Poems by the late Hon. William R. Spencer A New Edition with Corrections and Additions; To Which is Prefixed A Biographical Memoir by the Editor |
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 | Poems by the late Hon. William R. Spencer |  |
iii
Ειπε τις, Ηρακλειτε, τεον μορον: ες δε με δακρυ
ηγαγεν: εμνησθην δ'οσσακις αμφοτεροι
ηλιον εν λεσχη κατεδυσαμεν. αλλα συ μεν που,
ξειν' Αλικαρνησσευ, τεφρα παλαι σποδιη:
αι δε τεαι ζωουσιν αηδονες, ησιν ο παντων
απρακτης Αιδης ουκ επι χειρα βαλει.
Callim.
ηγαγεν: εμνησθην δ'οσσακις αμφοτεροι
ηλιον εν λεσχη κατεδυσαμεν. αλλα συ μεν που,
ξειν' Αλικαρνησσευ, τεφρα παλαι σποδιη:
αι δε τεαι ζωουσιν αηδονες, ησιν ο παντων
απρακτης Αιδης ουκ επι χειρα βαλει.
Callim.
But it is now time to sound a retreat, and to desire to be excused of this pursuit;
and withal, that the good intent whieh hath moved me, may be accepted in place of a
better reason. Impossible I know it is to please all. Seneca hath said it, and so do I:
“Unus mihi pro populo erat;” or, as it hath since lamentably fallen out, I may borrow
the resolution of an ancient philosopher, “Satis est unus, satis est nullus.” For it was for
the service of my inestimable friend that I undertook this work. It pleased him to peruse
some part thereof, and to pardon what was amiss. It is now left to the world without
a master; from which all that is presented, hath received both blows and thanks. But
these discourses are idle. I know that as the charitable will judge charitably; so
against those, qui gloriantur in malitid, my present adversity hath disarmed me.
Sir Walter Raleigh.
115
POEMS.
117
DEDICATION TO SARAH, COUNTESS OF JERSEY.
On Beauty's smiles for selfish gain
The Bard is ever an encroacher,
Aware that happiest flows his vein
When most permitted to approach her.
The Bard is ever an encroacher,
Aware that happiest flows his vein
When most permitted to approach her.
When first the lark the morn adores
His strain is weak, his voice uneven,
But still improving as he soars,
He sweetest sings when nearest heaven!
His strain is weak, his voice uneven,
But still improving as he soars,
He sweetest sings when nearest heaven!
1811.
118
[Ere yet with manhood's vain desire]
Ere yet with manhood's vain desire
My vows for Fortune's gifts I breath'd,
Fancy bestow'd a plaything-lyre,
With roses and with cypress wreath'd!
My vows for Fortune's gifts I breath'd,
Fancy bestow'd a plaything-lyre,
With roses and with cypress wreath'd!
Dearly I prized the tuneful toy,
Nor could my fond ear ascertain,
If most I lov'd its notes of joy,
Or sweeter thought its plaintive strain!
Nor could my fond ear ascertain,
If most I lov'd its notes of joy,
Or sweeter thought its plaintive strain!
Whene'er my novice hand presum'd
To wake the chords of grief or glee,
The cypress gloom'd, the roses bloom'd,
And all was tears or smiles for me!
To wake the chords of grief or glee,
The cypress gloom'd, the roses bloom'd,
And all was tears or smiles for me!
Neglected long, I lately tried
This charmer of my infant days;
Alas! each gay sound it denied,
And murmur'd only mournful lays!
This charmer of my infant days;
Alas! each gay sound it denied,
And murmur'd only mournful lays!
Too soon I found the cause, my eyes
Upon its lessen'd garland casting—
E'en Fancy's rose deciduous dies;
Why is her Cypress everlasting!
Upon its lessen'd garland casting—
E'en Fancy's rose deciduous dies;
Why is her Cypress everlasting!
123
THE YEAR OF SORROW.
Tear from thy guilty brow that vernal wreath,
Chase from thy train those wanton airs which breathe
Of Joy, and Love, and Life! let naught appear
To gratulate thy course, disastrous Year!
Away with all the seasons gawdy trim,
Cold be thy zephyrs, and thy suns be dim!
—Vain is the curse! the laughing hours who draw
Thy car, have heard th' irrevocable law,
The world has felt thy renovating rays,
All nature jubilant resounds thy praise,
Creation lifts to thee her grateful voice,
By Spring's brief charter licensed to rejoice,
And as thy genial steps progressive move,
The lifeless all revive, and all the living love!
These are thy works of grace!—thy works of woe
Man, only man, is privileged to know;
Man, only man, Creation's Lord confess'd,
Amidst his happy realm remains unbless'd;
On the bright earth, his flow'r-embroider'd throne,
Th' imperial mourner reigns and weeps alone!
Sad Year! whilst yet I hold one social joy,
Suspend thy dire commission to destroy.
My heart, so late of many joys possess'd,
Laments for many lost, and trembles for the rest!
Sad years have been when Pestilence was rife,
And all her fiends unmuzzled rush'd on Life;
Then from the general doom no plea could save,
And Vice and Virtue crowded to the grave;
But thou, disastrous Year, hast dealt around,
With horrible selection, every wound;
In ev'ry house where thy death-bolts have sped,
Thy partial warrant mark'd the dearest head;
The prime alone of every happy land,
Where thou hast laid thy desolating hand,
The prime alone, thy murderous sithe could suit,
Youth's sweetest bloom, and Age's richest fruit!
Whilst loud laments of public grief arise,
And nations mourn the Learned and the Wise,
How many kindred hearts are taught to know
The keener anguish of domestic woe!
And art thou gone, Parent and friend revered!
Parent of her by every charm endeared
To this love-beating heart, to whom I owe
All that of bliss mankind can hope below!
Yes, thou art gone! thy Susan, far away,
Smiled no sweet sunshine on thy closing day,
Not on her breast thy drooping forehead hung,
Not to her lips thy summon'd Spirit clung;
Ah! no—whilst others watch'd thy ebbing breath,
And lighten'd by their love the load of death,
Haply thy Susan, in a distant land,
E'en at that hour the scheme of pleasure plann'd
To meet once more on Danube's happy plain,
And clasp a mother to her heart again!
Chase from thy train those wanton airs which breathe
Of Joy, and Love, and Life! let naught appear
To gratulate thy course, disastrous Year!
Away with all the seasons gawdy trim,
Cold be thy zephyrs, and thy suns be dim!
—Vain is the curse! the laughing hours who draw
Thy car, have heard th' irrevocable law,
The world has felt thy renovating rays,
All nature jubilant resounds thy praise,
Creation lifts to thee her grateful voice,
By Spring's brief charter licensed to rejoice,
And as thy genial steps progressive move,
The lifeless all revive, and all the living love!
124
Man, only man, is privileged to know;
Man, only man, Creation's Lord confess'd,
Amidst his happy realm remains unbless'd;
On the bright earth, his flow'r-embroider'd throne,
Th' imperial mourner reigns and weeps alone!
Sad Year! whilst yet I hold one social joy,
Suspend thy dire commission to destroy.
My heart, so late of many joys possess'd,
Laments for many lost, and trembles for the rest!
Sad years have been when Pestilence was rife,
And all her fiends unmuzzled rush'd on Life;
Then from the general doom no plea could save,
And Vice and Virtue crowded to the grave;
But thou, disastrous Year, hast dealt around,
With horrible selection, every wound;
In ev'ry house where thy death-bolts have sped,
Thy partial warrant mark'd the dearest head;
The prime alone of every happy land,
Where thou hast laid thy desolating hand,
The prime alone, thy murderous sithe could suit,
Youth's sweetest bloom, and Age's richest fruit!
Whilst loud laments of public grief arise,
And nations mourn the Learned and the Wise,
125
The keener anguish of domestic woe!
And art thou gone, Parent and friend revered!
Parent of her by every charm endeared
To this love-beating heart, to whom I owe
All that of bliss mankind can hope below!
Yes, thou art gone! thy Susan, far away,
Smiled no sweet sunshine on thy closing day,
Not on her breast thy drooping forehead hung,
Not to her lips thy summon'd Spirit clung;
Ah! no—whilst others watch'd thy ebbing breath,
And lighten'd by their love the load of death,
Haply thy Susan, in a distant land,
E'en at that hour the scheme of pleasure plann'd
To meet once more on Danube's happy plain,
And clasp a mother to her heart again!
Nor shall the mournful chronicle forget
One who with honest truth my friendship met;
To him farewell!—thy morning clouds were past,
And all thy days seem bright'ning to the last;
Youth was thy season of distress and tears,
But pleasure met thee in the vale of years,
Scarce in the vale, ere all thy sand was run,
And thy life ended when thy joys begun;
To thee farewell—and oh! when Summer leads
To Cambria's woodland rocks and streamy meads,
Each scene of Nature's pageantry review'd,
Each scheme of social happiness renew'd,
Each rural day, each festive night shall be,
A dear, a long remembrancer of thee!
O think not fruitless are the griefs which rend
The heart of Friendship o'er a buried friend;
Are they not vouchers of distinguish'd days,
Of active virtues, and decided praise?
The man, when summon'd to the realms of death,
Who unlamented yields his useless breath,
Though no foul crimes done in his mortal state
The fearful hour of retribution wait,
Yet long in cold obstruction dark he lies
Unwept on earth, unwelcomed in the skies!
Whilst every tcar o'er friendship's ashes pour'd
Blots out some frailty from the dread record;
And every sigh breathed on the funeral sod,
Wafts the loved Spirit nearer to his God!
One who with honest truth my friendship met;
To him farewell!—thy morning clouds were past,
And all thy days seem bright'ning to the last;
Youth was thy season of distress and tears,
But pleasure met thee in the vale of years,
126
And thy life ended when thy joys begun;
To thee farewell—and oh! when Summer leads
To Cambria's woodland rocks and streamy meads,
Each scene of Nature's pageantry review'd,
Each scheme of social happiness renew'd,
Each rural day, each festive night shall be,
A dear, a long remembrancer of thee!
O think not fruitless are the griefs which rend
The heart of Friendship o'er a buried friend;
Are they not vouchers of distinguish'd days,
Of active virtues, and decided praise?
The man, when summon'd to the realms of death,
Who unlamented yields his useless breath,
Though no foul crimes done in his mortal state
The fearful hour of retribution wait,
Yet long in cold obstruction dark he lies
Unwept on earth, unwelcomed in the skies!
Whilst every tcar o'er friendship's ashes pour'd
Blots out some frailty from the dread record;
And every sigh breathed on the funeral sod,
Wafts the loved Spirit nearer to his God!
Breathe soft, Italian gales! and ye that wing
The tideless shore, where never-changing Spring
Rules all the halcyon year, breathe soft, and shed
Your kindliest dews o'er pale Eliza's head!
Propitious grant an anguish'd mother's prayer,
And save a wedded lover from despair.
Vain was the hope—in Beauty's earliest pride,
E'en in the porch of life, Eliza died;
Ere yet the green leaf of her days was come
The death-storm rose, and swept her to the tomb!
O thou, whose final will is happiness,
Author of good, permitter of distress,
If still to speechless pangs thine ear be given,
If dumb despair be eloquence in heaven,
O reascend thy mercy-seat! to thee
Religious sorrow bows her filial knee!
Let Faith, thy cherub almoner, bestow
One gleam to cheer, not chase, the night of woe;
Let Patience sooth, not cure, the sacred grief
Which prays not for oblivion, but relief:
Oblivion!—no—the dear, the deep regret
What heart that loved Eliza would forget!
I loved her too; on Arno's classic lawn
My dawning fancy hailed her beauty's dawn;
My youthful lyre first woke her infant taste,
And by her earliest smiles my earliest song was graced;
Oblivion!—no—to life's extremest bourn
All who have loved and lost thee, still shall mourn;
From their last hour, when earthlier passions flee,
Consenting Heaven shall yield one thought to thee,
To thee the theme which sooths their latest sighs,
To thee, the dearest hope which lures them to the skies!
The tideless shore, where never-changing Spring
127
Your kindliest dews o'er pale Eliza's head!
Propitious grant an anguish'd mother's prayer,
And save a wedded lover from despair.
Vain was the hope—in Beauty's earliest pride,
E'en in the porch of life, Eliza died;
Ere yet the green leaf of her days was come
The death-storm rose, and swept her to the tomb!
O thou, whose final will is happiness,
Author of good, permitter of distress,
If still to speechless pangs thine ear be given,
If dumb despair be eloquence in heaven,
O reascend thy mercy-seat! to thee
Religious sorrow bows her filial knee!
Let Faith, thy cherub almoner, bestow
One gleam to cheer, not chase, the night of woe;
Let Patience sooth, not cure, the sacred grief
Which prays not for oblivion, but relief:
Oblivion!—no—the dear, the deep regret
What heart that loved Eliza would forget!
I loved her too; on Arno's classic lawn
My dawning fancy hailed her beauty's dawn;
My youthful lyre first woke her infant taste,
128
Oblivion!—no—to life's extremest bourn
All who have loved and lost thee, still shall mourn;
From their last hour, when earthlier passions flee,
Consenting Heaven shall yield one thought to thee,
To thee the theme which sooths their latest sighs,
To thee, the dearest hope which lures them to the skies!
Again the bell of death! again the grave
Calls for a youthful victim; naught can save,
Greville, thy fading charms, nor prayers, nor art,
Nor all the anguish of thy Henry's heart.
Though thou art gone, fond parent, blameless wife,
Gone in the summer of thy blooming life,
To claim the prize, alas! too early won,
The prize of heaven for every duty done,
Yet shall thy memory live adored on earth,
Where Emma's sorrows consecrate thy worth.
Calls for a youthful victim; naught can save,
Greville, thy fading charms, nor prayers, nor art,
Nor all the anguish of thy Henry's heart.
Though thou art gone, fond parent, blameless wife,
Gone in the summer of thy blooming life,
To claim the prize, alas! too early won,
The prize of heaven for every duty done,
Yet shall thy memory live adored on earth,
Where Emma's sorrows consecrate thy worth.
Nor yet the doleful record can I close,
O hapless house of Grammont! for your woes
I weep, nor ye the cordial tear refuse,
Shed by a friendly though a foreign Muse.
O hapless house of Grammont! honours, fame,
Power, wealth, and worth, had raised your patriot name
So near the regal throne, that the same blow
Which reached your Kings, laid all your glories low!
Yet still Aglaia's angel presence lent
A grace to grief, a charm to banishment.
England, the port for many a noble wreck,
England her ocean lightnings flash'd to check
The demon rage which uproar'd Europe's peace,
England Aglaia's wanderings bade to cease,
And welcomed here; and here Georgiana press'd
The lovely wanderer to her sister breast;
Here, when condemn'd from native joys to part,
Friendship, not Pity, sooth'd her bleeding heart;
Here, when condemn'd in stranger climes to roam,
Exile assumed the cheering smiles of home.
Short was her gleam of brighter years, and ye
O family of woe, were doom'd to see
Content revive her blooms only to throw
A farewell beauty o'er her dying brow,
And Hope rekindle only to illume
The shades of Death, and light her to the tomb!
O hapless house of Grammont! for your woes
129
Shed by a friendly though a foreign Muse.
O hapless house of Grammont! honours, fame,
Power, wealth, and worth, had raised your patriot name
So near the regal throne, that the same blow
Which reached your Kings, laid all your glories low!
Yet still Aglaia's angel presence lent
A grace to grief, a charm to banishment.
England, the port for many a noble wreck,
England her ocean lightnings flash'd to check
The demon rage which uproar'd Europe's peace,
England Aglaia's wanderings bade to cease,
And welcomed here; and here Georgiana press'd
The lovely wanderer to her sister breast;
Here, when condemn'd from native joys to part,
Friendship, not Pity, sooth'd her bleeding heart;
Here, when condemn'd in stranger climes to roam,
Exile assumed the cheering smiles of home.
Short was her gleam of brighter years, and ye
O family of woe, were doom'd to see
Content revive her blooms only to throw
A farewell beauty o'er her dying brow,
130
The shades of Death, and light her to the tomb!
Daughters of Genius, dear to generous hearts,
Charmers of cultured life, ingenuous arts,
Heard ye the knell for Hamilton? oh rend
Your laurell'd tresses, o'er his ashes bend
Your seraph forms, and weep your noblest friend;
Each round his relics take her duteous stand,
Painting be there, whose magic-gifted hand
Can bid the meteor-forms of memory last,
And raise unfleeting visions of the past;
Sculpture, her heroine sister, guard the grave;
She, in her marble panoply, can brave
The battering tempest, or insidious clime,
And foil with brazen shield the sithe of time;
Yours be the task with social skill to raise
The bloodless trophies of his letter'd praise;
Tell how your virgin altars were disgraced
By the rude homage of misguided taste,
Till they received from his enlighten'd mind,
Incense more pure, and worship more refin'd;
Tell that to him was given the generous aim,
The rights of antique beauty to proclaim,
The Gothic fiend from all her realms to chase,
And throne the Grecian goddess in her place.
Nor shall the statesman's patriot view misprize
Talents which aid commercial power to rise;
Have ye not seen, ye plains of Stafford, say,
A new Etruria mould your native clay,
Rough British hands light Grecian forms prepare,
And every mart demand the classic ware?
And shall cold Cynic censurers condemn
Talents not vain, or only vain for them,
Defame pursuits which beautify the mind,
And libel arts which humanize mankind?
Charmers of cultured life, ingenuous arts,
Heard ye the knell for Hamilton? oh rend
Your laurell'd tresses, o'er his ashes bend
Your seraph forms, and weep your noblest friend;
Each round his relics take her duteous stand,
Painting be there, whose magic-gifted hand
Can bid the meteor-forms of memory last,
And raise unfleeting visions of the past;
Sculpture, her heroine sister, guard the grave;
She, in her marble panoply, can brave
The battering tempest, or insidious clime,
And foil with brazen shield the sithe of time;
131
The bloodless trophies of his letter'd praise;
Tell how your virgin altars were disgraced
By the rude homage of misguided taste,
Till they received from his enlighten'd mind,
Incense more pure, and worship more refin'd;
Tell that to him was given the generous aim,
The rights of antique beauty to proclaim,
The Gothic fiend from all her realms to chase,
And throne the Grecian goddess in her place.
Nor shall the statesman's patriot view misprize
Talents which aid commercial power to rise;
Have ye not seen, ye plains of Stafford, say,
A new Etruria mould your native clay,
Rough British hands light Grecian forms prepare,
And every mart demand the classic ware?
And shall cold Cynic censurers condemn
Talents not vain, or only vain for them,
132
And libel arts which humanize mankind?
Fresh flowers which on the fountain brink
The breath of day-spring rears,
Whose dainty blossoms only drink
The rainbow's diamond tears;
The breath of day-spring rears,
Whose dainty blossoms only drink
The rainbow's diamond tears;
Such flowers alone my hand shall wreathe
For Harriet's genial bow'r,
Such flowers alone their sweets shall breathe
On Harriet's bridal hour.
For Harriet's genial bow'r,
Such flowers alone their sweets shall breathe
On Harriet's bridal hour.
Pure as Elysian mornings break,
Fond hopes her fair cheek flush,
Pure as the sinless thoughts which wake
The cherub's infant blush!
Fond hopes her fair cheek flush,
Pure as the sinless thoughts which wake
The cherub's infant blush!
Oh! for a voice, if such there be,
Which sighs have never broke!
Oh! for a harp, whose melody
Of sorrow never spoke!
Which sighs have never broke!
Oh! for a harp, whose melody
Of sorrow never spoke!
133
For thee, Tyrone, their strains should flow,
Since every bliss divine
Which saints believe, or seraphs know,
With Harriet's heart is thine.
Since every bliss divine
Which saints believe, or seraphs know,
With Harriet's heart is thine.
Yes, thine are joys beyond the scope
Of fiction's brightest theme,
Brighter than all which youth can hope,
Or Love, or Fancy dream.
Of fiction's brightest theme,
Brighter than all which youth can hope,
Or Love, or Fancy dream.
Smile on thy green hills, Erin smile,
Thy woes, thy wars shall cease,
An angel to thy troubled isle
Bears Concord, Joy, and Peace!
Thy woes, thy wars shall cease,
An angel to thy troubled isle
Bears Concord, Joy, and Peace!
Ah check the song!—
Too well, when first I tuned the mournful strain,
My boding heart presaged severer pain.
'Tis past—and thou hast struck, disastrous Year!
Thy master-stroke of desolation here.—
'Tis past—young, fair, and faultless Harriet dies,
Lovely in youthful death the slumberer lies;
Still hope and peace her gentle features speak,
Life's farewell smile still lights her fading cheek!
Soft was the voice which call'd her spirit hence,
Death wore no shape to scare her parting sense;
A white-robed messenger of light he seemed,
His looks with smiles of heavenly promise beamed;
Skywards were spread his wings of feathery snow,
And lilies wreath'd his alabaster brow.
Stanmore through all her joy-deserted seats
No lamentation hears, no sigh repeats;
Silent like thee, whose virgin bier they dress,
Silent like thee, whose pale-rose lips they press,
Thy mourners speak no grief, no dirge prepare,
Thy dirge is silence, and their grief despair!
Oh! mourn, illustrious mourners! with my strain
A nation's sympathy accords in vain.
He, who the world's expected mis'ry bears,
Claims the sweet solace of congenial tears;
When unforeseen calamities surprise,
Radiant with life and joy when Harriet dies,
Sorrow beyond communion or control
In dumb distraction settles on the soul.
When Evening's wintry veil th' horizon palls,
Frequent for aid the lated wanderer calls;
When the tornado shakes his demon wings,
And sudden midnight o'er the noon-day flings,
Aghast he sinks beneath th' untimely gloom,
And crazed with speechless horror meets his doom!
Too well, when first I tuned the mournful strain,
My boding heart presaged severer pain.
'Tis past—and thou hast struck, disastrous Year!
Thy master-stroke of desolation here.—
'Tis past—young, fair, and faultless Harriet dies,
Lovely in youthful death the slumberer lies;
Still hope and peace her gentle features speak,
Life's farewell smile still lights her fading cheek!
Soft was the voice which call'd her spirit hence,
Death wore no shape to scare her parting sense;
134
His looks with smiles of heavenly promise beamed;
Skywards were spread his wings of feathery snow,
And lilies wreath'd his alabaster brow.
Stanmore through all her joy-deserted seats
No lamentation hears, no sigh repeats;
Silent like thee, whose virgin bier they dress,
Silent like thee, whose pale-rose lips they press,
Thy mourners speak no grief, no dirge prepare,
Thy dirge is silence, and their grief despair!
Oh! mourn, illustrious mourners! with my strain
A nation's sympathy accords in vain.
He, who the world's expected mis'ry bears,
Claims the sweet solace of congenial tears;
When unforeseen calamities surprise,
Radiant with life and joy when Harriet dies,
Sorrow beyond communion or control
In dumb distraction settles on the soul.
When Evening's wintry veil th' horizon palls,
Frequent for aid the lated wanderer calls;
When the tornado shakes his demon wings,
And sudden midnight o'er the noon-day flings,
Aghast he sinks beneath th' untimely gloom,
And crazed with speechless horror meets his doom!
135
These are thy works of woe, disastrous Year!
Scarce in the midway of thy sad career;
Still onward as thy ruthless course proceeds,
Sepulchral tablets chronicle thy deeds.
The grave's black ministers around thee frown,
A hearse thy car, and funeral plumes thy crown;
O'er thy dark pomp the shrieking night-bird cow'rs,
And tolling death-bells strike thy heavy hours!
Nor stops the rigour of thy tyrant reign
At partial loss and individual pain:
See where beneath the stern oppressor's blow
The world's great family lies sunk in woe!
The tears of nations to my tears reply,
And Europe echoes each domestic sigh.
E'en here, though Britain dread no present foes,
Distracted commerce rues the false repose,
And private feuds, though public discords cease,
Distain with generous blood the lap of peace.
And yet, disastrous Year! thou canst impart
One reconciling boon to cheer my heart!
Revive, revive my Susan's drooping head,
O'er her pale cheek Hygeia's blossoms shed,
Sooth every pang, and every fear remove,
And charm her back to beauty, joy, and love!
Then will I blush for each reproachful tear,
And thank and bless thee still, disastrous Year!
Scarce in the midway of thy sad career;
Still onward as thy ruthless course proceeds,
Sepulchral tablets chronicle thy deeds.
The grave's black ministers around thee frown,
A hearse thy car, and funeral plumes thy crown;
O'er thy dark pomp the shrieking night-bird cow'rs,
And tolling death-bells strike thy heavy hours!
Nor stops the rigour of thy tyrant reign
At partial loss and individual pain:
See where beneath the stern oppressor's blow
The world's great family lies sunk in woe!
The tears of nations to my tears reply,
And Europe echoes each domestic sigh.
E'en here, though Britain dread no present foes,
Distracted commerce rues the false repose,
And private feuds, though public discords cease,
Distain with generous blood the lap of peace.
And yet, disastrous Year! thou canst impart
One reconciling boon to cheer my heart!
136
O'er her pale cheek Hygeia's blossoms shed,
Sooth every pang, and every fear remove,
And charm her back to beauty, joy, and love!
Then will I blush for each reproachful tear,
And thank and bless thee still, disastrous Year!
The Hon. Mrs. Ellis, daughter of the late Lord Hervey, and wife of Charles Ellis, Esq, died at Nice.
It may be objected that the few capital works in bronze which remain to us from antiquity were cast, and not sculptured; yet whoever has examined the masterpieces of this kind, in the collection of R. P. Knight, Esq., must believe that some fine instrument has been employed in perfecting what the mould may have begun:
Excudent alii spirantia mollius æra,alone seems a sufficient authority for a poetical description.
It is generally known that Mr. Wedgewood's Etruria owes its name and the perfection of its forms to the exquisite Etruscan or Grecian models first introduced into this country by Sir William Hamilton; and a late traveller observes, that “the demand for this elegant manufacture is now so universal, that an Englishman in journeying from Calais to Ispahan may have his dinner served every day upon Wedgewood's ware.
The Lady Harriet Hamilton, eldest daughter to John James, Marquis of Abercorn, was shortly to have been married to Henry de la Poer, Marquis of Waterford, Earl of Tyrone.
The numerous commercial failures which occurred towards the end of the last peace, must be too well remembered.
137
CHORUS FROM THE IPHIGENIA IN AULIS OF EURIPIDES. WRITTEN AT HARROW SCHOOL, IN THE YEAR 1784.
Strophe I.
When azure Thetis left her native waves,By Love compell'd to feel a mortal's flame,
From Ocean's billowy realms and coral caves
To Peleus' arms the beauteous Nereid came.
The nymphs who rule the soul by music's powers,
Forsook their tuneful springs and laurel bowers,
To twine her nuptial wreath on Pthian plains,
And chant with sweetest lore her hymeneal strains.
Antistrophe I.
To triumph, joy, and hope, they tuned the lyre,(Songs were each echo, music every breeze);
And as their light hands wanton'd o'er the wire,
What theme to charm, what number failed to please?
138
Still notes of other worlds entrance my ear;
Aye dumb before, bleak Pelion learns the sound,
Hark! how his desert caves, and trackless wilds resound!
Strophe II.
Lured by jocund festive measuresLightly breathed from Lydian reeds,
Bacchus, prince of smiles and pleasures,
Flew to Pthia's flowery meads.
He, to Hymen's rites indulgent,
Bore the bowl of sparkling joys,
The bowl that laughs with wine refulgent,
Ne'er with moderation cloys.
Around their chief the Bacchanalians pour,
And with lov'd wassail hail the blissful hour;
In reeling dance they beat the echoing ground
To the shrill pipe, and clanging cymbal's sound.
Antistrophe II.
Sportive came with floating tresses,From each fount and crystal stream,
Naiad nymphs in showery dresses,
Glist'ning to the solar beam.
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Oread sisters join'd the throng,
'Mid the Bacchanalians raving,
Sweet was heard the Dryad song.
With thund'ring tread the Centaur brood advance,
Each with his grassy wreath and maple lance;
Their shadowy squadrons blacken all the way,
And clouds of eddying dust obscure the day.
Strophe III.
“I see, I see, empanoply'd in arms,(Rapt with prophetic fire, sage Chiron cried),
O'er Phrygian plains wide hurling war's alarms,
Thy son, O Thetis, rise, his country's pride.
I see proud Troy bewail her slaughter'd peers,
I mark the widow's shriek, the matron's tears,
While glory leads him o'er the vanquish'd realm,
Beams from his sword and blazes on his helm.”
Antistrophe III.
For thee, unhappy maid, no muses weaveThy nuptial chaplet with unfading flowers;
For thee, no Gods their starry mansions leave,
For thee no wood-nymphs dress ambrosial bowers.
140
(Thy beauteous suffering innocence the theme);
Teach every echo of Eubœa's plains
To sigh thy fate in pity's softest strains.—
Epode.
See where she comes, by kindred murderers led,And kneels submissive to her country's good;
Oh sheathe the blade, oh spare her virgin head,
Or Heav'n, who can't accept, avenge her blood!
O'er that dear breast for Love and Pity made,
Black Calchas shakes his sacrilegious blade,
O'er thy fair brows the victim's fillets wave,
Thy bridegroom, Death, thy bridal bed, the Grave.
Oh! to what God shall dying Virtue bend?
Where now shall helpless woman find a friend?
Since Heaven itself demands a virgin's doom,
And Iphigenia sinks unrescued to the tomb!
The author preferred this to the classical pronunciation, which he said he could never bear to use, as it gave a very harsh sound to a name peculiarly beautiful when pronounced as it must be in this line.
141
EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS HARRIET JENISON, MAID OF HONOUR TO LOUISA, LANDGRAVINE OF HESSE DARMSTADT.
Stay, wanderer, stay, revere this hallowed sod,
'Tis dear to men, to angels, and to God;
Though back to Heaven he called th' immortal ray,
Dear to her Maker still is Harriet's clay;
Dear is the robe of dust that Harriet wore,
Dear are the earthy chains sweet Harriet's spirit bore.
'Tis dear to men, to angels, and to God;
Though back to Heaven he called th' immortal ray,
Dear to her Maker still is Harriet's clay;
Dear is the robe of dust that Harriet wore,
Dear are the earthy chains sweet Harriet's spirit bore.
That o'er her form each heavenly beauty glowed,
That from her heart each sacred feeling flowed,
Speak, kindred, parents, friends, Louisa, speak!
Louisa weeps, all other praise is weak;
She too may weep such tears as angels give,
We weep for her who dies, she weeps for us who live.
That from her heart each sacred feeling flowed,
Speak, kindred, parents, friends, Louisa, speak!
Louisa weeps, all other praise is weak;
She too may weep such tears as angels give,
We weep for her who dies, she weeps for us who live.
142
THE BLUSH.
AN ENIGMA.
When first o'er Psyche's angel breast
Love's yet untruant pinions played,
Of either parent's charms possess'd,
My birth their mutual flame betrayed;
Love's yet untruant pinions played,
Of either parent's charms possess'd,
My birth their mutual flame betrayed;
No limbs my airy charms obscure,
No bone my elfin form sustains,
Yet blood I boast, as warm, as pure,
As that which throbs in Hebe's veins.
No bone my elfin form sustains,
Yet blood I boast, as warm, as pure,
As that which throbs in Hebe's veins.
I sleep with beauty, watch with fear,
I rise in modest youth's defence,
And swift appear, if danger's near
The snow-drop paths of innocence.
I rise in modest youth's defence,
And swift appear, if danger's near
The snow-drop paths of innocence.
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Sometimes in Themis' hall I'm seen,
But soon those sterner duties fly,
On flowery bank, or village green,
My parent's gentler cause to try.
But soon those sterner duties fly,
On flowery bank, or village green,
My parent's gentler cause to try.
Love's sunshine beamed from brightest eyes,
Less cheers his votary's painful duty,
Than my auspicious light, which flies
Like meteors o'er the heaven of beauty.
Less cheers his votary's painful duty,
Than my auspicious light, which flies
Like meteors o'er the heaven of beauty.
144
THE VISIONARY.
When midnight o'er the moonless skies
Her pall of transient death has spread,
When mortals sleep, when spectres rise,
And naught is wakeful but the dead!
Her pall of transient death has spread,
When mortals sleep, when spectres rise,
And naught is wakeful but the dead!
No bloodless shape my way pursues,
No sheeted ghost my couch annoys,
Visions more sad my fancy views,
Visions of long departed joys!
No sheeted ghost my couch annoys,
Visions more sad my fancy views,
Visions of long departed joys!
The shade of youthful hope is there,
That linger'd long, and latest died;
Ambition all dissolved to air,
With phantom honours at her side.
That linger'd long, and latest died;
Ambition all dissolved to air,
With phantom honours at her side.
What empty shadows glimmer nigh!
They once were friendship, truth, and love!
Oh, die to thought, to memory die,
Since lifeless to my heart ye prove!
They once were friendship, truth, and love!
Oh, die to thought, to memory die,
Since lifeless to my heart ye prove!
145
THE NURSING OF TRUE LOVE.
Lapt on Cythera's golden sands,
When first True Love was born on earth;
Long was the doubt what fost'ring hands
Should tend and rear the glorious birth.
When first True Love was born on earth;
Long was the doubt what fost'ring hands
Should tend and rear the glorious birth.
First, Hebe claim'd the sweet employ;
Her cup, her thornless flowers, she said,
Would feed him best with health and joy,
And cradle best his cherub head.
Her cup, her thornless flowers, she said,
Would feed him best with health and joy,
And cradle best his cherub head.
But, anxious Venus justly fear'd
The tricks and changeful mind of youth,
Too mild the seraph Peace appear'd,
Too stern, too cold, the matron Truth.
The tricks and changeful mind of youth,
Too mild the seraph Peace appear'd,
Too stern, too cold, the matron Truth.
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Next Fancy claim'd him for her own,
But Prudence disallow'd her right;
She deem'd her iris pinions shone
Too dazzling for his infant sight.
But Prudence disallow'd her right;
She deem'd her iris pinions shone
Too dazzling for his infant sight.
To Hope awhile the charge was given,
And well with Hope the cherub throve,
Till Innocence came down from heaven,
Sole guardian, friend, and nurse of Love.
And well with Hope the cherub throve,
Till Innocence came down from heaven,
Sole guardian, friend, and nurse of Love.
Pleasure, a fury in her spight,
When all prefer'd to her she found,
Vow'd cruel vengeance for the slight,
And soon success her purpose crown'd.
When all prefer'd to her she found,
Vow'd cruel vengeance for the slight,
And soon success her purpose crown'd.
The trait'ress watch'd a sultry hour,
When, pillow'd on her blush-rose bed,
Tired Innocence to Slumber's pow'r
One moment bow'd her virgin head.
When, pillow'd on her blush-rose bed,
Tired Innocence to Slumber's pow'r
One moment bow'd her virgin head.
Then, Pleasure on the thoughtless child
Her toys and sugar'd poisons prest;
Drunk with new joy, he sigh'd, he smil'd—
And True Love died on Pleasure's breast.
Her toys and sugar'd poisons prest;
Drunk with new joy, he sigh'd, he smil'd—
And True Love died on Pleasure's breast.
147
ANSWER TO A LADY'S VERSES ON “TO-MORROW.”
As the gales, whilst your hand crops the flow'r-bending spray,
Bring you sweets which from flow'rs at a distance they borrow,
So ever for you, to the joys of to-day,
May hope add a taste of the joys of “To-morrow!”
Bring you sweets which from flow'rs at a distance they borrow,
So ever for you, to the joys of to-day,
May hope add a taste of the joys of “To-morrow!”
But to me, lovely friend, worse than doubtful appears
Your “Improver of bliss, and dispeller of sorrow,”
Since, alas! it presents me no hopes and no fears—
My misfortune is sure—for I leave you to-morrow!
Your “Improver of bliss, and dispeller of sorrow,”
Since, alas! it presents me no hopes and no fears—
My misfortune is sure—for I leave you to-morrow!
148
ORIGIN OF A PEN.
Love begg'd and pray'd old Time to stay,
Whilst he and Psyche toy'd together;
Love held his wings, Time tore away,
But, in the scuffle, dropp'd a feather!
Whilst he and Psyche toy'd together;
Love held his wings, Time tore away,
But, in the scuffle, dropp'd a feather!
Love seiz'd the prize, and with his dart,
Adroitly work'd to trim and shape it;—
“O Psyche! tho' 'tis pain to part,
This charm shall make us half escape it!
Adroitly work'd to trim and shape it;—
“O Psyche! tho' 'tis pain to part,
This charm shall make us half escape it!
“Time need not fear to fly too slow,
When he this useful loss discovers;
A pen's the only plume I know,
That wings his pace for absent lovers!”
When he this useful loss discovers;
A pen's the only plume I know,
That wings his pace for absent lovers!”
149
EPITAPH ON MISS SPENCER,
WHO DIED NOVEMBER 15, 1799, AGED NINE YEARS.
An angel form, for earth too pure, too bright,Glanc'd in sweet vision o'er parental sight:
It fled—this holiest hope to faith is given,
To find that dream,—reality in heaven!
150
BETH GÊLERT,
OR THE GRAVE OF THE GREYHOUND.
The spearmen heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smil'd the morn;
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Obey'd Llewelyn's horn.
And cheerly smil'd the morn;
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Obey'd Llewelyn's horn.
And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a lustier cheer;
“Come, Gêlert, come, wer't never last
Llewelyn's horn to hear.—
And gave a lustier cheer;
“Come, Gêlert, come, wer't never last
Llewelyn's horn to hear.—
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“Oh where does faithful Gêlert roam,
The flower of all his race;
So true, so brave, a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase?”
The flower of all his race;
So true, so brave, a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase?”
'Twas only at Llewelyn's board
The faithful Gêlert fed;
He watch'd, he serv'd, he cheer'd his Lord,
And sentinel'd his bed.
The faithful Gêlert fed;
He watch'd, he serv'd, he cheer'd his Lord,
And sentinel'd his bed.
In sooth he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John;
But, now no Gêlert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.
The gift of royal John;
But, now no Gêlert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.
And now, as o'er the rocks and dells
The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowden's craggy chaos yells
The many-mingled cries!
The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowden's craggy chaos yells
The many-mingled cries!
That day Llewelyn little lov'd
The chase of hart and hare;
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gêlert was not there.
The chase of hart and hare;
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gêlert was not there.
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Unpleas'd Llewelyn homeward hied,
When near the portal-seat,
His truant Gêlert he espied
Bounding his Lord to greet.
When near the portal-seat,
His truant Gêlert he espied
Bounding his Lord to greet.
But, when he gain'd his castle-door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound all o'er was smear'd with gore,
His lips, his fangs, ran blood.
Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound all o'er was smear'd with gore,
His lips, his fangs, ran blood.
Llewelyn gaz'd with fierce surprise;
Unused such looks to meet,
His favorite check'd his joyful guise,
And crouch'd, and lick'd his feet.
Unused such looks to meet,
His favorite check'd his joyful guise,
And crouch'd, and lick'd his feet.
Onward, in haste, Llewelyn pass'd,
And on went Gêlert too;
And still, where'er his eyes he cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shock'd his view.
And on went Gêlert too;
And still, where'er his eyes he cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shock'd his view.
O'erturn'd his infant's bed he found,
With blood-stain'd covert rent;
And all around the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.
With blood-stain'd covert rent;
And all around the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.
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He call'd his child—no voice replied—
He search'd with terror wild;
Blood, blood he found on every side,
But nowhere found his child.
He search'd with terror wild;
Blood, blood he found on every side,
But nowhere found his child.
“Hell-hound! my child's by thee devour'd,”
The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plung'd in Gêlert's side.
The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plung'd in Gêlert's side.
His suppliant looks, as prone he fell,
No pity could impart;
But still his Gêlert's dying yell
Pass'd heavy o'er his heart.
No pity could impart;
But still his Gêlert's dying yell
Pass'd heavy o'er his heart.
Arous'd by Gêlert's dying yell,
Some slumb'rer waken'd nigh:—
What words the parent's joy could tell
To hear his infant's cry!
Some slumb'rer waken'd nigh:—
What words the parent's joy could tell
To hear his infant's cry!
Conceal'd beneath a tumbled heap
His hurried search had miss'd,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
The cherub boy he kiss'd.
His hurried search had miss'd,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
The cherub boy he kiss'd.
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Nor scath had he, nor harm, nor dread,
But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead,
Tremendous still in death.
But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead,
Tremendous still in death.
Ah, what was then Llewelyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear;
His gallant hound the wolf had slain,
To save Llewelyn's heir.
For now the truth was clear;
His gallant hound the wolf had slain,
To save Llewelyn's heir.
Vain, vain was all Llewelyn's woe:
“Best of thy kind, adieu!
The frantic blow, which laid thee low,
This heart shall ever rue.”
“Best of thy kind, adieu!
The frantic blow, which laid thee low,
This heart shall ever rue.”
And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture deck'd;
And marbles storied with his praise,
Poor Gêlert's bones protect.
With costly sculpture deck'd;
And marbles storied with his praise,
Poor Gêlert's bones protect.
There never could the spearman pass,
Or forester, unmoved;
There, oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewelyn's sorrow proved.
Or forester, unmoved;
There, oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewelyn's sorrow proved.
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And there he hung his horn and spear,
And there, as evening fell,
In fancy's ear he oft would hear
Poor Gêlert's dying yell.
And there, as evening fell,
In fancy's ear he oft would hear
Poor Gêlert's dying yell.
And, till great Snowden's rocks grow old,
And cease the storm to brave,
The consecrated spot shall hold
The name of “Gêlert's grave.”
And cease the storm to brave,
The consecrated spot shall hold
The name of “Gêlert's grave.”
Dolymelynllyn,
August 11, 1800.
The story of this ballad is traditionary in a village at the foot of Snowden, where Llewelyn the Great had a house. The Greyhound, named Gêlert, was given him by his father-in-law, King John, in the year 1205, and the place to this day, is called Beth-Gêlert, or the grave of Gêlert.
156
TO THE MARCHIONESS OF DOUGLAS AND CLYDESDALE.
O'er Susan's brow (the fault was mine)
A frown one moment's empire held;
The smile, which rules by right divine,
The dark usurper soon expell'd.
A frown one moment's empire held;
The smile, which rules by right divine,
The dark usurper soon expell'd.
That well he play'd the monarch's part,
E'en in that lawless reign, I own;
He justly pierc'd the rebel heart
Whose guilt had rais'd him to the throne!
E'en in that lawless reign, I own;
He justly pierc'd the rebel heart
Whose guilt had rais'd him to the throne!
Think not, by vain repentance driv'n,
Too late for mercy I appeal;
Each wound that alien frown has giv'n,
That native smile can more than heal!
Too late for mercy I appeal;
Each wound that alien frown has giv'n,
That native smile can more than heal!
Heav'n has so fix'd their mutual pow'rs,
That good o'er ill should ever thrive;
Night cannot fade so many flow'rs
As day returning can revive!
That good o'er ill should ever thrive;
Night cannot fade so many flow'rs
As day returning can revive!
157
PROLOGUE TO “THE GRAVE:”
A COMEDY.
In elder times, some lively sparks, 'tis said,Have paid familiar visits to the dead;
By Pluto well receiv'd, politely all
Conjured him never to return their call;
Be he assur'd them, on some future day,
He would not, could not, fail to pass their way.
With various views they went: one anxious heir
Went with strong hopes to find his father there;
One sought another's wife—this history shews;
One sought his own—that's poetry, God knows!
But, now this friendly intercourse is o'er,
None, uninvited, drive to Pluto's door;
Though soon or late his grimness visits all,
None will his kind civility forestall;
158
All, if they can, put off th' appointed day;
E'en some, self-ask'd, when near his gates, recede,
And recollected pre-engagements plead.
Judge, then, what wonder seized the spectre state
When, with a light hand tapping at the gate,
The comic muse, a least expected guest,
At the dark realms of death for entrance prest.
Smiling she prest—that smile had still prevail'd,
If hero's sword, and poet's lyre, had fail'd.
Hearts more than death, inexorably hard,
E'en misers' hearts, by worse than demons barr'd,
Won by that angel smile, could ne'er refuse
Entrance and welcome to the comic muse.
Why all unlicensed, thus th' intruder came,
To beat in cypress groves for sprightly game?
Why tripped her light sock o'er the church-way sod,
Long by her buskin'd sister only trod?
Now to the grisly king she fearless sped,
And bound her mask upon his goblin head;
Now all those darts which mark his tyrant rule,
She turn'd to shafts of harmless ridicule:
This, all as yet in mystic silence seal'd,
Within yon abbey's vault shall be reveal'd.
Attend awhile, we need not patience crave,
Few are in haste to know the secrets of the Grave.
159
TO A BUTTERFLY,
AT THE END OF WINTER.
Fold your enamell'd wings again,
Oh yet prolong your wintry sleep!—
How many wake from ease to pain,
And only ope their eyes—to weep!
Oh yet prolong your wintry sleep!—
How many wake from ease to pain,
And only ope their eyes—to weep!
Ah no! undimm'd by tears, you see
Where nature lights your flow'ry way;
Poor human insect! low'r for me
Those clouds which sadden reason's day!
Where nature lights your flow'ry way;
Poor human insect! low'r for me
Those clouds which sadden reason's day!
By reason's light, with joyless eyes,
On all creation's laws we look;
What read we there? Pains, penalties,
And our death-sentence ends the book.
On all creation's laws we look;
What read we there? Pains, penalties,
And our death-sentence ends the book.
160
Whilst blithe you range from rose to rose,
We, sighing, muse how short their bloom!
To you life's twilight prospect shews
No mines of science—and no tomb!
We, sighing, muse how short their bloom!
To you life's twilight prospect shews
No mines of science—and no tomb!
But yet, though reason damp our mirth,
One matchless hope its aid has given;
Your twilight only shews you Earth,
Our day, though clouded, shews us Heaven!
One matchless hope its aid has given;
Your twilight only shews you Earth,
Our day, though clouded, shews us Heaven!
161
PROLOGUE TO THE WYNSTAY MASQUERADE,
BY A TAILOR POET OF A STROLLING COMPANY.
Gentles, Apollo Starveling is my name;
'Midst all these heroes of dramatic fame,
To none in use, or dignity, I stoop,
Tailor and poet to the Cambrian troop:
Howe'er unlike at first they seem to be,
Trust me, these trades in various points agree;
I can unite, without dispute or quarrel,
The shears, the lyre, the cabbage, and the laurel,
Fustian! than thine, no merit e'er was clearer,
Dear to the tailor, to the poet dearer:
My grateful muse with joy thy worth rehearses,
In jackets good, unparallel'd in verses!
I own my task is hard, when business presses,
To make up at one time both piece and dresses:
“Hey, Starveling! where's my ruff? for God's sake bring it;
Hey, Starveling! change this song, or I can't sing it;
Lengthen this doublet, shorten these two speeches;
Zounds! write my prologue; d—n it, mend my breeches!”
'Midst all these heroes of dramatic fame,
To none in use, or dignity, I stoop,
Tailor and poet to the Cambrian troop:
Howe'er unlike at first they seem to be,
Trust me, these trades in various points agree;
I can unite, without dispute or quarrel,
The shears, the lyre, the cabbage, and the laurel,
Fustian! than thine, no merit e'er was clearer,
Dear to the tailor, to the poet dearer:
My grateful muse with joy thy worth rehearses,
In jackets good, unparallel'd in verses!
I own my task is hard, when business presses,
To make up at one time both piece and dresses:
162
Hey, Starveling! change this song, or I can't sing it;
Lengthen this doublet, shorten these two speeches;
Zounds! write my prologue; d—n it, mend my breeches!”
Of all the countries which I yet have seen,
This for my double trade the best has been;
I find in every rock, and cave, and glen,
Work for the tailor's thread, or poet's pen.
The mountain crags, which lead to nobler views,
Tear every coat, and waken every muse;
Each walk to fancy, or to trade, of use is,
Each step a sonnet, or a job produces.
But still the drama is my proper sphere,
And for the stage what charming scenes are here!
Each laughing hour of these convivial days
Affords me stuff to work up twenty plays;
Such patterns of good sense which all approve,
Such habits of benevolence and love;
Scenes with such beauty, wit, and feeling blest,
Each look a grace, and ev'ry word a jest:
Such charms, such hearts, such folly founded on sense,
Such mirth, such worth, such wisdom, and such nonsense!
And if from comic scenes our strain we raise,
To sing the hero's and the patriot's praise,
Where in all hist'ry can the tragic muse
A nobler theme than Ancient Britons chuse,
To tell when loyalty and honour call'd,
When mad rebellion ev'ry heart appall'd,
How Ancient Britons fought, and oh, to tell,
Too tragic is the tale, how Ancient Britons fell!
This for my double trade the best has been;
I find in every rock, and cave, and glen,
Work for the tailor's thread, or poet's pen.
The mountain crags, which lead to nobler views,
Tear every coat, and waken every muse;
Each walk to fancy, or to trade, of use is,
Each step a sonnet, or a job produces.
But still the drama is my proper sphere,
And for the stage what charming scenes are here!
Each laughing hour of these convivial days
Affords me stuff to work up twenty plays;
Such patterns of good sense which all approve,
Such habits of benevolence and love;
Scenes with such beauty, wit, and feeling blest,
Each look a grace, and ev'ry word a jest:
Such charms, such hearts, such folly founded on sense,
Such mirth, such worth, such wisdom, and such nonsense!
163
To sing the hero's and the patriot's praise,
Where in all hist'ry can the tragic muse
A nobler theme than Ancient Britons chuse,
To tell when loyalty and honour call'd,
When mad rebellion ev'ry heart appall'd,
How Ancient Britons fought, and oh, to tell,
Too tragic is the tale, how Ancient Britons fell!
164
SONG.
[When the black-letter'd list to the gods was presented]
When the black-letter'd list to the gods was presented,
(The list of what fate for each mortal intends),
At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented,
And slipp'd in three blessings—Wife, Children, and Friends.
(The list of what fate for each mortal intends),
At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented,
And slipp'd in three blessings—Wife, Children, and Friends.
In vain surly Pluto maintain'd he was cheated,
For justice divine could not compass its ends;
The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated,
For earth becomes heav'n with Wife, Children, and Friends.
For justice divine could not compass its ends;
The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated,
For earth becomes heav'n with Wife, Children, and Friends.
If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested,
The fund ill-secur'd oft in bankruptcy ends;
But the heart issues bills which are never protested
When drawn on the firm of Wife, Children, and Friends.
The fund ill-secur'd oft in bankruptcy ends;
But the heart issues bills which are never protested
When drawn on the firm of Wife, Children, and Friends.
165
Though valour still glows in his life's waning embers,
The death-wounded tar who his colours defends,
Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers
How blest was his home with Wife, Children, and Friends.
The death-wounded tar who his colours defends,
Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers
How blest was his home with Wife, Children, and Friends.
The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story,
Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends,
With transport would barter whole ages of glory
For one happy day with Wife, Children, and Friends.
Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends,
With transport would barter whole ages of glory
For one happy day with Wife, Children, and Friends.
Though spice-breathing gales o'er his caravan hover,
Though round him Arabia's whole fragrance ascends,
The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover
The bower where he sate with Wife, Children, and Friends.
Though round him Arabia's whole fragrance ascends,
The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover
The bower where he sate with Wife, Children, and Friends.
The day-spring of youth, still unclouded by sorrow,
Alone on itself for enjoyment depends;
But drear is the twilight of age if it borrow
No warmth from the smiles of Wife, Children, and Friends.
Alone on itself for enjoyment depends;
But drear is the twilight of age if it borrow
No warmth from the smiles of Wife, Children, and Friends.
166
Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish
The laurel which o'er her dead favourite bends;
O'er me wave the willow! and long may it flourish,
Bedew'd with the tears of Wife, Children, and Friends.
The laurel which o'er her dead favourite bends;
O'er me wave the willow! and long may it flourish,
Bedew'd with the tears of Wife, Children, and Friends.
Let us drink—for my song, growing graver and gaver,
To subjects too solemn insensibly tends;
Let us drink—pledge me high—Love and Virtue shall flavour
The glass which I fill to Wife, Children, and Friends.
To subjects too solemn insensibly tends;
Let us drink—pledge me high—Love and Virtue shall flavour
The glass which I fill to Wife, Children, and Friends.
167
TO MISS ---.
Moravians their minstrelsy bring
The death-bed with music to smooth;
So you, lovely comforter, sing
My pangs of departure to sooth!
The death-bed with music to smooth;
So you, lovely comforter, sing
My pangs of departure to sooth!
You sing—but my silent adieu
A sorrow still keener will prove;
You lose but one friend who loves you,
How many I lose whom I love!
A sorrow still keener will prove;
You lose but one friend who loves you,
How many I lose whom I love!
When we go from each pleasure refin'd,
Which the sense or the soul can receive,
With no hope in our wand'rings to find
One ray of the sunshine we leave,
Which the sense or the soul can receive,
With no hope in our wand'rings to find
One ray of the sunshine we leave,
An adieu should in utterance die,
Or if written, but faintly appear;
Only heard through the burst of a sigh,
Only read through the blot of a tear!
Or if written, but faintly appear;
Only heard through the burst of a sigh,
Only read through the blot of a tear!
168
SYBILLINE VERSES,
AT A MASQUERADE.
Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire.Enchantress, come! my mystic throne ascend,
To pow'r like thine no sybil spells pretend—
Vain are my prophecies of weal or woe
To those who thy superior influence know!
If my keen sight approaching joy descries,
One frown from thee, and joy for ever flies;
If my dark page foretells the world's distress,
One smile from thee, and all is happiness!
Thomas Lawrence, Esq., R.A.
Painting had claim'd all Lawrence for her own,
But Music still to wave her right was loth;
When Genius cried—Lawrence was mine alone,
But I, too generous, gave him to you both.
169
So wise, so witty, so belov'd! your state
Can ne'er by sybil magic be improv'd;
Would you a miracle require of fate,
Be then more wise, more witty, more belov'd!
The Lady Crewe.
What! has that angel face receiv'd
No hurt? has Time forgot his duty?
Poor Time! like mortals you're deceiv'd,
It is not youth—'tis only beauty!
170
INVITATION TO KENSINGTON GARDENS.
No storm to day, no lightning's glare,
No thunder shall astound you,
But western breezes hover there,
To winnow health around you.
No thunder shall astound you,
But western breezes hover there,
To winnow health around you.
Warm as the virgin's breath who sings
Her first love's first complaint,
Pure as the air from cherub wings
That fan a dying saint.
Her first love's first complaint,
Pure as the air from cherub wings
That fan a dying saint.
Fair as those days of Infancy,
So fair, when, nearly ended,
With all her snow-drop purity,
Youth's primrose sweets are blended!
So fair, when, nearly ended,
With all her snow-drop purity,
Youth's primrose sweets are blended!
171
LOVE OUT OF PLACE.
I'm a boy of all work, a complete little servant,
Tho' now out of place, like a beggar I rove;
Though in waiting so handy, in duty so fervent,
The Heart (could you think it?) has turn'd away Love!
Tho' now out of place, like a beggar I rove;
Though in waiting so handy, in duty so fervent,
The Heart (could you think it?) has turn'd away Love!
He pretends to require, growing older and older,
A nurse more expert his chill fits to remove;
But sure ev'ry Heart will grow colder and colder
Whose fires are not lighted and fuel'd by Love!
A nurse more expert his chill fits to remove;
But sure ev'ry Heart will grow colder and colder
Whose fires are not lighted and fuel'd by Love!
He fancies that Friendship, my puritan brother,
In journies and visits more useful will prove;
But the Heart will soon find, when it calls on another,
That no Heart is at home to a Heart without Love.
In journies and visits more useful will prove;
But the Heart will soon find, when it calls on another,
That no Heart is at home to a Heart without Love.
172
He thinks his new porter, grim featur'd Suspicion,
Will Falsehood and Pain from his mansion remove;
But Pleasure and Truth will ne'er ask for admission
If the doors of the Heart be not open'd by Love!
Will Falsehood and Pain from his mansion remove;
But Pleasure and Truth will ne'er ask for admission
If the doors of the Heart be not open'd by Love!
Too late he will own, at his folly confounded,
My skill at a feast was all praises above;
For the Heart, though with sweets in profusion surrounded,
Must starve at a banquet unseason'd by Love!
My skill at a feast was all praises above;
For the Heart, though with sweets in profusion surrounded,
Must starve at a banquet unseason'd by Love!
The Heart will soon find all his influence falter,
By me, by me only that influence throve;
With the change of his household his nature will alter,
That Heart is no Heart which can live without Love!
By me, by me only that influence throve;
With the change of his household his nature will alter,
That Heart is no Heart which can live without Love!
173
TO ---.
Our friend, ingenious Lockley,
says,
“Throw to the dogs my useless physic;
Leave town, and all its wicked ways,
For diet, quiet, mirth, and—Chiswick!”
“Throw to the dogs my useless physic;
Leave town, and all its wicked ways,
For diet, quiet, mirth, and—Chiswick!”
Adieu then, potion, draught, and pill,
On Lockley's words I've all reliance,
Who, though a leech most learned, still
Has sense more sure than all his science!
On Lockley's words I've all reliance,
Who, though a leech most learned, still
Has sense more sure than all his science!
But, whilst in these sweet bow'rs I stray,
By Pleasures, Graces, Muses haunted,
The Diet, Quiet—where are they—
For which this princely seat was vaunted?
By Pleasures, Graces, Muses haunted,
The Diet, Quiet—where are they—
For which this princely seat was vaunted?
174
Are feasts, whose magic fumes might raise
Dalrymple's portly spectre—diet?
Are nights, the sun mistakes for days,
And gilds with all his radiance—quiet?
Dalrymple's portly spectre—diet?
Are nights, the sun mistakes for days,
And gilds with all his radiance—quiet?
But Mirth is ours, my “sov'reign'st” cure,
When Townshend's polish'd satire moves it;
With Devonshire the wit is sure,
If he or utters or approves it!
When Townshend's polish'd satire moves it;
With Devonshire the wit is sure,
If he or utters or approves it!
And in Eliza's
smiles I find
From all my pains the best distraction;
They “medicine to the wounded mind,”
And health soon feels the bright reaction!
From all my pains the best distraction;
They “medicine to the wounded mind,”
And health soon feels the bright reaction!
The genial glow, which warms the streams,
By intermediate power's effected;
The surface only feels the beam
Which from its inmost bed's reflected.
By intermediate power's effected;
The surface only feels the beam
Which from its inmost bed's reflected.
175
TO GEORGE R. CHINNERY, ESQ.
Too happy George! whose Home containsThe spur and guerdon of his pains!
Who still can call on kindred love
To guide, to censure, or approve;
Alas for me! whose youthful days
Ne'er heard domestic blame or praise!
No hopes of home my toils beguil'd,
No sister there, no mother smil'd—
And if in indolence I slept,
No sister there, no mother wept!
What wonder if thy young renown
So early claims the laureate crown?
How sweet his toil who knows the prize
He seeks will charm a sister's eyes!
When gain'd—his recompence how sweet,
To place it at a mother's feet!
176
THE EMIGRANT'S GRAVE.
Why mourn ye, why strew ye those flowrets around
To yon new-sodded grave, as ye slowly advance?
In yon new-sodded grave (ever dear be the ground)
Lies the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile of France.
To yon new-sodded grave, as ye slowly advance?
In yon new-sodded grave (ever dear be the ground)
Lies the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile of France.
And is the poor exile at rest from his woe,
No longer the sport of misfortune and chance?
Mourn on, village mourners, my tears too shall flow
For the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile of France.
No longer the sport of misfortune and chance?
Mourn on, village mourners, my tears too shall flow
For the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile of France.
Oh! kind was his nature, tho' bitter his fate,
And gay was his converse, tho' broken his heart;
No comfort, no hope, his own breast could elate,
Though comfort and hope he to all could impart.
And gay was his converse, tho' broken his heart;
No comfort, no hope, his own breast could elate,
Though comfort and hope he to all could impart.
Ever joyless himself, in the joys of the plain
Still foremost was he mirth and pleasure to raise;
How sad was his soul, yet how blithe was his strain,
When he sang the glad song of more fortunate days!
Still foremost was he mirth and pleasure to raise;
How sad was his soul, yet how blithe was his strain,
When he sang the glad song of more fortunate days!
177
One pleasure he knew, in his straw-cover'd shed
The way-wearied beggar recruited to see,
One tear of delight he would drop o'er the bread
Which he shar'd with the poor, the still poorer than he.
The way-wearied beggar recruited to see,
One tear of delight he would drop o'er the bread
Which he shar'd with the poor, the still poorer than he.
And when round his death-bed profusely we cast
Every gift, every solace, our hamlet could bring,
He blest us with sighs which we thought were his last,
But he still breath'd a prayer for his Country and King.
Every gift, every solace, our hamlet could bring,
He blest us with sighs which we thought were his last,
But he still breath'd a prayer for his Country and King.
Poor exile, adieu! undisturb'd be thy sleep—
From the feast, from the wake, from the village-green dance,
How oft shall we wander at moonlight to weep
O'er the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile of France!
From the feast, from the wake, from the village-green dance,
How oft shall we wander at moonlight to weep
O'er the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile of France!
To the church-bidden bride shall thy memory impart
One pang as her eyes on thy cold relics glance,
One flower from her garland, one tear from her heart,
Shall drop on the grave of the exile of France!
One pang as her eyes on thy cold relics glance,
One flower from her garland, one tear from her heart,
Shall drop on the grave of the exile of France!
178
TO THE HON. MISS CREWE (NOW MRS. CUNLIFFE),
WITH THE EMIGRANT'S GRAVE.
Soon the tear shall be dry, soon the flow'r shall be sere,
Which mourners on earth to these ashes have giv'n,
But Heav'n from thy lips the sad story will hear,
For music like thine is the language of Heav'n!
Which mourners on earth to these ashes have giv'n,
But Heav'n from thy lips the sad story will hear,
For music like thine is the language of Heav'n!
Oh! then shall this turf-bed with flow'rs ever crown'd,
And with tears ever dew'd, time's inclemency brave,
For hands more than mortal will garden the ground,
And angels will weep o'er the Emigrant's Grave.
And with tears ever dew'd, time's inclemency brave,
For hands more than mortal will garden the ground,
And angels will weep o'er the Emigrant's Grave.
179
GOOD-BYE, AND HOW-D'YE-DO.
One day, Good-bye met How-d'ye-do,
Too close to shun saluting,
But soon the rival sisters flew,
From kissing, to disputing.
Too close to shun saluting,
But soon the rival sisters flew,
From kissing, to disputing.
“Away,” says How-d'ye-do, “your mien
Appals my cheerful nature,
No name so sad as your's is seen
In sorrow's nomenclature.
Appals my cheerful nature,
No name so sad as your's is seen
In sorrow's nomenclature.
“Whene'er I give one sunshine hour,
Your cloud comes o'er to shade it;
Where'er I plant one bosom flow'r,
Your mildew drops to fade it.
Your cloud comes o'er to shade it;
Where'er I plant one bosom flow'r,
Your mildew drops to fade it.
“Ere How-d'ye-do has tun'd each tongue
To hope's delightful measure,
Good-bye in friendship's ear has rung
The knell of parting pleasure!
To hope's delightful measure,
Good-bye in friendship's ear has rung
The knell of parting pleasure!
180
“From sorrows past, my chemic skill
Draws smiles of consolation,
Whilst you from present joys distil
The tears of separation.”—
Draws smiles of consolation,
Whilst you from present joys distil
The tears of separation.”—
Good-bye replied, “Your statement's true,
And well your cause you've pleaded;
But pray, who'd think of How-d'ye-do,
Unless Good-bye preceded?
And well your cause you've pleaded;
But pray, who'd think of How-d'ye-do,
Unless Good-bye preceded?
“Without my prior influence
Could yours have ever flourish'd?
And can your hand one flow'r dispense
But those my tears have nourish'd?
Could yours have ever flourish'd?
And can your hand one flow'r dispense
But those my tears have nourish'd?
“How oft, if at the court of Love
Concealment be the fashion,
When How-d'ye-do has fail'd to move,
Good-bye reveals the passion!
Concealment be the fashion,
When How-d'ye-do has fail'd to move,
Good-bye reveals the passion!
“How oft, when Cupid's fires decline,
As ev'ry heart remembers,
One sigh of mine, and only mine,
Revives the dying embers!
As ev'ry heart remembers,
One sigh of mine, and only mine,
Revives the dying embers!
“Go, bid the timid lover choose,
And I'll resign my charter;
If he, for ten kind How-d'ye dos,
One kind Good-bye would barter!
And I'll resign my charter;
If he, for ten kind How-d'ye dos,
One kind Good-bye would barter!
181
“From Love and Friendship's kindred source
We both derive existence,
And they would both lose half their force,
Without our joint assistance.
We both derive existence,
And they would both lose half their force,
Without our joint assistance.
“'Tis well the world our merit knows
Since time, there's no denying,
One half in How-d'ye-doing goes,
And t'other in Good-byeing!”
Since time, there's no denying,
One half in How-d'ye-doing goes,
And t'other in Good-byeing!”
182
TO MY GRAMMATICAL NIECE.
The
Nom'native case which I study's—“A Niece,”
Who is Genitive ever of kindness to me;
When I'm sad, she's so Dative of comfort and peace,
That I scarce against fate can Accusative be!
O Friendship (this Vocative most I prefer),
Make my case always Ablative—“by and with her.”
Who is Genitive ever of kindness to me;
When I'm sad, she's so Dative of comfort and peace,
That I scarce against fate can Accusative be!
O Friendship (this Vocative most I prefer),
Make my case always Ablative—“by and with her.”
Your Mother's a Verb from Anomaly free,
Though Indicative always of learning and sense,
In all of her moods she's Potential o'er me,
And the Perfect is still her invariable Tense!
Though Passive in temper, most Active in spirit,
And we are Deponents—who swear to her merit!
Though Indicative always of learning and sense,
In all of her moods she's Potential o'er me,
And the Perfect is still her invariable Tense!
Though Passive in temper, most Active in spirit,
And we are Deponents—who swear to her merit!
183
For a Syntax like that which unites her and you,
Through folios of Grammar in vain we may seek;
As in Gender, in Number, your Concord's most true,
For as Mother and Daughter, you both are—Unique!
And in goodness to all, as in kindness to me,
You both, in all cases, are sure to agree!
Through folios of Grammar in vain we may seek;
As in Gender, in Number, your Concord's most true,
For as Mother and Daughter, you both are—Unique!
And in goodness to all, as in kindness to me,
You both, in all cases, are sure to agree!
From Prosodia, perhaps, I might learn (if I tried)
“To scan my own many defects,” (vide Gray);
But vain are all metrical rules when applied
To charms which both Mother and Daughter display!
For who could e'er learn, with all labour and leisure,
To scan what are quite without number and measure!
“To scan my own many defects,” (vide Gray);
But vain are all metrical rules when applied
To charms which both Mother and Daughter display!
For who could e'er learn, with all labour and leisure,
To scan what are quite without number and measure!
184
TO A YOUNG POETESS.
Youth feels the true poetic gleam:
Know we in manhood's noonday time
A glow like that celestial beam
Which gilds the soul's “sweet hour of prime?”
Know we in manhood's noonday time
A glow like that celestial beam
Which gilds the soul's “sweet hour of prime?”
Fancy, matur'd by art and taste,
Her bed with full-blown flow'rs may hang;
But, where's the new-born bloom which grac'd
The buds that round her cradle sprang?
Her bed with full-blown flow'rs may hang;
But, where's the new-born bloom which grac'd
The buds that round her cradle sprang?
How rich soe'er the classic treat
Which learning's deeper springs afford,
Castalian dews are ne'er so sweet
As when from Hebe's chalice pour'd!
Which learning's deeper springs afford,
Castalian dews are ne'er so sweet
As when from Hebe's chalice pour'd!
If Fancy's smiles have pow'r to charm
When youthful Poets' thoughts they dress,
Far more they charm when first they warm
A youthful, lovely Poetess!—
When youthful Poets' thoughts they dress,
Far more they charm when first they warm
A youthful, lovely Poetess!—
185
Oh! Poetry is most divine
When virgin beauty she inspires,
As still those sun-beams brightest shine
Which light the diamond's prismy fires!
When virgin beauty she inspires,
As still those sun-beams brightest shine
Which light the diamond's prismy fires!
Men for the Prose of human kind,
But Women for its Verse were born;
How dull the book of life we find
Unless they ev'ry page adorn!
But Women for its Verse were born;
How dull the book of life we find
Unless they ev'ry page adorn!
Though ev'ry god that wont to bless
This earth, our haunts have long forsook;
From Verse, and Women, still we guess
How angels talk, how angels look!—
This earth, our haunts have long forsook;
From Verse, and Women, still we guess
How angels talk, how angels look!—
186
TO THE VISCOUNTESS HINCHINBROOK,
(LATELY MARRIED.)
One smile on poor Friendship bestow!
E'en Hymen that smile must approve,
Since Friendship, though turn'd away now,
Was a steward most faithful to Love!
E'en Hymen that smile must approve,
Since Friendship, though turn'd away now,
Was a steward most faithful to Love!
If your heart without culture or toil,
Now fertile in happiness prove,
'Twas Friendship first garden'd the soil
For the Paradise-harvest of Love!
Now fertile in happiness prove,
'Twas Friendship first garden'd the soil
For the Paradise-harvest of Love!
Shall the earth, 'mid the roses of June,
May's virginal violets scorn?
Shall the sky, 'mid the splendours of noon,
Forget the sweet blushes of morn?
May's virginal violets scorn?
Shall the sky, 'mid the splendours of noon,
Forget the sweet blushes of morn?
Oh! where were the roses of June
Had not May put the winter to flight?
And where were the splendours of noon
If morn had not banish'd the night?
Had not May put the winter to flight?
And where were the splendours of noon
If morn had not banish'd the night?
187
If Love, like the noon's summer sun,
A glow more ecstatic impart;
Yet Friendship, ere rapture begun,
Was the May and the Morn of the heart!
A glow more ecstatic impart;
Yet Friendship, ere rapture begun,
Was the May and the Morn of the heart!
Though Friendship her balm may refuse,
When with manhood's strong passions we rage;
Yet she blest us in youth, and renews
All her blessings to cheer us in age!
When with manhood's strong passions we rage;
Yet she blest us in youth, and renews
All her blessings to cheer us in age!
So day, with her bright banners furl'd,
As she sinks in the westerly wave,
Sees the dew which her cradle impearl'd
Return to bespangle her grave!
As she sinks in the westerly wave,
Sees the dew which her cradle impearl'd
Return to bespangle her grave!
188
SONG FROM THE COMEDY OF URANIA.
Time's hand, which wrinkles ev'ry face,
No furrow on the heart can trace
While love sustains its pow'rs;
For those who shun domestic strife,
His scythe shall mow the weeds of life,
And only prune its flow'rs.
No furrow on the heart can trace
While love sustains its pow'rs;
For those who shun domestic strife,
His scythe shall mow the weeds of life,
And only prune its flow'rs.
If our thoughts never roam
From the pleasures of home,
Ev'ry day shall increase our delight:
And Cupid shall stay
Till his pinions, grown grey,
No longer can serve him for flight!
From the pleasures of home,
Ev'ry day shall increase our delight:
And Cupid shall stay
Till his pinions, grown grey,
No longer can serve him for flight!
189
SONG FROM THE SAME.
Nature with swiftness arm'd the horse,
She gave the royal lion force
His destin'd prey to seize on:
To guide the swiftness of the horse,
To tame the royal lion's force,
She gifted man with reason!
She gave the royal lion force
His destin'd prey to seize on:
To guide the swiftness of the horse,
To tame the royal lion's force,
She gifted man with reason!
Poor woman! what
Was then our lot?
Submission, truth, and duty—
Our gifts were small;
To balance all
Some God invented beauty!
Was then our lot?
Submission, truth, and duty—
Our gifts were small;
To balance all
Some God invented beauty!
190
For empire, Reason made a stand,
But long has Beauty's conquering hand
In due subjection kept her:
To rule the world let Reason boast,
She only fills a viceroy's post,
'Tis Beauty holds the sceptre.
But long has Beauty's conquering hand
In due subjection kept her:
To rule the world let Reason boast,
She only fills a viceroy's post,
'Tis Beauty holds the sceptre.
191
WRITTEN IN A GARDEN.
Yon lonely Rose that climbs the eaves,
How bright its dew-dropp'd tint appears!
As if Aurora on its leaves
Had left her blushes with her tears.—
How bright its dew-dropp'd tint appears!
As if Aurora on its leaves
Had left her blushes with her tears.—
And see two drooping willows nigh,
What heat their sickly foliage blanches!
As if some lover's burning sigh
Where all the gale that fann'd their branches.
What heat their sickly foliage blanches!
As if some lover's burning sigh
Where all the gale that fann'd their branches.
Ah! wish ye not, pale plants of woe,
Yon Rose's blooming state your own?
Methinks I hear them murmur, “No,
Yon Rose is blooming, but alone!
Yon Rose's blooming state your own?
Methinks I hear them murmur, “No,
Yon Rose is blooming, but alone!
“Knowst thou two hearts by love subdu'd,
Ask them which fate they covet—whether
Health, joy, and life, in solitude?
Or sickness, grief, and death, together?”
Ask them which fate they covet—whether
Health, joy, and life, in solitude?
Or sickness, grief, and death, together?”
192
EPITAPH UPON THE YEAR 1806.
'Tis gone, with its thorns and its roses,
With the dust of dead ages to mix!
Time's charnel for ever encloses
The year eighteen hundred and six!
With the dust of dead ages to mix!
Time's charnel for ever encloses
The year eighteen hundred and six!
Though many may question thy merit,
I duly thy dirge will perform,
Content, if thy heir but inherit
Thy portion of sunshine and storm!
I duly thy dirge will perform,
Content, if thy heir but inherit
Thy portion of sunshine and storm!
My blame and my blessing thou sharest,
For black were thy moments in part,
But oh! thy fair days were the fairest
That ever have shone on my heart.
For black were thy moments in part,
But oh! thy fair days were the fairest
That ever have shone on my heart.
193
If thine was a gloom the completest
That death's darkest cypress could throw,
Thine too was a garland the sweetest
That life in full blossom could shew!
That death's darkest cypress could throw,
Thine too was a garland the sweetest
That life in full blossom could shew!
One hand gave the balmy corrector
Of ills which the other had brew'd;
One draught of thy chalice of nectar
All taste of thy bitters subdu'd.—
Of ills which the other had brew'd;
One draught of thy chalice of nectar
All taste of thy bitters subdu'd.—
'Tis gone, with its thorns and its roses!
With mine, tears more precious will mix,
To hallow this midnight which closes
The year eighteen hundred and six.
With mine, tears more precious will mix,
To hallow this midnight which closes
The year eighteen hundred and six.
194
TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON.
Too late I staid, forgive the crime,
Unheeded flew the hours;
How noiseless falls the foot of Time,
That only treads on flow'rs!
Unheeded flew the hours;
How noiseless falls the foot of Time,
That only treads on flow'rs!
What eye with clear account remarks
The ebbing of his glass,
When all its sands are di'mond sparks,
That dazzle as they pass?
The ebbing of his glass,
When all its sands are di'mond sparks,
That dazzle as they pass?
Ah! who to sober measurement
Time's happy swiftness brings,
When birds of Paradise have lent
Their plumage for his wings?
Time's happy swiftness brings,
When birds of Paradise have lent
Their plumage for his wings?
195
THANKS TO A LADY
FOR HER VERSES WITH A WATER LILY, ON THE AUTHOR'S BIRTHDAY.
My stream of life has never roll'dO'er beds of pearl, or sands of gold,
But oft its devious waves have run
Through chequer'd banks of shade and sun;
And still, where'er it chanc'd to glide,
Some honey'd blossom deck'd its side,
And Fancy, as it flow'd along,
Sweeten'd its murmurs with her song!
Too soon its midway course attain'd,
The sun was gone, the shade remain'd,
And Fancy's strain was heard no more
Upon its bleak and bloomless shore!—
And deign'st thou, pitying nightingale,
To raise amongst its willows pale
196
To calm the storms that round it low'r?
Oh! yes, your Fancy can supply
Each note my Fancy would deny;
And that one Flow'r you gave to-day,
Though all its margent sweets decay,
That Lily floating down the stream
Shall make its ebbing waters seem
More precious far than if they roll'd
O'er beds of pearl and sands of gold!
197
TO LADY ---.
Your “Oh! how we miss'd you” 's a pearl of a phrase,That many, how many, have fish'd for!
In hundreds, tho' present, what envy may raise
The one who is absent—and wish'd for!
198
ON A DYING BAY-TREE.
Have I not seen each breath of spring
With greener health supply thee?
Have I not heard the whirlwind's wing
Sweep impotently by thee?
With greener health supply thee?
Have I not heard the whirlwind's wing
Sweep impotently by thee?
Nor midday blaze nor midnight chill
To fade thy bloom attempted;
And Jove's commission'd lightning still
Thy sacred stem exempted.
To fade thy bloom attempted;
And Jove's commission'd lightning still
Thy sacred stem exempted.
Yet now the bay-tree droops, around
Its classic foliage strewing—
And small, how small! the secret wound
That wrought such speedy ruin!
Its classic foliage strewing—
And small, how small! the secret wound
That wrought such speedy ruin!
Long, by no open force oppress'd,
With time, with storms it wrestled;
It died—when in its verdant breast
One mining canker nestled!
With time, with storms it wrestled;
It died—when in its verdant breast
One mining canker nestled!
199
So droops that pow'r, for whom its leaves
The wreath of glory braided;
Fancy, nor wound, nor shock receives,
By outward ills invaded.
The wreath of glory braided;
Fancy, nor wound, nor shock receives,
By outward ills invaded.
Though scorn, or envy's keenest dart,
With vain attacks annoy her—
One hidden pang that gnaws the heart,
Is Fancy's sure destroyer!
With vain attacks annoy her—
One hidden pang that gnaws the heart,
Is Fancy's sure destroyer!
200
OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE TO LE TEXIER'S PROVERBS.
(Behind the Scenes.)What, all the places full? pshaw! nonsense, stuff— (Enters.)
I'll look myself—there's room, and room enough—
I'm sure, by all here present 'tis allow'd,
Nothing in London takes—without a crowd.—
On all our schemes 'twould be an endless slur
If any of our guests could breathe or stir.
Those two old-fashion'd comforts, ease and space,
Would now quite ruin any public place,—
To feast, to mask, assembly, or review,
Where our fore-fathers, and fore-mothers too,
Went, poor dull souls! to please, and to be pleas'd,
We more enlightened go, to squeeze, and to be squeez'd!
“Were you at Lady Whirligig's last night?”
“Yes,” says Miss Flirt, “'twas flat, 'twas empty quite.
Poor creature, how she fretted; 'twas a shame,
Two thousand cards—twelve hundred only came!
No gown was spoilt, not e'en a feather dirtied—
I thought myself at church, 'twas so deserted!
You had no loss—but I made up for all
By stealing off to Mrs. Worry's ball.
There, every room was elegantly cramm'd:
Crush'd in the passage, in the door-way jamm'd,
How we did elbow, struggle, push, and press!
She understands the thing we must confess.
And—what with envy made her rivals split—
Ten faintings, five hysterics—and a fit!”
I'm sure, by all here present 'tis allow'd,
Nothing in London takes—without a crowd.—
On all our schemes 'twould be an endless slur
If any of our guests could breathe or stir.
Those two old-fashion'd comforts, ease and space,
Would now quite ruin any public place,—
To feast, to mask, assembly, or review,
Where our fore-fathers, and fore-mothers too,
201
We more enlightened go, to squeeze, and to be squeez'd!
“Were you at Lady Whirligig's last night?”
“Yes,” says Miss Flirt, “'twas flat, 'twas empty quite.
Poor creature, how she fretted; 'twas a shame,
Two thousand cards—twelve hundred only came!
No gown was spoilt, not e'en a feather dirtied—
I thought myself at church, 'twas so deserted!
You had no loss—but I made up for all
By stealing off to Mrs. Worry's ball.
There, every room was elegantly cramm'd:
Crush'd in the passage, in the door-way jamm'd,
How we did elbow, struggle, push, and press!
She understands the thing we must confess.
And—what with envy made her rivals split—
Ten faintings, five hysterics—and a fit!”
Here all is crowd—but England owns, 'tis true,
A crowd of follies, and of virtues too:
If crowds of helpless poor in famine grieve,
What crowds of gen'rous souls their wants relieve!
If crowds of foes attack our state, our laws,
What crowds of heroes fight in England's cause!
E'en in the drama, crowds are still the rage;
The poet's only aim's to fill the stage:
What crowds of characters are huddled there,
What crowds of spirits rise—from God knows where!
Where are your crowds, your spirits? says some scoffer:
We have no crowds, no spirits here to offer;
This smiling crowd our aim to please ensures,
We wish to raise no spirits here—but yours!
A crowd of follies, and of virtues too:
If crowds of helpless poor in famine grieve,
What crowds of gen'rous souls their wants relieve!
If crowds of foes attack our state, our laws,
What crowds of heroes fight in England's cause!
E'en in the drama, crowds are still the rage;
The poet's only aim's to fill the stage:
202
What crowds of spirits rise—from God knows where!
Where are your crowds, your spirits? says some scoffer:
We have no crowds, no spirits here to offer;
This smiling crowd our aim to please ensures,
We wish to raise no spirits here—but yours!
203
CHRISTMAS CAROL.
Be merry all, be merry all,
With holly dress the festive hall,
Prepare the song, the feast, the ball,
To welcome merry Christmas.
With holly dress the festive hall,
Prepare the song, the feast, the ball,
To welcome merry Christmas.
And oh! remember, gentles gay,
For you who bask in fortune's ray,
The year is all a holiday,
The poor have only Christmas.
For you who bask in fortune's ray,
The year is all a holiday,
The poor have only Christmas.
When you with velvets mantled o'er,
Defy December's tempests frore,
Oh! spare one garment from your store,
To clothe the poor at Christmas.
Defy December's tempests frore,
Oh! spare one garment from your store,
To clothe the poor at Christmas.
From blazing loads of fuel, while
Your homes with in-door summer smile,
Oh! spare one faggot from your pile,
To warm the poor at Christmas.
Your homes with in-door summer smile,
Oh! spare one faggot from your pile,
To warm the poor at Christmas.
204
When you the costly banquet deal
To guests who never famine feel,
Oh! spare one morsel from your meal,
To feed the poor at Christmas.
To guests who never famine feel,
Oh! spare one morsel from your meal,
To feed the poor at Christmas.
When gen'rous wine your care controls,
And gives new joy to happiest souls,
Oh! spare one goblet from your bowls,
To cheer the poor at Christmas.
And gives new joy to happiest souls,
Oh! spare one goblet from your bowls,
To cheer the poor at Christmas.
So shall to Heav'n each mirthful air
More sweet resound than praise or pray'r,
Angels your jocund carols share,
And bless the Rich at Christmas.
More sweet resound than praise or pray'r,
Angels your jocund carols share,
And bless the Rich at Christmas.
Chorus.
Be merry all, be merry all,
With holly dress the festive hall,
Prepare the song, the feast, the ball,
To welcome merry Christmas.
With holly dress the festive hall,
Prepare the song, the feast, the ball,
To welcome merry Christmas.
205
ON THE SOUNDS PRODUCED BY THE WIND PASSING OVER THE STRINGS OF A PEDAL HARP IN A GARDEN.
When an Eden zephyr hovers
O'er a slumb'ring cherub's lyre,
Or when sighs of seraph lovers
Breathe upon th' unfinger'd wire;
O'er a slumb'ring cherub's lyre,
Or when sighs of seraph lovers
Breathe upon th' unfinger'd wire;
Not more soft those strains aerial,
Than these vision-sounds appear;
Sounds, too pure for sense material,
Which the soul alone should hear!
Than these vision-sounds appear;
Sounds, too pure for sense material,
Which the soul alone should hear!
Now 'tis fancy's minstrel wildness,
Thoughts of flame, those notes impart—
Now misfortune's plaintive mildness
Melts and dies upon the heart!
Thoughts of flame, those notes impart—
Now misfortune's plaintive mildness
Melts and dies upon the heart!
206
Heav'n must hear—a bloom more tender
Seems to tint the wreath of May,
Lovelier beams the noon-day splendour,
Brighter dew-drops gem the spray!
Seems to tint the wreath of May,
Lovelier beams the noon-day splendour,
Brighter dew-drops gem the spray!
Is the breath of angels moving
O'er each flow'ret's heighten'd hue?
Are their smiles the day improving?
Have their tears enrich'd the dew?
O'er each flow'ret's heighten'd hue?
Are their smiles the day improving?
Have their tears enrich'd the dew?
Hark, they sing! in that sweet measure,
More than harp, or zephyr spoke;
O what tones of mournful pleasure
On my tranced senses broke!
More than harp, or zephyr spoke;
O what tones of mournful pleasure
On my tranced senses broke!
How it saddens, how rejoices,
Whilst I seem in Fancy's ear,
'Mid that choir of spirit-voices,
All I've lov'd, and lost, to hear!
Whilst I seem in Fancy's ear,
'Mid that choir of spirit-voices,
All I've lov'd, and lost, to hear!
207
PARTING SONG.
Ere yet we slumbers seek,
Blest queen of song, descend;
Thy shell can sweetest speak
Good night to guest and friend.
Blest queen of song, descend;
Thy shell can sweetest speak
Good night to guest and friend.
'Tis pain, 'tis pain to part
For e'en one fleeting night;
But music's matchless art
Can turn it to delight.
For e'en one fleeting night;
But music's matchless art
Can turn it to delight.
How sweet the farewell glass,
When music gives it zest;
How sweet their dreams who pass
From harmony to rest!
When music gives it zest;
How sweet their dreams who pass
From harmony to rest!
Dark thoughts that scare repose,
At music's voice give place,
And Fancy lends her rose,
Sleep's poppy wreath to grace.
At music's voice give place,
And Fancy lends her rose,
Sleep's poppy wreath to grace.
208
ON READING MILTON WITH A YOUNG LADY.
Ah no, when we study our Poet divine,Believe me, dear girl, all the profit is mine;
When he paints the first woman, the fairest of creatures,
The bloom of creation still fresh on her features,
Never dreaming as yet or of sorrow or sin,
All faultless without, and all spotless within,
Oh, how could I think such perfection were true,
Unvouch'd by a proof so convincing as you!
And when, with his Muse, we shall mount to the skies,
Oh, think what advantage to me must arise,
With you through the birth-place of Angels to roam,
Where I am an alien, and You are at home!
209
TO ---.
Fancy exalts or joys or woes—
Beware!—she smil'd when thou wert born—
If with new bloom she paints the rose,
With what new pangs she barbs the thorn!
Beware!—she smil'd when thou wert born—
If with new bloom she paints the rose,
With what new pangs she barbs the thorn!
The child of fancy finds too soon
No twilight calms his varying sky:
All is extreme, each ray is noon,
Each cloud is midnight to his eye!
No twilight calms his varying sky:
All is extreme, each ray is noon,
Each cloud is midnight to his eye!
210
ON A LADY'S BIRTHDAY,
WHO REQUESTED IT NOT TO BE KEPT, BECAUSE IT COST HER MOTHER HER LIFE.
Fear not, sweet girl, that with irreverent mirthI hail the solemn day which gave thee birth:
Much as I lov'd thy playful smiles before,
This day I love thy sacred sorrows more!
No beam of joy unhallow'd shall invade
The dim religion of that cypress shade,
Where on this day thy filial soul retires,
Not unattended—Saints and Angel-choirs
Their harpings jubilant to dirges turn,
Whilst orphan beauty clasps a parent's urn!
Orphan I call thee—when I see thy youth
Plum'd high with hope, with innocence, and truth,
Tow'r into life, and in its flight rejoice—
Oh! where's thy guiding lure—a mother's voice!
211
Disaster reach thee in thy venturous course,
Worn by the storm, or wounded by the dart,
Oh, where's thy resting place—a Mother's heart!
Clos'd were her eyes in death's untimely night
Ere yet thy infant graces blest her sight;
Mute was her voice, and cold her heart for thee,
Ere yet thy guide or shelter they could be!
Spar'd were ye both from one severer woe,
Nor Child, nor Parent, all they lost, could know;
How hadst thou mourn'd, if fate had call'd her hence,
When all her love had charm'd thy ripen'd sense!
How had she mourn'd in dying to resign
A mother's ecstacy at charms like thine!
But oh! what gleam of joy unhop'd appears,
Not to efface, but to reward thy tears!
Paternal love dispels thy bosom gloom,
Paternal smiles revive thy drooping bloom,
For thou hast droop'd, fair flow'ret! well I knew
Grief, more than sickness, pal'd thy vernal hue;
'Tis past—a Father joys each gift to see
Original in him, renew'd in thee;
From him thy varying fancy's meteor light,
Thy taste's quick glance of incorporeal sight,
Thy sense of all to letter'd judgment dear,
Wit's polish'd smile, and feeling's classic tear—
212
That wills the soul to sadden or rejoice;
Clear as the sphere—notes charm the list'ning sky,
Soft as the music of a seraph's sigh!—
From him devolv'd each talent and each art;
Long may they gladden his parental heart,
Long may he prize, protect, improve their worth,
Long bless this day, which gave his peerless Laura birth!
213
ADDRESSED TO LADY SUSAN FINCASTLE,
(NOW COUNTESS OF DUNMORE.)
What ails you, Fancy? you're become
Colder than Truth, than Reason duller!
Your wings are worn, your chirping's dumb,
And ev'ry plume has lost its colour.
Colder than Truth, than Reason duller!
Your wings are worn, your chirping's dumb,
And ev'ry plume has lost its colour.
You droop like geese, whose cacklings cease
When dire St. Michael they remember,
Or like some bird who just has heard
That Fin's preparing for September!
When dire St. Michael they remember,
Or like some bird who just has heard
That Fin's preparing for September!
Can you refuse your sweetest spell
When I for Susan's praise invoke you?
What, sulkier still, you pout and swell
As if that lovely name would choke you.
When I for Susan's praise invoke you?
What, sulkier still, you pout and swell
As if that lovely name would choke you.
214
“Go seek (I hear the imp reply)
Those dull cold goddesses you mention,
For such a theme you'll vainly try
To borrow beauty from invention.
Those dull cold goddesses you mention,
For such a theme you'll vainly try
To borrow beauty from invention.
“No wonder that I droop, forsooth!
For Fancy, Sir, is out of season,
When all your praise can be but Truth,
And all your adoration—Reason!”
For Fancy, Sir, is out of season,
When all your praise can be but Truth,
And all your adoration—Reason!”
215
FROM SISTER DOLLY IN CASCADIA, TO SISTER TANNY IN SNOWDONIA.
(TWO COUNTRY SEATS IN NORTH WALES, BELONGING TO W. A. MADOCKS, ESQ.)
Ods rocks and cascades! (God forgive me for swearing),I vow, sister Tanny, your conduct's past bearing;
You know very well that this curs'd expedition
Would ne'er have been thought of without my permission:
You prest, and you plagued, till I gave you my leave,
Billy's friends, and himself, for two days to receive:
Now, time after time, new excuses you seek,
And keep the whole party away for a week!
In truth, sister Tan, you'll allow me to state
That you're grown rather proud and conceited of late;
Come, do yourself justice, indeed you must see
'Tis nonsense to vie in attraction with me;
216
No sorrows of mine can your sympathy move;
I know that my griefs not a pang can impart
To a nature so cold, and so stony a heart;
To your reason I plead, for (I hope no offence)
Such frights as yourself should have very good sense.
Believe me, your airs will derision provoke,
To respect you's a duty, to love you's a joke;
In vain you give out with an insolent swagger,
That you are an heiress, and I am a beggar.
What little I have is from bankruptcy free,
Your wealth, like a merchant's, depends on the sea;
My lands, as I've heard from surveyors of taste,
Are improv'd by the storm by which your's are laid waste.
In vain, against me, winds and winter combine,
What ruins your prospects, embellishes mine!
As to persons, you know that the difference is clear,
For to tell you the truth, you're a monster, my dear;
And still you would tempt the lov'd youth from my arms,
With your barebone attractions and skeleton charms!
For me, I'm not vain, but the world has declar'd
That no beauty on earth can with mine be compar'd.
217
I please in disorder, and charm in neglect;
Whilst from art you receive the few gifts you possess,
My toilette is nature's enchanting undress;
And when, sister Tan, in your train shall we meet
All the gods and the elves that attend in my suite?
Can such fair vision-shapes on your bog-turf be seen,
As glide in my forests and sport on my green?
Your genius is humpy, decrepid, and hagged,
Your Naiads are muddy, your Oreads are ragged;
Mature are the wood-nymphs who people my lawn,
And high wave their arms to the breeze of the dawn;
Whilst you to a nursery drag us, to see
Some poor baby Dryads as high as my knee!
In the place of Dianas, and Fairies, and Peris,
You shew us (oh fie!) that old workwoman, Ceres!
Whilst, proud to my rock-fretted realms to belong,
The torrent-king thunders my vallies along;
Your godling aquatic just makes a deposit
Sufficient to water a mill or a closet.
But who is this man with a visage so deathly?
'Tis—I must end, to hear news from Dollgethly;
So I hope you're not vex'd with my candour, dear Tan,
But send back my William as fast as you can;
And prithee give up this extravagant folly,
For Tanny can ne'er be the rival of Dolly!
218
TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. DECEMBER, 1808.
Oh leave, dear Moore, oh leave awhileThe green hills of your native isle!
But come not with your seraph lyre,
Your Muse of joy, your soul of fire;
Not e'en your strains could charm away
The fiends which on my senses prey;
Fiends, not with burning sulphur nurs'd,
But from Hell's chillest winter burst;
Fiends, who their icy jav'lins dart,
At once to pierce and freeze the heart!
The storms which shook my summer days
Slept to the music of your lays;
The snow-blast of this wintry sky
Hears not the Halcyon's lullaby.
219
Your shield of philosophic thought,
Best panoply when care invades,
To lighten my unchequer'd shades
Bring me each day-diffusing gem,
Which beams in Reason's diadem,
For sov'reign Reason lends to you
Her armour and regalia too.
The triflers think your varied powers
Made only for life's gala bowers,
To smooth Reflection's mentor-frown,
Or pillow joy on softer down.—
Fools!—yon blest orb not only glows
To chase the cloud, or paint the rose;
These are the pastimes of his might;
Earth's torpid bosom drinks his light—
Find there his wondrous pow'r's true measure,
Death turn'd to life, and dross to treasure!
234
TO MRS. SPENCER,
ON HER BIRTHDAY, WITH SOME GREEN-HOUSE FLOWERS.
Few, but all thornless, are these flowers,
The green-house saved from wintry showers;
So memory still in grief retains
Few joys, but all unmix'd with pains!
The green-house saved from wintry showers;
So memory still in grief retains
Few joys, but all unmix'd with pains!
May green-house sweets remind thee more
Of Springs to come than Summers o'er,
Past bliss each present care beguile,
And Hope be born from Memory's smile.
Of Springs to come than Summers o'er,
Past bliss each present care beguile,
And Hope be born from Memory's smile.
Jan. 21st, 1815.
235
TO THE MEMORY OF EDWARD DONEY,
A NATIVE OF AFRICA,
FOR MORE THAN THIRTY YEARS A FAITHFUL SERVANT IN THE FAMILY HE LIVED WITH.
Poor Edward blest the pirate bark which boreHis captive infancy from Gambia's shore
To where, in willing servitude, he won
Those best rewards for every duty done,
Kindness and Praise—the wages of the Heart!
None else to him, could joy or pride impart—
And gave him, born a Pagan and a Slave,
A Freeman's charter, and a Christian's grave.
237
TO SPENCER CAMERON,
WITH A PRAYER-BOOK,
FROM HIS AFFECTIONATE GODFATHER, W. R. SPENCER.
In Life's first stage, dear helpless Babe, awhileSore dost thou weep, while all around thee smile;
In Life's last stage, should'st thou my promise keep,
Calm shalt thou smile, when all around thee weep!
Oct. 25th, 1820.
240
LINES SENT TO MRS. HANS SOTHEBY, WITH A CAWDLE-CUP.
While the Finch from the groves, and the Lark from the skies,Sing “Haste to the wedding, 'tis Valentine's day,”
To the jubilant Choir, in sad discord replies
A poor lonely Bird, from his nest far away.
Never more shall that songster the bridal-band lead,
For alas! to his winter no spring will succeed!
You, fair bird of passage, spread homeward your wing,
And still may “Sweet Home” be the descant you sing;
And when from the Cawdle-cup blushing you sip
The nectar most sweet to a young Mother's lip,
Oh deign to remember this Valentine's day,
And the poor lonely Bird from his nest far away!
Paris, Valentine's-day, 1828.
| Poems by the late Hon. William R. Spencer | |