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 | Poems, moral, and descriptive |  |
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TO THE RIGHT HON. The COUNTESS of MOIRA, &c.
A DEDICATORY SONNET.
Deem'st Thou ingrate or dead the Shepherd-boy,Erewhile who sung thee to the list'ning plain?
Still pausing on thy deeds with pensive joy,
Ingratitude, nor Death have hush'd the strain!
Still drest in all her captivating hues,
Smiling in tears, will languishingly steal
O'er my fantastic dream the much-lov'd muse;
Like morn dim-blushing thro' it's dewy veil:
Her wild-flow'rs bound into a simple wreath,
Meekly she proffers to thy partial sight,
Oh! softly on their tender foliage breathe,
Oh! save them from the Critic's cruel blight,
Nurse the unfolding blooms with care benign,
And mid them weave one laurel-leaf of Thine!
THOMAS DERMODY.
73
VERSES, TO A FAVOURITE YOUNG ACTRESS.
Rayless and faint the lesser stars appear,
That gild the gay theatric hemisphere,
When, Venus-like, thy radiant looks display
The rosy promise of a brighter day;
What glowing touches of unrivall'd art,
Illume my spirit, animate my heart,
Call from its ruby source the vital tide,
And o'er my kindling cheek diffuse it wide!
Bold Fancy's falcon-wing, with tow'ring flight
Vainly essays to reach thy dazzling height,
Drooping, she sinks beneath thy ardent blaze,
And, lost in sighing languishment, I gaze!
Yet, fondly, still let me pursue a theme
Fairer than ever blest a Poet's dream,
Catch inspiration from thy sunny eyes,
And, with the soft idea, learn to rise.
That gild the gay theatric hemisphere,
When, Venus-like, thy radiant looks display
The rosy promise of a brighter day;
What glowing touches of unrivall'd art,
Illume my spirit, animate my heart,
Call from its ruby source the vital tide,
And o'er my kindling cheek diffuse it wide!
Bold Fancy's falcon-wing, with tow'ring flight
Vainly essays to reach thy dazzling height,
Drooping, she sinks beneath thy ardent blaze,
And, lost in sighing languishment, I gaze!
Yet, fondly, still let me pursue a theme
Fairer than ever blest a Poet's dream,
Catch inspiration from thy sunny eyes,
And, with the soft idea, learn to rise.
74
Pardon, sweet daughter of the scenic muse,
That Admiration, now, in silence views,
And, damp'd by chill Despair his tuneful sire,
Apollo slumbers on his golden lyre,
But when, (ye Pow'rs! protract the distant date,)
That angel form submits to frowning Fate,
(Whom, cruel, nor cœlestial charms can move,
Nor kisses from the violet lip of Love,)
When heard no more the witching airs you sung,
When mute the melting magic of that tongue,
When fades the living lustre from your eye,
The roses wither, and the lilies fly,
Caught by my strain, each future age shall view
Thy beauteous picture to it's semblance true,
Cull from each line thy genuine talents forth,
Nor wonder, that I paus'd to match thy worth.
That Admiration, now, in silence views,
And, damp'd by chill Despair his tuneful sire,
Apollo slumbers on his golden lyre,
But when, (ye Pow'rs! protract the distant date,)
That angel form submits to frowning Fate,
(Whom, cruel, nor cœlestial charms can move,
Nor kisses from the violet lip of Love,)
When heard no more the witching airs you sung,
When mute the melting magic of that tongue,
When fades the living lustre from your eye,
The roses wither, and the lilies fly,
Caught by my strain, each future age shall view
Thy beauteous picture to it's semblance true,
Cull from each line thy genuine talents forth,
Nor wonder, that I paus'd to match thy worth.
88
THE INVALID.
Blest who in battle meets the friendly ball,While rattling guns proclaim his glorious fall,
For honor's holiest tear has oft been shed
On the cold sod, that wraps the soldier's head:
What, now, for me, condemn'd to peace, remains,
But useless ardors, unavailing pains;
This lopp'd, and barren trunk, by action laid
Aloof, no more shall rising laurels shade;
In this quench'd eye no more shall courage shine,
Or danger nerve this wither'd arm of mine;
No more, surpassing feats of valour shewn,
Shall Fred'rick vaunt of prowess, like his own!
Yet, thanks to that undaunted youth, who led
The foremost fight, where most the battle bled,
Thanks to that Princely Chief, beyond the rest,
Whose throne is built in every Briton's breast;
Tho' doom'd at home, in silent sloth, to yield,
Nor brave the deathful glories of the field,
89
The pictur'd scenes that bade his spirit glow,
And, as in Flandria's shatter'd map I trace
Each signal spot, each memorable place,
Where sluiced in every vein, and steep'd in gore,
Grim Death himself the English Standard bore,
Here, point to Dunkirk's strength, or, here display
Catau's dread plain, or Ghent's immortal day,
Meanwhile, in every circling goblet flows
Health to the hero, horror to his foes!
LINES, ON THE EARL OF MOIRA'S PROPOSED BILL OF INSOLVENCY.
Where most high Honor holds her awful seat,
There, gracious too, the gentler virtues meet,
Point the fair purpose, generous warmth impart,
Attune the voice, and ope the liberal heart;
Hence, nobly ardent in his country's cause,
Whose learning decks, and sword asserts her laws,
Moira, by no mean, partial ties confin'd,
Wide pours the general blessing on mankind:
Nor scorns to visit the deserted cell,
Where hopeless penury is doom'd to dwell,
Where worth, entomb'd, forgets its former deeds,
Or, curst with memory, Misfortune bleeds,
Pleas'd, thro' the gloom to steal Hope's glimm'ring ray,
And wake the wretch to happiness and day!
There, gracious too, the gentler virtues meet,
Point the fair purpose, generous warmth impart,
Attune the voice, and ope the liberal heart;
90
Whose learning decks, and sword asserts her laws,
Moira, by no mean, partial ties confin'd,
Wide pours the general blessing on mankind:
Nor scorns to visit the deserted cell,
Where hopeless penury is doom'd to dwell,
Where worth, entomb'd, forgets its former deeds,
Or, curst with memory, Misfortune bleeds,
Pleas'd, thro' the gloom to steal Hope's glimm'ring ray,
And wake the wretch to happiness and day!
For thee, oh! Philanthropic Chief! shall rise
Affliction's best, sad incense to the skies,
Th'imprison'd Sire, to heav'n's ambrosial air
Releas'd, shall breathe for thee the silent pray'r,
Thy godlike zeal the duteous wife proclaim,
And teach her darling babe to lisp thy name:
E'en the fond pair, disjoin'd in youthful prime,
Whose mutual wishes curse retarded time,
Blest be thy care, again shall, glowing, meet
To drown their sorrows past in kisses sweet,
And warm, (what vain Ambition seldom knows,)
From Beauty's lip, thy soft eulogium flows.
Affliction's best, sad incense to the skies,
Th'imprison'd Sire, to heav'n's ambrosial air
Releas'd, shall breathe for thee the silent pray'r,
Thy godlike zeal the duteous wife proclaim,
And teach her darling babe to lisp thy name:
E'en the fond pair, disjoin'd in youthful prime,
Whose mutual wishes curse retarded time,
Blest be thy care, again shall, glowing, meet
To drown their sorrows past in kisses sweet,
91
From Beauty's lip, thy soft eulogium flows.
102
SONNET, TO THE AUTHOR OF THE MONK, &c. &c.
O! next to Him, in fancy, warm and wild,
Who, erst, Orlando's desperate feats display'd,
Tho' deep remov'd in chill Oblivion's shade,
Thee do I hail, Imagination's Child!
Who, erst, Orlando's desperate feats display'd,
Tho' deep remov'd in chill Oblivion's shade,
Thee do I hail, Imagination's Child!
Whether, with awe, thy bold romantic page
I trace, conducted by mysterious clue;
Or thrill'd to tenfold horror, shudd'ring, view
Thy well-rais'd Spectre stalk athwart the Stage,
I trace, conducted by mysterious clue;
Or thrill'd to tenfold horror, shudd'ring, view
Thy well-rais'd Spectre stalk athwart the Stage,
Or at quaint Humour smile my fears away:
For thine, strong diction, by the Graces drest,
Expression thine, that harrows up the breast,
And o'er the servient Passions sov'reign sway:
For thine, strong diction, by the Graces drest,
Expression thine, that harrows up the breast,
And o'er the servient Passions sov'reign sway:
Nor Thou, tho' placed sublime, this meed refuse
From one who vaunts himself—the Martyr of the Muse.
From one who vaunts himself—the Martyr of the Muse.
104
SONNET, WRITTEN ON THE APPROACH OF SUMMER.
Why do yon beauteous beams that streak the Sky,When first young Morning opes her modest eye,
To me, all dark as scowling night appear!
Why, do those ambient greens, no more, impart
Fresh joy, and conscious gladness to my heart,
Or, spring's sweet children charm my alter'd ear?
Ah me! o'er all, 'tis Grief's dull pow'r that throws
A sullen gloom, congenial to my care,
Robs it's rich incense from the op'ning Rose,
And leaves the blossom'd bow'rs of Maia bare;
“Dear Goddess, Nature!” and thou dearer still,
Delightful Fancy! pardon I implore,
With taste, with sympathy, this bosom fill,
And your own sacred love, as once before,
Or, oh! let Pity's streaming eyelid lave
The next pale primrose, springing on—my grave.
109
SONNET, WRITTEN IN A BURIAL PLACE.
Ah! me, and must I, like the tenant, lie,
Of this dark cell, all hush'd the witching song,
And will not Feeling bend his streaming eye
On my green sod, as slow he wends along,
And, smiting his rapt bosom, softly sigh,
“His Genius soar'd above the vulgar throng!”
Of this dark cell, all hush'd the witching song,
And will not Feeling bend his streaming eye
On my green sod, as slow he wends along,
And, smiting his rapt bosom, softly sigh,
“His Genius soar'd above the vulgar throng!”
Will he not fence my weedless turf around,
Sacred from dull-ey'd Folly's vagrant feet,
And, there, soft swelling in aerial sound,
Will he not list, at eve, to voices sweet,
Strew with the spring's first flow'rs the little mound,
And often muse within the lone retreat!
Sacred from dull-ey'd Folly's vagrant feet,
And, there, soft swelling in aerial sound,
Will he not list, at eve, to voices sweet,
Strew with the spring's first flow'rs the little mound,
And often muse within the lone retreat!
110
Yes;—though I not affect th'immortal bay,
Nor bold effusions of the learned quill,
Nor often have I wound my tedious way
Up the steep summit of the Muse's hill,
Yet sometimes, have I pour'd th'incondite lay,
And, sometimes, have I felt the rapt'rous thrill;
Nor bold effusions of the learned quill,
Nor often have I wound my tedious way
Up the steep summit of the Muse's hill,
Yet sometimes, have I pour'd th'incondite lay,
And, sometimes, have I felt the rapt'rous thrill;
Him, therefore, whom, ev'n once, the sacred Muse
Has blest, shall be to Feeling ever dear,
And soft as sweet sad April's gleamy dews,
On my cold clay shall fall the genial tear,
While, pensive, as the springing herb he views,
He cries “Tho' mute, there is a Poet here!”
Has blest, shall be to Feeling ever dear,
And soft as sweet sad April's gleamy dews,
On my cold clay shall fall the genial tear,
While, pensive, as the springing herb he views,
He cries “Tho' mute, there is a Poet here!”
111
TO THE AUTHOR OF SIR HUBERT.
Pupil of Him whose legendary song,
On Mulla's reedy banks was breath'd whilere,
Much do I grieve, thy fairy scenes among,
Sad Ethelinda's wayward tale to hear,
Much, too, as stern he slowly stalks along,
Sir Hubert chills my pulse with with'ring fear!
On Mulla's reedy banks was breath'd whilere,
Much do I grieve, thy fairy scenes among,
Sad Ethelinda's wayward tale to hear,
Much, too, as stern he slowly stalks along,
Sir Hubert chills my pulse with with'ring fear!
Sweet, yet sublime, and elegant thy thought,
Irregularly graceful thy design,
A wreath by Fancy's rosey fingers wrought,
To deck the Muse's ever-during shrine!
A flame from fervid Inspiration caught,
Resistless rushing with a force divine!
Irregularly graceful thy design,
A wreath by Fancy's rosey fingers wrought,
To deck the Muse's ever-during shrine!
A flame from fervid Inspiration caught,
Resistless rushing with a force divine!
112
Long in the summer-shade shall youth delight
To chaunt thy strain, while mingled passions rise,
Now knightly deeds heroic warmth excite,
Or Feeling's dew-drops gem the virgin's eyes,
And, now, while Sorrow swims before her sight,
The maiden's gentle breast dissolves in sighs.
To chaunt thy strain, while mingled passions rise,
Now knightly deeds heroic warmth excite,
Or Feeling's dew-drops gem the virgin's eyes,
And, now, while Sorrow swims before her sight,
The maiden's gentle breast dissolves in sighs.
Shakespear, great sovereign of the willing soul,
Sure met thy solemn step by Avon's stream,
For so, his wond'rous strokes the mind controul,
Such the wild raptures of his wizard dream,
And such the charms that thro' his numbers roll,
When wailing Love, pain'd Worth, or Pity is His theme.
Sure met thy solemn step by Avon's stream,
For so, his wond'rous strokes the mind controul,
Such the wild raptures of his wizard dream,
And such the charms that thro' his numbers roll,
When wailing Love, pain'd Worth, or Pity is His theme.
The End.
| Poems, moral, and descriptive | |