Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The strain, a shepherd-boy hath sung erewhile,
All by the side of some romantic hill,
(His flock at feed,) perchance, may gain a smile,
And thy soft breast with simple nature thrill;
Unmeet for him, to seize the golden quill
Of schoolmen sage. He seeks more flowery ways,
Where Joy and Peace their balmy sweets distill.
Thou didst the Shepherd from oblivion raise,
And if he dares to charm, be thine, not his, the praise!

Thomas Dermody.

MEMORY: A POEM.

INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE COUNTESS OF MOIRA.

Manet altè mente repostum.
Virg.

Thou sportive Maid, who wont with beaming eye,
To mark the first, faint purple of the sky,
When Morn, her dewy show'r of fragrance flung,
And waked on every spray the tuneful throng,
Or 'tranced in pensive Pleasure's fairy dream,
Beside some stilly Lake's cærulean stream,
Watch'd the pale Queen of Eve her shades renew,
And bid the lingering Sun a last adieu!
While the dim copse rung sullen, to each sound,
And Silence hush'd the languid scene around,
Save, when the tender pause was rudely broke,
By the tir'd oxen's loosely-tinkling yoke,

Or busy mill, or soft pipe's plaintive tune,
Or watch-dog baying the affrighted moon.
Once more, oh deign, my artless song to guide,
My genuine pleasure, my delightful pride!
Once more thy gentle charms o'er pain diffuse,
And let me boast, (fond wretch!) at least—The Muse.

Ye sages, say, why in the blooming brain
Past joys renew, or sorrows thrill again?
Say, why the faded thoughts distinctly move,
And cull the floating seeds of Friendship or of Love?
In vain, tumultuous billows, howling roll,
And burn, or freeze, beneath each savage pole;
In vain, rough Alps their horrid brows extend,
To hide the darling maid or faithful friend:
Idea bodies forth the airy form,
And Fancy triumphs o'er Destruction's storm;
Her brilliant pencil paints Cleora's cheek,
Her radiant ringlets, and her dimples sleek;
So true, the youth appears completely blest,
And clasps the beauteous phantom to his breast,
A momentary joy ev'n dreams impart,
And empty nothings captivate the heart:
Such the frail transport Memory bestows,
When Time hath wean'd us from our bitterest woes,

Her tender touch then softens every shade,
Not glaringly unveil'd, nor dismally decay'd.

Ah! I remember well yon shelter'd glade,
Where careless o'er the flowering turf I play'd,
With brother babes the antic revel framed,
Famed for my shrewdness, for my humor famed;
Each sport from childhood, up to ripening age,
Is now enroll'd on Memory's filmy page;
Each sweet idea rushes on my mind,
Extractedly sincere, and feelingly refin'd.

How oft, where yonder sign-board, simply gay,
Flaunts on its creaking hinge athwart the way;
When all the windows shone in burnish'd blaze,
Struck by the Lord of Splendor's ruddiest rays,
And rose-lip'd Health the mantling tankard crown'd,
To pledge the smiling family around,
While Wit and quaint-ey'd Jest, and motley Mirth,
Graced the clean circus of the ev'ning hearth;
And ancient Wisdom (droll in days of yore,)
Rehearsed such deeds,—as shall be done no more.

Yon cottage, once, full op'd the cheerful door,
From bailiff crowds, and wicked duns secure,
Which now the surly Squire, relentless fiend!
Bids his inhuman slaves of slaughter rend,

To give some flattering profligate a place,
To virtue lost, to pity, and to grace.
See now, ev'n now, the anguish'd mother weep,
(Her husband long enjoys eternal sleep,)
Her pallid children, sobbing, hang around,
And start (sweet cherubs!) at the landlord's sound.
Fell landlord! who could see their infant tears,
Could see, and yet refuse to soothe their fears:
To Heav'n alone, the sad assembly look,
Or seek for peace in Heav'n's immortal book.

Yes, I remember well the church-yard road,
Where yew-trees mark'd the Curate's snug abode;
But chief the Clerk my pliant soul retains,
His ale-house catches, his shrill Sunday strains;
His midnight hist'ries, that would bid me quake,
Of Cromwell dauntless, and heroic Blake;
Of Greece and Tartary, of noblest Rome,
Of Raleigh, and tobacco's bland perfume,
Of ancient Paradise, of modern Hell,—
Yes, I remember all his annals, well,
Full well!—my bosom vibrates to the thought,
For if he flogg'd severe, was his the fault?

Yes, I remember too, the upland scene,
With beeches hung, and cloath'd in 'broider'd green,
Where saunt'ring from the village din, I rov'd,
And talk'd with Bards, my earliest childhood lov'd,
Musing, in solitary pomp appear'd,
And startled, from their cells, the dappled herd,
While the poor clown, as innocent as they,
Star'd, as if Hamlet's ghost had crossed his way.
With well-nosed pointer, and disploding gun,
Oft did I rise, to meet the rising Sun,
The rising Sun, luxuriant, hail'd my flight,
And cast his purest robe of glorious light;
The covies quick, their glitt'ring plumes display'd,
And rustling, flutter'd from the vernal shade:
The blue-neck'd partridge rose, on speckled wing,
The greyish plover skim'd, with hasty spring,
And as the wily woodcock left his seat,
The tube unerring fell'd him at my feet.

Yon Mount, whose giant offspring beat the air
With rugged arms, by storm and tempest bare,
Has oft repell'd red June's too ardent pow'r,
Or fenc'd me, studious, from the patt'ring show'r.
Dear haunts! your num'rous beauties bloom anew,
And Mem'ry's mirror lends you to my view:

But ah! the time is gone, I held you close,
'Tis but Remembrance now, that stills my woes;
How blithe on Sabbath-day thy band would shew,
Trick'd in refulgent russet's auburn glow,
Each lad his lass, with tender dalliance led,
And pray'd for lasting love, when pray'rs were read.

'Bove all those maids, Amelia shone most fair,
Mild was her bosom as the evening air,
A halcyon calm that temple ere possest,
Ah! that Misfortune's sting should break its rest:
For Henry's brow the chaplet wild she wove,
And twin'd the woodbine into knots of love;
With equal flame, his heart, ingenuous, burn'd,
Blest is that love, thrice blest, by both return'd.

And now the merry tabors rang around,
Mix'd with the trumpet and the cymbal's sound,
In virgin-white the bride-maids walk'd the way,
And bridemen blithe, in suits of green so gay;
Amelia too,—no Henry came to share
Her precious hand, and stile her heav'nly fair;
No Henry came—thy Henry comes no more!
A barb'rous press-gang urg'd him to the shore,
Doom'd, on his bridal day, to leave his home,
Sad farewel! and through foreign countries roam.

Full many a year had pass'd—and many a tear
Had wrung Amelia's heart, with grief sincere.
Dull, on the strand she rov'd, when hermit grey
Mark'd it the solemn hour of setting day,
A beggar cross'd her path by travel worn,
His visage meagre, and his cov'ring torn,
Dejection in his eye, a languid glance
Of hopeless woe he turn'd, in sullen trance;
She look'd—on what? all tremblingly, she cry'd
“My Henry—Henry!”—and in rapture dy'd.
Amaz'd, with icy gaze, her Henry stood,
Then plung'd despairing in the flashing flood.
On the lone shore, a votive tomb is rais'd,
With sea-shells gem'd and shining sea-weeds grac'd,
And as the fisher's boat glides slowly by,
While the divided surges seem to sigh,
He points where Henry and Amelia lie.

Ev'n Mem'ry triumphs in the brutal race,
And marks them with a fond retentive trace;
Witness, old Argus, at his master's feet,
His wishes answer'd, and his death complete,
Form'd the rude-soothing suitors to despise,
And with Ulysses share the title, Wise.

Here, let me trespass on another tale,
The workmen chaunt it on yon neighb'ring vale;
Known, as the bird, who o'er each murder'd child,
Flung the choice odours of the gloomy wild:
Eugenio, once (when frost had glaz'd the plain,
And haggard Winter bade his horrors reign,)
To cheer a dying friend, with eager haste
Flew, unregarding, o'er the crystal waste;
He fell, with hideous lapse,—his Dog, alone
The partner of his steps, with mournful moan
Ran howling back, nor would the creature stay
Till he had shewn where his lov'd master lay:
By timely aid Eugenio's life was sav'd,
And truth canine in lasting lines engrav'd.

Frequent, when motley colours stain the sky,
With damasks fiery as the ferret's eye,
And silence shuts the tinted valves on high,
Up the green visto of that slope sublime,
In melancholy exstacy, I climb,
While the slow-warbled shakes of sylvan flute,
With dying fall, my pensive ear salute;
Then all, or good or evil, once I knew,
Crowds on my bosom, and blockades my view,
Foibles on Virtue's part, and faults that charm'd,
And purest deeds, by noblest feelings, warm'd,

Fears, cares, doubts, joys, in mix'd perspective join'd,
With all the transient passions of the mind.

O! thou vain Hope! thou murd'rer of delight!
Thy dreams, the dreams of phrenzy, and of night,
Thy false, frail promises have wreck'd my heart,
And bade the thought of former transport part,
Thy calms to woe my little pinnace bore,
And cast it on a sea—a sea without a shore.

Like a poor exile on some savage strand,
Freedom remote, and agonies at hand,
Each Indian yell his shrinking bosom smites,
Dark ruin hovers o'er his weary nights,
His days one view of misery appear,
And ages, more than ages, form his year.

Such is my fate, 'tis folly to complain,
Yet Memory, Love, and Gratitude remain.

ELEGY TO FLORELIA.

I

Ah, fair Florelia, wilt thou, still unkind,
Affection's aching heart, with anguish fill,
Tear every nerve of his too feeling mind,
And bid his sad breast exquisitely thrill.

II

My midnight dream, my lovely pride all day,
My tender tyrant, my corroding balm,
Could my dumb pillow speak, what would it say?
Could tears, and glowing pray'rs thy anger calm?

III

Dear, beauteous torment, amiably severe,
In vain I strive to shun thy killing eye,
Remembrance views it with a falling tear,
And haunted Fancy feels it with a sigh.

IV

Whene'er I mark some high dome's tow'ring pride,
Then, only then, doth Envy stain my breast,
O! could I there, (I often cry) reside,
Perchance, my fair would make me more than blest!

V

Oft with a pang, too, the low hut I view,
'Rapt, could I call the woodbine lattice mine,
More than a palace when adorn'd by you,
Your charms, my love, would bid the cottage shine.

VI

What heav'nly transport at our past'ral care,
To meet with smiles, the sweet salute of morn,
To cull the softest flow'rets for my fair,
And pluck from the young bud its latent thorn!

VII

Love would be all our precious store, indeed,
Save some few flocks thy Damon's patron lends;
What then? sweet love would people all the mead;
Sweet love would gain us favourites and friends.

VIII

Delicious extacy, to gaze thy charms,
With ardent glance, deeply enamour'd, o'er,
To seek a matchless comfort in thy arms,
Kind heav'ns! and could I ask a nobler store?

IX

No; let the miser watch his hoarded heap,
And the loose libertine, profusely, rove,
Be mine to guard my angel's rapt'rous sleep,
And still admire with “looks of cordial love.”

X

Hear, then, oh, hear my pure, eternal pray'r,
And cheer my bosom, thou who can'st alone;
All thy fond cares, concentrate in my care,
And make thy happiness, and mine, but one.

IRREGULAR ODE TO THE SUN.

Illustrious Regent of the sky,
High-throned Lord of Light,
Whose beams the glow of life supply,
Serenely or insufferably bright!
Thee the tendant Seasons praise,
Wanton, 'mid thy genial rays;
Blushing Spring, profuse of flow'rs,
Her tresses dank with pearly show'rs;
Fair-hair'd Summer clad in green,
Autumn, poppy-crowned Queen,
Even Winter and his hoar Frosts drink,
Thy living heat and shrink!
Soon to spread his vapours grey,
O'er the radiant eye of day;
Soon Desolation's with'ring blight to breathe,
And fold thy orient flowers in the cold grasp of Death.

Meanwhile in thy superior sphere,
Thou smil'st!—the brumal blasts decay,
Young berries gem the rising spray,
And Nature's choir enchant the ravish'd ear.
Fresh springs the rosy year,
Despight of his ungracious reign,
The riv'lets burst their icy chain,
Gay-broider'd banks in beauteous bloom appear,
And tow'ring trees aloft their nodding fruitage rear.

Glorious on yon tall orchard's vernal brow,
To mark thy westering blushes play,
Gild the rich verdure with imperial glow,
And weave each glittering branch with many a ray;
Hesperian scene! the elves mistake,
Thy glorious lustre for the gleam of eve,
And thronging from the burnish'd brake,
Thy last, low-ebbing light receive.

Around thy golden chariot fly
The Tender Transports, gently coy,
To smoothe thy billowy bed that shines
A purple world, soft-streak'd with silvery lines.
Ah! when thou seek'st thy nether stage,
The felon spirits wildly rage,
Then Midnight lets her troops infernal loose,
And scares the pensive Muse,

Till from the opening arch of Morn,
Thou issuest with thy merry train,
Hang with gay dews the livery'd thorn,
And rouse the woodland strain;
Blithe Industry and Health their scrip prepare,
Seize the strong instuments of toil amain,
O'erstride the bending stalk, and breathe the scented air.

Long may'st thou, noblest Sultan of the east,
Revel amidst the skirted clouds of light,
And long with solemn orb decreast,
Mix thy bright tissues thro' the veil of night.

PIETY.

Majestic Nature, 'mid her wildest haunts,
Retains a savage grace; the limpid vein
Of wandering water, the cærulean hill,
The furze-clad eminence with golden glow,
The sparkling valley where coy Zephyr bathes
His purple plume, the rev'rend oak sublime,
Flinging deep horror on the wither'd gloom,
The swelling mountain canopied with shade,
All, all, irregularly pompous, nobly grand,
Fill the expanding breast with chasten'd awe!
There might Religion best erect her shrine,
There, where the dread scene, gem'd with seats of bliss,
Lends a true thought of the Creative Power.
God made the woodlands, churches, smell of man,
Proud man! who 'mid the organ's mighty peal,
The warbling choir, and the affected eye
Of lowly Penance, thinks upon himself,
And from the altar steals some tribute, too.

Glorious Cathedral! for a chosen band,
Not monkishly pretended, but whose hearts
Can taste the balmy breeze that wafts their prayers,
And bless the old trees nodding to their vows.
Trees! whose vast foilage, whilom, deign'd to fold,
Their patriarchal arms, of verdurous sweep,
Round our forefathers. Groves! whose sainted arch,
Retired from eye prophane, our Bacon lov'd.
Streams! whose swift slide our youthful Shakespeare trac'd,
In tranced rapture, pouring his sweet strain,
Smooth as their course, as their deep current strong,
And artless as their waves. Cells! whose carv'd rocks
Of ivy'd etching, all the Sister Arts
Prefer'd, when Genius, their sage tutor, strip'd
Each lurking leaf, and moraliz'd each flower.
Such were the palaces our Alfred sought,
Pleas'd with primeval purity to join,
And o'er the poor man's cottage, genial, shed
A kingly lustre, a celestial love.
Come then, my Owenson, and you, I like,
For here, immortal Friendship, ever, sways,
Among those solemn wastes, those caves among,
Philanthropy, and Peace, and Heaven retire.

ATHEIST!—

Say whose fine eye could hang the steady poles
In just libration—whose unerring hand,
Launch the bright sun amid the waves of night,
But his who is immortal? Could vain Chance
Stud the blue firmament with brilliant worlds,
And, like a diamond, implant the moon?
Could Chance command the gurgitating main
To ebb and flow;—clothe with gay green the earth,
And tint the forest with purpureal blooms?
'Twas He, who made thee, made them; He, who plac'd
In golden poise, his radiant tribunal
Amid the circling elements; 'twas He,
Who quell'd the fierce Arch-angel, erst belov'd,
Now lost.—Think, and forbear his fate!

LINES TO MY ESTEEMED MR. JOHN BAYNHAM.

Pure, as the placid transports of thy breast,
My verse shall flow, in native graces drest;
My verse that scorns to fill a lying strain:—
The Muse shall tie meek Friendship's golden chain,
Where'er I go, thy gentle image, still,
Shall check each fault, and nobler aims instil;
Where'er I go, thy cordial glow shall warm
My bosom's secret shrine, and sweetly charm;
Tho' pressing pageants idly thwart my view,
And sad Reflection, weeping, turns to You.

SONNET TO THE REV. MR. EDWARD BERWICK.

Friend of my infant age, unrival'd friend,
How shall I pay a tribute nobly due!
How the fair Muse's loftiest mount ascend,
To cull a wreath not all unworthy You!
Led by no fond caprice, no selfish view,
You seiz'd me trembling on Destruction's steep,
Bade my weak ken the flight of fame pursue,
Yet still in sight fair Honor's temple keep.
When Fashion's eye was clos'd in leaden sleep,
Or op'd with kindling anger on my page,
Then did you bid the orphan cease to weep,
Then veil'd the minstrel from their lunar rage.
And may foul Party and her fiends engage
My helpless innocence, in discord dread,
Without one Berwick, potent to assuage
Her fell intent—may Malice mark my head,
When sounds the wire, unconscious of his name,
Who saves a Poet earns a Poet's fame!

EPITAPH

On the SEXTON who rung his own knell.

Let no rude profligate dare laugh
At th'head-piece of this epitaph;
'Tis true—for as old John-a-Nokes
Peal'd out the bell with solemn strokes,
It fell,—(no hand was by to save!)
Announc'd his death, and form'd his grave.

ON AN ANTIQUARIAN.

AT last kind death has plac'd thy bones
With thy own precious worms and stones!

ON AN HONEST MAN WHO WAS BURIED BETWEEN A PARSON AND A LAWYER.

Like Mecca's tomb hangs this, 'twixt good and evil,
Heav'n holds the left-side, and the right the Devil.

THE POET's PEN.

A FABLE.

As dry, and destitute of thought,
One evening in Olympian garret,
My head devoid of brain, my belly void of claret,
I sat my nails in frenzy biting,
And with most odd emotions sought,
The favourable jerk for writing.

Sudden my pen, like any thistle,
Began to caper, shake and bristle,
And in a shower of ink so muddy,
Thus broke upon my study:—

“Rash wight! who, better taught than fed,
With purse much emptier than head,
Art doom'd on earth, unlucky sinner!
To scrawl and flatter for a dinner;
Black was the hour, at Fate's command,
When first I flourish'd in thy hand,
When first my spotless plumes I gave,
To daub some good-for-nothing knave;
When first I left the rib of goose,
To deck the ink-stand of a Muse.

“Ah! better with attorney's clerk,
To trace huge folios in the dark;
Or, vile, poetic alligator!
T'ave pleas'd some German commentator,
Whose Pindus lies before the kitchen,
Bacon, and grease, and genius rich in;
Whose works as luscious as his cheese,
Could give the sleepless eye-lid ease;
Than with thee tag rude rhimes together,
Bending my supple snout like leather,
From morn till night—at last my stump
Is fairly nibbled to the rump;
I therefore thinking yours a hard case,
Inform you that within my carcase,

Performing penances, doth lye,
The evil sprite of poverty.”

I started, and to end my tale,
Present this same curs'd pen for sale,
And without higgling much, or arguing,
Any poor actor, author, curate,
Or beau, whom footmen shut the door at,
Shall have it, at this moment, a fair bargain.

TO MY OWN SELF.

“To my own self,” what! will you sing
Sweet ditties to so mean a thing,—
Your own fair fame, presumptuous draw?
And, by my soul, I will agra!
Since no one else will take the pains,
I'll catch th'advantage of my own great brains.

Belov'd! in whom no fault I ken,
That is not found in other men;
Whose hand would open in a minute
If it had gold or silver in it;
Whose heart is large, tho' profit small,
And open, every time, to all;
Whose eye the genuine tear of pity pours,
With poesy's most precious flow'rs,

Kindly, thy gen'rous brow I twine,
And round thy head infuse,
Fancy's rich pearls, Castalian dews,
Wishing them dews of right Falernian Wine!
Howe'er in time of need,
You'll take th'intention for the deed,
And, without qualms of heart believe,
I think you, now, the greatest man alive!

SONG.

[ALOFT in air the shrill lark sings]

I

ALOFT in air the shrill lark sings,
The swallow shakes her twitt'ring wings,
The Morn unveils her radiant eyes,
And opes the portal of the skies,
Arise, my love, my Laura, rise.

II

The breathing field is rich with sweets,
The eye, the ear, new transport meets,

The still wind, balmy-blowing, sighs,
And Echo sounds, in soft replies,
Arise, my love, my Laura, rise.

III

The Spring forbids her buds to break,
In envy of thy fairer cheek,
The dew-drops, deck'd in varying dyes,
Light up their lamps, which light supplies,
Then rise, my love, my Laura, rise.

IV

And with his purple pinions bound,
Lo, Cupid walks thy cot around,
And, ever and anon, he cries,
“Now Cupid at thy window lies,”
Then rise, my love, my Laura, rise.

TO MISS SIDNEY AND MISS OLIVIA OWENSON.

Blithe, in the blooming morn of youth,
Sincerity, my guide, and Truth,
Ere Pride my tranquil slumber broke,
Ere Praise in pomp unmeaning spoke,
To You I tun'd the fervent lay,
Tender, and innocently gay;
And while I sought your candid ear,
Listening, you lean'd, well pleas'd to hear
Numbers that could pure joy impart,
And melody that won the heart;
Twin-roses, now, in vernal prime,
Accept this fond, this grateful rhime!
And, 'stead of toiling up Parnassus,
Wooing, so warm, its tuneful lasses,

Let me, (now Wit his pow'r infuses,)
E'en make ye, ladies, serve as muses;
Sydney and Livy, then, shall be
Thalia and Melpomene.

TO THE GOD OF GOODNESS.

I

Content with whatever thy bounty allows,
I sigh for no jewel to beam on my brows,
What You give, I receive, at no trifle distrest,
And my prison, my cave, or my cottage is blest.

II

Let the great in their mansions of worship sublime,
Bend prostrate and pour their oblations around;
I but offer, my God, the pure incense of rhime,
Thy forest my chapel—my altar thy ground!

III

Thine eye of beneficence smiles on my zeal,
I feel a true ardor—'tis heav'n that I feel,
No full choir of music I claim, but instead,
Thy warblers of innocence hymn o'er my head.

IV

Methinks a bright vision of Hope gilds the air,
Thy influence benign, breathes a lustre thro' all,
Far hence, fly Repining, Remorse and Despair,
I die, while I live, but I live, when I fall!

V

Then shed thy calm gladness, fair Mercy, if just,
Or rather with sorrows my spirits refine,
Then the sun-beam of safety extract from my dust,
And mark my dim grave with a radiance divine.

A MILTONIC EPISTLE.

Imitatores, servile pecus,
Originality, come, take us!

Dear Sir,

SUCH long delays have broke my rest,
Intrusive, that I scarce could ventilate,
Since last I ken'd you; but, once more myself,
Tranquil, I seize my ebon-colour'd plume,
On this blest day, to Patrick sacred made,
Hibernian saint! and with my letter, send
A Goose, plump and well fed, the only boon
It fits me to bestow, type of myself!—
The bearer drives a vehicle, by men
Waggon yclep'd, by Gods a chaise-marine,
And will on that good dawn from Woden nam'd,
Return; then shall I hope to read some news
Of all our friends; the merry curate's clerk,
The barber shrewd as Nicholas of old,
(Not him who fell,) but him whom humour drew,
In tale Cervantic,—Johnny, Rachel, Ruth,
And Nicodeme, and Oliver, and Hodge.

No more at present from your loving friend,
And most obedient, humble and devote
Servant till death,

TOM FOOL.

P. S.

Please to direct to me at number 2,
Ellis's-quay, and to the care of him,
Who Mr. M---, hight, March the 17th,
One thousand, hundreds seven, and ninety-two.

TO MY NOBLE FRIENDS THE CRITICS,

Greeting.

Rhyming's a trade, dread Sirs, so common,
There hardly lives a man or woman
Who has not, on some odd attack,
Bestrode poor Pegasus's back.
Poor Pegasus, who us'd far worse, is
Than asses, mules, or hobby horses;
Poor Pegasus, oblig'd to caper,
Beneath those madding imps of paper,
(Till he in's tail has scarce a hair,)
Whether side-saddl'd, rough or bare.
Nay, I sometimes, from garret vile
Descend to manage him a mile,
Sans spur or whip, to prick or lash on,
Following the best Newmarket fashion;
Wherefore, sage Censors of the nation,
Licens'd to traffic on damnation,
I think it meet, you rant and sputter,
And kick those jockies in the gutter;
Revise, review, correct their matter,
Squirt, fidget, fumble, and bespatter;

Lay every knave upon his back,
Condemn! but “spare your sweet, old Jack!”
Let me, of favour taste the gravy,
For lo! submiss, I cry, peccavi,
Kneel, meekly, at your toes so mighty
And pen smooth Sonnets to delight ye;
For well I ken, Sage Sons of letters,
You, verily, are much my betters,
At least, I know 'tis a true story,
(As papists pass thro' purgatory,)
By gaining your fair approbation,
I, also, gain this world's salvation.
And if small folks to sense aspiring,
Should find no energy, or fire in
My lays, what care I for their cavil?
Ill pit you, Sirs, against the devil.

SONNET.

[Yes, Delia, let me paint thy angel charms]

Yes, Delia, let me paint thy angel charms,
Thy coral lip, thy cheek of roseate hue,
Thy sweetly-rolling eye's cælestial blue,
Thy glowing bosom, and thy iv'ry arms.
For when, those fading beauties yield to time,
(And time, will mar that form, so passing fair,)
Haply, this verse may wean your breast from care;
Haply, reflecting on this plausive rhime,
Fond memory shall shew you, what you were,
And feeling bless the picture with a tear.

SONNET.

[Why weep the tenants of yon shatter'd grove?]

Why weep the tenants of yon shatter'd grove?
Why mourns the black-bird in a dismal note?
Ah! note, far diff'rent from the lays of love;
That, once, my solitary musing smote.
See! the sad nest to quiv'ring pangs devote,
The cruel sportsman takes his deadly round,
Thro' all the scenes, harsh screams of danger, float,
The fatal tube is full, it marks the ground,
And frighted echo starts, and thunders to the sound.

TO AN OLD BEAUTY.

Say, smiling, toothless, trembling thing,
With twinkling eye, and falter'd speech;
Aiming at fruit beyond thy reach,
And tott'ring thro' the frolic ring,
With cheek as blooming as a peach
In winter,
And eyes, that hearts of oak, could splinter.
Say, why,
When Cupid woo'd thee to be kind,
Did'st thou not melt thy cruel mind?
Why turn away, in scorn thy lips?
Think'st thou the young love affectation?
Think'st thou they view with adoration
A full moon in—eclipse!

ERRATA.

WIT, science, fancy, Mantuan grace,
Diction, and periods, aptly fitted;
Are either put from out their place,
Or, else—Omitted.

SONNET.

[Say, what is love, that luxury of hearts]

Say, what is love, that luxury of hearts,
Which feeds on hope, and fear, despair, and sighs,
Which by one look a thousand vows, imparts,
And speaks the silent language of the eyes.
Refin'd as snows, that bleach upon the blast,
Pure as the Pilgrim's kiss at Mecca's shrine,
Is Love!—now drooping sad, with woes o'ercast,
Now floating o'er the clouds on wing divine.
A glorious spark of heav'nly heat, to fire
The mortal mind with extacy sincere,
That burns, in verse, along the sounding wire;
And bids a pensive pleasure swell each tear.

AN EPISTLE NUGATORY,

OR, (AS SOME WRITE IT,) NEWGATE-RY.

A Poet, Madam, writes to you,
A Poet! and a poor one, too;
Doom'd, (a bad fate, I ween,) to wail
Poetic ditties in a jail,
Ah! little did he think, of yore,
In Newgate's dens, to vent his lore:
Ah! little, that, (like rooks and crows,)
A grate should stop him by the nose,
That, He with piteous speeches, pat,
Should fish for ha'pence, with a hat,
And, with soul-thrilling yelp, intreat ye,
Date obolum Poetæ!
Like poor Darius, fall'n, and spatter'd,
By those, his former Sonnet's flatter'd:

By magic of a fatal Note,
Here, he's arrested by the throat,
Not, for a libel, or lampoon,
Squib, dash, or song, made out o'tune,
But, by a Dun, without 'ere budging,
Is lodged here, for a better lodging.
Wou'd! that instead of verse-inditing,
Ink shed, white bullets, and pen-fighting,
He had, forswore the Nine, with curses,
And woo'd Nine Widows, with nine purses.
Nine Widows! who, with glitt'ring pence,
His daily toils, wou'd recompense.—
And, yet, I think, upon my life,
The Jail is better, than the wife,
At least, 'tis better for a Poet,
Milton, was marry'd, Ma'm, you know it,
He knew it, too, 'faith, to his cost,
For then he sketch'd out Paradise lost,
Which, the Virago, often read
In curtain lectures, to his bed,
And box'd the blind, old Dotard's head.
She, was the “Nightly Visitant,”
That made his bosom, sigh, and pant!
Cervantes, scribbled in a prison,
Such tales, as catch one by the weason,
And Loyd, so nervous, gay, and sweet,
Scrawl'd lofty measures in the Fleet,

Now, these are fine Compeers, i'faith,
Yet, as I chuse a nat'ral death,
And, would not, Trenck—like, furious, run
Thro' Turnkey, and his Myrmidon,
In God's name, send me, if you're willing,
Six golden guineas, one good shilling,
And three pence, which, I fairly owe
For quill-stumps, and pale ink, below;
Then, will I sing, sublime, and gay, a
Dic, Musa! or Aeide Thea!
And once, the Muses, are recruited,
Saddle Pegassus, spur'd and booted,
They, at my heels, the race, will mind, most
Intent, and cry, Deuce take the hindmost.
Set off, like mad, on wings of fame,
And plant on Pindus' top your name.

SONNET.

[Thrown on the desert cliff, with frantic eye]

Thrown on the desert cliff, with frantic eye,
Madly, I gaze the howling surge below,
Invoke, meek Pity, from the bursting sky,
And call the sullen deep, to share my woe.
Poor Exile, from the tender maid, I love!
Startled, the shipwreck of my hopes, I view,
Hark! the shrill winds, my plaintive cries reprove,
Caverns, abrupt, and horrid, murm'ring thro'.
Full oft, I lean, and cast a ling'ring glance
O'er the broad bosom of the toiling main,
And fear, and feel, I ne'er shall see, again,
The blessed barque, which bore my love, advance.
Hope, sits delightless, shiv'ring, by my side,
And Patience, drops, herself, a silent tear,
Wretch! do'st thou mark, a dim corse floating near;
'Tis she!—and is the sea, thy dismal bier.
Thy mourners, the relentless blasts, that fly,—
At least, I hold thee, dead, at most, I wish to die.

SONNET,

TO SLEEP.

I

The fold is still, the shepherd finds repose,
The dews of night, fall, silent, on the shade,
Slumb'ring, the tardy streamlet, softly flows,
And cruel Daphne sleeps, unfeeling maid!
But ah! what sleep can lull my waking woes,
Nor peace, nor holy rest, this tortur'd bosom knows.

II

Fair Sleep, if nought avails thy leaden wand,
To soothe my weary'd sense, my throbbing breast;
Beck, some kind Vision, with thy fairy hand,
Some shape fantastic, lovelier than the rest;
On Daphne's brow to take her tranquil stand,
With pow'r, prevailing ardors, to command.

III

Ah! gentle spirit, tell her how I weep,
How, thorns implant my pillow, Love's keen thorns,
How, madly wild, and trembling pale, he burns,
Now, haunted by despair, now, musing deep;
Who feels her chain, and calls the ling'ring Sun,
To see that face, once more, by which he was undone.

THE LAPLANDER.

On Lapland's icy breast, the Shepherd strives,
In vain, to nurse his little fold;
Piteous, they render up their lives,
By famine prest, and bleak eternal cold.

Yet, smiles he, at the savage storm,
Marks the wild waves, the deep deform;
And, shrinking, slumbers in his tott'ring nest,
While, blasts of deadly rigor, lull his limbs, to rest.

He starts not, as I do, on beds of down;
He feels not slighted love, and scorpion care;
He calls, the scanty store, he has, his own;
And, nightly, mocking, the keen-biting air,
Hies to his freezing nook, and finds contentment there.

TAM TO RAB.

AN ODAIC EPISTLE.

Hail, brither Rab, thou genuine Bard,
May laurels be thy grand reward!
Laurels, with gold, and siller hard,
To fill the purse,
For else, they are not worth a card,
Or Beldame's curse.

Arcades ambo! baith are ready,
T'invoke, and woo, each tunefu' Lady,
But thou, sweet friend, hast got a trade, I
Ken no such thing,
Thou can'st e'en drive the ploughshare steady;
I can but sing.

Yet, would I glad, gang out with thee,
To strew my barley on the lea;
Wow! we would gloriously agree,
Poetics gabbling,
Ne, ever, o'er the dram, would we,
Be squabbling.

Keen as thy wit, the scythe we'd wield,
Culling, each flow'r, the wild woods yield,
Together, urge our team afield;
Together rhime,
And, mark the Sun yon mountain gild,
Till supper time.

Allan's bra' lilts we wou'd rehearse,
And laugh, and weep, and talk in verse;
While grey-ey'd Judgment, sapient nurse,
Our thoughts would prune,
And Fancy, roseate bands disperse,
Our brows to crown.

Yes, Rab, I love thee in my heart,
Thy simple notes, uncurb'd by art;
That bid the tear of passion start,
And, sure, I am,
Ere from this wicked world we part,
You'll jostle Tam.

And if you do, by Peter's keys,
We'll quaff stout whiskey, at our ease;
Drive fools, before our verse, like geese,
And clink the can,
Till, we shall rise, by twelve degrees,
'Bove reptile Man.

ODE TO THE COLLEGIANS.

Squarecaps, and round, all honest boys,
May Tutors ne'er cry down your joys,
Or study, which bright Jest destroys,
Teaze ye, when mellow!
Ne Satan, come, with sawcer eyes,
In shape of Fellow!

No Porter, with obstrep'rous summons,
Startle your nap, with early drummings;
Be yours, short lectures, and long Commons,
To gar you cheary!
For, in this life, whatever come on's,
Let's e'en be merry,

Let all your chamber-girls be pretty,
Your chums, facete, and free, and witty;
Your Masters, not inclin'd to fret ye,
Wi' too much knowledge;
And then, mon dieu! old Dublin City,
May boast her College!

SONNET,

TO THE RIGHT HON. AND REVEREND THE BISHOP OF DROMORE.

I

Beneath a giant hill, whose awful brow,
With wild flow'rs wreath'd, a holy horror flung;
Pensive, I mark'd the small stream's busy flow,
Soft-sighing, to its banks, a liquid Song.

II

Mean while, the weary Sun, with placid eye,
Beam'd orient rapture on the shadowy plain;
And, starting, foremost, on the enamel'd sky,
Young Hesper, led his saphire-vested train.

III

Then, solitary, did I moan the Minstrel's fate,
When, lo! a pilgrim-form, amaz'd my sight,
His green robe faded, told an ancient date,
His glances, mildly keen, his tresses, silv'ry white.

IV

A sculptur'd harp he bore, the warbling strings,
Rung, tremulous, to ev'ry passing gale;
And Motion, softly furl'd her flagging wings,
Eager, the solemn accents to inhale.

V

“Arise, fond youth, (he cry'd,) who court the Muse,”
“Despondent Son of Harmony, arise!”
“Quick, shalt thou feel ambrosian bounty's dews,”
“And see, Content, approach in Grandeur's guise.”

VI

“Ah me! (I sad, return'd,) what gentle hand,
“Will bless the Poet, and increase his store;
“What Patron, guard him, in this languid land?”
A voice, celestial-sweet, reply'd—Dromore!

EPITAPH

ON A SCOTCH ATTORNEY.

O! death, the corpse beneath this stean,
I ween, was savory, and fruitful;
Thou never, did'st, since Master Cain,
Eat, so much roguery, at one mouthful.
A Pill most bitter, was he, faith,
Thy habeas corpus spoil'd his laughter,
But, speer ye weel, auld Guidman Death,
He brings no Damages hereafter.

THE AUTHOR.

Guid heav'n, what perils catch the men,
Who meddle with that plague, a pen;
Ne'er shall they know sweet rest again,
Once, they have took it,
Bewitch'd, they wax as lean's a wren,
Wi' empty pocket.

Odes, sonnets, anagram, and rebus,
All wrote without the aid of Phæbus;
But scrawl'd by Sphinxes,
And, then, all day, the Muses they buss,
The coaxing Minxes!

Had, they an Hospital to dwell in,
Where they might fare, e'en medling, well in,
They might, be scribbling, singing, railing,
Ad infinitum,
For, by my saul, their volumes selling,
But ill requite 'em.

Patrons, good sooth, there live, most dainty,
But leave behind 'em, rose-cheek'd plenty;
Thrice, and four times, they look, ere twenty
pence are given,
And if good words, will na' content ye,
Seek more in heaven.

SONG.

[Some folks, there are, gang trig, and fine]

I

Some folks, there are, gang trig, and fine,
In silks, and sattins, idly flaming;
But She I love, is all divine,
Their artsu' toil, and dresses shaming.
Gin, She were but a cottage-Lass,
And I, a Shepherd boy;
I'd let those tempting Damsels, pass,
Sweet Ann of Aughnacloy.

II

My Annie's locks, as sunbeams, bright,
Her e'en, sa' mild, Love's starry seat,
Her cheeks, like Morning's purple light;
Without the aid of art, compleat,
Gin she were, doft in russet weed,
And I, a Shepherd boy,
I'd take thee, as Heav'ns choicest meed,
Dear Ann of Aughnacloy.

VERSES, WITH A NECKLACE,

TO A YOUNG LADY.

Transparent Zone, whose cincture clear,
Shall compass, all, that I hold dear,
And bid thy rubies, blushing, glow,
With her fair cheek's reflected hue,
While, under her bosom's living snow,
Pant, the quick veins, meand'ring blue,
O! tell her, how supremely blest,
Would, I embrace, that heaving breast;
With kisses, mark the hallow'd Shrine,
Where Beauty's bloom, and Virtues graces shine.

SONG.

[With Chloe, wanton Cupid, play'd]

With Chloe, wanton Cupid, play'd,
At cards, and won all, from the Maid,
Her jealous doubts, her anxious fears,
Her sudden sighs, her angry tears.

She staked,—the Urchin, won, beside,
Her cruel scorn, her haughty pride;
But worst, indeed, he waged his dart,
Turn'd trumps, and won her virgin heart!

ON SENSIBILITY WITHOUT FEELING.

Many, there are, who claim the gen'rous Art,
To soothe, and soften the dejected heart;
Claim every pang, Humanity bestows,
And weep, and agonize, at alien woes;
They only play a part, they only seem,
Let Misery call, they start, as from a dream;
With cruel scorn, obligingly abuse,
And half-refusing, totally refuse:
'Tis pride, 'tis whim, that strains the mimic eye,
'Tis vain self-love, impels the specious sigh;
Fools in their acting, all the cheats display'd,
They praise that Merit, which they will not aid,
Fair words, of peace, the needy wretch, beguile,
They read, they throb, they squeeze the purse, and smile.
Peace to all such! whose sordid minds, but mark
Sneaking Compassion, not one noble spark!
So, some old column, mould'ring in decay,
Shines, with a gilded outside, on the way,
But lean'd on, by some wretch, immediate falls,
And tumbling, bears along, a weight of walls,
Which o'er the ground, in aweful ruin spread,
Heap stones and rubbish on his hapless head.

ON THE GRAVE OF A MURDERED INFANT.

Sweet Babe, who ly'st, neglected here,
No weeping Sire, no mother near,
To wet with tears thy grassy tomb,
And bid the circling willow bloom:
Yet, from a heart long learn'd to grieve,
The tender rite of verse receive!
Who, young himself as yet, has been
Sad Actor in Life's tragic Scene,
And, would, supremely thankful be,
Had, Heav'n, but chose his infant Soul, with Thee!

IMITATION OF AN OLD SONG,

By Sir CHARLES SEDLEY.

While, lip to lip, exstatic panting,
I, all-requiring, you all-granting;
While breast to breast, with curious eye
Thy wond'rous store of charms I spy,
Ah! who wou'd weep, who wish to die,
Except, in agonies of bliss?
Yet, such his spite, fell Death, with thunder,
Shall rive our twining arms asunder,
Then let's pursue the precious plunder,
And life, extinguish in a kiss,
Ev'n Death, himself, will pause at this!

THE PENITENT's COMPLAINT.

I

“Fast falls the rain, the bitter northwind blows,
My shudd'ring limbs scarce bear my wretched weight,
Chill, thro' my heart, the frozen life-blood flows,
And hollow hunger, fainting, yields to fate.

II

Yet, 'ere I die, oh! let me curse this frame,
Once, once, admir'd, now baneful, and abhor'd,
Curse those pale eyes, that woke the treach'rous flame,
Curse those dry lips, that told, how I ador'd!

III

Inhuman wretch! he saw me, gladly bear
For him, the loss of fortune, and of all;
He saw me, bless his babe, with many a tear;
He saw me charm, and oh! he saw me fall!

IV

Is there no store of veng'ance in yon sky,
No mighty bolt to blast his hated head?
Does heav'n, too, mock the dim-imploring eye,
And Mercy, reign alone, amidst the dead?

V

Fast flows the rain, the bitter northwind blows,
My shudd'ring limbs, scarce bear this wretched weight,
Chill, thro' my heart, the frozen life-blood flows;”
She said, she sigh'd, she sunk, and bless'd her fate.

A SCOTCH SERENADE.

I

Already, see, the larks begin
To hail the Morning-rise,
And wakefu' Sandy, heartless, waits
The dawning of thine eyes.
The dawning of them eyes, so bright,
That pierc'd his bosom thro',
Mild as the blue cloud's wat'ry light,
Or, rainbow's radiant hue,
Will you na'ope the door, my love,
Will you na' let me in,
Who, weeping, wait, the glance of fate,
From your twa' een.

II

The thistle, trembling to the gale,
Hath nai sic thorns as love?
Love, like a rose-bud, sweetly blooms,
But oft doth canker prove.

Yet, Peggy, thou so tender art,
Thou feel'st the slight'st woe,
Thou did'st e'en soothe my Blackbird's heart;
And did'st sweet tears bestow.
Will you na' ope the door, my Love,
Will you na' let me in?
For sure you will nai' let me die,
By your twa' een.

SONG.

[Now the snowdrop, drooping pale]

Now the snowdrop, drooping pale,
Hangs its solitary head;
Now, the lilly gems the Vale,
And motley'd daisies, blushing red;
Now the linnet sings aloft,
And the pratling current flows;
Fall the dews, descending soft;
And, o'er the mead, full flocks repose.
Now the merry bells, ring, ring,
And Nature welcomes in the spring.

MY OWN APOTHEOSIS.

Suppose me, quit this mortal dwelling,
My spirit (bless us!) heav'n, or hell, in,
Lud! what shrill sighs, and shouts, and wailing.

The great folk, patrons of all learning,
At last, my merits high, discerning;
Lament my loss, their bowels yearning.

“And is He dead? the Flow'r of writing,”
“Whose verses we took such delight in;”
“Alack! as dead as any whiting.”

“Aye, aye, he's but a broken pitcher,”
“Had he liv'd longer, he'd be richer;”
“Yet, let us give him now a niche, or,”

“Mausoleum, for, truth is best,”
“Fancy, had fired, his glowing breast,”
“And Genius, her sweet Boy, carest,”

Fair fate, and lucky necks befal ye,
Yet, rising, from the dead I call ye;
And still, alive, ye Rogues, to maul ye!

And now, right worthy Sirs, perpend,
While Life remains, I want a friend;
When Death comes on, why,—there's an End.

LIFE.

What a compound is life, of vice, virtue, and folly,
This hour, roaring mad, and the next, melancholy;
Now, praying demurely at church, with the vicar,
Now swearing and wrangling, for wenches and liquor:
Complaining one time, of a sad single life,
Then giving the Devil, that log, call'd a Wife.
Gay, moping, and jarring, and chanting, and whining,
Caressing, abusing, exulting, repining;
In short, fears, joys, doubts, make this queer Salma gundi,
Death devours it, and “Gloria, sic, transit Mundi!”

SONG.

[Gin, I was plac'd on yonder muir]

Gin, I was plac'd on yonder muir,
In my ain cott, from storms secure;
My arms around my bonny lass,
How quick the wint'ry hours would pass.

Gin, I could call this field my ain,
And count the herds upon that plain;
Or, till yon ground, with mickle glee,
How blithe the Summer-months would be.

Yet, as my pray'rs are sai' deny'd,
Save, the blithe lassie by my side;
Let me, e'en spurn this giddy Ba'
And swear my Jean is worth it a'!

THE LINNET's LAMENT.

Now slowly sinking in the purple West,
The Lord of Splendor sought ambrosial rest;
While Twilight pale with gentle hand, above
Her fairy veil of sullen vapour, wove;
The falling stream a lulling murmur made,
And night descended in the silent shade;
Afar, the Shepherd's pipe was heard to thrill,
Warbling soft cadence to the tinkling rill;
Young Hesper rose sublime, with radiant eye,
And vestal Evening triumph'd o'er the sky;
When thus, enshrined amid yon gloomy grove,
A pensive Linnet mourn'd her absent Love:
“Dear part'ner of my days, whose glowing breast,
Warm'd the scant mansion of our little nest,
Who wont, at morning-break, to flit away,
Anxious to seek the viands of the day;
Anxious, thy callow brood, at home to feed;
Thy callow brood! whose infant bosoms bleed.

Who, while I sadly drop the widow'd tear,
Look round, and fondly hope to find Thee here.
Curst be the Clown, who robb'd thee of thy Life,
O! may he never know a tender wife;
Ne'er hear his Children lisp their father's name,
But roam forlorn, with penury and shame!
In vain my darling ev'ry force essay'd,
In vain he fought, sweet Hero of the Shade,
In vain he shriek'd!—the barb'rous wretch unmov'd,
Tore the fond husband from his mate belov'd;
Doom'd now, perchance, to glut some urchin's rage,
Or starve, sad Captive! in a wiry cage.
“Poor bird!”—she utter'd with a feeble sound,
“Poor bird!” the pitying echoes sigh'd around;
When lo! quick rustling thro' the branches green,
Flutt'ring, her Love, in extacy was seen;
Mildly, she on her bosom, plac'd his head,
And sooth'd his slumb'rs, while full tears she shed,
Of Gratitude—the woodmen in yon vale,
Attest the genuine feelings of this tale.

A POETICAL ADDRESS

TO HER EXCELLENCY THE COUNTESS OF WESTMORELAND.

Genius, and Worth, the other day,
By fortune, met upon their way,
And while they wip'd the falling tear,
Thus spoke, in sympathy sincere.
“In vain the lovely Muse inspires,
In vain, she fans her purest fires;
In vain, most amiably gay,
Wildly, forms the sportive lay;
With Honour's ardent dictate burns,
Or, in majestic sorrow mourns;
No Patron views her song with smiles,
No promis'd bliss her care beguiles;
No tuneful pomp of brave renown,
Marks highly her melodious son;

No laurel-wreath his brow adorns,
No laurel!—but a wreath of thorns;
Not even his thoughts sublime, can grace
The hapless Poet with a place,
Tho' plodding Wealth 'mid roses lies,
And feeds on gold his doating eyes;
Not all the joy, his labours lend,
Can gain one real, gen'rous friend;
Not”—quick on his golden throne above,
Thus thunder'd forth Imperial Jove:
“Hermes, that wretch repining bring,
Who poisons Hope's ambrosian spring
With doubts and fears,—I'll change his story,
And make him own the fool before ye.”
Swift Merc'ry bow'd, and quick convey'd
The pensive mourners from the shade,
While with a frown of wrath sublime,
Jove tax'd them for so bold a crime:
“Say, why so sad, unlucky pair,
Why sunk beneath this load of care;
Why look for patronage in vain,
Or why, of partial Fate, complain?
Can you, a moment, ling'ring stand,
While Bounty points to Westmoreland!
Whose genial favor soon shall shine,
And make Life's path of pleasure thine;

See, where She sits in beauteous pride,
Dispensing good on ev'ry side;
Checking pale Sorrow's languid sigh,
Clearing Despair's o'er-clouded eye;
Raising the noble soul from Earth,—”
“I own thy words are true!” said Worth;
“I own it too,” Genius reply'd,
“And on her tender heart rely'd,
Shall pen Jove's candid judgment down—”
He said, and hasted up to town:
And on nature, and sage reflexion,
Lays the whole tale to your inspection.
O! may it meet but some success,
—'Tis mine to wish, 'tis your's to bless!

SONNET,

TO THE REV. MR. STERLING.

I

Spirit of Spencer, from thy fairy wild,
Inspire, while glowing with unusual flame,
I cull each flow'r, by Winter undefil'd,
And teach the woodland Echo, Sterling's name.
Sterling, whose wand can break old Dullness' spell,
With pow'rs of verse, the rugged carle assail,
Lead the wrapt Thought to Inspirations cell,
And finish Chivalry's heroic tale,
Where, whilom Chaucer's self, and Thou, sweet Sprite did'st fail!

II

Whether the sonnet, feelingly he weaves,
Collecting all the secret flow'rs of rhime,
Or, bursting thro' a bow'r of laurel-leaves,
Snatches of Epic pomp the trump sublime,
The Muse admires—Long may his sapient hand,
Melodious, strike the full-responsive chord,
Long may he seize the sweets of Fairy-Land;
And all the bliss poetic plains afford,—
Long may he melt the eye, and reign the bosom's lord!

SONNET,

TO LÆTITIA.

I.

Soft Syren of my soul! when first you smil'd,
Insensibly, the shaft of Torment flew,
Each tender glance my flutt'ring peace beguil'd;
Nor yet, the Mistress of my heart, I knew.

II

Unknown, unseen, but not unfelt, thy charms
Did silently my simple breast subdue;
Trembling, and pale, I throbb'd with new alarms;
At last fond Nature pointed fair—to you!

III.

Comparing with the vision of my mind
Thy frame, I saw it match'd, but more improv'd,
Quickly, my flame to purest height refin'd;
Sadly, the unfrequented fields I rov'd,
Fed on thy angel-face, grew pensive, sigh'd, and lov'd.

IV.

With envy, oft the cruel walls, I view'd,
That held thee close, despairing, paus'd to weep,
Or, if I slumber'd by some chrystal flood;
Still, thy pure image floated on my sleep:
And often (ruthless Fancy!) did I seem,
To hang, entranced, o'er thy beauteous form,
And oft, I snatch'd Thee, thro' the midnight storm;
Or from the torrent sav'd, my boon a kiss,—
Then would the death-knell interrupt my bliss;
And sorrowing, would I wish, beneath yon Tree,
“Ah! that this last, last death knell toll'd for Me!”

SONNET,

TO THE MEMORY OF FIELDING.

I.

When Sorrow wont her meagre hand display,
And all the train of Transport, frighted, fly,
To thy sweet lines, I turn a languid eye;
Soon, soon, illum'd with Humour's sparkling ray:
For at thy magic word, dull doubts, and brooding fears decay.

II.

Dazzled with thy Meridian glare, I turn
To the meek Parson, and his pupil true,
Or, deeply with thy fond Amelia mourn,
And all the woes of private Virtue view.

III.

Thine was the pen, in Judgment's fount, embu'd,
Thine was the pen, to touch each master-spring,
Pale Vice, abash'd, not daring to be good;
And worth compleat, thy serious Muse cou'd sing.

IV.

Nature herself, sits smiling o'er thy page,
Compassion weeps, and Laughter holds his side;
Life treads, unmask'd, thy full historic Stage,
Whilst Rabelais' wit, Cervantes comic pride,
And Livy's fluent stile, thy matchless palm divide.

Tom Jones.

SONNET,

TO THE RIGHT HON. LADY FITZGIBBON.

Sweet, fair, and young, in whose cælestial eye,
Beams the mild fluid of the ev'ning-sky;
Meek, soft, and gentle, in whose rosy cheek,
The bashful blushes of the Morning break:
Learn'd, good, and great, in whose unbounded mind,
Dwells tender Worth, and Elegance refin'd.
Attend!—thy path with Spring's first bloom I strew,
And with the lilly pale, the myrtle knit,
One shews thy feeling soul, and one thy wit.—
O! may thy smile, the wither'd leaf renew,
Which pines, in mock'ry, on my aching brow!—
Give to the drooping bay it's native hue,
Bid the rich seeds of smother'd Fancy blow,
And wrest me from yon haggard dæmon!—Woe.

SONNET,

TO NIGHT.

I

The Scene is still, an awful pause ensues,
Save, when the chill wind shakes the rustling spray,
Blank Darkness taints the landscape's vary'd hues;
And Nature seems to mourn the Death of Day.

II

The glimm'ring Stars, faint vigils keep above,
The pale ey'd Moon, in pensive pomp, presides;
Slowly, the clouds their silvery fleeces move;
And the tall Copses nod, and float in vernal tides.

III

Now, gentle Night! my aching bosom balm,
Drop thy enliv'ning dews upon my breast,
Bid that wild spot, like all around, be calm;
And lull the warring passions wild, to rest.

IV

O! for one heav'nly trance, to waft my soul,
From this vain toiling world of want, and woe,
To see the elements sublimely roll;
And step o'er globes, that mock our globe below.

SONNET,

TO LADY CHARLOTTE RAWDON.

As to my frantic eye I pictur'd dread,
Genius, with bleeding bosom, wildly bare,
Weeping, in tears of gore, on Fortune dead,
Sadly, in silent woe, I droop'd my head,
And woo'd fell Death to force the grasp of Care;
'Till thy æthereal image check'd the sigh
Thy form benign, stood, beck'ning me to rest,
Thou breath'st a halcyon-calm around my breast;
Where Hope, (pale taper in a charnel vault,)
Just glimm'ring lay,—thy promise sweet, beguil'd
My tortur'd sense, my agonizing thought,
I look'd to Thee, and smil'd!
But ah! in Pleasure's specious gulph again I fell,
Without one twig to catch! fair scenes farewell,
If, Angel-like, thou do'st not light my way,
And lead me, penitent, to day!—

SONNET,

TO THE MEMORY OF COLLINS.

Peace, sweet Enthusiast! to thy gentle shade,
Whose timid step immortal Fancy led,
Where the mix'd Passions throng'd the holy glade;
Or, where Spring linger'd o'er Fidele's bed.

I

Wild, as the lucid lightning's sudden blaze,
Thine awful genius struck the golden string,
The Muse, in Thee, her brightest store displays;
And from thy page the sparks of phrenzy spring!

II

O'er thy lone tomb shall injured Merit weep,
And Poesy, the baneful harp, discard;
O! could not Worth thy peace unbroken, keep!
O! could not Talents save Thee, hapless Bard!

SONNET,

TO CAPTAIN ATKINSON.

Descend, Thalia! from thy summer cloud,
Skirted with light, in smiling pomp descend,
Nor with a mask thy beauteous features shroud;
And twine fresh roses for my matchless friend!

I.

Thy smile sweet-beaming brightens o'er his page,
Thy hand, so delicate! each sketch refines,
Thou fling'st a radiance o'er his sportive lines;
Thou shed'st a lambent lustre on the Stage.

II.

Blest, by thy sportive Atkinson approv'd
I'd teach my youthful lyre nis name belov'd;
Ardent, I'd seek to reach his lofty praise,
As eaglets view the Sun's meridian rays,
With eye unpractised, and a feeble gaze!

SONNET,

TO FANCY.

O Fancy! lead me to thy woodbine bow'r,
What time the dim-ey'd bat, on leathern wing,
Proclaims mild Evening's melancholy hour,
And calls each Elf to Clodio's haunted spring,
For Obron's merry 'tendants then, have pow'r;
Meanwhile, faint Echoes to their murmurs ring;
And Hesper stoops behind a sapphire cloud,—
Sweet Fancy! then, each purer vision bring,
Each scene celestial, to my mental eye;
'Till pealing deeply full, with sullen swing,
From steeple-top, the death knell scares each joy,
And scatters o'er the vale thy fairy crowd.

SONNET,

TO INNOCENCE.

I.

Dear Innocence! thou rose without a thorn,
Sportive, and fearless as the gentle dove,
How art thou left to Treach'ry's snare, forlorn;
How dragg'd, relentless, from thy sister Love;

II.

I knew Thee once, but Life's malignant bowl,
Has poison'd ev'ry virtue, quench'd each fire,
Ting'd the pure, limpid sources of the soul,
And tun'd to Pride's vain ear the flatt'ring Lyre.

III.

Farewell the time, when we were wont to stray,
Or fondly linger in the sweet alcove,
Greeting the tender dawn of op'ning Morn!
Ah! little did I think, I ere should say,
How art thou left to Treach'ry's snare forlorn;
How dragg'd, relentless, from thy sister Love!

SONNET,

TO LADY DE VESCI.

Proud of thy praise, in former time, I sung,
And now, renew the tributary strain;
Haply, my harp to loftier measures strung,
The soft submission of thine ear may gain.
Thy hand, even first, with amiable grace,
Gave to my infant grasp the envy'd bay,
Thine eye, first saw, rude Merit's slender trace,
And Genius glimmer o'er my simple lay:
Thou saw'st and smil'd!—approvingly sincere,
Thy partial sentence warm'd my kindling breast,
And oft has Memory, disturb'd, distrest,
Wept on thy goodness with a silent tear!

SONNET,

TO MRS. AUSTIN.

I.

For Thee, my Muse, her first, fond chaplet wove,
Selecting flow'rets wild, with artless hand
And thou did'st deign the poor meed to approve,
And thou did'st bid my humble hopes expand.

II.

Charm'd with thy smile, I thought each flow'r grew sweet,
A lovelier bloom the simple garland wore,
Quick did my breast with busy transport beat,
And my flush'd cheek, the tint of pleasure bore;
But ah! 'tis fled, 'tis faded—yet, once more,
Let Pardon stoop from her ethereal shrine,
And smiles of glad applause my conscious heart refine.

SONNET,

TO AN INVISIBLE MISTRESS.

And shall I live to love, yet hide my pain,
Nor breathe one whisper, fraught with secret sighs,
Shall I not, to the savage shore complain,
Or tell the wind, that o'er yon ocean flies?
Ah no!—lest babbling Echo catch her name,
Lest some too busy sprite, the tale proclaim,
And lean, to hear my passion from the skies.
Yes, sweet Invisible, more firm than steel,
My breast, my breast, thy dear name shall conceal;
In that strong casket, precious jewel, rest!
Till Death unlock the whole, till common clay
Makes that retentive hoard, no more a Breast.
Not, in delirious trance that word shall 'scape,
For Secrecy, in Slumber's languid shape,
Shall mar each syllable, that could combine,
To frame that word, which ever shall be Mine.

SONNET,

TO THE MUSE.

Yes, I have met thee on the lonely strand,
And traced thy footstep o'er the printed sand;
Thy rosy cheek, with heav'n's own blushes spread,
Thy swimming eye, of rich voluptuous blue,
Thy tresses radiant as the amber's hue;
Thy breast, where Transport form'd his snowy bed.
I've seen,—and often, often, strove in vain,
To catch thee, fleeting o'er the dusky plain;
Feeling, and Thee, by yon broad lake, I've spy'd,
Marking with tranced eye the dimpling stream,
When bashful Cynthia, thron'd in solemn pride,
Flung, ever and anon, a shatter'd beam.—
Why mock the youth, whose soul sincerely woos,
Ah! why not visit my sequester'd cell,
Tales of delightful deeds, mysterious tell,
And soothe my bleeding bosom, loveliest Muse!

THE SIMILE.

'Tis like a hat without a head,
'Tis like a house without a shed,
'Tis like a gun without a lock,
'Tis like a swain without a flock,
'Tis like a town without a school,
'Tis like a King without a fool,
'Tis like a dog without a tail,
'Tis like a barn without a flail,
'Tis like a goose without a spit,
'Tis like a brain without a wit,
'Tis like a cap without a border,
'Tis like a bill without an order,
'Tis like a shop without a clerk,
'Tis like a flint without a spark,
'Tis like a knave without a place,
'Tis like a knife without a case,
'Tis like a lawyer without Latin,
'Tis like a meeting without G---
In short, at once to stop my mouthing,
'Tis like—what is it like?—like nothing.

AN ELEGY,

ON POETICAL DELUSION.

I

Vain, vain, my soul, to seek for bliss below,
She's fled to Heav'n, and bids us seek her there:
On earth, what breast will guard the Child of woe?
What hand the front of pallid Sorrow clear?

II

But most the Poet feels!—disgrac'd and spurn'd,
No parent o'er his ruin'd fortune weeps;
Silence, and Midnight see his bones inurn'd;
And o'er his tomb impassive dullness sleeps.

III

None views with awe that clay which Heav'n inspir'd,
That clay, all vivid, with Promethean heat;
None crowns his spot with flow'rs, from noise retir'd;
None sings, to him who sung, the measure sweet.

IV

What boots it with incessant care to toil,
To bid the tragic Maid sublimely wail;
To raise on Humour's cheek the kindling smile,
Or, thrill the tender nerve with Pity's tale.

V

What boots it all?—when, to cold scorn a prey,
No Patron checks young Merit's modest sighs,—
But some fond lip, in future time, shall say,
“Here, yet alive, the charming Poet lies.”

THE FAREWEL, OR VOYAGE OF LIFE.

------ Rus, quando te aspiciam!

Dear, rural scenes of tranquil joy,
That pleas'd my soul, while yet a boy!
Sportive, the vernal plain I rov'd,
Dear, rural scenes! admir'd, belov'd,
Your safer harbour, now, I leave,
To tempt this world's tumultuous wave.
My little skiff, I urge from shore,
With feeble hand, and slender oar,
We part, perchance, to meet no more!
Farewel, my Baynham's cordial glow,
His placid temper's easy flow!
Farewel, the School, by churchyard-way,
Where noisy Learning spent the day,
Where Humour quibbled, Wit reply'd,
And Judgment sat in sapient pride!
Farewel, the stool by Hugo's hearth,
Where rose-lip'd Frolic, join'd with Mirth,
The evening pipe, the brimming bowl,
The open hand, the liberal soul,
The mind, tho' simple, full of lore,
The honest Landlord's frugal score,

The Lepricis , in pomp sublime,
The weaver, deep in mystic rhime,
The tale of witchcraft, wont to fright
The artless audience of the night,
Who drew, thro' terror, insecure,
Their seats, by inches, from the door,
Lest the swart fiend should pinch behind,
Or, Obr'on enter on the wind!
Farewel, the dear, the classic hour,
When rapture came, cælestial pow'r!
When Transport flung her balmy dews,
When History woo'd the serious Muse,
When Politics informed each brain,
When Piety, was op'ned plain,
When Love would toast the Village-lass,
And Feeling sweeten every glass,
Dear Times!—dear Friends!—my barque's from shore,
I shun the rock, I ply the oar,
And Fate may bring me back, once more!

A strange monster, of the amphibious kind, between Knave and Fool.

TO CECILIA.

By each fond smile, by every winning grace,
By all the heaven of beauty in thy face,
Say, why so harden'd thy relentless heart,
Proof to my pray'rs, and Love's unerring dart:
So beams the diamond with firy hue,
As sweetly brilliant, and as flinty, too!

A PASTORAL.

I

'Tis night, and the village is still,
The west-wind breathes soft o'er the vale,
No noise, but the neighbouring mill,
Can the ear of sad Silence assail.

II

Rock'd to sleep on the Beeche's green bough,
The Blackbird lies, heedless of song;
While the stream prattles sweetly below,
And hastes its smooth channel along.

III

Hark! a bleat from the far distant fold,
Proclaims some poor wandr'er astray,
Silly Swain, was thy flock left untold?
Or, do'st thou, at some wake, delay?

IV

Now the Moon is serenely enshrin'd,
And the Stars keep their vigils of night,
Dim-twinkling yon vapour behind,
Or sheeting the cloud, with soft light.

V

Contemplation, sits rapt on yon hill,
And listens to Fancy's fond tale,
No noise, but the neighbouring mill,
Can the ear of sad Silence assail!

100

THE SUICIDE.

A FRAGMENT.

—Or, what is man?
Whose hand, the spirit of conscience throws aside,
With a bare whisper, must the soaring soul,
Still sink to earth, and with the body, feel
Confinement's lashes, penury's chill grasp,
And envy's felon rage!—around me, crowd,
The fiends of horror, press upon my sight,
And still, extinguish Hope's sepulchral lamp!
Ev'n while I sit beneath this blasted thorn,
Whose wither'd branches whistle to the gale,
Remembrance, opens drear, her spectred scene,
And with her shadowy wand marks out the whole!
Mean while Contrition, like an Angel, stands
Behind me, and with fiercer scorpion goads—
How have I fallen! echo it ye caves,
Ye lonely desarts, echo it again,
Augment my sorrows, and ye pealing winds,
Ring the black secret in my startled ear—
Ha! can I bear it?—am I left the butt
Of every idle murmur?—must I shrink

101

At ev'ry trembling leaf—can Silence self,
More eloquent than fancy, print my heart
With bloody dictates!—yet, it must be so,
Till, loosened from this noisome log of clay,
I burst life's barrier—life!—aye, what is that?
A poor, mean, reptile blessing, trod upon
By pow'rs superior, subject to the sneer
Of lesser!—Come then, holy Fortitude!
Holy!—not so,—but in thy gloomiest dress;
Thy deep frown, threat'ning the cælestial seat,
Thy raven-locks, in wild disorder, cast—
Forget not too, thy dagger—lo! thou com'st,
Propensely ready at the wretch's call.
—And, shall I strike?
The nerve is firm, the blade is killing keen,
The troubled bosom, rises to the blow.
—And, shall I strike?

102

SONNET,

TO MISS BROOKE.

Poetic Maid! whose sacred hand, perfumes
With sweetest incense the Parnassian shrine,
Rifles, of ancient song, the sickly blooms;
And bids the fading flow'rets, richly shine.

Accept, from one unknown, the votive line,
Line, well-repay'd! if from thy laureate crown,
Thou fling'st one vernal leaf, in pity, down;
Which Pride, may round my youthful temples twine.

103

SONNET,

TO MORNING

What time, gay warbling at thy golden gate,
The shrill lark, floating on a beam of light,
Startles the ling'ring vapours of the Night,
And chears thy dawn, in minstrelsy elate,
Oft, let me mark thy gradual blushes glow,
Streaking the vernal scene with fainter red;
Oft, view thee, glimm'ring in the vale below;
Or meet thee, orient, on the mountain-head.
The Muse meanwhile, shall sportive, rise, and sing,
Drinking pure rapture from thy rosy ray,
Bathe in thy dewy flow'rs, her ardent wing,
And sparkle in the sunny eye of Day:
The rural Lass shall wonder at the sight,
The ploughman strong, the magic deed relate,
Then, ever, let me hail thy glories bright;
What time, gay warbling at thy golden gate,
The shrill lark floats upon a beam of light!

104

SONNET,

TO THE RIGHT HON. LORD DONOUGHMORE.

Steep is the path that marks the Muse's hill,
Abrupt and rude, to those who toil below;
But on the summit lies th'inspiring rill;
By whose bright banks the flow'rs of fancy blow:
Ah! deign, great Master of that genuine glow
Which burns, superior, in the patriot breast,
To shew me, where the wreaths ambrosial grow;
Where amaranths, in bloomy verdure drest,
Fling fragrance thro' the pure poetic clime;
So may I weave, with warbled spells of rhime,
A lasting crown to bind thy honor'd brow,
Worthy thy front to wear, a Poet to bestow;
For led by thee, my fault'ring step may gain
The envied height, all else, is toil, and pain!

105

INCONSTANCY.

Go, Nymph, unfaithful as the air!
Fair, yet false, and oft forsworn;
Go, leave thy Victim to despair;
Leave thy deluded love to mourn!

And, when by village-pity told,
Yon wither'd clods his bosom fold,
Pass sportive, unregarding by,
Nor stream one tear from that pernicious eye,
Which might perchance, his grassy grave illume,
And even in death, annoy the slumbers of the tomb.
Haply, the knell may smite thine ear,
But do not pause, the knell to hear,
Each peal thy guilty soul will shake,
(If late contrition enters there;)
Each solemn sound thy heart will break,
And false, and cruel, as thou art,
I would not, could not, break that heart!

106

SONG.

[Tell me not, of joys in love]

Tell me not, of joys in love,
I, who all its changes prove,
I, who all its load sustain,
Swear, by Jove,
The bliss is poison'd by the pain.
What tho' panting in your arms,
The virgin yield her blushing charms;
What, tho' from her swimming eye,
Heavens raptures fly,
And magic heat each vein alarms;
What tho' from the soft embrace,
Sparks electric, fire the soul,
Mount from the bosom, to the face,
And as they roll,
All thoughts of mortal care efface;
Yet tell me not, of joys in love,
I, who all its changes prove;
I, who all its load sustain,
Swear, by Jove,
The pleasur's poison'd by the pain.

107

WOMAN AND WINE,

AN EPIGRAM.

“Women and Wine” is a very fine song,
But in it, there haps to be one thing wrong,
For to shew their best flavor, it ought to have sung,
Wine, when old, and Woman, when young;
To us, Fate, the first-shot of either, bestow,
Keep the Lees, and the Hags, for the Miser, and Beau!

FURNITURE OF A COURTIER's UPPER STORY.

Imprimis, Impudence, four stone,
Pride, two, and twenty ton, alone;
Submission, some six thousand barrels,
Five quarters, of state-feuds, and quarrels;
Ten pound of wit, one grain of sense,
Three capers, and as many pence;

108

Scruples of conscience, one, or two,
Debts, quite innumerable, due.
Fears, doubts, and small mistakes, by dozens,
Ounces of hope, to country cousins;
Promises, which each morning doubles,
And last, not least—a peck of troubles.

TO SAMUEL WHYTE, Esq.

Gen'rous and candid, good without pretence,
Thy soul reflects a lustre on thy sense;
Skill'd, from the gem of Genius, unrefin'd,
T'extract such beams, as taste alone, can find;
Whose eagle-glance the latent glory spies,
And hails the wonder, with exultant eyes!

Could aught my verse avail, thy worth sublime,
Should gild the darkness of my humble line;
Illumin'd thus, the song would learn to glow,
And borrow'd beams, superior light bestow,
Poor is this meed, but what the head denies,
The grateful heart, more amiably, supplies.

109

TO A SCRIBBLING PHYSICIAN.

In vain, satyric tomes, you write,
Your verses hurt not, 'faith,
But recipes in prose indite!
—Your prose is instant death.

THE POET's INVENTORY.

A broken stool, two legs demolish'd,
A board, by constant friction polish'd;
A bottle-neck, for ink or candle;
A batter'd jug, without a handle;
A dozen pens, the worse for scribbling;
A trap to keep the mice from nibbling;
A box for coals, the bottom out;
A teapot, lacking top and spout;

110

A tott'ring chair, the back long missing;
A screen, which wants a woundy pieceing;
A bed, without a sheet, or blanket;
A pint of beer, if no one drank it;
A Fielding's works, volume the second;
And thus the whole estate is reckon'd.

SONG.

[Nay, tell me not, Kitty, that kissing's a fault]

I

Nay, tell me not, Kitty, that kissing's a fault,
If we are bad pupils, 'twas Nature that taught;
E'en Wisdom himself condescends to play deep,
And Divinity catches his text from the lip.

II

While the bloom of desire, quick envermils the cheek,
We learn from sweet kisses, what maids will not speak,
Then why should you struggle some words to deny,
Since all I require, is a silent reply.

III

When Cupid, on Ida, by Venus was bred,
On sighs he was suckled, on kisses he fed;
The kisses he stole, his fair damsels to move,
And the first smack he gave them, they christen'd him—Love.

111

SONNET,

TO POETICAL ENTHUSIASM.

I

O come, thou Nymph of lust'rous eye,
In all the pomp of fancy drest,
Thy loose robe stain'd with Heav'ns own dye;
A rainbow, cestus o'er thy breast;
O! come, and mount thy car, and glance athwart the sky.

II

She mounts, the cloudy coursers start,
With whirlwind speed they waft the soul;
Now from all nether lights depart;
Now thunder by the trembling pole,
And fill with awe sublime the glorying heart.

112

III

Comets desert their burning spheres,
And fiery meteors join our train,
Streaming, the Northern glow appears,
And lancing lightnings pour in vain,
Unhurt fair Fancy flies, nor flame, nor tempest fears.

FINIS.

The Aurora Borealis.