University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
Poetical Trifles

By A Youth [i.e. Robert Montgomery]

expand section


1

Expectes eadem à summo, minimo que pöetà.
—Juv.


3

TO BARON BROWNE MILL, THIS EARLY EFFORT IS MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, BY HIS OBLIGED AND HUMBLE SERVANT, THE AUTHOR.

5

HOPE.

“Credula vitam spes fovet et melius eras fore semper ait.”

Hope! solace sweet of human life,
Thou genial ray of love divine;
In tranquil ease, or jarring strife,
Oh, grant thy lucid beam to shine!
When anguish rends the grief-worn heart,
And streaming tears of sorrow roll;
Then Hope, sweet Hope, thy balm impart,
To mildly soothe the sadd'ning soul.

6

When dreary expectations quell
Each gladsome thought that fain would rise,
Thou canst, sweet Hope, exert thy spell
To dissipate the low'ring skies.
Though cruel death can nip the flower,
In life that sweetest fragrance gives,
Yet heavenly Hope can calm the hour,
And breathe the balm that all relieves.

HOME.

“Nescio quâ natale solum dulcedine cunctos
Ducit, et immemores non sinit esse sui.”
—Ovid.

Home has real charms that bind the heart,
And draw the sigh, when doom'd to part
From long endear'd domestic ties;
Not regal pomp in grandeur crown'd,
Nor structure high, on massy mound,
More pleasing grateful charms implies.

7

When, far in distant climes we roam,
How fondly do we think of home,
And with creative fancy steal
A fleeting glimpse of that dear lot,
A palace grand, or humble cot,
While pleasures past we seem to feel.
Ask the Wand'rer, in desert wild,
What hope attends him, soothing mild,
To cheer his heart with beaming ray:
'Tis that which paints the joys to come,
When free from peril, safe at home,
Each painful sorrow flies away.
The Soldier, whom dread war calls out
To carnage fell, and hostile rout,
Till death complete the bloody sum:
'Mid battle's rage and murd'ring toil,
While fronting danger, sees the soil
Where stands his all—his native home!

8

With fortune's blessings rich, or not,
Who e'er the sweets of home forgot,
When torn from each belov'd embrace?
Oh! bid him range o'er earth and sea,
Far from his home's tranquillity,
And prove what charms supply its place.

“Go and Sin no more.” John 8th Chap.

Woman! if e'er by wayward passions sway'd,
Thy heart beguil'd, to folly stoop;
If e'er through guilt, in pleasing smiles array'd,
Thy chasten'd soul in sorrow droop;
Thy mournful crime in tears repentant steep,
Dispel the griefs that wound thee sore;
Then go, on Him repose, who e'er could weep,
And bids thee “go, and sin no more.”

9

LINES

WRITTEN ON A LADY'S TELLING THE AUTHOR TO FORGET HER.

ADDRESSED TO MISS B---

“Memori sub pectore servo.”

Forget thee! not till sun shall cease to beam
His radiant lustre o'er the main;
Not while noon-tide gales, shall whispering seem,
To lave its billows back again.
Forget thee! not while moon shall light yon sky,
That undulates in silken vest;
Not while golden halos shall move on high,
In mellow hues serenely drest.
Forget thee! not while breezes wave the flowers,
That breathe their fragrant odours round;
Not while ethereal spring shall deck the bowers,
Or nature's verdure clothe the ground.

10

Forget thee! not while beauty's beaming eye,
Shall fan the glowing soul on fire;
Not while affection pure can heave one sigh,
Or mem'ry's magic charms inspire.
Forget thee! not while fancy's power to please,
Shall mould an angel's god-like form;
O! not till Love's own witchery shall cease
To fill the breast with raptures warm.
Forget thee! when that tongue be lock'd in death,
That e'er with transports speaks thy name;
When this fond throbbing heart shall pant for breath,
Which now beats high with love's warm flame.

11

A DREAM

[_]

(TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH)

“La mort rend tout égal.”
One night, as slumb'ring in soft sleep I lay:
And tasted rest from all the toils of day,
A dream of fancy to my mind disclos'd
Some poor man in death, by my side repos'd:
With unrelenting pride, I sternly said,
“Wretch! think not here to lay thy vulgar head,
Nor dare presume, with such insolence more,
To mix the high with low, the rich with poor.”
“Wretch, indeed!” with just anger he replied,
“Elsewhere such wretches seek, thyself deride:
All here are equal, none are left behind,
I, on my dunghill, thou, on thine reclin'd.”

12

SYMPATHY.

“Paulatim cadit ira ferox, mentes que tepescunt.”

Oh! sweet to see the heart of feeling
So gently throb for alien woe;
Oh! sweet to see the tear o'erstealing
The cheeks that with compassion glow.
Oh! sweet to feel the gush of sadness
Swell from the breast that softly heaves;
Oh! sweet to sound the peals of gladness,
Whene'er the cup of joy relieves.
Oh! sweet to hear the voice of mildness
Becalming kind the ruffled heart;
Oh! sweet to curb those bursts of wildness,
That through the maniac bosom start.

13

Nought in the human trait so pleasing,
Charms the frantic thought to rest;
As dew-eyed Sympathy appeasing
The phrensies in the sad imprest.
Mark! yon pale wretch, in madness striving
To dash his iron fetters back;
With slender hands, his jet locks writhing,
What horrid pangs his soul must rack!
His tatter'd garments quick proclaiming
What savage demon heats his blood:
Ah! see him now, his body maiming,
While flows around the welt'ring flood.
But should thy soul, of pity's moulding,
Appear to feel his gashing pains;
Then, all the madman seems witholding,
And drooping hangs his clinking chains.

14

The staring eye with wild fire flashing,
Is fix'd to view the tears that still:
No longer now, the fetters clashing,
His cell with jarring clamour fill.
The stormy feelings are composing,
As oft he hears the genial sigh;
Till quell'd at last, he sinks reposing,
And fondly hopes that freedom's nigh.
Then, sweet to see the heart of feeling
So gently throb for alien woe;
Oh! sweet to see the tear o'erstealing
Cheeks that with compassion glow.

15

REFLECTIONS AT THE SETTING SUN.

“Aspice, aratra jugo referunt suspensa juvenci
Et sol crescentes decedens duplicat umbras.”
Virg.

While the mild air is fann'd by cooling breeze,
And whisp'ring murmurs of departing day
Melodious sound on mine attentive ear,
O! let me range to silent meadow green,
Aud there, under some shady beech reclin'd,
In contemplation view the setting sun.
Mark! the ruddy streak from light-drooping cloud,
That beams so bright with alternate flick'rings;
What mingl'd hues, of varied colours soft,
'Twixt burnish'd lustre of silv'ry whiteness,
Shine around the golden rays of Phœbus!
Each lofty mountain of towering height,

16

That through the day, has felt the sultry heat
Of burning sun, now humid coolness feels.
Creation seems refresh'd with evening shade.
The nodding trees, that spread their foliage green,
The sweet flowers, which scent with genial odour,
The rural music of the rustling leaves,
In lovely charms, bedeck the beauteous scene:
While, from the brow of yon dusky hill,
The Shepherd loit'ring comes, with toil fatigu'd;
His fleecy care around him plaintive bleat,
As homeward to close penn'd up folds they go.—
And here, while misty evening closes on,
And Nature seems her graces to unfold,
Wrapp'd in busy thought, to man congenial,
I'll calmly pass the hour, from cares repos'd.—
How Fancy's visions float my dizzy brain,

17

And paint before me scenes for ever gone!
Oh! childhood's happy time! blest stage of life,
Season of guileless pleasures unalloy'd,
Now do I see thee, with keen Mem'ry's eye,
In innocence and loveliness complete.
Each fleeting joy, of past infantine years,
Appears display'd to my rapturous view:
When young Ambition bloom'd, unblighted, gay,
Inexperienc'd led, to smile at prospect;
When vernal flowers bestrew'd the fleeting hour,
Nor Fortune's sullen blast reversive, swept
Away those rich scenes of captivation sweet.
That period gone—what alterations dire!
What chasms deep, have ope'd their yawning jaws,
To engorge within their hapless victim!
Friends once belov'd, who lock'd in dear embrace,

18

The choice companions of their early years,
Sleep now beneath the silent grave repos'd.
Where are those arms of parental fondness,
That so oft have clasp'd, 'mid throbs ecstatic,
With all the ardour of Love's pure spirit,
The happy child to Affection's bosom?
Devour'd, perchance, by cold and clammy Death,
Bloodless and stiff become, they cank'ring lie.
Say, fell Death, what dread havock thou hast made,
Raging in gory, red-stain'd butcheries?
What cheeks hast thou with scalding tears bedew'd?
What bursting heart, hast thou with inward throes
To madness riv'd, by agonies of grief?
But still, O Pleasure! rich gifts have show'r'd down,
Replete, diffusive, from thy bounteous hand.
Unnumber'd happy hours have flitted by,

19

Basking in the sunshine of tranquil ease.
When home was seen, with bland endearing ties,
To weave its fragile web of mystic joys.
Yes, those indeed were gifts, how richly fraught!
Earth was deem'd unworthy to retain them.
Yet Life, with all its bitter sweeten'd cares,
That weeps o'er such lachrymous distractions,
Keeps Hope, to suck the poison from the grief.—
But, hark! the dull peals of some tolling bell,
Ring through the thick air, low sounds lugubrous,
And bid me leave this calm and peaceful spot.—
Thy wond'rous ways, O Providence! to man,
How veil'd in mystery inscrutable!
With mercy temper'd is thy ev'ry act:
And whene'er in great wisdom thou ordain'st
That dire Misfortune's sting should mar our bliss,

20

Then grant, that each may with submission bow
To thy all-wise, supreme, and high decree.
And since thou alone perfect good canst know,
Make us, through each devious track of life,
Reclining on thy arm, with God-head nerv'd,
In mild obedience meet th' appointed doom.

TO MISS ---

“Heu quibus insidiis, quâ me circumdedit arte!”

And art thou gone! while nought remains
To bind my soul to thee;
Save what bright Fancy's pow'r retains,
Nurs'd by kind Memory.

21

A time there was, when thou couldst say,
Thy heart with pure love burn'd;
But that blest time is flown away,
And thou deserter turn'd.
Thy voice that lisp'd with accent mild,
That spoke the hallow'd vow;
No more with hope shall rend me wild,
It only echoes now.
Thy eye, that shone so fondly bright,
When I was dear to thee;
No longer darts its melting light,
No tender beam for me!
Alas! thy soul, too soon resign'd
The sacred pledge of love;
And she, who e'er was fair and kind,
Did then inconstant prove.

22

What maniac throes my bosom tore,
I wept o'er faded bliss!
Such grief was never felt before,
'Till mis'ry gave me this.
But still thou e'en must think of him
Who worshipp'd thy fond name:
Wild fancies will thy vision swim,
Thy blighted love reclaim.
When worn with grief, the damp cold grave
This wearied head shall rest;
Thy crystal tears the spot may lave,
One sigh may swell thy breast.
And oft when night shall mantle round,
And spread her sable gloom,
Thy dreams will see me raise the ground,
Pale-shrouded from the tomb.

23

Thus he, whom thou couldst bear delude
By words so steep'd in guile;
Shall on thy calm repose intrude,
And tell thee all thy wile.
But, fare thee well, O lovely maid!
Though lovely not for me:
While I, to distant regions stray'd,
Will live and die for thee.

24

THE WARRIOR'S DEATH.

“Dulce et decorum est pro patriâ mori.”
Hor.

How beauteous is the Warrior's corse,
Pale lying on the gory plain!
Though mangl'd by the warring horse,
'Twill never bear a graceless stain.
Amid the heaps of silent dead,
That moveless strew the trampl'd ground;
The Brave in Honour rest their head,
While blessed Spirits hover round.
The livid hue of frowning Death,
May chase the glow from off the cheek;
His icy grasp may still the breath,
The dauntless voice of courage break;

25

The hissing ball may ring the air,
And sweeping hurl its victim low;
The reeking sword no soul may spare,
But ruthless wreak the murd'rous blow.
But Fame shall sound her clarion well,
And high extol the Sons of Mars;
Many a tongue with pride shall tell,
They bravely fought their country's wars.
When to battle the Warrior speeds,
When ardour seeks the marshall'd fight;
Affection soft with anguish bleeds,
For fear that death should close his sight.
The lovely maid who shares his heart,
Then trembling takes the last embrace,
And fondly hopes that he may part,
With heavenly aid to seek his place.

26

When battle's o'er, and Peace declares
Him fallen 'mongst the victims brave;
She e'er his loss, with meekness shares,
And sweetly sorrows o'er his grave.
E'en in her grief there is a pride,
That breathes a mild consoling balm;
That he has nobly fought and died,
The bitter pangs of woe can calm.
Of all the deeds that proudly claim
Th' applauding burst of Sons of Earth;
The Warrior's deeds must bloom in fame;
While time shall tell the Patriot's worth.
The hearts who love their country's cause,
And prove their zeal by feats of arms;
Alone can gain that sweet applause,
That after death yields fadeless charms.

27

TRANSLATION OF A LATIN PASTORAL POEM,

WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. JOHN FLETCHER.

------Cui Pudor, et Justitiæ soror
Incorrupta Fides, nudaque Veritas
Quando ullum inveniet parem?

PALÆMON.
Say, Alphesibæus, what makes thee sad
Thy lonely footsteps take, in sorrow clad?
By hungry wolf, perchance, some lambkin slain,
No longer frisking skips the sunny plain?


28

ALPHESIBÆUS.
My flock, Palæmon 's safe; no lamb is torn;
Damon is dead! 'tis this that makes me mourn.
For him, these eyes bedew'd with tears you see;
For him, my soul laments most tenderly.
One hour gone, with hard toil and sickness dead,
We bore him to his last, cold earthy bed.
To tell his name, no marble tomb is worth,
'Twill live unfading in immortal birth.

PALÆMON.
Since Damon's fled, the swan hath ceas'd to sing,
The raven and the crane their chattering;
The black crow alone, now saddening moans,
While Philomela sounds her mellow tones.


29

ALPHESIBÆUS.
But he, 'mid heaven's bright arch, can there behold
The silky clouds beneath his feet unfold;
May see the weeping flock he nurs'd and rear'd,
By Gospel light from doubt and error clear'd.
How happy he! but us, what griefs attend,
What sad afflicting cares our bosoms rend!
Ye Swains! in dismal notes of sorrow mourn!
This epitaph, shall on his tomb be borne—
“Here Damon lies, known to the stars in fame,
The boast of his kind, an unequall'd name.”

PALÆMON.
Cull the dewy flowers of varying hue,
The snow-white lily, and hyacinth blue;
The cassia and violet of modest bloom,

30

To scatter o'er lov'd Damon's humble tomb:
Whose stainless name from clime to clime shall sound,
While honied bees shall sip the sweets around,
While finny breed shall swim the briny deep,
Or goat shall climb the craggy mountain's steep.

ALPHESIBÆUS.
Like the cypress 'mid wild vines lifts its head,
And alder tree o'ertops in tam'risk bed;
So shall Damon's land, in high honour shine,
That sent forth one so pure, so near divine.

PALÆMON.
My friend, due praises may we ever give,
We praise him most, when most like him we live.

 

The original appeared in some Periodical Work


31

LINES TO A FRIEND, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY.

“Hunc, Macrine, diem numera meliore lapillo
Qui tibi labentes apponit candidus annos.”
Pers.

My Muse, lov'd friend, on this auspicious day,
Would take her lyre, and strike each grateful chord:
And while congratulations waft around,
Oh! let her guide thee to a theme of praise;
To ponder deep on that Eternal Power,
Which has fost'ring led thee to manhood's bloom.
Since life first diffus'd its beams o'er thy soul,
What mighty arm has watch'd o'er all thy ways,
And kept thy tott'ring steps from dang'rous falls?

32

Who, when in childhood, thou didst crad'ling lie,
Spreading soft tender arms in artless mood,
Gave gradual energy to thy young limbs,
Pouring in each day the sap nutritious?
Who form'd utterance for the simple tongue,
And bade it speak with unaffected grace,
The wants that feeble infancy attend?
'Twas God! who vast in awful splendour sits
Amid skies celestial sublimely shrin'd,
Yielding to man his kind unweari'd care.
Twice twelve years have now o'er thy head revolv'd,
The fleeting moments of reversing time
Have wing'd their swift interminable flight,
Whilst thou, frail man, remain'st a wond'rous proof
Of mercies, how inexhaustibly great!
Think, O think! that since this brief flight of time,

33

Millions beneath the tomb forgotten sleep!
Who, like thyself, once bloom'd unthinking, gay,
Flush'd with the gilded charms of op'ning views.
Then let that life, which has thus long been spar'd
The blighting touch of unrelenting Death,
To Him pour forth the ceaseless strains of praise,
That chastely hallow'd swell the grateful heart.
And thus, as years on years revolving roll,
And future natal days increase thy span,
The blessed peace of heav'n shall be thy lot;
Calmly shalt thou glide down the stream of life,
Thy conscience tranquil, and thy soul at ease.

34

SAPHO'S HYMN TO VENUS.

Ποικιλοθρον' αθανατ' Αφροδιτα
Παι διος δολοπλοκε, λισσομαιι σε.
Sapho.

Immortal Venus! beauty's queen!
For whom so many temples seen;
Daughter of Jove! whose witching smart
With wily transports thrills the heart,
To thee I bow—and trembling pray
Thee not to melt my heart away

35

By thy charms so blandly smiling,
Wasting slow, so soft beguiling:
But if thou e'er couldst gentle prove
To hear the sweet distress of love,
In native charms, effulgent crown'd,
Descend and hear my tuneful sound.
Such as thou didst hear me blending,
From the golden skies descending;
In chariot drawn by sparrows yok'd,
Whose dark-plum'd wings the air revok'd,
I saw thee ride the expanse blue,
And fleet thy airy coursers flew,
'Till down below their queen they brought,
Then through the skies their way they sought.

36

While, goddess, thou with heaven-wrought smile,
Ask'dst what grief did my heart beguile?
What am'rous spell disturb'd my breast,
That I to thee had sigh'd for rest?
Why thus Love's maniac I was turn'd,
My bosom why with raptures burn'd?
What lovely youth I would ensnare,
And by what toils release my care?
O say, my Sapho, who could slight,
And fly unwounded beauty's sight?
If now he mutual love refuse,
From each ensaring trap recluse;
If passion now be quench'd and cold,
Not long he will thy prayers withhold;
Soon, soon, thy melting charms will chain,
And lead him victim home again.

37

Then Cyprian Fair, with healing balm,
Once more these warring thoughts becalm;
From vexing pains my heart allure,
And with thine aid my bliss secure.

38

FROM THE ITALIAN.

“Questa Fenice dell' aurata piuma.”
Petrarch.

This Phœnix, with the splendid golden plume
That heaves around its graceful breast;
A necklace forms, of artless, costly bloom,
Which will not leave my heart at rest.

39

A diadem is made of beaming hue,
That glistens in the air around:
From it Love a subtle spark of fire drew
To melt the heart by ice drops bound.
A purple vest, edg'd with cerulean die,
Fill'd with the breath of roses sweet,
Is seen o'er its beauteous shoulders lie,
And forms a plumage rich and neat.
'Tis said, that in Arabia's fertile bed,
Where spicy sweetness scents the air;
Amid lone high retreats it lays its head,
Until an offspring rises there.
 

Laura.—“Ella ê in fatto una Fenice di bellezza né v'ha chi possa uguagliarla; e tale Fenice, donde amore va un foco così sottile traendo, che il misero Vate arde e consuma nella stagione più algente.”


40

THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.

“Patrios longe post tempore fines aspicit.”

The yelling din of war had ceas'd,
Her cruel deeds were done;
And William, from his toil releas'd,
Came home a happy Son.
Ten years were spent in foreign clime,
To fight his Country's foes;
In battle's rage he pass'd his time,
Endur'd a Soldier's woes.
In each attack he valiant prov'd,
And shed his purple blood;
Through carnage thick he often rov'd,
Amid a gory flood.

41

His massy arm had wielded stout
The weapon of the brave;
The hostile foe he put to rout,
For many made a grave.
His limbs some scars of honour bore,
Receiv'd in each campaign:
His bosom high a medal bore,
To grace his humble name.
From shoulders broad a knapsack hung,
That held his little all:
While in his hand a firelock swung,
That oft had hurl'd the ball.
What raptures swell'd his noble breast.
To think of vict'ries won!
Ah! who can tell a Warrior's rest,
Without becoming one.

42

His own dear soil he felt he trod,
He stood on natal ground;
With grateful heart he prais'd that God,
Who spread such blessings round.
Ten dull years he had seen glide by,
Doom'd far away to roam;
Once more again, he felt were nigh
The peaceful joys of home.
The setting sun behind a hill,
Was peeping from a cloud;
All nature seem'd repos'd and still,
A pleasing calm allow'd.
While William now, upon a stile,
Close by his humble lot;
In busy thought, sat down awhile,
To view his woodbine cot.

43

The smoke from out the chimney curl'd
Unruffl'd in the air;
The curtain o'er the window furl'd,
Bespoke some inmate there.
The moss-grown gate, which oft had ope'd
To let him in at eve;
He saw by clust'ring roses cop'd,
Did still a passage leave.
The arbor, where he frequent smok'd,
With pleasant whiff his pipe,
Where in a cheerful mood he jok'd,
Look'd gay with berries ripe.
The well from which he often drew
Fresh draughts of water sweet,
Was clos'd around by hawthorns few,
Which kept off sultry heat.

44

But now he burn'd with filial zeal,
To hasten to the door:
To find his father blest with weal,
And ne'er to leave him more.
Quick from the stile, with joyous leap,
He quits his lonely seat;
And down the shady hillock's steep,
The oft-track'd path he beat.
Oh! how his blood within him flow'd,
As each glad step he took;
His heart with warm affection glow'd,
And ev'ry feeling shook.
Soon at the garden gate arriv'd,
He lifted up the latch;
Unseen to gain the door he striv'd,
By Tray that kept the watch.

45

But Tray sagacious knew his face,
And gave the welcome sound;
The good old father left his place,
And wond'ring gaz'd around.
“Who's there,” he cried with scolding voice,
“That dares approach this spot?
A friend or foe? come, take thy choice,
Or enter not this cot.”
“Old man!” said William, “quell each fear
That does thy spirits try;
'Tis thy lost son, belov'd and dear,
That now approaches nigh.”
“My son! my son! and do I live
To greet thee home again!
Oh! would that I had words to give,
And speak my feelings plain!”—

46

He ceas'd to utter all his joy,
For William to him flew;
In feeble arms he lock'd his boy,
Shed tears of rapture new.
Then, joyous both, they enter'd in,
And sat down side by side;
The Soldier did his wars begin,
And spoke with martial pride.
With heart elate, he boasts of deeds
Of battle and renown:
Each tale of woe compassion pleads,
While tears come trickling down.
His battle scenes with ardent breast,
He tells his aged sire;
Then grateful both, they seek their rest,
To slumbers sweet retire.

47

THE BLISS OF WINE.

Οταν πινω τον οινον,
Ευδοσιν αι μεριμναι.
Anacreon.

Oh! when the purple wine I sip,
Then toiling cares repose;
No briny tear bedews my lip,
Still hush'd are all my woes.
Since death must come by heav'n's decree
Nor courts the will of man:
I will not make life dull to me,
But taste what joys I can.
From sparkling bowl, then let me drink,
And freely sip its sweets;
Oblivion will each trouble sink,
While life with pleasure beats.

48

IMPROMPTU

ON A LADY'S CUTTING OFF THE WINGS OF A PAPER CUPID.

Ah! ruthless, cruel lady, why,
Without one tear, without one sigh,
Cut off the wings of Cupid?
Believe me true, you'll rue the hour,
When from the God you took such power,
And prov'd your heart so rigid.
Love's host will soon avenging rise,
To claim the boy that you despise,
Though wingless, will receive him:
With charming art, new wings they'll make,
And on his wrongs just vengeance take,
Because you dar'd deceive him.

49

TO LAURA.

“Quid fles Asterie?”—Hor.

Why swell with tears my Laura's eyes,
Her heart with sobs why beating?
O, let me quell those rising sighs,
And tell her bliss is fleeting!
Untemper'd Love is Passion's child,
By Fancy's power becoming wild:
True Love's a pure congenial spirit,
That yields to one Affection's merit.

50

Why pout with ire my Laura's lips,
Her pretty dimples flushing?
Rage all the charms of Beauty strips,
The tones of Mildness hushing;
The feeble strains of Woman's voice,
Are far more pleasing in their choice,
Than jarring bursts of madd'ning folly,
Which consummate in melancholy.

51

Then cease those sobs, my Laura dear,
Sweet maid, come leave off weeping;
Quick wipe away that pendent tear,
In smiles thy sorrows sleeping.
While those dark clouds which hung around,
When thy arch'd brow with sternness frown'd,
In brightening beams shall faint away,
And gentle Mildness her charms display.

52

SONG. HASTE THEE WARRIOR.

Warrior! the hour of departure is come,
Echoing sound the loud notes of the drum;
Haste thee, Warrior, haste! oh! hasten away,
While light o'er the deep the moon-shadows play.
Heardst thou not then, the dread thunder of war,
The roar of the guns high pealing afar?
Haste thee, Warrior, haste! oh! hasten away,
A speedy return shall thy absence repay.
Look not to thy babe that smiles in thy face,
But quick o'er thy breast thy bright corslet brace;
Then haste, Warrior, haste! oh! hasten away,
Let no present joys thy duty delay.

53

Think not of thy wife that tenderly sighs,
Regard not the tear that dims her blue eyes;
But haste, Warrior, haste! oh! hasten away,
To scenes of the brave, of battle and fray.
Wish not for the peace that shelters thy cot,
Nor sigh for its sweets 'till war be forgot;
But haste, Warrior, haste! oh! hasten away,
Nor wait till the sun shall beam the morn-ray.
No harm will betide, though lonely I live,
Heaven to the lone kind protection will give;
Then haste, Warrior, haste! oh! hasten away,
May Vic'try crown thee with laurel-wreaths gay.
While thou art absent, I'll pray for thy weal,
And feel all the cares, a mother can feel;
Haste thee, Warrior, haste! oh! hasten away,
While light o'er the deep the moon-shadows play.

54

EXTEMPORARY LINES ADDRESSED TO SOME YOUNG LADIES.

Oh, say! how hard, but pleasing is my task,
When ye, fair race, with pleasing mildness ask
Me to pour forth my strains of infant muse,
Nor kindly name what subject I must choose;
Words from the heart betray the feelings true,
Then let these humbly tell my wish to you.
May you, through this fleet life, e'er happy be,
Blest with calm peace, and sweet security;
Around your lot may mild contentment twine,
The heart unruffl'd, grateful, and benign;

55

May revolving years each more charming find,
Grac'd with the spotless virtues of the mind;
And, when doom'd hereafter by Heav'n's decree,
May you resigned meet adversity;
May wearying toil and torturing care,
Ne'er pure and harmless joys unfeeling tear;
To crown this bliss, may friendship's sweets attend,
And halcyon pleasures uniting blend;
May He, whose glitt'ring light beams thro' the day,
Illume life's chequer'd path with cheering ray;
Misfortune's woes may that same Power remove,
While Truth and Honour your sure guardians prove.

56

Death spares not.

“Pallida mors œquo pulsat pede, pauperum
tabernas Regum que turres.”
—Hor.

Death spares not the high in regal state,
Nor shrinks from fretted dome;
But undaunted knocks at palace gate
And calls the spirit home.
Death spares not the rich and joyous son
That basks in gilded wealth:
Ne'er passes by the ravenous one
That lives by haggard stealth.
Death spares not the brave and gallant heart,
That burns with martial glow;
With relentless hand he wings his dart,
And sweeps to shades below.

57

Death spares not the rose of beauty's bloom,
Nor flies from healthy cheeks;
For gay youth and age unlocks the tomb,
On all one vengeance wreaks.
Death spares not th' imprudent thoughtless soul
That lives in passion's joy;
Spares not the ideot, who spends his whole
To buy one empty toy.
Death spares not the pale and studious youth
That sits by midnight oil;
Spares not him who seeks for hidden truth,
But blasts his wearied toil.
Death spares not th' uneasy troubled life,
Perplex'd with warring cares;
But sudden quells each clamorous strife,
When proud ambition dares.

58

Death no mortal spares—his poison'd dart
Hangs o'er each victim's head;
The fiat spoken, 'twill pierce the heart,
And strike the living dead.

THE WANDERER.

“Exulat et toto quærit in orbe fugam.”

A wand'rer from her native land,
Poor Anne had travell'd far;
Forc'd by a cruel bloody band,
That rag'd intestine war.
Her eye, that once was beaming bright,
Was dim'd by scalding tears;
Her rosy cheek had felt the blight,
Look'd pale by chilling fears.

59

The simple locks of beauteous brown
That once adorn'd her neck,
Now wild and loose were hanging down
In light and careless wreck.
The stones had torn her tender feet,
Which naked shew'd each wound;
Her heart with palpitations beat,
As oft she star'd around.
I mark'd her look—'twas haggard, wild,
And told the writhing thought:
But still there was contentment mild,
Which Hope alone had brought.
With head reclin'd, long time she sat
Beneath a willow tree;
In pensive mood she swung her hat,
By all unseen but me.

60

In piteous gaze I silent stood
Behind two gentle mounds;
And heard when tears had ceas'd to flood,
Her breathe these plaintive sounds:—
“Poor wretched Anne, where art thou now!
What dreadful woes are thine!
Thy soul oppress'd what sorrows bow,
Thy heart what thorns entwine!
“Oh, where is once my peaceful home,
With all its native charms!
Oh, where those spots I us'd to roam
Free from the clash of arms!
“Those happy times are gone and fled,
When friends I had so near;
Those bosoms where I laid my head,
In death are cold and drear.

61

“In one sad day the murd'rer's steel
Inhuman pierc'd their heart;
In that same day I lost my weal,
Was friendless doom'd to part.
“E'er since that time, a wand'rer I,
Have roam'd o'er earth and sea;
With lifted hands I've pray'd to die,
For no one pities me.”
Her voice was tremb'ling on her tongue,
To tell some grief anew;
But while her heart a deep sigh wrung,
Her soul to mercy flew.

62

AIR. OH, LADY, I'LL REMEMBER THEE!

Where'er by Fortune's whims I'm cast,
On sunny climes, or stormy sea;
While Mem'ry's mystic charms shall last,
Oh, lady, I'll remember thee!
Each novel scene shall make me think
Of pleasures gone, still felt by me:
E'en while the cup of woe I drink,
Oh, lady, I'll remember thee!
If riches be my fated lot,
And life be spent from troubles free;
Or should kind fortune bless me not,
Oh, lady, I'll remember thee;

63

If doom'd to pine in silent gloom
My hapless days of misery;
If burning griefs my heart consume,
Oh, lady, I'll remember thee!
Oft retir'd to some tranquil seat,
Where Fancy bids all sorrows flee;
There as the moments quickly fleet,
Oh, lady, I'll remember thee!
When Death shall come and cut the thread
Which binds this mortal life to me;
When the light soul is almost fled,
Oh, lady, I'll remember thee!

64

FROM THE ITALIAN.

“Si'o credessi per morte essere scarco
Del pensier amoroso che m'atterra.”
Petrarch.

Oh! could but death remove the weight
Of love my heart besetting;
Then long ere this I'd eas'd my freight,
In death my cares fogetting:
The grave my wearied limbs should rest,
The green turf closing o'er my breast.
Alas! I fear, 'twould only be
From grief to grief a changing;
Tortures keen would still perplex me,
And wars of love be ranging;
E'en while this change I yet escape,
'Twixt life and me death seems to gape.

65

I pray the time may soon arrive
When Love will leave off shooting;
Nor with his dart unfeeling rive,
Each victim's heart out-rooting:
Already are his hands imbru'd
With the blood his sharp arrows strew'd.
Aid me, thou God, with her unkind,
Deaf to my cries, refusing;
Who left me with her beauty blind,
Bright dazzling charms diffusing:
Unfeeling maid! that ne'er replied,
And all my spoken vows denied.

66

LINES ON RECEIVING A ROSE.

“—Medio que solis adusta calore,
Ponit decidulo pendula flore comas.”

Lady, thy blushing gift of growth mature,
A beauteous rose full-blown in lovely bloom,
Was kept by me with soft solicitude,
'Till droop'd its head perfum'd, and leafless died.—
Say, did'st thou cull it fair from prickly stem,
Soft bedew'd with odoriferous sweets,
To pine so soon within a fev'rish grasp?
To leave its beauties, unfann'd by mild gales
That float along their breezy gentleness
With whispering music, o'er Flora's train?

67

Methought, as languishing I view'd the blush
From thick circling leaves slowly fade away,
'Twas not unlike the healthy cheek of youth
Pale blighted by the with'ry touch of death.—
When rambling through the walks, at early dawn,
Of some cool and flowery garden spot,
Hast thou, lady, amid the clust'ring shrubs,
Close planted round the meandering paths,
Beheld the opening rose from bending stalk
Hang down its tender head, by dew-drops pearl'd?
What lovely mixtures of pure white and red,
Were blended fine, in assemblage complete!
How blooming look'd the little germing buds
Red peeping through the shady pendent leaves!
While pleasing fragrance gave her scented charms.
Alas! no sooner shall to-morrow's wind,

68

Sweep o'er the earth her loud streperous blast,
Than the stripp'd rose falls crumbling to the ground,—
'Tis thus with gay youth, that sprightly gambols,
With animation's soul, mid smiling scenes;
While lively health her aid benignant lends,
Imparting to the cheek the vivid hue,
To the bright eye an undiminish'd fire.
But soon as grim and haggard sickness comes,
Pouring her poison in the flowing veins,
Quick all the charms of fleeting youth decay,
And like the rose, when cull'd from parent stem,
Has nought but wrecks of beauty's faded form.

69

A FRAGMENT.

“Num fletu ingemuit nostro? num lumina flexit?
Num lachrymas victus dedit? aut miseratus amantem est?”
Virg.

Free from the toiling cares of busy life,
Onesummer's eve I fled the noisy town
To taste the sweets of rural solitude.
Alone I wander'd through the silent fields,
Sometimes, stooping to cull a flow'ret sweet
That shew'd its head amid the waving grass,
Now rich and plenteous for the mower's scythe;
Sometimes, climbing the gentle sloping bank,
I pluck'd from the hedge a blushing dog-rose,
Whose thin form'd leaves then scented fresh and mild,
Fill'd with fragrance from its beauteous parent.
The hay-harvest season had now begun;

70

Around in distant fields, were seen employ
The sweating labourers with circling swoop,
Cutting the flexile stalks of shady green,
From smiling Nature's annual produce.
With pleasing interruptions, such as these,
In calm and peaceful thought, I sought my way
Close by the side of a meand'ring brook
That purl'd its limpid stream in gentle course
Beneath the gloom of thick o'erhanging boughs.
Tracing the current through each cool retreat,
I came at last, beside a woody copse:
And there, neath the spread of a tow'ring tree
I pensive listen'd to the buz of eve.
But suddenly, the soft melodious thrill
Of some plaintive voice, my attention seiz'd.
Oh! 'twas Music by Melancholy sooth'd;

71

Oft did the mimic Echo sweet rebound
In heighten'd tones, and shake the liquid air;
Again, the deep notes of sorrowing woe
Came on the ear to still Compassion's tear;
Like the mellow notes of Æolic lyre,
Each rapturous strain was fraught with mildness;
Stealing the soul's soft sense of sympathy,
As steals the breeze of gentle Zephyrus
The pleasing scent of circumjacent herbs.
She sang of love—of disappointed love;
How that when young, in modesty adorn'd,
Blooming in all the charms of guileless youth,
She had been allur'd from her native home
By the seductive arts of treach'rous man:
Who, by fair promises replete with guile,
Snar'd her impassion'd heart, and then forsook;

72

And villain-like, unprotected left her,
To bear alone the pangs of sinful love,
The bitter taunts of reputation lost!
Since that time, what phrenzies of anguish dread,
What torturing thoughts had rack'd her bosom!
To think, that she most pitiless had left
Her father's humble roof, where mild coutent
Had e'er beam'd through each fleet infantine year
On her lonely fortune. Oh! she had been
The cherish'd child of his affection pure,
The sole remaining prop of with'ring age;
Who should have eas'd with kind and lenient hand,
The cumb'ring cares that droop'd his feeble soul,
And smooth'd the bed for weary limbs to rest.
But, alas! how merciless she had prov'd,
How ill requited was a father's love!

73

Stung to the heart to see his daughter lost,
Her honour blasted, and his comforts gone,
He pin'd in silence, and unpitied died.
And this, of all her woes, did grieve her most,
That ingratitude for paternal care
Had caus'd tears to flow o'er his wrinkl'd face,
And steep'd in sorrow locks then snow'd by age.
Her happy hours were now for ever fled;
Sorrow alone her restless thoughts could calm;
And oft she would go at still evening hour
To moisten with repentant tears his grave:
This was her solace, even there to weep,
And sigh in anguish o'er his troubles past.
I could no longer list; and softly went
To soothe the fair mourner—but she was gone!

74

SONG.

[Oh, would my heart! oh, would my heart!]

Oh, would my heart! oh, would my heart!
Were on thy love reposing;
That love would ev'ry joy impart
'Till life around were closing.
Oh, would thine eye! oh, would thine eye!
Perceive the pangs I'm feeling;
All earthly scenes would seem to fly,
While beauty's visions stealing.
Oh, would thy voice! oh, would thy voice!
Breathe music to my weeping;
Its tones would e'en my grief rejoice,
In bliss my sorrows steeping.

75

Oh, would thy love! oh, would thy love!
Were all my woes beguiling;
Then ne'er through dreary scenes I'd rove,
But rest when thou wert smiling.
Oh, would thy sigh! oh, would thy sigh!
For me alone were heaving;
How calmly would I learn to die,
All anguish would be leaving.

76

IMPROMPTU.

“Oculi sunt in amore duces.”

'Tis said the eye's a mental voice,
And tells a tale in ev'ry beam;
Betraying e'er the secret choice
Of melting love's impassion'd dream.
But if fond woman's brilliant eye
Betray'd her inmost feelings true;
How oft would flutt'ring bosoms sigh,
And grieve to find what eyes could do!
Each passion felt to be reveal'd,
What crimson blushes men would see!
The thought the heart would have conceal'd,
No modest secret then could be.

77

AURORA.

Ηελιος δ' ανορουσε, λιπων περικαλλεα λιμνην,
Ουρανον ες πολυχαλκον, ιν' αθανατοισι φαεινη,
Και δνητοισι βροτοισιν επι ζειδωρον αρουραν.
Od. 3.

The silent gloom of sable Night dispers'd,
Forth from her saffron couch Aurora comes
In ruby chariot, drawn by milky steed,
To ope with blushing hand the eastern gates.
Veil'd in majesty from the clouds she bursts,
Sheds o'er the teeming ground her matin dew,
And in the flowers their balmy odour breathes,
While Nox and Somnus from her presence fly.

78

Each twinkling star and constellation bright
That spangling throng the sky at evening hour,
Dazzl'd by her fair beauties, disappear.
All Nature seems at her approach reviv'd;
The herbs and trees, in verdant clothing drest,
With fair and opening charms her bounty prove.
The songsters sweet that tune their woodland lays
'Till murky Darkness warn them to retire,
With renovation flap their plumed wings,
Soon as young Morn her early visit pays,
And skim the air in high ethereal flight,
To welcome Light with a warb'ling carol.
The varied colours in arch'd rainbow seen,
Equal not in splendour the rising dawn;
Thrones pil'd on thrones seem heap'd up cerulean,
While mellow tinges of diffusive hue,

79

In flick'ring beauties dart, though soft, sublime.
Pillowing aloft, some cloud majestic
Heaves round and round its sumptuous vesture,
Its orb displaying lovely Nature's tints;
Now smooth convolv'd in soft voluptuous forms,
It rolls most graceful in the airy space,
While all the vaulted canopy appears
Illum'd by splend'rous beams of radiant light.
To raise the grandeur of this mighty scene,
The pale crescent of the silvery moon,
Oft shews retir'd her brightness fading dim,
Perchance a lucid contrast to effect,
'Twixt rising splendour and setting glory.—
O Light ineffable! pure gift of Heav'n!
When pour'ing o'er the circumambient earth
Thy vigorous charms, to life nutritious,

80

How art thou form'd to teach the pious mind,
His vast power and antemundane greatness,
Who from darkness produced thyself so chaste
And from the womb of a chaotic gloom,
Did form a world with beauty so replete,
With bright celestial graces so adorn'd,
That what of mortal dregs participates,
Ne'er can yet discern its full perfections;
Nor with ample praises wondering tell
The exalted wisdom of Him who made it.

81

RETROSPECT.

“------nam quod fuit antè relictum est,
Fit quoque quod haud fuerat, momentaque cuncta novantur.”
Ovid.

Delightful 'tis at cooling eve
To seek the shady sylvan spot;
When rankling cares the bosom leave,
When grief's forgot.
There undisturb'd, to freely think
Of joyous moments vanish'd by;
And calmly look to childhood's brink,
Soft heaves the sigh!
Association's mystic chain,
In unison connects each scene:
While Mem'ry, with her lovely train,
Will flit between.

82

How boundless is gay Fancy's power,
That paints in vivid colours bright!
That makes the past, the present hour,
A mental light.
A sea of vision seems display'd,
Too wide almost for thought to span:
The mind in soft repose array'd,
Admires the plan.
Then happy he! whom no crime haunts,
Whose conscience bears no guilty stain;
Whose brain no dizzy phantom flaunts
With madd'ning pain.
Retrospect! how compos'd and sweet
Art thou to calm unruffl'd souls;
What airy forms thy region fleet!
No sorrow scowls.

83

Recording art repairs the past,
And echoes back each virtuous deed;
The glow of feeling still will last,
Though the heart bleed.
The child of poverty's chill lot,
That shar'd from silent bounty's hand;
Shall ne'er by respite be forgot,
While records stand.
Should friends be gone, who once were lov'd,
Dear as the heart that throbs the breast;
Retrospect speaks the charm they prov'd,
Though sunk to rest.
The halcyon hours of thrilling joy
That throng'd the blushing dawn of youth,
Shall oft the kindred bosom cloy
With scenes of truth.

84

Does some fond parent breathless lie
Mouldering in the darken'd tomb?
Will not Retrospect gently try
To chase the gloom?
Art thou an orphan 'reft of all,
Of all that stills the storms of fate?
Then Retrospect her spell will call,
And soothing wait.
Once more thou'lt haunt rich scenes of bliss,
Those scenes of former days, now flown;
All that can ease a state like this,
Will be thine own.
Has mis'ry been thy destine fell,
And rak'd with grief the smiling soil?
Retrospect e'en can anguish quell,
And smooth its toil.

85

'Tis sweet to think of sorrows gone,
And count the hours we've spent in grief;
'Tis sweet when fancy urges on,
And yields relief.
When conscience harrows not the mind,
That muses o'er past sickly woe:
A gentle stream of thought refin'd
The soul will flow.
The pallid fear of trembling ills,
That once so rack'd the shatter'd frame;
In Retrospect, with no pang thrills
The bosom tame.
Did Beauty with her witching form,
Permit thee languish day by day?
Did Passion's throes thy heart alarm,
And melt away?

86

Has Love thy fondest wishes cross'd,
And marr'd thy fancied, choice delight?
Has thy warm heart been ic'd with frost,
And left to blight?
Did she who vow'd to live for thee,
Nor heave a sigh that breath'd not love,
From each dear promise ruthless flee,
And guileful prove?
Then, Retrospect will rend thee wise,
And still the light impassion'd thought;
Will teach thee to contemn those sighs,
With treach'ry fraught.
Thou'lt know that woman's light as air,
To apt to please and smile untrue;
That 'mid her charms true love is rare,
And felt by few.

87

Hast thou seen the golden bee,
That flying, sips the honied sweets?
From blushing flower, to verdant tree,
The light wing beats.
Thus, woman will unfeeling waste
The essence of man's warmer heart;
Then thoughtless from her victim haste,
And cruel part.
And should thy lot have felt the beam
Unfading shine from cloudless sun;
Still Retrospect will grateful seem,
While time shall run.
The bliss of life is felt when fled,
By those whose virtues gild their name;
'Till in the grave they lay their head,
They feel its flame.

88

Retrospect to the good, is blest
By all the milder dreams that please;
The weary heart 'twill lull to rest,
Oft woe appease.
But he, who e'er recoiling shrinks,
Nor bravely dares the past unroll;
Who ne'er retires and calmly thinks,
How fares his soul!

THE LADY OFFERING HER LOOKING GLASS TO VENUS.

Venus, take the glass I vow'd to thee,
To see this face I cannot brook;
Since what I have been, I cannot be,
Oh! let me never in it look.

89

A WISH

I sigh not for honours to wreathe round my brow,
I sigh not for pleasures to render me gay;
Nor want I ambition to trouble me now,
And sadden the cheer of contentment away.
I ask not for riches superfl'ous and great,
Nor haunt I the pomp of false splendour and pride.
With none of these baubles my real bliss I rate,
Their perilous witch'ry how many have tried!
But grant me kind Heav'n to rely on thy power,
While the pure flame of virtue shall glow in my breast
When Fortune is smiling, or when she shall lower,
On thee may the hope of my blessedness rest.

91

IMITATED.

[Poor little rambling, quivering, dandling thing]

Poor little rambling, quivering, dandling thing,
Of this body thou darling companion and guest;
Ah! why art thou pluming thy fluttering wing,
To fly off where thou canst not be certain of rest?
Thus lonely and pensive, thus gloomy and sad,
Oh! what will become of thy humourous folly?
Thy sportive gay pleasures, that pleas'd when thou wert glad,
Will all die away in thy dull melancholy.

92

FALSE BLUSHES.

“Te lanæ prope nobilem
Tonsœ Luceriam, non citharæ decent,
Nec flos purpureus rosæ,
Nec poti, vetulam, fæce tenus cadi.”
Hor.

Of all the mad fashions that wild folly contrives
To pamper the passions, of this frolicksome age;
There's no greater jest, than when an old woman strives,
To conceal by false blushes the years of her age.
Ages of simplicity! how far are ye gone,
When no furrow'd wrinkle was e'er deem'd a disgrace;
When no cozening patches of rouge were laid on,
To smirch over the havoc time makes in the face.

93

Blest times of our Ancestors, oh! were ye renew'd,
What disdain would ye feel such buffon'ry to see!
Ye bright beldams of fashion, how would ye be view'd,
Say what an empty bundle of folly you'd be.
Who can refrain from the smiling sneer of contempt,
To find hoary age mimick the airs of gay youth?
And how despicably vain to see it attempt,
To daub up the deep furrows that tell the sad truth!
O! would they be pleasing with apt decorous charms,
Such as become most the long experience of time;
Why, let them desist from sad expressive alarms,
When their sallow complexions with youth cannot chime.
E'er let them assume what is congenial to age,
Rejecting all the blushes of jilting coquets;
Then if they witch not with the charms of their visage,
They escape from the censure old folly begets.

94

IMITATION FROM BOETHIUS.

“Cum polo Phœbus roseis quad rigis
Lucem spargere cæperit.”
—Boeth.

When bright Phæbus begins in his chariot to ride,
Diffusing o'er the earth his light-quivering beams;
The stars with their glimmering no longer abide,
They faint in their splendour, they expire when he gleams.
When the soft breath of the Zephyr fans the cool groves,
The twining rose may be seen to bloom with its blush;
But when Auster, alas! in his stormy rage roves,
That fair rose will be stripp'd by the force of the gush.
How oft does the smooth calm when pillow'd on the sea,
Cradle by its stillness the proud billows to sleep;
No sooner is Aquilo with ruffian blast free,
Than the loud dashing storm o'er the ocean will sweep.

95

If lovely Nature then dread variations must feel,
If the change of disaster must ever take place;
What heart can be so sanguine to trust to its weal,
Or credit false Fortune though she smil'd in the face!

BAGATELLE.

“Carpe diem.”
—Hor.

Wise Solomon once said, each hour has its bliss:
I think I remember it—sweet maid, do not you?
Then pretty coy Phyllis come give me one kiss,
And I vow I'll believe this sage oracle true.

96

IMITATED.

[When fond by the side of my Laura I'm sighing]

When fond by the side of my Laura I'm sighing,
And my love-worn heart through fell Cupid is bleeding;
She ne'er can be piteous, altho' I were dying,
Her dark melting eyes on my torture are feeding.
When remov'd from her sight she will deeply regret,
And cry, “how his absence with sorrow does seize me;”
But sweet Laura, thy motive I ne'er can forget,
Thou would'st I were near, like a tyrant to teaze me.

97

THOUGHTS ON WEALTH.

“To my new courts sad thought did still repair;
And round my gilded roofs hung hov'ring care;
In vain on silken beds I sought repose,
And restless oft from purple couches rose.”
—Prior.

O! say ye avaricious sons of men,
Who think to bask in plentitude of bliss
When fulgent heaps of gold shall shine around;
Ye ambitious! who plough the boist'rous main,
Who fly the peaceful scenes of native growth,
And seek the desert haunts of sultry climes
That ye may grasp the glitt'ring bauble, wealth,
Have ye not found your expectations vain?

98

Have ye not felt that courted riches give
To those who leave the paths of sweet content,
Nought else but self-deluding, phantom joys?
The tow'ring mind of high aspiring man
That ne'er seeks repose from scheming projects,
Alas! too often views with sanguine eye
Those meretricious charms that please him most.
Oh! could he but restrain that tyrant wish,
That fain would hold with unrestricted power
Each passing joy that fleets and dies away,
What dire impending griefs might be escap'd!
That hang o'er his ill-destin'd head, conceal'd,
And burst at last with loud and dreadful rage,
While he, poor hapless victim of an hour,
Is wrapp'd in heedless dalliance of delight.—
Wealth! thou alluring quest of feeble minds,

99

Thou bland deceiver of the human race,
How form'd are thy gay trappings to mislead!
How suited to display thy coz'ning sweets,
While deep lurking lies the deadly poison!
To steer along thy madd'ning blind career,
Proof to the wheed'ling spell that oft attracts
And with enticing bait would rend extinct,
Each light that faintly beams from virtue pure,
Needs far more the gift of stoic firmness
Than does stinted penury's tatter'd lot;
Whose poor weakness is heav'ns most precious boon,
To shame the vaunts of th' ostentatious proud:
Teaching by secret, but severe reproof,
That man, how e'er his present lot be blest,
Can only be but steward of his gains.
The dizzy din that lulls the rich to sleep

100

Sounds softly sweet on unexperienc'd years!
The great know alone the snares of greatness.
They whose bosoms for high affluence fret,
Who wish to drink the cup of sweet'n'd brim,
Think not of those tumultuous cares that mar
The fancied pleasures of that envied state;
Ne'er pause amid the wild excess of joy
Which the imagin'd bliss of wealth begets,
To view the precipice that threatens near.
This mad abstraction from all prudent thought,
Forms the sad cause of deep unnumber'd woes,
That with their bending weight encumber life.
This, the primeval spring in saintless souls,
Of those pois'nous crimes that try virtue's blush,
And plunge the mind in its chaotic gloom.
Th' inconsiderate at e'en the name of wealth,

101

Picture a prospect silver'd o'er with charms.
To couch beneath bright canopies of gold,
To surfeit amid soft luxuriant joys,
To rest the head on downy pillows smooth,
While mellow music lures them to repose;
To feed the eye with ev'ry rapturous sight,
The appetite with ev'ry wanton wish,
And prove what vice can will, or wealth obtain,
To th' unthinking crowd how rich a prospect!
Him, whose grovelling and untutor'd mind
Dreams of none other bliss but that on earth,
The pamper'd ease of affluence will please.
He forms the genial soil where temp ral views
Should build their vision'ry fabric of hope:
But he, whose soul to higher thoughts aspires,
Whose mental strength with penetrative glance

102

Rejects the borrow'd gloss of boasted pomp,
Who sees things real, not what they seem to be,
(Cloth'd in the specious semblance of disguise),
To him, the gilded charms of flatt'ring wealth
No dazzling radiance have to blind his sight.
Mark, the troubles which throng around the rich!
Mark, the restless toils that unceasing tire!
Then say, which is that lot which most beguiles,
That smoothens most the flinty walks of life:
The one, with more than rich abundance blest,
Or that, which safe from poverty's cold blast,
Can amply taste those pure and artless joys,
Which spring from competence—lovely state!
That most blessed medium which makes not man
Himself forget, where Fortune gently smiles.
Riches with their allurements oft entice

103

From the quiet ways of innocuous worth;
Spreading unseen their net of texture fine,
They lead their victim to the maze of vice,
E'er thought has time to stir him from his dream,
And show the gulf that's yawning to receive.
First, subtle Pride stalks forth with crested plume,
And claims each tittle of supreme respect;
While honey-mouth'd Flatt'ry light tripping comes
To court the fav'rite with her flimsy train,
Cramming him with tales of perfection false;
While he, who in a middle state of life
Could pass his days with unassuming airs,
Now prims his look, and vainly learns to boast.
And what of all, must most affect his weal,
His proneness to enjoy imperious rule
Rends him oblivious of that Mighty One,

104

Whose vast and spotless Majesty must frown,
When man dares contemn the Power who made him;
Next pale-fac'd Envy, with her gangrene touch
To blighten tries by machinations dark,
Those fading gifts she cannot hope to share.—
These, with ten thousand heartless cares attend
Too oft on those, who not content to share
Without exuberance, their fated lot,
Repining seek for gold to rob their peace.
Ne'er yet was perfect bliss the gift of wealth;
Not all that's dug from Chili's golden mines,
Can buy alone those calm and halcyon hours
Which cheer the heart that throbs a humble breast.
How oft does sorrow cloud the Monarch's brow
When stretch'd in grandeur on his royal couch,
Nor let him taste the calm of sweet repose!

105

Whilst the simple peasant that toils for bread,
Labouring 'neath the heat of mid-day sun,
Can safely lock his eyes in balmy sleep.
Happiest he! who with enough to shield
His head from the rude pelting storms of fate,
In contentment lives, nor sighs for greatness;
Who sees in riches nought but tempting sweets,
Nought but fleeting shadows of ideal joys.

106

WE PART TO MEET AGAIN!

Weep not, sweet girl, without a calm
That may thy grief restrain;
Oh! think of this mild soothing balm,
We part to meet again!
When sombre gloom o'ersteals thy mind,
And sorrows woo their pain;
Oh! think of this and be resign'd,
We part to meet again!
Let thy blue eye that now beams sad,
Its dimming tear retain:
There is one cheer to rend thee glad,
We part to meet again!

107

Though absent far from thy blest home,
I'll think of thy dear plain;
And grateful feel, where'er I roam,
We part to meet again!
When Fancy with bewitching power,
Besets my tortur'd brain;
Then this alone will lull the hour,
We part to meet again!
When drooping cares my bosom tear,
And tears like showers rain:
This beam of Hope will bright appear,
We part to meet again!
Thine image chaste of Beauty's mould,
In this fond heart is lain:
Then all those balmy sighs withhold,
We part to meet again!

108

Though parted love will deeply grieve,
And vow all solace vain;
There is a thought that may relieve,
We part to meet again!
Since ne'er can I thy love forget,
While love hath charms to chain;
Oh! do not in despair regret,
We part to meet again!
If tyrant Death should frowning prove,
And rive one heart in twain:
I'll say, 'till dies the voice of love,
We part to meet again!
Then mourn thee not without one calm,
That bids all sorrow wane;
Oh! think of this mild soothing balm,
We part to meet again!
July 28, 1825.

109

To G. H. S---Esq.

Ah! te meæ si partem animæ rapit,
Maturior vis, quid moror altera
Nec carus æque, nec superstes Integer.
Hor.

I'm quite sick of commentators,
And of hungry critic praters;
Who have not else to feed our sense,
Except it be their impudence—
They think themselves quite learned sure
By rendering what is plain obscure,
And tagging on to every line
Whate'er their empty brains combine.
Each pigmy now with “doctæ quæ
Dam” starving poor noticulœ,

110

Rends each small author big in size,
(Sad ruin to poor student's eyes!)
And crams in words of vast import
To which the reader may resort,
And after racking his poor brains,
Well curse the critic for his pains.
Of all this vile cajoling art,
I've had enough—and more than part:
Since, alas! my sweet profession
Wills me make this true confession;
When others sleep the midnight hour
While Morpheus sheds his balmy pow'r,
I oft am doom'd to ponder o'er
Some volume rare that weighs a score,
That erudite I may dispute,
'Bout mighty grave, and smart acute:

111

To prove my genius has expansion,
I taste the niceties of scansion;
Of the sense, 'tis little matter,
Give me critic's gab and chatter;
My ears are full of accents' tick,
Of spondee long, or tribrac quick;
If e'er I wish'd to prove severe
And make scholastic rules appear,
I'd give out some lengthy chorus
With all the notes of those before us!
Be sure my friend, you nicely scan;
Peruse Dunbar, and then Hermann;
Alas! high buskin'd Sophocles,
Torn so rudely now in pieces;
Let me in deepest mire be sunk
E'er I again read Master Brunek,

112

Although he be deep read in lore
Of all the classic bards of yore.
And would you wish to be sublime
To take a flight once on a time?
Be true game, and soar with Pindar,
Never let his metres hinder;
With raptures read his Carmina,
Nor pass o'er his own Fragmenta,
That you may be quite skill'd d'ye see
To pass at University;
Next tumble o'er with learned ease
Those trite varias lectiones;
To be quite grand with classic fuss,
Read th' Annotationibus;
The best edition, to be plain,
Is that of puzzling Gottel Heyne.

113

Oh! had I but the power to cite
The ancient spirits into light,
Great Homer, and Euripides,
With fulsome Aristophanes;
Some wise professors then would see,
Although they write so learnedly,
The essence of the book they spoil,
And wisdom with their comments foil.
Believe me tir'd of Grecian books;
You know how much they pale my looks;
And soon I mean to visit thee
And cheat an hour with jollity;
For thou art warm'd with friendship's flame.
A friend in deed, and not in name;
Thy mind deep intellect can span,
Thy manners show the gentleman.

114

With thee I love in social hour,
To taste the sweets of freedom's power;
No rank disguise with selfish art
Can blight the goodness of thy heart;
No cynic feelings cloud thy mind,
Absorbing all that's soft and kind;
No envy does thy passions cloy,
Nor would'st thou crush an honest joy;
Thy manly beaming eye proclaims
What native virtue inward flames—
Forgive me this, nor deem it praise
Such as flattery's self would raise;
No words can speak my thanks to thee,
The rest my heart must tell to me.
While with wine our table's crown'd
And friendly chit and chat goes round,

115

We'll drink to love, and friendship's health.
To freedom, and our country's wealth.
And since we both are often vain,
To mingle with the muse's train,
We wo'n't forget the poet's score;
Our first shall be to noble Moore,
The crowned pride of poesy,
That charms with sweetest minstrelsy:
I'm sure he liv'd on Helicon,
Or else he is Apollo's son,
And such a magic key has got,
(A present from the Muse I wot),
That he unlocks each finer sense
And shows the soul's omnipotence;
Then maddens with the poet's fires
Bewitching as his strain inspires.

116

My infant muse can ill relate,
The praises due to one so great;
But may my heart be carrion food
Before it feel ingratitude!
Moore is not warped with feelings hard,
But deigns to help a youthful bard,
These honest lines cannot disclose
The gratitude my heart well knows—
Warm thanks to others I should give,
In mem'ry's bosom they must live;
But stop, my friend, 'tis getting late,
I'm sure you're weary of this prate;
Until thy presence joy impart
Accept the greetings of my heart:
'Till death shall chill this hand of mine,
Believe me S--- I'm truly thine.
Nov. 12th, 1825.

117

[Mine be a little moss-grown cot]

Libet jacere modo sub antiquâ ilice
Modo in tenaci gramine,
Labuntur altis interim ripis aquæ;
Meruntur in silvis aves,
Fontes que limphis obstrepunt manantibus
Somnos quod invitel leves.
Hor.

Mine be a little moss-grown cot
With clust'ring roses round the door;
And sweetest flowers to scent the spot,
With honey-suckles twining o'er.
And let there be some purling stream
Meand'ring with the breezy wind,
While I may woo some gentle dream,
Along its grassy bank reclin'd,

118

An arbour too with tendrils crown'd
Which mantling foliage shall empale;
Where jolly friends may circle round
And freely quaff the golden ale.
No garnish'd pomp must brighten there,
To spoil those charms so sweet and free:
Let rural nature's self appear
In all her own simplicity.
To all this add a few choice books
To sweeten and to govern life;
The soul of all—soft beauty's looks
From a fair blooming modest wife.
Nov. 13th, 1825.

119

[Dark Night! thou herald of the musing hour]

Siqua recordanti benefacta priora voluptas
Est homini, cum se cogitat esse pium,
Nec sanctam violasse fidem [OMITTED]
Ex hoc ingrato gaudia amore.
Catul.

Dark Night! thou herald of the musing hour,
Thou oft times soother to the sleepless mind;
Descend, and with thy dreary hush impart
To wakeful spirits their own pensive gloom;
For thou art dear to me—a solemn scene,
When the soul's grasp can stretch in wide expanse,
Seizing the fitful forms of ideal dreams;
And by fancy's power, into substance mould
The airy images which thought creates.
How strange is thought! how wide its grappling might!

120

How boundless is the magic of its strength!
What giant force, when mem'ry's soul is warm,
Can firm restrain its rude voluptuous course,
And stop the torrent of its mighty flood?
Oh! more than arrogance that presumes to quell
Each rising billow that swells to vastness,
Majestic in the current of the mind.
Thought! thou art all I have to call mine own!
All that treachery's spoiling hands have left
Me now to play my reeking griefs away,
Or lose them in the wiles of pensiveness;
Borne on thy mystic wings I wander far,
And taste the secret luxuries of woe.
E'en now remembrance bids me think of her,
That startles me as if a spectre rose—
Say not that youthful prime's unmeet to love.

121

The soul, when buoyant, feels the keenest wound!
Youth too soon, alas! each fond impression knows,
And takes the meteor's glimpse, as if 'twould last:
My love was blasted like th' unripen'd fruit
Whose fair blossom's kill'd by the mildew's blight,
While nought remains except a naked stem!
I said I loved—oh! love's a paltry word
To paint the adoration of the heart!
The ceaseless worship of each purer sense;
The warm embrace of all that could endear;
The wasting of each faculty that lives;
I had no thought but such as went to her,
No wish, save what was breath'd for her own peace.
Alas! that love no longer now exists,
Save when unsteady fancy soars in flight,
And thus decoys my heart with dalliant guile.

122

The fondest hopes of former days are gone!
No shatter'd wreck remains to warm my heart,
For misery's hollow eye to gaze upon!
Where she, whose smile of innocence did beam,
Far purer than the pearly shine of heav'n?
Whose soft eye was dumb eloquence to me,
Whose voice had more than music melody—
Not pluck'd from out the busy hum of world,
And the fairy flower-strew'd scenes of youth,
Stretch'd in the grove's cold dreariness she lies,
But lives with dastard soul to laugh at one,
Whose greatest weakness was his love too pure!
More cheerless than keen winter's icy looks
Are her's to me—fell mockery and taunt,
Deceitful maid! irresolute and weak,
Poor piteous sample of an inconstant sex—

123

Where the firmness of thy repeated boast?
How tottering the mind that dared not stem
The vile attack of envy and deceit!
Oh! could I tear yon sun from out the skies,
And split the quiv'ring beams from his bright orb,
I'd plant each tinted ray around my heart,
That thou might'st clearly see 'twas not untrue;
That not a particle did there infest,
Or taint the pureness of its holy love.
But thou wert false—thy smile was made to please,
And after to deceive with its sweet archness;
With angel voice thou knew'st to plead thy tale—
And steal affection from thy listner's heart—
I'll not upbraid—go, ask thy inner self
When nought but heav'n is witness to thy sighs,
While silent conscience speaks the cause of truth—
Nov. 20th, 1825.

124

To------

------Tua me infortunia lædent.
Ars. Poet.

By fortune's tempests tost and shaken,
Thy dearest blisses overthrown;
So wreck'd, unpitied, and forsaken,
What mis'ry has thy bosom known!
E'er yet young hope had scarce alighted,
To tell her flatteries to thee,
Thy ev'ry joy was torn and blighted,
Thy heart, how rent with agony!
'Twas thy sad lot without protection,
To lose a parent's shielding arms;
And roam the world in lone dejection,
When young to battle with its storms.

125

The world received thee with caresses,
And lured thy fond unguarded breast;
But left thee in thy deep distresses,
Without one sheltering spot to rest.
Thy heart was one betrothed to feeling,
And purely formed to grateful sense;
Alas! 'twas one too soft for stealing
Love, that so marr'd its innocence.
Methinks I see thee, pale, dejected,
In the dread hour of bitter woe;
A stricken victim, unprotected,
When ev'ry coward proved thy foe.
No soul was nigh, to soothe thee weeping,
T'assuage thee with the balm of love;
In anguish were thy sorrows steeping,
While mockery to madness drove.

126

Oh! would that I had been beside thee,
E'en feeble as my efforts were;
I'd brav'd the spoiler that belied thee,
And laid his scheming bosom bare.
And now, each paltry low-born creature
Will dare to scoff thy blighted name;
And make thy sorry woes a feature,
To taint thy hardly purchas'd fame;
But when at last this world is drowning,
Amid the vengeful flaming blast;
Oh! may I see some angel crowning
Thee for heav'n and peace at last.

127

[The Sabbath is the morn of rest]

Quies grata
—Hor.

The Sabbath is the morn of rest,
A rest from earthly sorrow;
The peace of heav'n to smooth the breast,
And firm it for the morrow.
The Sabbath is the boon of love,
For weary souls a pillow;
A sighing of the thoughts above,
Like breezes o'er the billow.
The Sabbath is a sainted peace,
Each mental bliss embalming;
That bids corroding passions cease,
Like silent requiem calming.

128

The Sabbath is a mystic day,
Oft brighter joys the semblance;
To pining pilgrims on their way,
The sweetness of remembrance!

To G. H. S--- Esq.

FRIENDSHIP.

Dum sanus, nil jucundo contulerim amico
—Hor.

Friendship! balm of life! sweetest boon,
To lighten weary trav'llers here;
In life's gay morn, or waning noon,
Thou chain of souls be waiting near.
In vain the world may kindly lend
With bounteous hand its boasted store—
Give me my hearty feeling friend,
What else remains to bless me more!

129

Oh! grant me him, whose kindling heart,
I lock'd in union with mine own;
His speaking looks will bliss impart,
When other joys are gone and flown.
If fell disaster cloud my fate,
And weeping griefs in torrents roll;
If scowling envy mar my state,
A friend can heal my rifted soul!
When life's pulse for anguish throbs,
And bursting tears bedim the eye;
Let friendship calm the bursting sobs,
With gentle solace rest the sigh.
In banquet hours, where all may seem
With bland endearment kind and true;
O! let me see my friend's eye beam,
His glance is brighter, dearer too.

130

When gladness sends the fleeting smile
To play like lightning round the face;
A friend's warm sympathy beguiles,
And gives to every bliss a grace.
In cold death's still and solemn hour,
While the soul quivers like the tear;
Sweet friendship with thy heav'n sprung power,
Be thou like angel hov'ring near.

ACROSTIC.

In praise of thee, sweet maid, what words can tell
Sincere and true, thy beauty's artless spell!
A charm to all, so pure and yet so kind,
Benign as peace with sweetest grace refin'd:
Emblems of thee the Poet's muse may paint,
Lovely as thou art! words are far too faint:
Lurid the heart that could thy presence flee,
A Cynic's frown must change to look on thee.

131

OH! THINK OF ME.

Vivite felices, memores et vivite nostri
Sive simus, seu nos fata fuisse volent.
Catul.

Oh! think of me, oh! think of me,
Far from thy vision taken;
And sailing o'er the deep blue sea,
With wrecks of hope, forsaken!
Oh! think of me, oh! think of me,
Whene'er thy lot shall gladden:
Though far away I'll sigh for thee,
While grief my soul shall madden.
Amid the hurried scenes of life,
In scenes of woe or pleasure;
In soothing ease, or rankling strife,
Thy heart will be my trea sure!

132

If stormy clouds should blacken round,
My wayward fate besetting;
Thy maiden voice will seem to sound,
And bid me leave regretting.
Oh! think of me, oh! think of me,
Now forc'd to be a rover;
Thy lovely image ne'er can flee,
'Tis buried in thy lover.
Where'er rude fate my bark shall cast,
By wild and boist'rous billow;
Till life's warm pulsings cease to last,
Thy love shall be my pillow.
That eye that throws so soft a beam,
With all its witch'ry glancing,
Shall oft appear like meteor gleam,
In silky cloud advancing.

133

Enough of thee will still remain
In mem'ry's soul of feeling;
Bright fancy will thy charms retain,
Pure admiration stealing.
Then think of me! then think of me,
Far from thy vision taken;
And sailing o'er the deep blue sea,
Dejected and forsaken!
Oh! think of me—still think of me
In laughing joys or sorrow;
An exile doom'd, I fly from thee,
Must leave a heav'n to morrow!

134

TO LESBIA'S SPARROW.

Passer, deliciæ meæ puellæ,
Quîcum ludere, quem in sinu tenere.
Catul.

Pretty sparrow, my Love's delight,
Thou little minion in her sight;
Who e'er art wont to find a rest,
When dandling on her downy breast;
While her fair finger tempts thy beak
To bite it in thy playful freak;
Oh! would that I might ease my heart,
And fondle thee with Lesbia's art;

135

For since I burn with love so warm,
Each airy toy my grief can charm;
Some balmy peace I then might find
To sooth the weepings of my mind.
What maidens call a golden ill,
My bosom would with raptures fill,
To see that coyish zone unbound,
Which has so long been fasten'd round.
Sept. 8th, 1825.

136

ON THE DEATH OF LESBIA'S SPARROW.

Lugete, o Veneres, Cupidines que.

Ye cupids and ye am'rous train,
In melting notes of woe complain;
And all who feel a maiden's grief,
Let not your sorrow find relief—
My Lesbia's sparrow's dead and gone!
The sparrow she so doated on;
Which dear she lov'd as her own eye,
Whose death will claim her saddest sigh;
For he bewitch'd with artless mood,
And Lesbia's soft affection woo'd;

137

And well he knew her charming grace
As child can tell a parent's face;
Within her breast he fondly grew,
Ne'er from its warm enclosure flew;
But hopp'd and flutter'd here and there,
Sole chirping to his mistress dear;
Alas! he's gone to that dark way,
Whence none can e'er return they say:
Curse on ye drear and deathy shades,
Whose gloom each beauteous gift pervades!
The darling bird ye have remov'd,
The bird that was so dearly lov'd—
Sweet pet! e'er since thou hast been dead,
My Lesbia's pretty eyes are red.
Sept. 8th, 1825.

138

THE TEAR.

“Udaque turgentes impellunt lumina guttas.”

Thou gently sinking tear that gems the eyes,
Thou little pearly drop of passion's mood!
More elcquent than all the burst of sighs,
In thee the bitterness of grief has food.
Slow rippling as the trembling streamlet forth,
The voiceless language of the woe-struck mind,
The glow of sympathy proclaims thy worth,
Thou canst the tender spring of feeling find.
I've seen thee, tear, in pleasure's gladdest hour,
Start from the eye, and cool the burning cheek—
I've seen thee, tear, when grief's despondent power
Had no interpreter, but thee to speak:

139

The kindling eye no fonder sight beheld,
No sweeter image of the mind has viewed—
Than when the briny flood could not be quell'd,
The pearly beaming gems of gratitude!

ACROSTIC.

Heav'n in thine eye of melting brilliant power,
A joyous beam to light the gloomy hour,
Rich in soft grace to steal th' impassion'd heart,
Richer still in each winning, pleasing art,
In language mild, in act polite and free,
Oh! calm and sweet may thy life's journey be,
'Till heav'n to dreamless joys shall summon thee!

140

TO A LADY, WITH SOME RETURNED LETTERS.

“Mulier cupido quod dicit amanti
In vento et rapida scribere oportet apua.”
Catul,

Severe the throbbings of my heart,
Since doomed to act this cruel part:
The thoughts of blessed moments past
Crowd swiftly on, as whirlwind's blast.
How marr'd with anguish is my mind!
How little to its fate resign'd—
But since thou hast proved false to me,
Oh! think not I'll dishonour'd be.

141

Go, probe thy heart, in silent hours,
When nought is there to still its powers;
When all the soul is in its glow,
And streams of thought begin to flow—
Let conscience with firm response prove,
If I have been untrue in love.
With warmest love I've worshipp'd thee,
With all the soul's idolatry.
I never sought that gold of thine,
Thou wert thyself a richer mine;
No selfish venom stung my breast,
Or robb'd affection's sainted rest.
My love, the child of fondness born,
Was to its parent faithful sworn;
The incense of this heart of mine,
Offered at thy beauty's shrine.

142

To me, more dear thy pearly eyes
Than all Golconda's boasted prize;
And when thy fortune proved a foe,
I bid the paltry bauble go;
And, though other arms may press thee,
While far richer friends caress thee;
Yet, think this earth does not contain
In all its circling wide domain,
One heart that beats more pure than mine,
For that all-fickle one of thine.
Think'st thou I can e'er forget
The summer morn when last we met?
Then heav'n received thy plighted vow,
(Its echo seems to murmur now),
I gazed upon thy beauteous face,
And marked each softly winning grace;

143

Each feature, then, seem'd made of sense,
The speechless voice of innocence.
When, far from thee, the winged hours flew,
What scenes in prospect fancy drew!
I thought the blissful hour would come
When I should lead thee to mine home,
And prove by each endearing act,
That time would ne'er from love retract;
Had malady's pale sickly flame,
Spread langour o'er thy weakened frame,
I would have held thine aching head,
And watched, like fondness, by thy bed,
And asked of heaven to hear my prayer,
Breathed forth in holy silence there.
If painful griefs had caused annoy,
And quell'd the flush of honest joy,

144

I would have wiped the falling tear,
And kissed away thy woman's fear;
Have lull'd the tumults of thy breast,
And sunk in peace the sigh suppress'd.
Oh! yes, I'd prov'd so fond to thee,
Thou would'st have call'd me devotee.
But, thou art false—a hollow friend—
These records of deceit I send;
I ne'er can bear to read these lines,
They tell me all thy false designs;
The written images of art,
Which stole away my thoughtless heart;
Ne'er let again thy fingers write,
What thy whole soul does not indite;
'Tis mean on woman's part to be
So insincere, as thou to me—

145

But, oh! I ne'er with envy's power
Would mar thy dearest, happiest hour—
To thee may heaven prove bounteous kind
And give thee, A**, a virtuous mind.
Where'er may be thy resting spot
May peace and health twine round thy lot;
May rosy hours be passed by thee,
And unregretted moments flee.
Since this poor world can only give
A fleeting semblance while we live,
When that last messenger shall come
To call thee to thy final home,
May friendship close thy dying eyes,
And mercy waft thee to the skies.
Nov. 24th, 1825.

146

WE PART TO MEET NO MORE.

We part my friend—oh! yes we part,
Our treasured bliss is o'er;
And hard the thought that rives my heart,
We part to meet no more!
The hours that you and I have lent
To peaceful joys before;
Are fleeted by, are gone and spent,
And we must meet no more!
Bethink thee of each dreamless joy,
The fitful moments bore;
Then say, does not remembrance cloy,
To think we meet no more!

147

Revert to each fair smiling scene,
What halcyon looks they wore;
This cutting fate will grieve I ween,
To part and meet no more!
Oh! sad and piercing is the thought,
We know no peace in store;
No cheering hope with solace frought,
To part and meet no more!
My doom is fix'd—far, from this day
I leave mine own lov'd shore;
Thy tears will pine my heart away,
They speak we meet no more!
When lost to sight I drop the tear
'Mid frothy billows' roar;
What phrenzied grief my soul will wear,
That we must meet no more!

148

But distance thought cannot unlink,
'Twill chain us as before;
Like sympathetic souls we'll think,
Which part to meet no more!

THERE IS A HOPE.

There is a hope that never fades,
A prospect ever fair and bright;
Where no thick darkling gloom pervades,
To dim the brilliancy of light.
There is a joy that ever smiles,
As tearless as the gem of peace;
Where passion spreads no luring wiles,
To make its sainted pureness cease:

149

There is a calm that nought can take,
Or rob its peaceful blessed site;
Which, when the wreck of worlds shall shake,
Will stand like god-head in its might—
Oh! say, where are such blessings found,
In the poor thraldom of our lot;
In the wide stretch of world around,
O! where are cares and grief forgot?
Can youthful bloom or smiling wealth,
With highest rank and splendid name;
Can lux'ry, ease and sprightly health,
E'er yet such peerless treasures claim?
Can modest beauty chaste and low,
Beguiling with each comely art;
Can rapture's praises as they flow,
Becalm the tumults of the heart?

150

Alas! all these will die, and fail
To heal the cankerings of care;
Too oft dull languor rends them stale,
So light and fleeting as they are.
The joys that bloom like ever-green,
E'er flourish in a Christian's breast;
There, virtue is the guardian screen,
That gives to him eternal rest.
Nov. 27th, 1825.