle to her nest;
“Then would I cleave the vault of heaven,
“And flee away, and be at rest.”
LORD BYRON.

I'd seek some Alpine craggy eminence,
Where Nature reigns in wild magnificence,
Sublimely grand, uncumber'd with a trace,
A single vestige of the human race,
Where foaming cataracts with murmurs hoarse,
O'er granite rocks pursue their fearful course,
And dashing thro' the dark umbrageous woods,
O'er distant vallies pour their whelming floods.
Close to the condor's eiry, on the bleak
And pathless summit of the mountain's peak,
I'd rear a hut, or dig a narrow cave,
Thro' life my dwelling place, in death my grave,
As solitary as the Hero's tomb,
Swept by the pious sea-bird's silvery plume,

Whose fond idolatry delights to lave
Its marble pillars with the Euxine wave.
Free from the rude interminable strife,
The doubts, the fears, the miseries of life,
I'd watch the rolling clouds, the awful form
Of the gigantic Spirit of the Storm!
Or when the gem-fraught, balmy skies were clear,
Bend in mute ecstacy my list'ning ear,
To catch the thrilling music, richly flung,
From heaven's gold harps, by holy Angels rung;
And my rapt soul, thus lull'd to calm repose,
Should lose the memory of the deep-felt woes,
The blighted hope, the disregarded prayer,
The cold, benumbing grasp of stern despair,
Which it has suffer'd, and must suffer still,
For sorrow is not arm'd with power to kill;
And I shall languish thro' long years of pain,
And never even dream of bliss again;
Of dark despondency the wretched slave,
My sole, my ardent hope, an early grave.

REFLECTIONS.

The fairy schemes of youth are fled,
The flow'rs which fancy wove, are dead;
Hope, oft believ'd, now vainly tries
To cheat me with her flatteries;
She sings of love—the magic sound
Has lost the power to soothe or wound:
Sweet dreams of bliss to others fly,
Alas! I only wish to die!

Oh friendship! in misfortune's hour
How blest thine aid, how great thy pow'r!
In this sad world of pain and care,
The only refuge from despair;
The dearest boon which Heaven bestows,
To mitigate our endless woes;
Vainly thy balm thou wouldst apply—
Alas! I only wish to die!

Let bright-eyed Fame, with hand divine,
Her fadeless wreaths of laurel twine;
To deck the blest, the envy'd name,
She writes in characters of flame:
Ambition's once high pulse is flown,
All hope, all expectation gone,
Nor Fame, nor Fortune wakes my sigh—
Alas! I only wish to die!

My soul is weary of the strife,
The doubts, the fears, the ills of life;
Love is consum'd in one short blaze,
E'en friendship's steadier flame decays,
And disappointment's chilling breath
Blights all the flowers in fancy's wreath;
For bliss on earth let others try—
Alas! I only wish to die!

TANCRED TO ROSALIA.

Though youth's enchanting roses shed
Their richest odours on thy head,
Tho' Pleasure opes her fairy bowers,
And twines for thee her sweetest flowers,
Thy uncontaminated mind
May sigh for something more refin'd;
May see the world's inanity,
Its weakness, and its vanity;
Detect its guileful, subtle art,
And tear its councils from thine heart.
Then bid this barren world farewell:
Here pain, and care, for ever dwell;
Within old Ocean's ample round
Some sun-blest islet may be found,
Where the pure skies, throughout the year,
Are fair, and balmy, bright and clear,

And fruits and flowers of richest dye,
Are all its pomp and luxury.
Oh, there is one would fly with thee,
Far, far beyond the pathless sea;
Would watch thee whilst thou sleep'st, and lave
Thy forehead with the cooling wave;
Would form thy bed where roses bloom,
And fan thee with the peacock's plume.
Oh! let us fly, haste, haste away!
Too short shall seem the summer day;
Our life shall be one sunny, bright,
Unclouded scene of pure delight,
As free from sorrow, pain, and vice,
As Love's first flight in Paradise.

SONG OF THE NYMPH.

I'll weave a garland for my hair,
Compos'd of flow'rets fresh and fair,
Sweet as the softest summer gale
That breathes o'er Cashmere's perfum'd vale,
And vivid as the rainbow's hue,
On Heaven's clear arch of liquid blue:
The modest violet shall twine
Around the lively columbine;
The valley's timid lily rest
Upon the hardy daisy's breast,
And cheerful heart's-ease gaily bloom
With purple heath and golden broom,
Which sport o'er mountains wild and free,
The emblems sweet of Liberty!—
And friendship's symbol shall be seen,
The myrtle, in its fadeless green;

In simple majesty severe,
Shall spotless Honesty appear,
And the blest flow'r, whose leaves imply
The soul's deep sensibility.
Oh, I will range thro' summer bowers,
And gather myriads of flowers,
And not a single blossom spare,
To form the garland for my hair;
But, bane to all the soul's repose,
Reject love's blooming thorny rose!
Dipp'd in the brightest crimson dye,
It vainly courts my careless eye;
Flinging rich perfume to the skies,
Its tempting odours I despise.
Arm'd with a keen and piercing thorn,
The rose of love I pass with scorn.
Oh, be my simple garland made
Of harmless flowers which only fade,
And never, never be entwin'd
With those which leave a wound behind.
By sensibility betray'd,
Or torn from friendship's soothing aid,

Forgetful of its former pain,
The wounded mind revives again,
For love's deceitful, cruel art,
Alone has power to break the heart.

TO MISS O'NEILL.

Belov'd of earth, fair summer's rose,
In all the pride of beauty glows,
Flinging rich perfume to the sky,
More sweet than gales from Araby.
Oh, tho' the gifted artist tries
To dip his pencil in her dyes,
How vain his skill! no human power
Can give the fragrance to the flower.
Thou art our lov'd, our matchless rose,
Blooming, and fair, and sweet as those
Which Angels cull in blissful bowers,
Of worlds more pure, more blest than ours.
Oh, tho' the Poet's pen can trace
A Muse, a Goddess, or a Grace,
Tho' lovely forms of fairy birth,
Spring from his midnight dreams to earth,

Thou art still unpourtray'd—for Heaven
No mortal yet the power has given
To paint perfection.—Nature's child!
E'en on thy cradle Genius smil'd!
Duteous, affectionate, and fair,
As good and pure as Angels are,
Friend! sister! daughter! all of worth,
That reigns in Heav'n, or smiles on Earth,
In thee is centred!—blessing, blest,
Long may'st thou live, belov'd, carest,
The happiest, as the loveliest!

TO MISS O'NEILL

[_]

FIRST PUBLISHED IN THE BATH HERALD.

Oh, sweet Enchantress! gifted with the art
To soothe, exalt, delight, or wring the heart!
What pen can paint, what breathing language tell,
Thy potent magic, thy resistless spell,
Which subjugates with strong, tho' soft controul,
The fierce and restless passions of the soul?
Artless thou seem'st, and yet thy subtle wiles
Can change the tears they rais'd, to dimpled smiles;
Charm in deep grief, and in one moment show,
The sum of human joy, and human woe:
So chaste in mirth, so touching in distress,
That even women love thy loveliness!
Oh, Shakespear! Otway! from your tombs arise,
Or quit your blissful mansions in the skies;

Behold in mortal mould, that form of light
Which oft in dreams illum'd your raptur'd sight,
And lent the inspiration that pourtray'd
The witching graces of Verona's Maid,
And she, the star of Venice!—not in vain
Arose these fair creations of the brain,
For tho' through weary years they did but seem
The fairy visions of a Poet's dream,
At length indulgent Nature kindly smil'd,
And gave this favour'd age her darling child.
She comes! what iron soul denies the tear
To Desdemona's woes, or Juliet's bier?
E'en the cold stoic bids the stranger guest,
Soft Pity, welcome, to his callous breast.
In vain would Reason plead—the feeling mind
Enjoys the tender sorrow, pure, refin'd;
It is not acting—Belvidera speaks!
Monimia weeps! and Isabella shrieks!

ON THE DEATH OF WALTER JAMES, ESQ.

ONLY SON OF SIR WALTER JAMES JAMES, BART.

[_]

(FIRST PUBLISHED IN A BATH JOURNAL).

Oh, ye to whom this gaudy world appears
A dreary vale of everlasting tears—
Oh, ye for whom the bitter cup o'erflows,
The mournful chalice drugg'd with human woes;
Raise from this woe-fraught earth your tearful eyes,
And fix them smiling on the cloudless skies,
Where he you now lament, from sorrow free,
Wears the bright robe of immortality.
To him the soothing, grateful task is given,
To deck with all the fadeless flowers of Heaven,
A bower of bliss for those who gave him birth,
The dear, the treasur'd friends he lov'd on earth!

ON THE DEATH OF SARAH, WIFE OF JOHN GRAY, ESQ. OF NEWCASTLE.

[_]

(PUBLISHED IN THE BATH HERALD).

Belovd! and lovely! o'er thy early bier
Fast flows the bitter, agonizing tear!
Earth's fairest flower, Virtue's darling boast,
To friends, to kindred, Oh, for ever lost!
Sweet rose of beauty, innocently gay,
Blooming, and fair, and blythe as opening May;
Each grace was thine, on thee each blessing shed,
All lov'd thee living, all lament thee dead!
Words are too weak to paint the piercing throes,
The husband's, parents', sisters', thrilling woes!
Their treasure lost, their worshipp'd idol flown,
And with her, joy, hope, consolation, gone!

We dare not speak of comfort—she was worth
All the delusive pleasures of the earth!
The highest virtues blest the spring of youth
With all its native candour, all its truth.
Angelic creature! did thy graces bloom
Only to decorate a cheerless tomb?
Thy winning form, thy gentle, fragrant breath,
Only invite the clay-cold kiss of death?
How many wretches on the rack of pain,
Pray for his aid, yet supplicate in vain?
How many, hopeless of his swift relief,
Have seiz'd his dart, and added sin to grief?
Yet these he shunn'd, and doating on thy charms,
Clasp'd youth and beauty in his icy arms!

But she is happy! early snatch'd away,
When all around was sunshine, bright and gay,
She knew no earthly sorrow—pitying Heaven
Spar'd her the woe-fraught cup to mortals given;
The long, long train of gaunt untiring care,
Cold disappointment, heavy, dark despair,

Which those who bend beneath the load of years,
Must suffer in this gloomy vale of tears,
Bade her from happiness to glory rise,
And bore the smiling Angel to her native skies!

TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. HENRY ARNOLD,

LATE VICAR OF LONGSTOCK, HANTS.

[_]

(PUBLISHED IN THE BATH HERALD).

Life's griefs are o'er, the vital spirit fled,
The friend we honour'd, lov'd, rever'd, is dead!
Oh! bless'd with virtues dignified and rare,
Thy soul is freed from ev'ry earthly care,
And reaps the bright rewards profusely given
To those who place their dearest hopes in Heaven.
'Mid pains intense, 'mid agony severe,
To other's woes thou gav'st the ready tear;
By fortune crost, by enemies opprest,
No selfish feeling clos'd thy generous breast,
But was thy lib'ral hand stretch'd forth to bless,
And soothe each fellow-creature in distress;

Nor was thy bounty to the poor confin'd,
The rich have shar'd the treasures of thy mind;
Thou gav'st them councils of intrinsic worth,
Or brighten'd social hours with smiling mirth.
Oh, may thy lessons ever be impress'd,
Engraven deep upon this sorrowing breast,
Whose painful task it is to number o'er
Thy numerous virtues, and their loss deplore.
Pain seiz'd thy frame, but never held controul
Within thy pious, firm, undaunted soul;
Amid its cruel ravages, serene
Thou bore its tortures with unruffled mien,
And taught by grief and anguish unsubdued,
A christian's faith, a christian's fortitude!

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A LADY, TO A GENTLEMAN, WITH A PRESENT OF A RING.

Methinks, dearest John, 'tis a mighty fine thing,
To receive from a Lady, a gay golden Ring!
Who relies on your friendship, your truth, and your honor,
To wear it till death, for the sake of the donor.
For value intrinsic, it has not its fellow,
Like the handkerchief puff'd in the play by Othello;
'Twas moulded by Sybils, whose magic will linger
Whenever the talisman circles your finger.
Your hand, tho' already so white, shall be whiter,
Your voice more persuasive, your eyes shall be brighter,
And hearts, which now only come in by the dozen,
Be they hard, be they soft, be they warm, be they frozen,
Shall melt at the touch of your hand in the dance,
Be pierc'd by a sigh, or a word, or a glance!

In short, to such numbers your slaves will amount,
That the stars in the sky 'twere as easy to count.
But tho' friends may admire, and foes may abuse it,
Beware how you give it, or lend it, or lose it;
For each charm, like the blue mists of morn, will disperse,
And each blessing be chang'd to a horrible curse:
Your eyes shall wax dim, and your voice shall turn hoarse,
And your lily-white hand shall be clumsy and coarse;
Your mind shall grow dull, tho' so bright and so clever,
And my friendship you forfeit forever and ever!

THE VOYAGE OF TIME.

Where life's sweet fount with magic birth
Springs from the cavern'd rocks to earth,
And rolls its billows to the sea,
Of fathomless eternity;

Love, Hope, and Mirth, a joyous crew!
Of ev'ry scent, and ev'ry hue,
Wove, by the infant streamlet, flow'rs
Fresh pluck'd from Pleasure's fairy bow'rs.

Quoth Time, from life's untainted source,
I steer my bark with steady course:
What ventures will ye send afloat,
As freight and ballast for my boat?

By Sylphids hatch'd in myrtle groves,
Love brought a new-fledg'd brood of Doves
In basket of roses, and round the mast
He tied the sweet nets and the cages fast.

Hope wove a web from silvery dews,
And spread the loom with such bright hues,
They glitter'd like gems, when wav'd by the gale,
And she set up the gossamer woof for a sail.

Mirth caught from stars their brightest beams,
And stole from Wit his lightning gleams,
And rang'd the darts in a diamond quiver,
To light up the boat, and illumine the river.

Love, Hope, and Mirth, delighted gave
Their chaplets to the sparkling wave;
The lily and amaranth garlands glow,
Decking the bark, from the stern to the prow.

Quoth Time, my freight is rather light,
This rosy tackling wond'rous slight;
But my helm is firm, and my vessel tough,
And soon I ween I'll have ballast enough.

Hope's vivid glittering sail, spread wide,
Wafted the vessel o'er the tide;
Mirth's arrows flew round in the sunshine bright,
And the Doves plum'd their wings in the rosy light.

Deeper and deeper grew the stream,
And dark clouds hid the sun's bright beam,
Care stepp'd in the boat, when the shallows were past,
And frighten'd the Doves, who were perch'd on the mast.

Two spread their wings and flew to land,
Lur'd by pearls on golden sand:
Advent'rous they enter'd a gilded dome,
But pining, flew back to their flow'ry home.

The wind blew high, each rosy wreath,
Blighted by disappointment's breath,
Faded away, and Hope's beautiful sail
Was soil'd by the spray, and rent by the gale.

Misfortune's rocks in view appear'd,
And Fear the crazy vessel steer'd:
A Dove was drown'd in the Gulph of Despair,
And Mirth's brilliant arrows were quenched by Care.

And now by storms and tempests tost,
The freight and crew were nearly lost;
But Hope's shatter'd sail in gay streamers flew,
And the Doves' rosy cages budded anew.

Quoth Time, my freight of Hope and Love,
Nor waves below, nor storms above,
Have pow'r to sink; and we well can cope
With storms, when our pilots are Love and Hope.

BATH, TO A FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY.

From a thousand affairs a short moment I steal,
To tell you at last, that I've seen Miss O'Neill!
She's an Angel, a Goddess! no Actress, I swear!
And a beauty with sapphire blue eyes, and gold hair;
So modest, so gentle, so charming, so young,
With looks so bewitching, so melting a tongue,
New graces each moment the mind must discover,
And the instant you see her, that instant you love her!
The Play-house was crowded each night of her stay,
With the old, and the young, and the grave, and the gay;
And Ladies of Fashion, accustom'd to sit
In the boxes, were glad to squeeze into the pit.
To attempt to describe her, would be a chimera,
She's Juliet, Bianca, Jane Shore, Belvidera!

And so strong the illusion, the art so complete,
Ev'ry bosom refuses to own the deceit,
And will not believe that the sorrows they feel,
Are rais'd by the magic of charming O'Neill.
Oh! may she be happy, may hours of bright
Ecstatic enjoyment, and years of delight,
Shed blessings around her, and ne'er may she know
Unfanciful sorrow, or literal woe;
May roses and lilies be strew'd o'er her path,
And may she return ev'ry season to Bath!

UPON THE AMATEUR PERFORMANCES AT THE BATH THEATRE.

In search of amusement, our Beaus of high fashion
Have taken for acting a terrible passion;
And spite of the weather, so sultry and hot,
The play-house is crowded to see Mr. Watt!
Whilst quality Belles are all squeezing and mobbing,
To view the performance of gay Captain Dobbyn!
One plays the vile wretch who his nephew could smother,
And Richmond's brave Earl is perform'd by the other;
And the Actors by trade, are all ready to choak 'em,
So much the applause they receive does provoke 'em:
Their talents are versatile, gifted with magic,
They shine in the comic, as well as the tragic;
And Richmond, who all must allow, is a charmer,
Despoil'd of his plumes, and bereft of his armour,

In an apron, and wig of an extra dimension,
As Bagatelle, chains the spectator's attention!
And draws from the Gallery, Boxes, and Pit,
The plaudits so due to his humour and wit.
And we trust that his friend will not longer refuse us,
As the Singles of Hoare's clever farce, to amuse us;
For bless'd by the Muses with powerful wiles,
He commands at his pleasure our tears and our smiles;
And the Richard so hump'd, and so very ill made is,
In despite his disguise, he wins hearts from the Ladies.

CHORUS OF OUTLAWS.

Merrily, merrily troll the glee,
The richly-mantling goblet drain;
Another day we may not see,
We may not quaff our wine again.

Perchance a narrow nameless grave
May be to-morrow's only boon;
O'er each cold corse may rank weeds wave,
And gaunt wolves bay the waning moon.
Merrily, merrily troll the glee, &c.

Then reckless, if the future hours
Will weal or woe our toils repay,
We'll gaily pluck in festal bowers
The rose of pleasure whilst we may.
Merrily, merrily troll the glee, &c.

SONGS.

THE ROSE OF LOVE.

Oh, fly thro' youth's enchanting bowers,
And take your choice of blooming flowers;
The Laurel courts the hero's gaze,
The Sun-flower boasts its golden blaze;
But ah! its rivals far above
In beauty, glows the Rose of Love!
Be thine, be thine the Rose of Love!

What tho' to tempt ambition's eyes,
The gaudy Crown Imperial tries,
And Friendship's Myrtle perfume breathes
For ever from its fadeless wreaths;
Tho' piercing thorns the touch reprove,
Who would not choose the Rose of Love?
Be thine, be thine the Rose of Love!

100

LOVE.

Oh, Love is painted gay and fair,
With dimpled smiles, and golden hair;
With rosy wreaths his brows are bound,
And joys and pleasures croud around.

The simple Maid his portrait charms,
She clasps the urchin in her arms;
The tyrant God perceives his sway,
And all his beauty fades away.

The roses droop, a thorn appears,
His dimpled smiles are chang'd to tears,
The joys and pleasures quickly fly,
And leave the Maiden's heart to sigh!

101

ELLEN.

When years bedeck'd with fairy light,
Have gaily wing'd their rapid flight;
When youth's enchanting dreams are o'er,
And simple joys can charm no more,
Still think of me, dear Ellen!

When pleasures now so dearly priz'd,
May be forgotten, or despis'd,
And though the world should quite erase,
The memory of former days,
Still think of me, dear Ellen!

Speed on thy happy, gay career,
Unsullied by one sigh, one tear,
And may'st thou never, never know,
The hopeless grief, the bitter woe,
That wrings my heart, dear Ellen!

102

When deep beneath the Cypress shade,
This care-worn form is lowly laid,
When life's unnumber'd ills shall cease,
And I at last shall be at peace,
Still think of me, dear Ellen!

Finis.