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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/11215-0.txt b/11215-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fc42717 --- /dev/null +++ b/11215-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4070 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11215 *** + + POEMS; + + BY + + THOMAS GENT. + + + + LONDON + + + 1828. + + + + +ADVERTISEMENT. + + +Some of the Pieces in this volume have been separately published, +at different times; the indulgence, I may say favour, +with which they were individually received, has encouraged me +to collect and re-publish them. I have added many others, +which are now first printed. I shall be well satisfied, if they +find as favourable a reception as their precursors; and are +thought not to have increased the size, without at all increasing +the merit, of the book. + +I cannot omit this opportunity of thanking those Critics, +who have honoured me by reviewing my verses. I owe them +my warm acknowledgments for candidly measuring my Poems +by their pretensions. They have looked at them as they really +were;--as the amusements of the leisure hours of a man +whose fortune will not favour his inclination to devote himself +to poetry; and conceiving a favourable opinion of them in +that character, have kindly expressed it. + +_London, December, 1827._ + +During the progress of these pages through the press, it has +pleased Providence to inflict upon me the severest calamity that +domestic life can sustain. In the private sorrows of the humble +candidate for literary fame, I am aware that the world will feel +no interest, yet humanity will forgive the weakness that struggles +under such a bereavement, and will pardon the tear that falls +upon such a tomb. If, indeed, the Being who is lost to her family +and society were endowed only with those gifts and graces, +which are shared by thousands of her sex, I should have been +silent at this moment. To those who knew her,[1] and to know +her was to esteem and love, this tribute will be superfluous; but +to those who knew her not, I would say, that, superadded to +every natural advantage, to the charms of every polite accomplishment, +and to a cheerful and sincere piety, she was deeply +imbued with the love of literature and of science. In these, her +Lectures on the Physiology of the External Senses exhibit a +splendid proof of her acquirements in their highest walks, and +are an imperishable memorial of her patient and laborious research. +They who were present at the delivery of these Lectures +will not soon forget the effect of her impressive elocution, +chastened as it was by as unaffected modesty as ever adorned +and dignified a woman. I speak of that which she performed--that +which her capacious mind had meditated I forbear to mention. +For the advancement of her sex in pursuits that are intellectual +she made many sacrifices, both of her feelings and her +time; yet, in all she did, and in all she contemplated, usefulness +was her end and aim--but I must not proceed; less than this I +could not say--more than this might be deemed ostentatious. + + +What earthly tongue, and, oh! what human pen + Can tell that scene of suffering, too severe. +'Tis ever present to my sight, oh! when + Will the sound cease its torture on mine ear? + +Oh! my lost love, thou patient Being, never! + Thy dying look of love can I forget; +The last fond pressure of thy hand, _for ever!_ + Thrills in my veins, I see thy struggles yet. + +Thy sculptured beauty is before me now: + In thy calm dignity, and sweet repose, +Alas! sad memory re-invests thy brow, + With death's stern agony, and pain's last throes. + +Desolate heart be still--forgive, oh God! + The cries of feeble nature stricken sore. +Father! assuage the terrors of thy rod. + Teach me to see thy wisdom--and adore! + + +[Footnote 1: I cannot resist the melancholy gratification of quoting +from the Literary Gazette, of August 18, in which the death of Mrs. Gent +was announced to the public.--"Science has, since our last, suffered a +severe lost by the death of this accomplished lady; she was well known +for her high attainments as a Lecturer, and her Course on the Physiology +of the External Senses was a perfect model of elegant composition and +refined oratory. Mrs. Gent died at the residence of her husband, Thomas +Gent, Esq. Doctor's Commons, after a month of severe suffering, which +she bore with singular fortitude, and the most pious resignation. There +is a fine bust of her, by Behnes; it was in the Exhibition two years +since, and, from its intrinsic simplicity and beauty alone, has had many +casts made from it." + +And one of the most distinguished Poets of the present day, will, I am +sure, forgive me if I quote his beautiful words in writing to me on +this subject--for his talents she had the highest admiration, and no +one was better able than himself to appreciate the excellence of her +character.--"As to condolence, I never condole--what condolence could +any one offer for the loss of so estimable a being as has been lost to +society in your accomplished wife? I had a very great respect and esteem +for her, and it would have highly gratified me to have been able to +lighten the least of her trials; but what avails writing or visiting on +occasions of such real pain. She lived a most amiable being--and for +such there is the highest hope in the Highest World. If I had conceived +that her illness was at all serious, I should have gone to gather wisdom +from her for my own hour--but now, that all her anxieties are past, I +can invent no condolence."] + +CONTENTS. + + +Poems +Mature Reflections +The Grave of Dibdin +A Sketch from Life +On the Portrait of the Son of J.G. Lambton, Esq. +Written in the Album of the Lady of Counsellor D. Pollock +The Heliotrope +Sonnet On seeing a Young Lady I had previously known, + confined in a Madhouse +Prometheus +Rosa's Grave +The Sibyl. A Sketch +Love +On a delightful Drawing in my Album +Stanzas +Shakspeare +Impromptu. To Oriana, on attending with her, as Sponsors, + at a Christening +To my Spaniel Fanny +Widowed Love +Written to the Lady of Dr. George Birkbeck +The Chain-pier, Brighton. A Sketch +Sonnet. Morning. +On the Death of Dr. Abel +Sonnet. Night. +Constancy. To ------ +Epistle to a Friend +Here in our Fairy Bowers we Dwell. A Glee +Henry and Eliza +Written on the Death of General Washington +To ------ +Monody on the Right Hon. R.B. Sheridan +On the beautiful Portrait of Mrs. Forman, as Pandora +Sonnet. To ------, on her Recovery from Illness +To Margaret Jane H------, on her Birth-day +The Runaway +On Reading the Poem of "Paris." +On the Death of Gen. Sir R. Abercrombie +Retaliation +Lines, written in a Copy of the Poem on the Princess Charlotte +Sonnet +To Robert Soothey, Esq. on reading his "Remains of Henry Kirke White" +The State Secret. An Impromptu +The Morning Call +Sonnet +On the Rupture of the Thames' Tunnel +Anacreontic. "The Wisest Men are Fools in Wine." +Lines, written in Hornsey Wood +To Mary +Black Eyes and Blue +Epigram. Auri Sacra Fames +Sonnet. To Faith +On a Spirited Portrait, by E. Landaeer, Esq. +Sonnet. To Hope +Lines, written on the Sixth of September +Sonnet. To Charity +Hymn +Reflections of a Poet on going to a great Dinner +Sunday +A Night-Storm +On the Death of Nelson +The Blue-eyed Maid +Taking Orders. A Tale, founded on fact +The Gipsy's Home. A Glee +Sonnet. The Beggar +To ------ +Song. "The Recal of the Hero." +To Eliza. Written in her Album +Elegy on the Death of A. Goldsmid, Esq. +Sonnet. On the Death of Mrs. Charlotte Smith +Mister Punch. A Hasty Sketch +Content +Epitaph. On Matilda +To ------. An Impromptu +The Steam-Boat +Sonnet To Lydia, on her Birth-day +To Sarah, while Singing +To Thaddeus +Youth and Age +Sent for the Album of the Rev. G----- C----- +Written under an elegant Drawing of a Dead Canary Bird +Lines suggested by the Death of the Princess Charlotte +The Presumptuous Fly +The Heroes of Waterloo +The Night-blowing Cereus +1827; or, the Poet's Last Poem +To the Reviewers + +POEMS. + +Tis sweet in boyhood's visionary mood, +When glowing Fancy, innocently gay, +Flings forth, like motes, her bright aërial brood, +To dance and shine in Hope's prolific ray; +'Tis sweet, unweeting how the flight of years +May darkling roll in trials and in tears, +To dress the future in what garb we list, +And shape the thousand joys that never may exist. +But he, sad wight! of all that feverish train, +Fool'd by those phantoms of the wizard brain, +Most wildly dotes, whom young ambition stings +To trust his weight upon poetic wings; +He, downward looking in his airy ride, +Beholds Elysium bloom on every side; +Unearthly bliss each thrilling nerve attunes, +And thus the dreamer with himself communes. +Yes! Earth shall witness, 'ere my star be set, +That partial nature mark'd me for her pet; +That Phoebus doom'd me, kind indulgent sire! +To mount his car, and set the world on fire. +Fame's steep ascent by easy flights to win, +With a neat pocket volume I'll begin; +And dirge, and sonnet, ode, and epigram, +Shall show mankind how versatile I am. +The buskin'd Muse shall next my pen descry: +The boxes from their inmost rows shall sigh; +The pit shall weep, the galleries deplore +Such moving woes as ne'er were heard before: +Enough--I'll leave them in their soft hysterics, +Mount, in a brighter blaze, and dazzle with Homerics. + +Then, while my name runs ringing through Reviews, +And maids, wives, widows, smitten with my Muse, +Assail me with Platonic _billet-doux_. +From this suburban attic I'll dismount, +With Coutts or Barclays open an account; +Ranged in my mirror, cards, with burnish'd ends, +Shall show the whole nobility my friends; +That happy host with whom I choose to dine, +Shall make set-parties, give his-choicest wine; +And age and infancy shall gape to see +The lucky bard, and whisper "That is he!" + +Poor youth! he print--and wakes, _to sleep no more_-- +The world goes on, indifferent, as before; +And the first notice of his metric skill +Comes in the likeness of--his printer's bill; +To pen soft notes no fair enthusiast stirs, +Except his laundress--and who values her's? +None but herself: for though the bard may burn +Her _note_, she still expects one in return. +The luckless maiden, all unblest shall sigh; +His pocket _tome_ hath drawn his pockets dry. +His tragedy expires in peals of laughter; +And that soul-thrilling wish--to live hereafter-- +Gives way to one as hopeless quite, I fear, +And far more needful--how to _live while here_. +Where are ye now, divine illusions all; +Cheques, dinners, wines, admirers great and small! +Changed to two followers, terrible to see, +Who dog his walks, and whisper "That is he!" + +Rhymesters attend! nor scorn & friendly hint, +Restrain your _cacoëths_ fierce to print. +But hark, _my_ printer's devil's at the door, +My leisure cannot yield one moment more: +Nor matters it, advice can ne'er restrain +Madman or poet from his bent:--'tis vain +To strive to point out colours to the blind, +Or set men seeking what they _will not find_. + + + +MATURE REFLECTIONS. + +O Love! divinest dream of youth, + Thy day of ecstacy is o'er, +My bosom, touch'd by time and truth, + Thrills at thy dear deceits no more. + +Nor thou, Ambition! e'er again, + With splendour dazzling to betray, +And aspirations fierce and vain, + Shall tempt my steps--away! away! + +Alas! by stern Experience cleft, + When life's romance is turn'd to sport; +If man hath consolation left + On this side death--'tis good old port. + +And thou, Advice! who glum and chill, + Do'st the _third bottle_ still gainsay; +Smile, and partake it, if you will, + But if you wont--away! away! + + + +THE GRAVE OF DIBDIN. + +Lives there who, with unhallow'd hand, would tear, +One leaf from that immortal wreath which shades +The Hero's living brow, or decks his urn? +Breathes there who does not triumph in the thought +That "Nelson's language is his mother tongue," +And that St. Vincent's country is his own? +Oh! these bright guerdons of renown are won +By means most palpable to sense and sight; +By days of peril and by nights of toil; +By Valour's long probation, closed at last +In Victory's arms--consummated and seal'd +In deathless Glory and immortal Fame. + +Musing I stand upon _his_ lowly grave, +Who, though he fought no battle--though he pour'd +No hostile thunders on his country's foes, +Achieved for Britain triumphs, less array'd +"In pomp and circumstance," nor visible +To vulgar gaze--the triumphs of the _Mind_. +He nursed the elements of courage--he +Supplied the aliment that feeds and guides +The daring spirit to its high emprise-- +A nation's moral energies, by him +Directed, found a nobler end and aim. +He gave that high discriminating tone +That marks the Brave from mercenary tools-- +Features that separate a British Crew +From hireling bravoes, and from pirate hordes. +And yet no marble marks the spot where lies +The dust of DIBDIN;--no inscription speaks +A Nation's gratitude--a Bard's desert. + +The youthful Sailor on his midnight watch, +Fixing his gaze upon the tranquil moon, +Felt his heart soften as the thoughts of home +Rush'd on his faithful memory;--then it was +In language meet, and in appropriate strains-- +Strains which thy lyre had taught him--he pour'd forth +The feelings of his soul, and all was calm. + +Thy Spirit still presides in that carouse, +When to "the Far away" the toast is given, +And "absent Wives and Sweethearts" claim their right, +With Woman's constancy thy songs are rife; +And this pure creed still teaches Man t' endure +Privations, danger, and each form of death. + +When not a breath responded to the call, +And Seamen whistled to the winds in vain; +When the loose canvass droop'd in lazy folds, +And idle pennants dangled from the mast;-- +There, in that trying moment, thou wert found +To teach the hardest lesson man can learn-- +Passive endurance--and the breeze has sprung, +As if obedient to the voice of Song:-- +And yet unhonour'd here thy ashes lie! + +A nobler lesson learn'd the gallant Tar +From his Orphean lyre--to temper right +The lion's courage with the attributes +That to the gentle and the meek belong; +O'er fallen foes to check the eye of fire-- +O'er fallen foes to soften heart of oak. + +He turn'd the Fatalist's rash eye to Him +In whom the issues are of life and death; +He taught to whom the battle is--to whom +The victory belongs. His cherub, that aloft +Kept sleepless watch, was Providence--not Chance. + +And yet no honours are decreed for him-- +Friend of the Brave, thy memory cannot die! +Th'inquiring voice, that eagerly demands +Where rest thy ashes?--shall preserve thy fame. +Thine immortality thyself hast wrought;-- +Familiar as the terms of art, thy verse, +Thine own peculiar words are still the mode +In which the Seaman aptly would express +His honest passions and his manly thoughts; +His feelings kindle at thy burning words, +Which speak his duty in the battle's front; +His parting whisper to the maid he loves +Is breathed in eloquence he learned from thee; +Thou art his Oracle in every mood-- +His trump of victory--his lyre of love! + + + +A SKETCH FROM LIFE. + +She sat in beauty, like some form of nymph +Or naïad, on the mossy, purpled bank +Of her wild woodland stream, that at her feet +Linger'd, and play'd, and dimpled, as in love. +Or like those shapes that on the western clouds +Spread gold-dropp'd plumes, and sing to harps of pearl, +And teach the evening winds their melody: +How shall I tell her beauty?--for the eye, +Fix'd on the sun, is blinded by its beam. +One glance, and then no more, upon that brow +Brighter than marble shining through those curls, +Richer than hyacinths when they wave their bells +In the low breathing of the twilight wind.-- +One glance upon that lip, beside whose hue +The morning rose would sicken and grow pale, +'Till it was waked again by the soft breath +That steals in music from those lips of love. +Wert thou a statue I could pine for thee, +But in thy living beauty there is awe; +The sacredness of modesty enshrines +The ruby lip, bright brow, and beaming eye;-- +I dare but worship what I must not love. + + + +ON THE PORTRAIT + +OF THE SON OF J.G. LAMBTON, ESQ., M.P. + +BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE, P.R.A. + + +Beautiful Boy--thy heavenward thoughts + Are pictured in thine eyes, +Thou hast no taint of mortal birth, +Thy communing is not of earth, + Thy holy musings rise: +Like incense kindled from on high, +Ascending to its native sky. + +And such a head might once have graced + The infant Samuel, when +Call'd by the favour of his God, +The youthful priest the Temple trod + Beloved of Heaven and men! +The same devotion on his brow +As brightens in thy forehead now. + +Or, thou may'st seem to Fancy's eye + One borne by arms Divine; +One, whom on Earth a Saviour bless'd, +And on whose features left impress'd + The Contact's holy sign: +A light, a halo, and a grace, +So pure th' expression of that face. + +Or, has the Painter's skill _alone_ + Such grace and glory given? +Clothed thee with attributes which seem +Creations of an angel's dream, + To raise the soul to Heaven? +_No, as he found thee, he arrayed, +And Genius taught what God had made!_ + + + +WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM + +OF THE LADY OF COUNSELLOR D. POLLOCK. + + +Joy to thee, Lady! many years of joy + To thee--and thine--that springtide of the heart, +The bliss of virtuous love, without alloy. + And all that health and gladsome life impart. +How gracefully hast thou thy task perform'd, + The watchful tender mother, matchless wife; +All woman boasts--thou hast indeed adorn'd-- + Thine the high merit of an useful life. +For ever cheerful, though the Tragic Muse[1] + May call thee Sister, both in form and mind; +Thou do'st to all those envied charms transfuse, + Which shine so highly temper'd and refined. +Lady revered--the sunbeam and the rose + Are poor in beauty to sweet woman's smiles: +'Tis the bright sunset of life's awful close, + The Poet's deathless wreath! a spell all grief beguiles! + +[Footnote 1: The Lady, to whom these lines are addressed has been greatly +noticed for the strong resemblance she bears to Mrs. Siddons.] + + + +THE HELIOTROPE. + +There is a flower, whose modest eye + Is turn'd with looks of light and love, +Who breathes her softest, sweetest sigh. + Whene'er the sun is bright above. + +Let clouds obscure, or darkness veil, + Her fond idolatry is fled, +Her sighs no more their sweets exhale. + The loving eye is cold--and dead. + +Canst thou not trace a moral here, + False flatterer of the prosperous hour? +Let but an adverse cloud appear, + And Thou art faithless, as the Flower! + + + +SONNET. + +ON SEEING A YOUNG LADY, + +I HAD PREVIOUSLY KNOWN, CONFINED IN A MADHOUSE. + + +Sweet wreck of loveliness! alas, how soon + The sad brief summer of thy joys hath fled: +How sorrows Friendship for thy hapless doom, + Thy beauty faded, and thy hopes all dead. +Oh! 'twas that beauty's power which first destroy'd + Thy mind's serenity; its charms but led +The faithless friend, that thy pure love enjoy'd, + To tear the beauteous blossom from its bed. +How reason shudders at thy frenzied air! + To see thee smile, with fancy's dreams possess'd; +Or shrink, the frozen image of despair. + Or, love-enraptured, chant thy griefs to rest: +Oh! cease that mournful voice, affliction's child, + My heart but bleeds to hear thy musings wild. + + + +PROMETHEUS. + +What sovereign good shall satiate man's desires, +Propell'd by Hope's unconquerable fires? +Vain each bright bauble by ambition prized; +Unwon, 'tis worshipp'd--but possess'd, despised. +Yet all defect with virtue shines allied, +His mightiest impulse genius owes to pride. +From conquer'd science graced with glorious spoils, +He still dares on, demands sublimer toils; +And, had not Nature check'd his vent'rous wing, +His eye had pierced her at her primal spring. + +Thus when, enwrapt, Prometheus strove to trace +Inspired perceptions of celestial grace, +Th' ideal spirit, fugitive as wind, +Art's forceful spells in adamant confined: +Curved with nice chisel floats the obsequious line; +From stone unconscious, beauty beams divine; +On magic poised, th' exulting structure swims, +And spurns attraction with elastic limbs. +While ravish'd fancy vivifies the form; +While judgment toils to analyze its charm; +While admiration spreads her speaking hands; +The lofty artist undelighted stands. +He longs to ravish from the bless'd abodes +The seal of heaven, the attribute of gods; +To give his labour more than man can give, +Breathe Jove's own breath, and bid the marble live! + +Won from her woof, embellishing the skies, +Descending, Pallas soothes her vot'ry's sighs, +Where, 'midst the twilight of o'er-arching groves, +By waking visions led, th' enthusiast roves; +Like summer suns, by showery clouds conceal'd, +With sudden blaze the goddess shines reveal'd: +Behold, she cries, in thy distinguished cause +I challenge Jove's inexorable laws! +With life-stol'n essence let th' awaken'd stone +A super-human generation own. +Defrauded nature shall admire the deed, +And time recoil at thy immortal meed. + +Impregn'd with action, and convoked to breathe, +Sighs the still form his ardent hands beneath; +Electric lustres flash from either eve, +O'er its pale cheeks suffusive flushes fly, +And glossy damps its clust'ring curls adorn, +Like dew-drops bright'ning on the brows of morn. +Through nerves that vibrate in unfolding chains, +Foams the warm life-blood, excavating veins; +'Till all infused, and organized the whole, +The finish'd fabric hails the breathing soul! +Then waked tumultuous in th' alarmed breast, +Contending passions claim th' etherial guest; +And still, as each alternate empire proves, +She hopes, she fears, she envies, and she loves; +Owns all sensations that deride the span, +And eternize the little life of man! + + + +ROSA'S GRAVE. + +It is a mournful pleasure to remember the exquisite taste and +delight she evinced in the arrangement of a Bouquet; and how +often she wished that, hereafter, she might appear to me as a +beautiful flower! + + +Oh! lay me where my Rosa lies, + And love shall o'er the moss-grown bed, +When dew-drops leave the weeping skies. + His tenderest tear of pity shed. + +And sacred shall the willow be, + That shades the spot where virtue sleeps; +And mournful memory weep to see + The hallow'd watch affection keeps. + +Yes, soul of love! this bleeding heart + Scarce beating, soon its griefs shall cease; +Soon from his woes the sufferer part, + And hail thee at the Throne of Peace + + + +THE SIBYL. + +A SKETCH. + + +So stood the Sibyl: stream'd her hoary hair +Wild as the blast, and with a comet's glare +Glow'd her red eye-balls 'midst the sunken gloom +Of their wild orbs, like death-fires in a tomb. +Slow, like the rising storm, in fitful moans, +Broke from her breast the deep prophetic tones. +Anon, with whirlwind rash, the Spirit came; +Then in dire splendour, like imprison'd flame +Flashing through rifted domes or towns amazed, +Her voice in thunder burst; her arm she raised; +Outstretch'd her hands, as with a Fury's force, +To grasp, and launch the slow descending curse: +Still as she spoke, her stature seem'd to grow; +Still she denounced unmitigable woe: +Pain, want, and madness, pestilence, and death, +Rode forth triumphant at her blasting breath: +Their march she marshall'd, taught their ire to fall-- +And seem'd herself the emblem of them all! + + + +LOVE. + +Love!--what is love? a mere machine, a spring +For freaks fantastic, a convenient thing, +A point to which each scribbling wight most steer, +Or vainly hope for food or favour here; +A summer's sigh; a winter's wistful tale: +A sound at which th' untutor'd maid turns pale; +Her soft eyes languish, and her bosom heaves, +And Hope delights as Fancy's dream deceives. + +Thus speaks the heart which cold disgust invades, +When time instructs, and Hope's enchantment fades; +Through life's wide stage, from sages down to kings, +The puppets move, as art directs the strings: +Imperious beauty bows to sordid gold, +Her smiles, whence heaven flows emanent, are sold; +And affectation swells th' entrancing tones, +Which nature subjugates, and truth disowns. + +I love th' ingenuous maiden, practised not +To pierce the heart with ambush'd glances, shot +From eyelashes, whose shadowy length she knows +To a hair's point, their high arch when to close +Half o'er the swimming orb, and when to raise, +Disclosing all the artificial blaze +Of unfelt passion, which alone can move +Him whom the genuine eloquence of love +Affected never, won with wanton wiles, +With soulless sighs, and meretricious smiles; +By nature unimpress'd, uncharm'd by thee, +Sweet goddess of my heart, Simplicity! + + + +ON A DELIGHTFUL DRAWING IN MY ALBUM, + +By my friend, T. WOODWARD, ESQ., of a Group, consisting of a +Donkey, a Boy, and a Dog. + + +Welcome, my pretty Neddy--welcome too +Thy merry Rider with his apron blue; +And thou, poor Dog, most patient thing of all, +Begging for morsels that may never fall! +Oh! 'tis a faithful group--and it might shame +Painters of bold pretence, and greater name-- +To see how nature triumphs, and how rare +Such matchless proofs of Nature's triumphs are-- +The smallest particle of sand may tell +With what rich ore Pactolus' tide may swell: +And Woodward! this ingenious, chaste design, +Proclaims what treasures lie within the mine-- +Pupil of Cooper--Nature's favorite son-- +Whom, but to name, and to admire, is one! + + + +STANZAS. + +Say, why is the stern eye averted with scorn + Of the stoic who passes along? +And why frowns the maid, else as mild as the morn. + On the victim of falsehood and wrong? + +For the wretch sunk in sorrow, repentance, and shame, + The tear of compassion is won: +And alone must she forfeit the wretch's sad claim, + Because she's deceived and undone? + +Oh! recal the stern look, ere it reaches her heart, + To bid its wounds rankle anew; +Oh! smile, or embalm with a tear the sad smart, + And angels will smile upon you. + +Time was, when she knew nor opprobrium nor pain, + And youth could its pleasures impart, +Till some serpent distill'd through her bosom the stain, + As he wound round the strings of her heart. + +Poor girl! let thy tears through thy blandishments break, + Nor strive to retrace them within; +For mine would I mingle with those on thy cheek, + Nor think that such sorrow were sin. + +When the low-trampled reed, and the pine in its pride, + Shall alike feel the hand of decay, +May thy God grant that mercy the world has denied, + And wipe all your sorrows away! + + + +SHAKSPEARE. + +Respectfully inscribed, with permission, to the Committee +(of which His Majesty is the Patron) for the proposed Monuments +to SHAKSPEARE at Stratford and in London. Intended to be +spoken at one of the Theatres. + + +While o'er this pageant of sublunar things +Oblivion spreads her unrelenting wings, +And sweeps adown her dark unebbing tide +Man, and his mightiest monuments of pride-- +Alone, aloft, immutable, sublime, +Star-like, ensphered above the track of time, +Great SHAKSPEARE beams with undiminish'd ray. +His bright creations sacred from decay, +Like Nature's self, whose living form he drew, +Though still the same, still beautiful and new. + +He came, untaught in academic bowers, +A gift to Glory from the Sylvan powers: +But what keen Sage, with all the science fraught, +By elder bards or later critics taught, +Shall count the cords of his mellifluous shell, +Span the vast fabric of his fame, and tell +By what strange arts he bade the structure rise-- +On what deep site the strong foundation lies? +This, why should scholiasts labour to reveal? +We all can answer it, we all can feel, +Ten thousand sympathies, attesting, start-- +For SHAKSPEARE'S Temple, _is the human heart!_ + +Lord of a throne which mortal ne'er shall share-- +Despot adored! he rales and revels there. +Who but has found, where'er his track hath been, +Through life's oft shifting, multifarious scene, +Still at his side the genial Bard attend, +His loved companion, counsellor, and friend! + +The Thespian Sisters nurtured in the schools +Of Greece and Rome, and long coerced by rules, +Scarce moved the inmates of their native hearth +With tiny pathos and with trivial mirth, +Till She, great muse of daring enterprise, +Delighted ENGLAND! saw her SHAKSPEARE rise! + +Then, first aroused in that appointed hour, +The Tragic Muse confess'd th' inspiring power; +Sudden before the startled earth she stood, +A giant spectre, weeping tears and blood; +Guilt shrunk appall'd, Despair embraced his shroud, +And Terror shriek'd, and Pity sobb'd aloud;-- +Then, first Thalia with dilated ken +And quicken'd footstep pierced the walks of men; +Then Folly blush'd, Vice fled the general hiss, +Delight met Reason with a loving kiss; +At Satire's glance Pride smooth'd his low'ring crest, +The Graces weaved the dance.--And last and best +Came Momus down in Falstaff's form to earth. +To make the world one universe of mirth! + +Such Sympathies the glorious Bard endear! +Thus fair he walks in Man's diurnal sphere. +But when, upborne on bright Invention's wings. +He dares the realms of uncreated things, +Forms more divine, more dreadful, start to view, +Than ever Hades or Olympus knew. +Round the dark cauldron, terrible and fell, +The midnight Witches breathe the songs of hell; +Delighted _Ariel_ wings his fiery way +To whirl the storm, the wheeling Orbs to stay; +Then bathes in honey-dews, and sleeps in flowers; +Meanwhile, young _Oberon_, girt with shadowy powers, +Pursues o'er Ocean's verge the pale cold Moon, +Or hymns her, riding in her highest noon. + +Thus graced, thus glorified, shall SHAKSPEARE crave +The Sculptor's skill, the pageant of the grave? +HE needs it not--but Gratitude demands +This votive offering at his Country's hands. +Haply, e'er now, from blissful bowers on high, +From some Parnassus of the empyreal sky, +Pleased, o'er this dome the gentle Spirit bends, +Accepts the gift, and hails us as his friends-- +Yet smiles, perchance, to think when envious Time +O'er Bust and Urn shall bid his ivies climb, +When Palaces and Pyramids shall fall-- +HIS PAGE SHALL TRIUMPH--still surviving all-- +'Till Earth itself, "like breath upon the wind," +Shall melt away, "nor leave a rack behind!" + + + +IMPROMPTU, TO ORIANA. + +ON ATTENDING WITH HER, AS SPONSORS, AT A CHRISTENING + + +Lady! who didst--with angel-look and smile, +And the sweet lustre of those dear, dark eyes, +Gracefully bend before the font of Christ, +In humble adoration, faith, and prayer! +Oh!--as the infant pledge of friends beloved +Received from thy pure lips its future name, +Sweetly unconscious look'd the baby-boy! +How beautifully helpless--and how mild! +--Methought, a seraph spread her shelt'ring wings +Over the solemn scene; and as the sun, +In its full splendour, on the altar came, +God's blessing seem'd to sanctify the deed. + + + +TO MY SPANIEL FANNY. + +Fanny! were all the world like thee, + How cheerly then this life would glide, +Dear emblem of Fidelity! + Long may'st thou grace thy master's side. + +Long cheer his hours of solitude, + With watchful eye each wish to learn, +And anxious speechless gratitude + Hail with delight each short sojourn. + +When sick at heart, thy welcome home + A weary load of grief dispels, +Gladdens with hope the hours to come, + And yet a mournful lesson tells! + +To find _thee_ ever faithful, kind, + My guard by night, my friend by day, +While those in friendship more refined + Have with my fortunes flown away. + +Why bounteous nature hast thou given + To this poor _Brute_--a boon so kind +As constancy--bless'd gift of Heaven! + And MAN--to waver like the wind? + + + +WIDOWED LOVE.[1] + +Tell me, chaste spirit! in yon orb of light, + Which seems to wearied souls an ark of rest, +So calm, so peaceful, so divinely bright-- + Solace of broken hearts, the mansion of the bless'd! + +Tell me, oh! tell me--shall I meet again + The long lost object of my only love! +--This hope but mine, death were release from pain; + Angel of mercy! haste, and waft my soul above! + +[Footnote 1: Mr. T. Millar has composed sweet music to these lines, and +has been peculiarly fortunate in composing and singing some of +the exquisite Melodies of T.H. Bayly, Esq. of Bath.] + + + +WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM + +OF THE LADY OF DR. GEORGE BIRKBECK, M.D. + +President of the London Mechanic's Institution, and of the Chemical +and Meteorological Societies. Founder and Patron of the +Glasgow Mechanic's Institute, &c. &c. &c. + + +Lady unknown! a pilgrim from the shrine +Of Poesy's fair temple, brings a wreath +Which fame and gratitude alike entwine, +Around a name that charms the monster Death, +And bids him pause!--Amidst despairing life +BIRKBECK's the harbinger of hope and health; +When sordid affluence was with man at strife, +He boldly stripp'd the veil, and show'd the wealth +To aged ignorance, and ardent youth, +Of cultured minds--the freedom of the soul! +The sun of science, and the light of truth, +The bliss of reason--mind without control. + +Accept this tribute. Lady! and the praise, +As Consort and the soother of his care! +His offspring's pride--his friend's commingled rays, +And every other grace that man has deem'd most rare! + + + +THE CHAIN-PIER, BRIGHTON; + +A SKETCH. + + +Hail, lovely morn! and thou, all-beauteous sea! +Sun-sparkling with the diamond's countless rays: +Thy look, how tranquil, one eternal calm, +Which seems to woo the troubled soul to peace! +Now, all is sunshine, and thy boundless breast +Scarce heaves; unruffled, all thy waves subside +(Light murmuring, like the baby sighs of rest) +Into a gentle ripple on the shore. + +All hail, dear Woman! saving-ark of man, +His surest solace in this world of woe; +How cheering are thy smiles, which, like the breeze +Of health, play softly o'er the pallid cheek, +And turn its rigid markings to a smile. +England may well be proud of scenes like this; +The beaming Beauty which adorns the PIER! + +Hung like a fairy fabric o'er the sea, +The graceful wonder of this wondrous age; +Intrepid Brown,[1] the future page shall tell +Thy generous spirit's persevering aim, +That wrought so much, so well, thy country's weal; +How fit for thee, the gallant seaman's life, +His restless nights, and days of ceaseless toil; +Framed by thy mighty hand, the giant work +Check'd the rude tempest, in its fearful way. +Thy bold inventions gave new life to hope, +Steadied the wavering, and confirm'd the brave, +And bade the timid smile, amidst the storm! + +Spirit of Hogarth! had I but one ray +Of that vast sun which warm'd thy varied mind; +How would I now describe the motley groups +Which crowd, in thoughtless ease, thy moving road. +Mark the young Confidence of yesterday, +Offspring of pride, and fortune's blinded fool, +(Engender'd like the vermin of an hour) +All would-be fashion, elegance, and ease, +While, by his side, the weaker vessel smirks, +In tawdry finery, with presuming gait, +As though the world were made for them alone; +Their liveried Lacquey, half-conceal'd in lace, +The vulgar wonder of an upstart race. +How heartlessly they pass that mourner by, +The poor lone Widow, with her death-struck load. +In speechless poverty, she courts the air, +To give its blessing to her suff'ring babe; +Not asking it herself; for life, to her, +Has now no charm--her refuge is the grave! + +Here comes the moral Almanack of years-- +The prim old maid, and, by her side, her Niece, +Full of bewitching beauty, health, and love. +See, how the tabby watches Laura's eyes, +Lest they should smile upon some pleasing spark, +And violate grim prudery's tyrant ties. +With icy finger, she her charge directs, +To view the faithful dial of the sun, +Whose moral tells how tide and time pass on. +See, there--the fated victim of mischance; +Read, in that hollow eye, and alter'd look, +The deep anxiety which gnaws the heart, +Incessant struggling 'gainst a tide of care, +Which wears his life away;--and there, again, +The empty, lucky Fool, who never thought, +Nor ever will, yet lives and smiles, and thrives! +Mark ye, that Ready-reckoner's figured face? +Cold calculation in his thoughtful step; +The heartless wretch, who never trusts his land, +And never is deceived!--And, next him, comes +Laughing Good-nature, with ruddy cheeks, +And welcome look, determined to be pleased. +He comes to ask--or go with friend to dine; +His labour but to dress--to eat, to sleep: +He knows no suffering equal to bad wine. +There--the prig-Parson, with indented hat, +And formal step--demanding your respect-- +Yonder, the lovely insect-chasing Child. +His is, indeed, a life of envious joy; +Hope and anticipation, on the wing, +To him no sad realities e'er bring! + +And now, the humble Quaker, plain and proud. +Humility, is this, indeed, thy type? +(I know it is not, for I know the man.) +His lovely Daughter bears an angel form +And mind, that glorifies her sex's charms; +Meekness and charity her life employ-- +A seraph sorrowing for a suffering world! +Lo! too, the Matron, with her household gods, +The deities she worships night and day. +Affection has no bounds, nor language words. +To tell a mother's tender ceaseless charge. +Children! can all your future lore repay +The nights of watchfulness, and days of care, +Which a fond parent gives?-- +See, last, sad sight! the hardy British Tar, +Cutlass unsheath'd, unlike the truly brave. +Here, watching, night and day--degenerate lot! +To seize a fisherman, or stop a cart, +Or "fright the wandering spirits from the shore." +His "brief authority" has just detain'd +A boat of cockles and a quart of gin! +The smart Lieutenant's epaulette, methinks, +Blushes at this degrading, pimping trade.-- +For deeds like these--let objects be employ'd, +Who never shared their country's high renown! +Adieu! vast Ocean, cradle of the brave, +Tablet of England's glory, and her shield! +To thee--and those dear friends who lured me here, +With hospitality's enchanting smile, +And chased away a little age of woe-- +Gratefully--I dedicate these _tuneful lays!_ + +_July_, 1826. + +[Footnote 1: My friend, Captain Samuel Brown, of the Royal Navy, whose +inventions and improvements of the iron chain cable, and various +others connected with the naval service, deserve the gratitude of +his country, independent of the admirable Chain-Pier at Brighton, +a Suspension Bridge over the Tweed, Pier at Newhaven, Bridge at +Heckham, the iron work for Hammersmith Suspension Bridge, +and other successful undertakings.] + + + +SONNET. + +MORNING. + + +Light as the breeze that hails the infant morn + The Milkmaid trips, as o'er her arm she slings + Her cleanly pail, some fav'rite lay she sings +As sweetly wild and cheerful as the horn. +O! happy girl I may never faithless love, + Or fancied splendour, lead thy steps astray; + No cares becloud the sunshine of thy day, +Nor want e'er urge thee from thy cot to rove. +What though thy station dooms thee to be poor, + And by the hard-earn'd morsel thou art fed; + Yet sweet content bedecks thy lowly bed, +And health and peace sit smiling at thy door: +Of these possess'd--thou hast a gracious meed, +Which Heaven's high wisdom gives, to make thee rich indeed! + + + +ON THE DEATH OF DR. ABEL,[1] + +Physician and Naturalist to Lord Amherst, Governor General of +India, who died at Cawnpoor, 24th of November, 1826. + + +Another awful warning voice of death +To human dignity, and human pride; +'Tis sad, to mark how short the longest life-- +How brief was thine! Thy day is done, +And all its complicated hopes and fears +Lie buried, ABEL! in an early grave. +The unavailing tear for thee shall flow, +And love and friendship faithful record keep +Of all thy varied worth, thy anxious strife +For fame and years, now gone for ever! +Yet o'er thy tomb science and learning +Bend in mute regret, and truth proclaims +Thy just inheritance an honour'd name! + +Lamented most by those who knew thee best, +Accept this humble, tributary lay, +From one, who in thy boyhood and thy prime +Had shared thy friendship, and had fondly hoped +When last we parted, many years were thine +And joys in store--that thy elastic mind +Might long have gladden'd life's monotony. +Thine was a princely heart, a joyous soul, +The charm of reason, and the sprightly wit +Which kept dull letter'd ignorance in awe, +Shook the pretender on his tinsel throne, +And claim'd the glorious dignity of mind! + +Alas! that in thy prime, when time began +To make thee nearly all the World could wish, +The spoiler Death should unrelenting come +(As though in envy of thy wondrous skill) +And stop the fountain of a noble heart. + +Rest, anxious spirit! from life's feverish dream, +From all its sad realities and cares: +Be this thy Epitaph, thy honour'd boast-- +Thine was the fame, which thine own mind achieved! + +[Footnote 1: Dr. Abel was greatly distinguished in his profession for +his love of it, and for the ardour of his pursuits in useful knowledge. +--He published many ingenious Papers on Medical Science and Natural +History. His account of the Embassy to China, under Lord Amherst, has +been generally admired. He practised with increasing respect as a +Physician, at Brighton, previous to his leaving England for India; and +meditated (as the Author of this article knows) one or two works, which, +from the activity of his mind, may yet be anticipated. Dr. Abel was a +native of Bungay, in Suffolk (where his father was a banker), and it is +supposed was about 35 years of age when he died. It is worthy of remark, +that the present eminent and estimable Dr. Gooch, Librarian to His +Majesty, and Dr. Abel, should both have been pupils of Mr. Borrett, +Surgeon, of Yarmouth.] + + + +SONNET. + +NIGHT. + + +Now when dun Night her shadowy veil has spread, + See want and infamy, as forth they come, + Lead their wan daughter from her branded home, +To woo the stranger for unhallow'd bread. +Poor outcast! o'er thy sickly-tinted cheek + And half-clad form, what havoc want hath made; + And the sweet lustre of thine eye doth fade, +And all thy soul's sad sorrow seems to speak. +O! miserable state! compell'd to wear + The wooing smile, as on thy aching breast + Some wretch reclines, who feeling ne'er possess'd; +Thy poor heart bursting with the stifled tear! +Oh! GOD OF MERCY! bid her woes subside, +And be to her a friend, who hath no friend beside. + + + +CONSTANCY. + +TO----. + + +Dearest love! when thy God shall recall thee, + Be this record inscribed on thy tomb: +Truth, and gratitude, well may applaud thee, + And all thy past virtues relume. + +It shall tell--to thy sex's proud honour, + Of sufferings and trials severe, +While still, through protracted affliction, + Not a murmur escaped; but the tear + +Of resignment to Heaven's high dictates, + 'Twas thine, like a martyr, to shed: +That heart--all affection for others-- + For thyself, uncomplainingly, bled. + +Midst the storms, which misfortune had gather'd, + What an angel thou wert unto me; +In that hour, when all friendship seem'd sever'd, + Thou didst bloom like the ever-green tree! + +All was gloom; and in vain had I striven, + For hope ceased a ray to impart; +When thou cam'st, like a meteor from heaven, + And gave peace to my desolate heart! + + + +EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. + +Give me the wreath of friendship true, + Whose flowerets fade not in a breath: +From memory gaining many a hue, + To bloom beyond the touch of death. + +And I will send it to thy home-- + Thy home beloved, my faithful friend! +And pray for its perpetual bloom + And every bliss that earth can send. + +Within its magic wreath I'd place + Hearts'-ease and every lovely flower; +To win thee by their matchless grace, + And cheer and bless the lonely hour. + +When at the world's unkind return + Of all thy worth, and all thy care, +Thou may'st in spite of manhood turn, + And shed the sad, the bitter, tear. + +Then, midst this holy grief of thine, + The thought of some true friend may bless, +And cheer the gloom like angel's smile, + Or sunbeam in a wilderness. + +And could I hope I had a claim + On thee in such a rapturous hour? +Oh! that, indeed, I'd own were fame. + The saving ark of friendship's power. + +Or that, in future years, thy babes + Should o'er this frail memorial bend, +(For first affection rarely fades!) + And boast that I was once the friend + +Whose wit, or worth, possess'd a charm, + By Parents loved, and them caress'd. +That spell would every sorrow calm, + And bid my anxious spirit rest! + + + +HERE IN OUR FAIRY BOWERS WE DWELL. + +A GLEE. + +Sung by Messrs. GOULDEN, PYNE, and NELSON.--Composed by +Mr. ROOKE. + + +Here, in our fairy bowers, we dwell, + Women our idol, life's best treasure! +Echo enchanted joys to tell, + Our feast of laugh, of love, and pleasure. + Say, is not this then bliss divine, + Beauty's smiles and rosy wine? + +Eternal mirth and sunshine reign, + For grief we cannot find the leisure; +Night's social gods have banish'd pain, + Morn lights us to increasing pleasure. + Say, is not this then bliss divine, + Beauty's smiles and rosy wine? + Here in our fairy bowers, &c. + + + +HENRY AND ELIZA. + +O'er the wide heath now moon-tide horrors hung, + And night's dark pencil dimm'd the tints of spring; +The boding minstrel now harsh omens sung, + And the bat spread his dark nocturnal wing. + +At that still hour, pale Cynthia oft had seen + The fair Eliza (joyous once and gay), +With pensive step, and melancholy mien, + O'er the broad plain in love-born anguish stray. + +Long had her heart with Henry's been entwined, + And love's soft voice had waked the sacred blaze +Of Hymen's altar; while, with him combined, + His cherub train prepared the torch to raise: + +When, lo! his standard raging war uprear'd, + And honour call'd her Henry from her charms. +He fought, but ah! torn, mangled, blood-besmear'd, + Fell, nobly fell, amid his conquering arms! + +In her sad bosom, a tumultuous world + Of hopes and fears on his dear mem'ry spread; +For fate had not the clouded roll unfurl'd, + Nor yet with baleful hemlock crown'd her head. + +Reflection, oft to sad remembrance brought + The well known spot, where they so oft had stray'd; +While fond affection ten-fold ardour caught, + And smiling innocence around them play'd. + +But these were past! and now the distant bell + (For deep and pensive thought had held her there) +Toll'd midnight out, with long resounding knell, + While dismal echoes quiver'd in the air. + +Again 'twas silence--when from out the gloom + She saw, with awe-struck eye, a phantom glide: +'Twas Henry's form!--what pencil shall presume + To paint her horror!----HENRY AS HE DIED! + +Enervate, long she stood--a sculptured dread, + Till waking sense dissolved amazement's chain; +Then home, with timid haste, distracted fled, + And sunk in dreadful agony of pain. + +Not the deep sigh, which madden'd Sappho gave, + When from Leucate's craggy height she sprung, +Could equal that which gave her to the grave, + The last sad sound that echo'd from her tongue. + + + +WRITTEN ON THE + +DEATH OF GENERAL WASHINGTON. + + +Lamented Chief! at thy distinguish'd deeds + The world shall gaze with wonder and applause, +While, on fair History's page, the patriot reads + Thy matchless virtue in thy Country's cause. + +Yes, it was thine, amid destructive war, + To shield it nobly from oppression's chain; +By justice arm'd, to brave each threat'ning jar, + Assert its freedom, and its rights maintain. + +Much honour'd Statesman, Husband, Father, Friend, + A generous nation's grateful tears are thine; +E'en unborn ages shall thy worth commend, + And never-fading laurels deck thy shrine. + +Illustrious Warrior! on the immortal base, + By Freedom rear'd, thy envied name shall stand; +And Fame, by Truth inspired, shall fondly trace + Thee, Pride and Guardian of thy Native Land! + + + +To----. + +In vain, sweet Maid! for me you bring +The first-blown blossoms of the spring; +My tearful cheek you wipe in vain, +And bid its pale rose bloom again. + +In vain! unconscious, did I say? +Oh! you alone these tears can stay; +Alone, the pale rose can renew, +Whose sunshine is a smile from you. + +Yet not in friendship's smile it lives; +Too cold the gifts that friendship gives: +The beam that warms a winter's day, +Plays coldly in the lap of May. + +You bid my sad heart cease to swell, +But will you, if its tale I tell, +Nor turn away, nor frown the while, +But smile, as you were wont to smile? + +Then bring me not the blossoms young, +That erst on Flora's forehead hung; +But round thy radiant temples twine, +The flowers whose flaunting mocks at mine. + +Give me--nor pinks, nor pansies gay, +Nor violets, fading fast away, +Nor myrtle, rue, nor rosemary, +But give, oh! give, thyself to me! + + + +MONODY + +TO THE MEMORY + +OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE + +RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. + + +PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. + + +The very flattering success which attended the first Edition of this +brief but affectionate Sketch, I must attribute to the interest of the +subject, rather than the merit of the composition; and I cannot but feel +grateful to those Writers who have honoured me by their notice and +approbation. + +I must not again go to press, without acknowledging how much I am +indebted to a kind friend, who happened to be in Norfolk at the time I +was printing the first Edition; with whom I had the happiness to pass +many delightful hours, and to whose admirable taste and judgment I owe +many valuable suggestions. In mentioning John Kemble with Sheridan, I +associate two of the brightest stars that have illumined the Literature +and Drama of the Country. + +T.G. + +_Yarmouth, Norfolk_, 1816. + + + +SHERIDAN. + +Embalm'd in fame, and sacred from decay, + What mighty name, in arms, in arts, or verse, +From England claims this consecrated day. + Her nobles crowding round the shadowy hearse? + +Hark! from yon fane, within whose hallow'd mounds, + Her bards, her warriors, and her statesmen, sleep; +The solemn, slow, funereal bell resounds, + While mournful echoes dread accordance keep. + +Spirits revered! beyond that awful bourne. + Who share the dark communion of the tomb, +A kindred genius seeks your dread sojourn; + Ye heirs of glory! hail a brother home. + +Obscured, as SHERIDAN to dust descends, + Recedes each ray from Wit's effulgent sphere; +Lo! every Muse in silent sorrow bends, + Her votive laurels mingling o'er his bier. + +But chiefly thou, from whose polluted shrine + His filial hand Circean rabble drove; +What pangs, Thalia! in this hour are thine; + What fervent anguish of maternal love! + +How long perverted, had the Comic scene, + (The flattering reflex of a sensual age) +Shown prurient Folly's rank licentious mien, + Refined, embellish'd on the pander stage: + +While Vanburgh, Congreve, Farquhar, heaven-endow'd, + To scourge bold Vice with Wit's resistless rod, +Embraced her chains, stood forth her priests avow'd, + And scatter'd flowers in every path she trod: + +Inglorious praise! though Judgment's self admired + Those wanton strains which Virtue blush'd to hear; +While pamper'd Passion from the scene retired, + With wilder rage to urge his fierce career. + +At length, all graced in Fancy's orient hues, + His native fires with added culture bright, +Rose SHERIDAN! to vindicate the Muse, + And gild the drama with meridian light. + +Him, skill'd alike great Nature's genuine form, + Or Fashion's light factitious traits to trace, +The scene confess'd;--with glowing pathos warm, + Or gaily sportive in familiar grace. + +With what nice art his master-hand he flung + O'er each fine chord which thrills the polish'd breast, +Let Faukland tell! with woes ideal stung; + Let gentle Julia's generous flame attest![1] + +Satire, that oft with castigation rude + Degrades, while zealous to correct mankind, +Refined by him, more generous aims pursued, + Reform'd the vice--but left no sting behind. + +Yet, though with Wit's imperishable bays + Enwreath'd, he held an uncontested throne; +Though circling climes, unanimous in praise, + Confirm'd the partial suffrage of his own: + +In careless mood he sought the Muse's bower; + His lyre, like that to great Pelides strong, +The soft'ning solace of a vacant boor, + Its airy descant indolently rung. + +But when, portentous 'mid the storms of war, + Glared Public danger; when, with withering din, +The spoil-flush'd foe strode furious from afar; + And direr dread! Rebellion raged within: + +Then SHERIDAN! dilating to the storm, + Bright as the pharos, as the watch-tower strong, +With all the patriot's inspiration warm, + Thy genius pour'd its thundering voice along. + +Who heard thee not, in that tremendous hour, + When Britain mourn'd her surest anchor lost, +And saw her alienated Navies lour, + Like the charged tempest, round their parent coast? + +With active zeal, which no cold medium knew, + Nor party ruled, nor prejudice confined, +But, to thy heart's spontaneous impulse true, + Thou gay'st thy country ALL thy mighty mind. + +What time Iberia, gash'd with many a scar, + Braved the fierce Gaul, in fervour uncontroll'd, +Though doubts and fears bedimm'd her struggling star, + Its bright ascent thy prescient soul foretold. + +Late, too, when France, with sophist cunning fraught, + Essay'd that field which force had fail'd to gain, +And proudly question'd, by success untaught, + Britannia's lineal right--her watery reign! + +While meaner foes denounced with equal hate + Her flag, which wide in Freedom's cause unfurl'd, +The saving sign of many a sinking state, + Had chased Oppression from th' insulted world.-- + +Oh! that beyond the light diurnal page, + Inscribed on high in monumental gold, +That strain might kindle each succeeding age, + Which thus thy generous indignation roll'd: + +"If e'er, of ancient energy bereaved, + Britannia, bent by menace or design, +Should stain her naval sceptre, hard-achieved, + And yield one claim, one cherish'd right resign: + +"Then, hurl'd in ruin from her radiant sphere, + Sunk her proud Isle in Ocean's depths profound; +May all her glories pass from Memory's ear, + An idle legend--a derided sound!" + +Such were his merits whom the Muse deplores, + The Wit, the Statesman, Orator, and Bard! +Nor when his frailties jealous truth explores, + Shall Candour shrink from her supreme award? + +If, all propitious, when his ardent prime + Beat high with hope, in conscious powers elate, +Ambition woo'd him from her height sublime, + And partial Fortune op'd her golden gate; + +What hostile influence, glooming o'er his way, + Chill'd each fine impulse, each aspiring aim, +Effused bleak clouds round Life's declining ray, + And left his labours no reward but fame? + +'Twas not alone that in the festive bower, + Prompt in the social sympathies to melt, +Too long he linger'd; that the genial hour + His fervid sense too exquisitely felt. + +But that in tasks of public duty proved, + Onward with faith inflexible he trod; +Alike by Fortune's dazzling lure unmoved, + Or stern Necessity's relentless rod. + +E'en Envy's self shall sanction that applause: + And oft, slow pacing yon sepulchral gloom, +With fond regret shall Meditation pause, + And breathe these accents o'er his honour'd tomb: + +Ye Muses! come, with ministry divine. + Protect the shrine where SHERIDAN is laid; +Ye Patriot Virtues! here your homage join; + Assert his worth, and soothe his hovering shade. + +Emblazon'd high in Albion's rolls of fame, + A guiding star by which her sons may steer; +This proud inscription let his memory claim-- + Above himself, he held his Country dear! + +[Footnote 1: Rivals.] + + + +ON THE BEAUTIFUL PORTRAIT OF MRS. FOREMAN, AS PANDORA. + +In the Somerset-house Exhibition, 1826.--Painted by J.P. Davis. + + +Oh! had'st thou, Jove! with adamantine locks +Fix'd fast the springs of poor Pandora's box, +Then had she, bright enchantment! bloom'd for ever +In all the charms consenting Gods could give her-- +Wit, Wisdom, Beauty, she had every grace +Which makes man play the madman for a face! +But chief, bless'd gift! for him ordain'd to ask it, +The gem of gems, th' incomparable casket; +And, lo! with trembling hands and ardent eyes +The bridegroom claims it--and--behold the prize! +First, like a vapour o'er the heavens obscured, +From that dark confine, rose the fiends immured, +Then groan'd the earth, in fury swell'd the floods, +Blasts smote the harvests, lightning fired the woods; +Blue spotted Plague rode gibbering on the blast, +And nations shriek'd, and perish'd, as he pass'd. +Amazed, indignant, Epimetheus stood, +Vow'd dire revenge, and strung his nerves for blood. +It was not then, that from the coffer's lid +Hope's roseate smile his fierce delirium chid; +He saw, in that fair wife which heaven had sent +But mighty Mischiefs mortal instrument, +And swore not Hope, nor Mercy's self should save her, +Look'd in her face, smiled, sigh'd, and then--forgave her! + + + +SONNET + +TO----, + +ON HER RECOVERY FROM ILLNESS. + + +Fair flower! that fall'n beneath the angry blast, +Which marks with wither'd sweets its fearful way, +I grieve to see thee on the low earth cast, +While beauty's trembling tints fade fast away. +But who is she, that from the mountain's head +Comes gaily on, cheering the child of earth? +The walks of woe bloom bright beneath her tread, +And Nature smiles with renovated mirth? +'Tis Health! She comes: and, hark! the vallies ring, +And, hark! the echoing hills repeat the sound: +She sheds the new-blown blossoms of the spring, +And all their fragrance floats her footsteps round. +And, hark! she whispers in the zephyr's voice, +Lift up thy head, fair floweret, and rejoice! + + + +THE RUNAWAY. + +Ah! who is he by Cynthia's gleam + Discern'd, the statue of distress; +Weeping beside the willow'd stream + That laves the woodland wilderness? + +Why talks he to the idle air? + Why, listless, at his length reclined, +Heaves he the groan of deep despair, + Responsive of the midnight wind? + +Speak, gentle shepherd! tell me why? + --Sir! he has lost his wife, they say:-- +Of what disorder did, she die? + --Lord, sir! of none--she ran away. + + + + +TO MARGARET JANE H----, + +ON HER BIRTH-DAY, 17 JUNE. + + +Thou art indeed a lovely flower, +And I, just like the fleeting hour, +Which few will heed on folly's brink, +So rarely deigns the world to think. +Yet, ere I go, child of my heart-- +One faithful offering I'll impart +To thee--thy parents' sole delight: +To me--an angel, pure as light. +Sent on this earth to cheer and bless, +Like sunbeam in a wilderness, +With fascination's form and face, +And all the charms that please and grace. +A guileless heart, a lovely mind, +A temper ardent, yet refined, +And in the early dawn of youth, +Taught to love honour, faith, and truth. + +Ah! these--when all the transient joys +Of idle life, when all its toys +Shall fade like mist before the sun, +Yet, ere thy little day is done, +Shall give that calm, that true delight, +Which gilds the darkling hues of night, +The sunset of a well spent day, +A glorious immortality! + + + +ON READING THE POEM OF "PARIS." + +BY THE REV GEORGE CROLY, A.M. + +Author of "The Angel of the World," "Sebastian," &c. + + +By the trim taper, and the blazing hearth, + (While loud without the blast of winter sung), +Now thrill'd with awe, and now relax'd with mirth, + Paris, I've roam'd thy varied haunts among, +Loitering where Fashion's insect myriads spread + Their painted wings, and sport their little day; +Anon, by beckoning recollection led + To the dark shadow of the stern ABBAYE, +Pale Fancy heard the petrifying shriek +Of midnight Murder from its turrets bleak, +And to her horrent eye came passing on +Phantoms of those dark times, elapsed and gone, + When Rapine yell'd o'er his defenceless prey, +As unchain'd Anarchy her tocsin rung, + And France! in dust and blood thy throne and altars lay! + +Oh! thou, thus skill'd with absolute controul, +Where'er thou wilt to lead th' admiring soul, +Gifted alike with Fancy's train to sport, +And tread light measures in her elfin court; +Or pierce the height where Grandeur sits alone, +Girt by the tempest, on his mountain throne: +Whate'er the theme which wakes thy vocal shell, +Well-pleased I follow where its concords swell; +In regal halls, where pleasure wings the night +With pomp and music, revelry and light, +Or where, unwept by Love's deploring eyes, +In the lone Morgue, the self-doom'd victim lies-- +Then, midst the twilight of yon Chapel dim, +To mark Religion's reverend Martyr, him +Who kneels entranced in agony of prayer, +His fellow victims torpid with despair, +Thrill'd by his piercing tones, his beaming eye +Glows, as he glows, nor longer dread to die! + +Now, borne to Belgium's plain on bolder wings, +Where England's warriors fix'd the fate of Kings: +At once the Patriot and the Poet glows, +And full the mingling inspiration flows:-- +Resume the lyre: not thine in myrtle bowers +To trifle light with Life's uncounted hours-- +To crown thy toils, propitious Fame from far +Entwines her noblest wreath, illumes her loftiest star! + + + +WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF + +GENERAL SIR RALPH ABERCROMBIE. + + +Mute Memory stands at Valour's awful shrine, + In tears Britannia mourns her hero dead; +A world's regret, brave ABERCROMBIE's thine, + For nature sorrow'd as thy spirit fled! + +For, not the tear that matchless courage claims, + To honest zeal, and soft compassion due, +Alone is thine--o'er thy adored remains +Each virtue weeps, for all once lived in you. + +Yes, on thy deeds exulting I could dwell, + To speak the merits of thy honour'd name; +But, ah! what need my humble muse to tell, + When Rapture's self has echoed forth thy fame? + +Yet, still thy name its energies shall deal, + When wild storms gather round thy country's sun; +Her glowing youth shall grasp the gleamy steel, + Rank'd round the glorious wreaths which thou hast + won! + + + +WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM +OF +I---- H---- P----, ESQ. + + +Dear P----, while Painters, Poets, Sages, +Inscribe this volume's votive pages +With partial friendship: why invite +The tribute of a luckless wight +Unknown--by wisdom or by wit +Indulged with no certificate? + +Perchance, as in a diadem +Glittering with many a radiant gem, +Some mean metallic foil is placed +Judicious, by the hand of taste; +You seek, amidst the sons of fame, +To set an undistinguish'd name? +If so--that name is freely lent, +A pebble to your gems--T. GENT. + + + +RETALIATION. + +Love, Cupid, Gallantry, whate'er +We call that elf, seen every where, +Half frolicsome, half _ennuyeuse_, +Had chanced a country walk to choose; +When sudden, sweet and bright as May, +Young Beauty tripp'd across his way.-- + +"Upon my word," exclaims the boy, +"A lucky hit! this pretty toy +To pass an hour, with vapours haunted, +Is quite the thing I wish'd and wanted; +I do not so far condescend +As serious mischief to intend, +But just to show my powers of pleasing +In flattery, _badinage_, and teasing; +But should she, for young girls, poor things! +Are tender as yon insect's wings-- +Should she mistake me, and grow fond, +Why, I'll grow serious--and abscond." + +First, not abruptly to confound her, +With glance and smile he hovers round her: +Next, like a Bond-street or Pall-mall beau, +Begins to press her gentle elbow; +Then plays at once, familiar walking, +His whole artillery of talking:-- +Like a young fawn the blushing maid +Trips on, half pleased and half afraid-- +And while she palpitates and listens, +Still fluttering where the sunbeam glistens, +He shows her all his pretty things, +His bow and quiver, dart, and wings; +Now, proud in power, he sees her eyes +Dilate with beautiful surprise; +But most, though fraught with perturbation. +His weapons claim her admiration, +And with an archness most bewitching +(Her naive simplicity enriching), +She wonders where a maid might buy than, +And begs to be allow'd to try them. + +With secret scorn, but smiling bland, +He yields them to her curious hand, +When, instant, twang! the arrow flew, +So just her aim, it pierced him through, +Right through his heart, the luckless lad! +(A heart, to do him right, he had); +All prone he lies, in throbbing anguish, +Through many an hour to pine and languish, +And what made all his pangs more bitter, +Off flew the damsel in a titter. +Prudence, conceal'd behind a tree, +Cries out, "you've always laughed at me-- +Henceforth you'll recollect, young sir! +'Tis not so safe to laugh at her." + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN IN A COPY OF THE POEM ON PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. + +Presented to Mrs. D---- T----. + + +Madam! when sorrowing o'er the virtuous dead, +The gentlest solace of the tears we shed, +Is, to surviving excellence to turn, +And honour there those merits that we mourn. + +The Muse, whose hand fair Brunswick's ashes strew +With votive flowers, would weave a wreath for You; +But living worth forbids th' applausive lay. +Therefore, repressing all respect, would say, +She proffers silently her simple strain; +If you approve--she has not toil'd in vain! + + + +SONNET. + +When the rough storm roars round the peasant's cot, + And bursting thunders roll their awful din; +While shrieks the frighted night-bird o'er the spot, + Oh! what serenity remains within! +For there contentment, health, and peace, abide, + And pillow'd age, with calm eye fix'd above; +Labour's bold son, his blithe and blooming bride, + And lisping innocence, and filial love. +To such a scene let proud Ambition turn, + Whose aching breast conceals its secret woe; +Then shall his fireful spirit melt, and mourn + The mild enjoyments it can never know; +Then shall he feel the littleness of state, +And sigh that fortune e'er had made him great. + + + +TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ. + +ON READING HIS + +"REMAINS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE." + + +Southey! high placed on the contested throne +Of modern verse, a Muse, herself unknown, +Sues that her tears may consecrate the strains +Pour'd o'er the urn enrich'd with WHITE'S Remains! +While touch'd to transport, Taste's responding tone +Makes the rapt poet's ecstasies thine own; +Ah! think that he, whose hand supremely skill'd, +The heart's fine chords with deep vibration thrill'd, +In stagnant silence and petrific gloom, +Unconscious sleeps, the tenant of the tomb! +Extinct that spirit, whose strong-bidding drew +From Fancy's confines Wonder's wild-eyed crew, +Which bade Despair's terrific phantoms pass +Like Macbeth's monarchs in the mystic glass. +Before the youthful bard's impassion'd eye, +Like him, led on, to triumph and to die; +Like him, by mighty magic compass'd round, +And seeking sceptres on enchanted ground. +Such spells invest, such blear illusion waits +The trav'ller bound for Fame's receding gates, +Delusive splendours gild the proud abode, +But lurking demons haunt th' alluring road; +There gaunt-eyed Want asserts her iron reign, +There, as in vengeance of the world's disdain, +This half-flesh'd hag midst Wit's bright blossoms stalks, +And, breathing winter, withers where she walks; +Though there, long outlaw'd, desp'rate with disgrace, +Invidious Dulness wields the critic mace, +And sworn in hate, exerts his ruffian might +Where'er young genius meditates his flight. +Erewhile, when WHITE, by this fell fiend oppress'd, +Felt Hope's fine fervours languish in his breast, +When shrunk with scorn, and trembling to aspire, +He dropp'd desponding his insulted lyre. +Alert in zeal, with art benigh endued, +SOUTHEY! thy hand his blasted strength renew'd, +And lured him on, his labours scarce begun, +To win those laurels which thyself had won. +In vain! though vivified with pristine force, +O'er learning's realms he shot with meteor course; +To worth relentless, Fate's despotic frown +Scowl'd in the bright perspective of renown: +Timeless he falls, in Death's pale triumph led. +And his first laurels shade his grassy bed. +So sinks the Muse's offspring, doom'd to try, +Like a caged eagle panting tow'rds the sky, +A foil'd ascent, while adverse fortune flings +Her strong link'd meshes o'er his flutt'ring wings, +Sinks, while exalted Ignorance supine, +Unheeded slumbers like the pamper'd swine; +Obsequious slaves in his voluptuous bowers +Young pleasures warble, while the dancing Hours +In sickly sweetness languishingly move, +Like new-waked virgins flush'd with dreams of love-- +Him, when by Death's dark angel swept away +From sloth's embrace, in premature decay, +Surviving friends, donation'd into grief, +Shall mourn with anguish audible and brief, +And pander-bards ring round in goodly chime +His liberal heart, high wit, and soul sublime; +But Flattery's frauds impartial Time disowns, +Funereal pomp, and adulative tones; +Slow where she moves through monumental aisles, +With stern contempt insulted Reason smiles, +While Falsehood, shrined above th' emblazon'd palls, +Shames sanctity from consecrated walls: +She seeks, with pensive step and saintly eyes, +Some lonely grave, where rude the grass-tufts rise; +Nor sculptured angels tell, nor chisell'd lines, +There slumbers CHATTERTON--here WHITE reclines! +But nobler triumphs WHITE'S probation claims +Than ever blazon'd Wit's recorded names; +For Virtue's sons, to bliss immortal born, +Tower to their native heaven, and view with scorn +The vain distinction of the trophied sod, +'Tis theirs to gain distinction with their God! + + + +THE STATE SECRET. + +AN IMPROMPTU. + + +"Murder will out:"--and so will truth sometimes; +For once I'll prove it in a dozen lines.-- + +At one of those parties where Julia's sweet face +Added interest to beauty, and archness to grace, +Where many fine folks met; and one very great, +Proud and stupid, an embryo minister sate; +Like a damper he came to put good humour out, +And it chanced that, as Julia's pet-bird flew about. +It presumptuously 'lit on this mighty man's head; +When her lore-laughing sister, sweet Eleanor, said, +"Naughty bird! I must cage you for being so rude, +On Lord------head, oh! how dare you intrude?" +"Let it rest," replied Julia, with an exquisite grace, +"Don't frighten it off--for it likes a _soft place_!" + + + +THE MORNING CALL. + +TO THE HONOURABLE LADY--------. + +Written and left on her Table during her absence--Bathing. + + +I dare not look at those dear eyes, + The sun was never half so bright, +There surely more of rapture lies + Than ever bless'd a mortal's sight. + +In thy sweet face I see impress'd + Ten thousand thousand charms divine, +The sunbeams of thy guileless breast + Like Heaven's eternal mercies shine! + +Angel of love! life's endless joy, + Our hope at morn, our evening prayer; +The bliss above would have alloy, + Unless dear--------- thou wert there! + +Oh! Woman--what a charm hast thou + Our rebel nature thus to tame: +We ever must adore and bow. + While virtue guards thy holy fane! + +_Werthing_. + + + +SONNET. + +ON THE DEATH OF TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. + + +His weary warfare done, his woes forgot, + Freedom! thy son, oppress'd so long, is free: +He seeks the realms where tyranny is not, + And those shall hail him who have died for thee! +Immortal TELL! receive a soul like thine, + Who scorn'd obedience to usurp'd command: +Who rose a giant from a sphere indign, + To tear the rod from proud oppression's hand. +Alas! no victor-wreaths enzon'd his brow, + But freedom long his hapless fate shall mourn; +Her holy tears shall nurse the laurel-bough, + Whose green leaves grace his consecrated urn. +Nursed by these tears, that bough shall rise sublime, + And bloom triumphant 'mid the wrecks of time! + + + +ON THE RUPTURE OF THE THAMES' TUNNEL, + +WRITTEN 2nd JULY, 1827. + + +Every poor Quidnunc _now_ condemns +The Tunnel underneath Old Thames, +And swears, his science all forgetting, +Friend Brunel's judgment wanted _whetting;_ +'Tis thus great characters are dish'd, +When they get _wetter_ than was wish'd,-- +Brunel to _Gravesend_ meant to go +Under the water, wags say so, +And under that same water put +His hopes to find a shorter cut; +But when we leave the light of day. +Water hath many a devious way, +Which, like a naughty woman, leads +The best of men to strange misdeeds: +Had nearly, 'twas a toss-up whether, +Gone to his grave and end together. +How the performance went amiss +The _classical_ account is this-- + +The Naiads, Thames' stream that swim in, +Being _curious_, just like mortal _women_, +Dear souls! 'tis said, midst all their cares, +They love to peep at man's affairs, +And wondering at the workmen's hammers, +The noise of axes, engines, rammers, +Thought 'twould be well, nor meant the fun ill, +To make an opening through the Tunnel, +Just to see how the work went on, +And then, down dash'd they, every one; +When these same _belles_ began to dire, +'Twas well the workmen 'scaped alive: +Brunel, indeed, who knew full well +The nature of a _diving bell_, +Remain'd some time, nor made wry faces, +Within their aqueous embraces; +Nay, fierce and ungallant, adventured +To oust them by the breach they entered. +Vain man! 'twas well that he could swim, +Or, certes, they had ousted _him_. +Speed on great projects! though we rate 'em +_Rash_, for alluvial pomatum, +And under that a sandy stratum, +Will offer at a little distance +An insurmountable resistance. + +How strange! to find the labour done +Just as the _sand_ begins to _run_; +In general human projects drop, +Just when our _sand_ begins to _stop!_ + + + +ANACREONTIC. + +"THE WISEST MEN ARE FOOLS IN WINE." + + +The wisest men are fools in wine, + Experience makes us think: +Its magic spells are so divine, + We reason--yet we drink! + +How short's the longest life of man, + How soon its brightest laurels fade-- +Then, as our life is but a span, + Let all its hours be joyous made. + +Wine o'er the ardent restless mind + Entwines its poppy chain; +A solace, then, the wretched find. + In fictions of the brain. + +Oh! as the charmed glass we sip, +We conquer care and pain: +It woos like woman's dewy lip, +To kiss--and come again! + +This Song has been admirably set to Music, and Sung with great +success, by MR. HENRY PHILLIPS.--It is published by MORI and +LAVENU, 28, New Bond-street. + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN IN HORNSEY WOOD + + +Oh! ye, who pine, in London smoke immured, +With spirits wearied, and with pains uncured, +With all the catalogue of city evils, +Colds, asthmas, rheumatism, coughs, blue devils! +Who bid each bold empiric roll in wealth, +Who drains your fortunes while he saps your health: +So well ye love your dirty streets and lanes, +Ye court your ailments and embrace your pains. +And scarce ye know, so little have ye seen, +If corn be yellow, or if grass be green; +Why leave ye not your smoke-obstructed holes, +With wholesome air to cheer your sickly souls? +In scenes where Health's bright goddess wakes the breeze, +Floats on the stream, and fans the whisp'ring trees: +Soon would the brighten'd eye her influence speak, +And her full roses flush the faded cheek. + +Then, where romantic Hornsey courts the eye +With all the charms of sylvan scenery, +Let the pale sons of Diligence repair, +And pause, like me, from sedentary care; +Here the rich landscape spreads profusely wide, +And here embowering shades the prospect hide: +Each mazy walk in wild meanders moves, +And infant oaks, luxuriant, grace the groves: +Oaks, that by time matured, removed afar, +Shall ride triumphant, 'midst the wat'ry war; +Shall blast the bulwarks of Britannia's foes, +And claim her empire, wide as ocean flows! +O'er all the scene, mellifluous and bland, +The blissful powers of harmony expand; +Soft sigh the zephyrs 'mid the still retreats, +And steal from Flora's lips ambrosial sweets; +Their notes of love the feather'd songsters sing, +And Cupid peeps behind the vest of Spring. + +Ye swains! who ne'er obtain'd with all your sighs +One tender look from Chloe's sparkling eyes, +In shades like these her cruelty assail, +Here, whisper soft your amatory tale; +The scene to sympathy the maid shall move, +And smiles propitious crown your slighted love. + +While the fresh air with fragrance summer fills, +And lifts her voice, heard jocund o'er the hills, +All jubilant the waving woods display +Her gorgeous gifts, magnificently gay! +The wond'ring eye beholds these waving woods +Reflected bright in artificial floods, +And still, the tufts of clust'ring shrubs between, +Like passing sprites, the nymphs and swains are seen; +Till fancy triumphs in th'exulting breast, +And Care shrinks back, astonish'd! dispossess'd! +For all breathes rapture, all enchantment seems, +Like fairy visions, and poetic dreams! + +Though on such scenes the fancy loves to dwell, +The stomach oft a different tale will tell; +Then, leave the wood, and seek the shelt'ring roof, +And put the pantry's vital strength to proof; +The aërial banquets of the tuneful nine +May suit some appetites, but faith! not mine; +For my coarse palate coarser food must please, +Substantial beef, pies, puddings, ducks, and peas; +Such food the fangs of keen disease defies, +And such rare feeding Hornsey-house supplies: +Nor these alone the joys that court us here, +Wine! generous wine! that drowns corroding care, +Asserts its empire in the glittering bowl, +And pours Promethean vigour o'er the soul. +Here, too, _that_ bluff John Bull, whose blood boils high +At such base wares of foreign luxury; +Who scorns to revel in imported cheer, +Who prides in perry, and exults in beer: +On these his surly virtue shall regale, +With quickening cyder, and with fattening ale. + +Nor think, ye Fair! our Hornsey has denied +The elegant repasts where you preside: +Here, may the heart rejoice, expanding free +In all the social luxury of Tea! +Whose essence pure inspires such charming chat, +With nods, and winks, and whispers, and _all that_; +Here, then, while 'wrapt inspired, like Horace old, +We chant convivial hymns to Bacchus bold; +Or heave the incense of unconscious sighs, +To catch the grace that beams from beauty's eyes; +Or, in the winding wilds, sequester'd deep, +Th' unwilling Muse invoking, fall asleep; +Or cursing her, and her ungranted smiles, +Chase butterflies along the echoing aisles: +Howe'er employ'd, _here_ be the town forgot, +Where fogs, and smoke, and jostling crowds, _are not_. + + + +TO MARY. + +WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. + + +Oh! is there not in infant smiles + A witching power, a cheering ray, +A charm, that every care beguiles, + And bids the weary soul be gay? +There surely is--for thou hast been, + Child of my heart, my peaceful dove, +Gladdening life's sad and chequer'd scene, + An emblem of the peace above. +Now all is calm, and dark, and still, + And bright the beam the moonlight throws +On ocean wave, and gentle rill, + And on thy slumbering cheek of rose. +And may no care disturb that breast, + Nor sorrow dim that brow serene; +And may thy latest years be bless'd + As thy sweet infancy has been. + + + +BLACK EYES AND BLUE. + +FROM THE ITALIAN. + + +Blue eyes and jet + Fell out one morn, +Azure cried in a pet, + "Away, dark scorn!-- +"We are brilliant and blue + "As the waves of the sea-- +"And as cold and untrue + "And as changeable ye. + +"We are born of the sky, + "Of a summer night, +"When the first stars lie + "In a bed of blue light; +"From the cloudy zone + "Round the setting sun, +"Like an angel's throne, + "Are our glories won." + +"Pretty ladies, hold," + Cupid said to the eyes-- +For beauties that scold + "Are seldom wise; +"'Tis not colour I seek + "Love's fires to impart-- +"Give me eyes that can speak + "From the depths of the heart." + + + +EPIGRAM. + +AURI SACRA FAMES. + + +I knew a being once, his peaked head +With a few lank and greasy hairs was spread; +His visage blue, in length was like your own +Seen in the convex of a table-spoon. +His mouth, or rather gash athwart his face, +To stop at either ear had just the grace, +A hideous rift: his teeth were all canine, +And just like Death's (in Milton) was his grin. +One shilling, and one fourteen-penny leg, +(This shorter was than that, and not so big), +He had; and they, when meeting at his knees, +An angle formed of ninety-eight degrees. +Nature, in scheming how his back to vary, +A hint had taken from the dromedary: +His eyes an inward, screwing vision threw, +Striving each other through his nose to view. + +His intellect was just one ray above +The idiot Cymon's ere he fell in love. +At school they Taraxippus[1] called the wight; +The Misses, when they met him, shriek'd with fright. +But, spite of all that Nature had denied, +When sudden Fortune made the cub her pride, +And gave him twenty thousand pounds a-year, +_Then_, from the pretty Misses you might hear, +"_His face was not the finest, and, indeed, +He was a little, they must own, in-kneed; +His shoulders, certainly, were rather high, +But, then, he had a most expressive eye; +Nor were their hearts by outward charms inclined: +Give them the higher beauties of the mind_!" + +[Footnote 1: Greek: Taraxippus, a Grecian Deity; the god of the Hippodrome, +literally, in English, _horse-frightener_.] + + + +SONNET. + +TO FAITH. + + +Hail! holy FAITH, on life's wide ocean toss'd, + I see thee sit calm in thy beaten bark; + As NOAH sat, throned in his high-borne ark, +Secure and fearless while a world was lost! +In vain contending storms thy head enzone, + Thy bosom shrinks not from the bolt that falls: + The dreadful shaft plays harmless, nor appals +Thy stedfast eye, fix'd on Jehovah's throne! +E'en though thou saw'st the mighty fabric nod, + Of system'd worlds, thou hear'st a sacred charm, + Graved on thy heart, to shelter thee from harm. +And thus it speaks:--"Thou art my trust, O GOD! +And thou canst bid the jarring-powers be still, +Each ponderous orb, subservient to thy will!" + + + +ON A SPIRITED PORTRAIT IN MY ALBUM, + +Of a favorite Deer-hound, belonging to SIR WALTER SCOTT, by +my friend, EDWIN LANDSEER, Esq. + + +Who in this sketchey wonder does not trace +The fire, the spirit, and the living grace, +That mark the hand of genius and of taste? +Who does not recognize in such a head +Truth, vigilance, fidelity, inbred, +Sagacity that's human, and a waste +Of those high qualities, and virtues rare, +Which poor humanity has not to spare? + +Then, faithful Hound! thy happy lot is cast +In pleasant places--and thy life has pass'd +In the dear service of a Master--whom +The world's concurrent voice has yielded now +The meed of highest praise--and on whose brow +Th' imperishable wreath of fame shall bloom; +Nor is this fate less happy than the rest, +That _he_ should paint thee, _who can paint thee best!_ + + + +SONNET. + +TO HOPE. + + +How droops the wretch whom adverse fates pursue, + While sad experience, from his aching sight + Sweeps the fair prospects of unproved delight, +Which flattering friends and flattering fancies drew. +When want assails his solitary shed, + When dire distraction's horrent eye-ball glares, + Seen 'midst the myriad of tumultuous cares, +That shower their shafts on his devoted head. +Then, ere despair usurp his vanquish'd heart, + Is there a power, whose influence benign + Can bid his head in pillow'd peace recline, +And from his breast withdraw the barbed dart? +There is--sweet Hope! misfortune rests on thee-- +Unswerving anchor of humanity! + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN ON THE SIXTH OF SEPTEMBER. + + +Ill-fated hour! oft as thy annual reign +Leads on th' autumnal tide, my pinion'd joys +Fade with the glories of the fading year; +"Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train," +And bids affection heave the heart-drawn sigh +O'er the cold tomb, rich with the spoils of death, +And wet with many a tributary tear! + +Eight times has each successive season sway'd +The fruitful sceptre of our milder clime +Since my loved----died! but why, ah! why +Should melancholy cloud my early years? +Religion spurns earth's visionary scene, +Philosophy revolts at misery's chain: +Just Heaven recall'd its own; the pilgrim call'd +From human woes: from sorrow's rankling worm-- +Shall frailty then prevail? + + Oh! be it mine +To curb the sigh which bursts o'er Heaven's decree; +To tread the path of rectitude--that when +Life's dying ray shall glimmer in the frame, +That latest breath I may in peace resign, +"Firm in the faith of seeing thee and God." + + + +SONNET. + +TO CHARITY. + + +O! best-beloved of Heaven, on earth bestow'd, + To raise the pilgrim sunk with ghastly fears, + To cool his burning wounds, to wipe his tears, +And strew with amaranths his thorny road. +Alas! how long has Superstition hurl'd + Thine altars down, thine attributes reviled, + The hearts of men with witchcrafts foul beguiled. +And spread his empire o'er the vassal world? +But truth returns! she spreads resistless day; + And mark, the monster's cloud-wrapt fabric falls-- + He shrinks--he trembles 'mid his inmost halls, +And all his damn'd illusions melt away! +The charm dissolved--immortal, fair, and free, +Thy holy fanes shall rise, celestial Charity! + + + +HYMN. + +Sung by the Children of the City of London School of Instruction +and Industry. + + +CHORUS. + +Sacred, and heart-deep be the sound + Which speaks the Great Redeemer's praise, +His mercies every where abound, + Let all their grateful voices raise. + +BOYS. + +The friendless child, to manhood grown, + Will ne'er forget your parent care; +You've made each youthful heart your own, + Oh! then accept our humble prayer. + +GIRLS. + +For ever be that bounty praised, + Which every comfort doth impart; +In tears of joy the song is raised + From minstrels of the glowing heart. + +CHORUS. + +Glory to Thee, all-bounteous Power! + In notes of thankfulness be given; +Sure solace in affliction's hour! + Our hope on Earth, our bliss in Heaven. + Hallelujah! Amen. + + + +REFLECTIONS OF A POET, + +ON GOING TO A GREAT DINNER. + + +Great epoch in the history of bards! + Important day to those who woo the nine; +Better than fame are visitation-cards, + And heaven on earth at a great house to dine. + +O cruel memory! do not conjure up + The ghost of Sally Dab, the famous cook; +Who gave me solid food, the cheering cup, + And on her virtues begg'd I'd write a book. + +For her dear sake I braved the letter'd fates, + And all her loose thoughts in one volume cramm'd; +"The Accomplish'd Cook, in verse, with twenty plates:" + Which (O! ungrateful deed!) the critics d----d. + +D--n them, I say, the tasteless envious elves; + Malicious fancy makes them so expert, +They write 'bout dinners, who ne'er dine themselves, + And boast of linen, who ne'er had a shirt. + +Rest, goddess, from all broils! I bless thy name, + Dear kitchen-nymph, as ever eyes did glut on! +I'd give thee all I have, my slice of fame, + If thou, fat shade! could'st give one slice of mutton. + +Yet hold--ten minutes more, and I am bless'd; + Fly quick, ye seconds; quick, ye moments, fly: +Soon shall I put my hunger to the test, + And all the host of miseries defy. + +Thrice is he arm'd, who hath his dinner first, + For well-fed valour always fights the best; +And though he may of over-eating burst, + His life is happy, and his death is just. + +To-day I dine--not on my usual fare; + Not near the sacred mount with skinny nine; +Not in the park upon a dish of air: + But on true eatables, and rosy wine. + +Delightful task! to cram the hungry maw, + To teach the empty stomach how to fill, +To pour red port adown the parched craw; + Without that dread dessert--to pay the bill. + +I'm off--methinks I smell the long-lost savour; + Hail, platter-sound! to poet music sweet: +Now grant me, Jove, if not too great a favour, + Once in my life as much as I can eat! + + + +SUNDAY. + +Come, thou blessed day of rest! +Soother of the tortured breast, +Wearied souls release from toil, +Life's eternal sad turmoil; +How I love thy tuneful bells +Which a welcome story tells! +Bids the wanderer rest and pray +On this peaceful holy-day. +All creation seems to pause-- +Man, uncatechized by laws, +Looks to God with grateful eyes, +In such blessed sympathies, +All his rebel nature dies! +See the monster crime hath made, +Resting from his restless trade, +Unfit to live, afraid to die, +Hear his deep unconscious sigh, +See his former horrid mien, +Changed to the bright, serene, +View him on his BIBLE rest, +Care no longer gnaws his breast; +Heaven, in mercy, let him live, +Religion, such the peace you give! + + + +A NIGHT-STORM. + +Let this rough fragment lend its mossy seat; +Let Contemplation hail this lone retreat: +Come, meek-eyed goddess, through the midnight gloom, +Born of the silent awe which robes the tomb! +This gothic front, this antiquated pile, +The bleak wind howling through each mazy aisle; +Its high gray towers, faint peeping through the shade, +Shall hail thy presence, consecrated maid! +Whether beneath some vaulted abbey's dome, +Where ev'ry footstep sounds in every tomb; +Where Superstition, from the marble stone, +Gives every sound, a pilgrim-spirit's groan: +Pensive thou readest by the moon's full glare +The sculptured children of Affection's tear; +Or in the church-yard lone thou sitt'st to weep +O'er some sad wreck, beneath the tufty heap-- +Perchance some victim to Seduction's spell, +Who yielded, wept, and then neglected fell! + +But hither come, on yon swoln arch to gaze, +And view the vivid flash eruptive blare; +Light those high walls with transitory gleam, +Illume the air, and sparkle in the stream. +Ah! look, where yonder tempest-shaken cloud, +Awful and black as the chaosian shroud, +Breaks, like the waves which lash the sandy shore, +And speaks its mission in a feeble row. +Thus Meditation hears: "Aspiring height! +Of old, the splendid mansions of the great; +Thy fate (tremendous) lours upon the blast, +And waits to write on thy remains:--'tis past! +Oft have the genii of the hoary blade +Around thy walls their hell-born demons led; +Yet hast thou triumph'd o'er each monster's car, +And braved the ills of pestilential war: +Oft hast thou seen the circling seasons roll +In fond succession round thy native pole; +Defied the hoary matron of the ring, +And seen her sicken in the lap of Spring. +But, ah! no more thy time-clad head shall rise +To dare the tempest, while it shakes the skies; +Nor one small wreck invade the fair concave, +Nor shout above its crumbling basis, Save! +When rising zephyr from thy ruin brings +A world of atoms on its fairy wings." + +Din horrible! as though the rebel train +Had sprung from chaos, fought, and fall'n again, +Raves the high bolt: how yon old structure fell; +How every cranny trembled with the yell +Of frighted owls, whose secret haunts forlorn +Were from their kindred vaults and windings torn; +Of bold Antiquity's rough pencil born. +Thrice Fancy leads the dismal echo round, +And paints the spectre gliding o'er the ground. +From ev'ry turret, ev'ry vanquish'd tower, +In heaps confused the broken fragments pour; +And, as they plunge toward the pebbly grave, +Like wizard wand, draw circles in the wave. +Meand'ring stream! thy liquid jaws extend, +Anoint with Lethe now thy fallen friend. +Again the heralds of the thunder fly, +In forky squadrons, from the trembling sky! + +Again the thunder its harsh menace swells, +And light-wing'd echoes hail the humbled cells! +Weep, weep, ye clouds! with heav'n-bespangled tears; +And, ah! if pity rules your sacred spheres, +Invoke the thunder to withstay its rage, +Disarm its fury, and its wrath assuage. + +But now, Aurora, from the Ocean's verge, +Trims her gray lamp, to light the mournful dirge. +She comes, to light the ruinated heap: +But lights, to wake the pensive soul to weep! + + + +ON THE DEATH OF NELSON. + +Swift through the land while Fame transported flies, +And shouts triumphant shake th' illumined skies; +Britannia, bending o'er her dauntless prows, +With laurels thickening round her blazon'd brows, +In joy dejected, sees her triumph cross'd, +Exults in Victory won, but mourns the Victor lost. +Immortal NELSON! still with fond amaze +Thy glorious deed each British eye surveys, +Beholds thee still, on conquer'd floods afar: +Fate's flaming shaft! the thunderbolt of war! +Hurl'd from thy hands, Britannia's vengeance roars, +And bloody billows stain the hostile shores: +Thy sacred ire Confed'rate Kingdoms braves, +And 'whelms their Navies in Sepulchral waves! +--Graced with each attribute which Heaven supplies +To Godlike Chiefs: humane, intrepid, wise: +His Nation's Bulwark, and all Nature's pride, +The Hero lived, and as he lived--he died: +Transcendant destiny! how bless'd the brave, +Whose fall his Country's tears attend, shower'd on his trophied grave! + + + +THE BLUE-EYED MAID. + +Sweet are the hours when roseate spring + With health and joy salutes the day. +When zephyr, borne on wanton wing, + Soft whispering, wakes the blushing May. +Sweet are the hours, yet not so sweet +As when my blue-eyed Maid I meet, +And hear her soul-entrancing tale, +Sequester'd in the shadowy vale. + +The mellow horn's long-echoing notes + Startle the morn, commingling strong; +At eve, the harp's wild music floats. + And ravish'd Silence drinks the song. +Yet sweeter is the song of love, +When EMMA'S voice enchants the grove, +While listening sylphs repeat the tale, +Sequester'd in the silent vale. + + + +TAKING ORDERS. + +A TALE, FOUNDED ON FACT. + + +A parson once--and poorer he +Than ever parson ought to be; +Yet not so proud as _some_ from College, +Who fancy they alone have knowledge; +Who only learn to dress and drink, +And, strange to say, still seem to think +That no real talent's to be found +Except within their classic ground; +Yet prove that Cam's nor Oxon's plains +Can't furnish empty skulls with brains. +But for my tale--Our churchman came, +And, in religion's honour'd name, +Sought Cam's delightful classic borders, +To be prefer'd to Holy Orders. +Chance led him to the Trav'llers' Inn, +Where living's cheap, and often whim +Enlivens many a weary soul, +And helps, in the o'erflowing bowl, +In spite of fogs, and threatening weather, +To drown both grief and gloom together:-- +(Oh, Wit! thou'rt like a little blue, +Soft cloud, in summer breaking through +A frowning one, and lighting it +Till darkness fadeth bit by bit; +And Whim to thee is near allied, +And follows closely at thy side; +So oft, oh, Wit! I'm told that she +By some folks is mista'en for thee; +Yet I may say unto my eyes, +Just whereabouts the difference lies; +One's diamond quite, and, to my taste, +The other is but _Dovey's Paste.)_-- +He there a ready welcome found +From one who travell'd England round: +"Sir, your obedient--quite alone? +I'm truly happy you are come: +Pray, sir, be seated;--business dull;-- +Or else this room had now been full; +Orders and cash are strangers here, +And every thing looks dev'lish queer; +Bad times these, sir, sad lack of wealth; +Must hope for better;--Sir, your health!" +Then added, with inquiring face, +"_Come to take Orders in this place_?" + +"Yes, sir, I am," replied the priest: +"With that intent I came at least." +"Ha! ha! I knew it very well; +We business-men can others tell: +Often before I've seen your face, +Though memory can't recal the place-- +Ah! now I have it; head of mine! +_You travel in the button line_?" + +"Begging your pardon, sir, I fear +Some error has arisen here; +You have mista'en my trade divine, +But, sir, the worldly loss is mine-- +_I travel in a much worse line_." + + + +THE GIPSY'S HOME. + +A GLEE. + +Sung by Messrs. PYNE, NELSON, Miss WITHAM, and Master +LONGHURST.--Composed by Mr. ROOKE. + + +We, who the wide world make our home; + The barren heath our cheerful bed; +Careless o'er mount and moor we roam, + And never tears of sorrow shed. + But merrily, O! Merrily, O! + Through this world of care we go. + +Love, that a palace left in tears, + Flew to our houseless feast of mirth: +For here, unfetter'd, beauty cheers, + The heaven alone that's found on earth! + Then merrily, O! Merrily, O! + Through this world of care we go. + + + +SONNET. + +THE BEGGAR. + + +Of late I saw him on his staff reclined, + Bow'd down beneath a weary weight of woes, +Without a roof to shelter from the wind + His head, all hoar with many a winter's snows. +All trembling he approach'd, he strove to speak; + The voice of misery scarce my ear assail'd; +A flood of sorrow swept his furrow'd cheek, + Remembrance check'd him, and his utt'rance fail'd. +For he had known full many a better day; + And when the poor man at his threshold bent, +He drove him not with aching heart away, + But freely shared what Providence had sent. +How hard for him, the stranger's boon to crave, +And live to want the mite his bounty gave! + + + +TO ------. + +Come, JENNY, let me sip the dew + That on those coral lips doth play, +One kiss would every care subdue, + And bid my weary soul be gay. + +For surely thou wert form'd by love + To bless the suff'rer's parting sigh; +In pity then my griefs remove, + And on that bosom let me die! + + + +SONG. + +THE RECAL OF THE HERO. + + +When Discord blew her fell alarm + On Gallia's blood-stain'd ground, +When Usurpation's giant arm + Enslaved the nations round: +The thunders of avenging Heaven +To NELSON'S chosen hand were given! +By NELSON'S chosen hand were hurl'd, +To rescue the devoted world! + +The tyrant power, his vengeance dread + To Egypt's shores pursued; +At Trafalgar its hydra-head + For ever sunk subdued. +The freedom of mankind was won! +The hero's glorious task was done! +When Heaven, Oppression's ensigns furl'd, +Recall'd him from the rescued world. + + + +TO ELIZA. + +WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM. + + +I dare not spoil this spotless page + With any feeble verse of mine; +The Poet's fire has lost its rage, + Around his lyre no myrtles twine. + +The voice of fame cannot recal + Those fairy days of past delight, +When pleasure seem'd to welcome all, + And morning hail'd a welcome night. + +E'en love has lost its soothing power, + Its spells no more can chain my soul; +I must not venture in the bower, + Where Wit and Verse and Wine controul. + +And yet, I fear, in thoughtless mirth + I once did say, Eliza, dear! +That I would tell the world thy worth, + And write the living record here. + +Come Love, and Truth, and Friendship, come, + Enwreath'd in Virtue's snowy arms, +With magic rhymes the page illume, + And fancy sketch her varied charms-- + +Which o'er the cares of home has thrown + A thousand blessings, deep engraved, +For every heart she makes her own, + And every friend is free-enslaved. + +No Inspiration o'er my pen + Glows with the lightning's vivid spell; +My soul is sad--forgive me then, + My heart's too full the tale to tell! + +Yet, if the humblest poet's theme + Be welcome in Eliza's name; +Then, angel, give the cheering gleam, + For thy approving smile is fame! + + + +ELEGY + +On THE DEATH OF + +ABRAHAM GOLDSMID, ESQ. + + +When stern Misfortune, monitress severe! + Dissolves Prosperity's enchanting dreams, +And, chased from Man's probationary sphere, + Fair Hope withdraws her vivifying beams. + +If then, untaught to bend at Heaven's high will, + The desp'rate mortal dares the dread unknown, +To future fate appeals from present ill, + And stands, uncall'd, before th' Eternal throne! + +Shall justice there _immutably_ decide? + Dread thought! which Reason trembles to explore, +She feels, be mercy granted or denied, + 'Tis her's in dumb submission to adore. + +Yet, could the self-doom'd victim be forgiven + His final error, for his merits past; +Could virtuous life, propitiating Heaven + With former deeds, extenuate the last: + +Then GOLDSMID! Mercy, to thy humble shrine, + Angel of heaven beloved, should wing her flight, +Should in her bosom bid thy head recline, + And waft thee onward to the realms of light. + +And, oh! could human intercession plead, + Breathed ardent to'ards that undiscover'd shore, +What hearts unnumber'd for thy fate that bleed, + Would warm oblations for thy pardon pour. + +Misfortune's various tribes thy worth should tell, + Whose acts to no peculiar sect confined; +Impartial, with expansive bounty fell, + Like heaven's refreshing dews on all mankind. + +Where stern Disease his rankling arrows sped, + While Want, with hard inexorable band, +Strew'd keener thorns on Pain's afflictive bed, + And urged the flight of life's diminish'd sand. + +By hostile stars oppress'd, where Talent toil'd, + Encountering fate with perseverance vain; +The Merchant's hopes, when War's dire arm despoil'd, + Or tempests 'whelm'd in the remorseless main. + +GOLDSMID! thy hand benign assuagement spread, + Sustain'd pale sickness, drooping o'er the tomb; +Raised modest Merit from his lowly shed, + And gave Misfortune's blasted hopes to bloom. + +Yet wealth, too oft perverted from its end, + Suspends the noblest functions of the soul; +Where, chill'd as Apathy's cold frosts, extends, + Compassion's sacred stream forgets to roll. + +And oft, where seeming Pity moves the mind, + From self's mean source the liberal current flows; +While Ostentation, insolently kind, + Wounds while he soothes, insults while he bestows. + +But thy free bounty, undebased by pride, + Prompt to anticipate the meek request, +Unask'd the wants of modest Worth supplied, + And spared the pang that shook the suppliant's breast. + +Yet say! on Fortune's orb, which o'er thy head + Blazed forth erewhile pre-eminently bright, +When dark Adversity her eclipse spread, + And veil'd its splendours in petrific night! + +Did those, thy benefits had placed on high, + Who revell'd still in wealth's meridian ray; +Did those impatient to thy succour fly, + Anxious the debt of gratitude to pay? + +Or, thy fall'n fortunes coldly whispering round, + Scowl'd they aloof in that disastrous hour? +On keen Misfortune's agonizing wound + Did foul Ingratitude her poisons pour? + +If thy distress such aggravation knew, + Thy first reverse could such perdition wait; +Well might Despair thy generous heart subdue, + And Desperation close the scene of fate. + +Yet while Distraction urged her purpose dire, + Rose not, at Nature's interposed command, +The sacred claims of Brother, Husband, Sire, + To win the weapon from thy lifted hand? + +Ah, yes! and ere that agony was o'er, + Ere yet thy soul its last resolve embraced, +What pangs could equal those thy breast that tore, + Thy breast with Nature's tenderest feelings graced? + +Those only which, at thy accomplish'd fate, + That home display'd, thy smiles were wont to bless; +That dreadful scene what language can relate, + What words describe that exquisite distress. + +The Muse recedes--in Grief's domestic scene + Th' intrusive gaze prophanes the tears that flow: +Drop, Pity! there thy hallowed veil between; + Guard, Silence! there the sacredness of woe. + +Nor let the sectarist, whose faith austere + Pretends alone to point th' eternal road; +Proud of his creed, pronounce with voice severe, + All else excluded from the blest abode. + +If error thine, not GOLDSMID! thine the fault, + Since first thy infant years instruction drew; +From youth's gradations up to manhood taught + That faith to reverence which thy fathers knew. + +In Retribution's last tremendous hour, + When its pale captives, long in dust declined, +The grave shall yield, and time shall death devour, + When He who saved, shall come to judge mankind. + +While Christian-infidels shall tremble round, + Who call'd HIM Master! whom their acts denied: +Imputed faith may in _thy_ deeds be found, + And thy eternal doom those deeds decide. + + + +SONNET. + +ON THE DEATH OF MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. + + +Sweet songstress! whom the melancholy Muse + With more than fondness loved, for thee she strung + The lyre, on which herself enraptured hung, +And bade thee through the world its sweets diffuse. +Oft hath my childhood's tributary tear + Paid homage to the sad harmonious strain, + That told, alas! too true, the grief and pain +Which thy afflicted mind was doom'd to bear. + Rest, sainted spirit! from a life of woe, + And though no friendly hand on thee bestow +The stately marble, or emblazon'd name, + To tell a thoughtless world who sleeps below: + Yet o'er thy narrow bed a wreath shall blow. +Deriving vigour from the breath of fame! + + + +MISTER PUNCH. + +A HASTY SKETCH. + + +Who stops the Minister of State, +When hurrying to the Lords' debate? +Who, spite of gravity beguiles, +The solemn Bishop of his smiles? +See from the window, "burly big," +The Judge pops out his awful wig, +Yet, seems to love a bit of gig!--While +_both_ the Sheriffs and the Mayor +Forget the "Address"--and stop to stare--And +who detains the Husband true, +Running to Doctor Doode-Doo, +To save his Wife "in greatest danger;" +While e'en the Doctor keeps the stranger +Another hour from life and light, +To gape at the bewitching sight. +The Bard, in debt, whom Bailiffs ferret, +Despite his poetry and merit, +Stops in his quick retreat awhile, +And tries the long-forgotten smile; +E'en the pursuing _Bum_ forgets +His business, and the man of Debts; +The one neglecting "Caption"--"Bail"-- +The other "thoughts of gyves and Jail"-- +So wondrous are the spells that bind +The noble and ignoble mind. +The Paviour halts in mid-grunt--stands +With rammer in his idle hands; +And quite refined, and at his ease, +Forgetting onions, bread, and cheese, +The hungry Drayman leaves his lunch, +To take a peep at _Mister Punch_. + +Delightful thy effects to see, +Thou charm of age and infancy! +The old Man clears his rheumy eye, +The six months' Babe forgets to cry; +No passers by--all fondly gloat, +So welcome is thy cheering note, +Which time nor taste has ever changed; +And after every clime we've ranged, +Return to thee--our childhood's joy, +And, spite of age, still play the boy! + +Yon pious Thing who walks by rule, +Unconscious laughs, and plays the fool, +And by his side the prim old Maid +_Looks_ "welcome fun" and "who's afraid." +Behold, that happy ruddy face, +In which there seems no vacant place, +That could another joy impart, +For one laugh more would break his heart. +And, lo, behind! his sober Brother, +Striving in vain the laugh to smother. +That giggling Girl must burst outright, +For _Punch_ has now possess'd her quite. +While She, who ran to Chemist's shop +For life or death--here finds a stop: +Forgets for whom--for what--she ran, +And leaves to Heaven the bleeding man! +The Parish Beadle, gilded calf, +Lays by his terror, joins the laugh, +Permits poor souls, without offence, +To sell their fruit and count their pence, +And, as by humour grown insane, +Allows the boys to touch his cane! +Poor little Sweep true comfort quaffs, +Ceases to cry--and loudly laughs. +See! what a wondrous powerful spell +_Punch_ holds o'er Dustman and his bell; +And scolding Wife with clapper still-- +The Landlord quits awhile his till, +While Pot-boy, busiest of the bunch, +Steals pence for self, and beer for _Punch_. +Look at that window, you may trace +At every pane a laughing face. +Yon graceful Girl and her smart Lover, +And in the story just above her, +The Housemaid, with her hair in papers, +All finding _Punch_ a cure for vapours. +E'en the pale Dandy, fresh from France, +Throws on the group an eye askance; +Twirls his moustache, and seems to fear +That some gay friend may catch him here. +The Widowed wretch, who only fed, +On bitter thoughts and tear-wash'd bread, +Forgets her cares, and seems to smile +To see friend _Punch_ her babe beguile. +Magician of the wounded heart, +Oh! there thy wonted aid impart: +Long be the merryman of our Isle, +And win the universal smile! + + + +CONTENT. + +In some lone hamlet it were better far + To live unknown amid Contentment's isle, +Than court the bauble of an air-blown star, + Or barter honour for a prince's smile! + +Hail! tranquil-brow'd Content, forth sylvan god, + Who lov'st to sit beside some cottage fire, +Where the brown presence of the blazing clod + Regales the aspect of the aged sire. + +There, when the Winter's children, bleak and cold, + Are through December's gloomy regions led; +The church-yard tale of sheeted ghost is told, + While fix'd attention dares not turn its head. + +Or if the tale of ghost, or pigmy sprite, + Is stripp'd by theme more cheerful of its power, +The song employs the early dim of night, + Till village-curfew counts a later hour. + +And oft the welcome neighbour loves to stop, + To tell the market news, to laugh, and sing, +O'er the loved circling jug, whose old brown top + Is wet with kisses from the florid ring! + +There, whilst the cricket chirps its chimney song, + Within some crumbling chink, with moss embrown'd, +The lighted stick diverts the infant throng, + And fans are waved, and ribbands twirl'd around. + +Entwine for me the wreath of rural mirth, + And blast the murm'ring fiend, from chaos sent; +Then, while the house-dog snores upon the hearth, + I'll sit, and hail thy sacred name, CONTENT! + + + +EPITAPH. + +ON MATILDA. + + +Sacred to Pity! is upraised this stone, +The humble tribute of a friend unknown; +To grant the beauteous wreck its hallow'd claim, +And add to misery's scroll another name. +Poor lost MATILDA! now in silence laid +Within the early grave thy sorrows made. +Sleep on!--his heart still holds thy image dear, +Who view'd, through life, thy errors with a tear; +Who ne'er with stoic apathy repress'd +The heartfelt sigh for loveliness distress'd. +That sigh for thee shall ne'er forget to heave; +'Tis all he now can give, or thou receive. +When last I saw thee in thy envied bloom, +That promised health and joy for years to come, +Methought the lily nature proudly gave, +Would never wither in th' untimely grave. + +Ah, sad reverse! too soon the fated hour +Saw the dire tempest 'whelm th' expanding flower! +Then from thy tongue its music ceased to flow; +Thine eye forgot to gleam with aught but woe; +Peace fled thy breast; invincible despair +Usurp'd her seat, and struck his daggers there. +Did not the unpitying world thy sorrows fly? +And, ah! what then was left thee--but to die! +Yet not a friend beheld thy parting breath, +Or mingled solace with the pangs of death: +No priest proclaim'd the erring hour forgiven, +Or sooth'd thy spirit to its native heav'n: +But Heaven, more bounteous, bade the pilgrim come, +And hovering angels hail'd their sister home. +I, where the marble swells not, to rehearse +Thy hapless fate, inscribe my simple verse. +Thy tale, dear shade, my heart essays to tell; +Accept its offering, while it heaves--farewell! + + + +TO ------. + +AN IMPROMPTU. + + +O Sue! you certainly have been + A little raking, roguish creature, +And in that face may still be seen + Each laughing love's bewitching feature! + +For thou hast stolen many a heart; + And robb'd the sweetness of the rose; +Placed on that cheek, it doth impart + More lovely tints--more fragrant blows! + +Yes, thou art Nature's favourite child, + Array'd in smiles, seducing, killing; +Did Joseph live, you'd drive him wild, + And set his very soul a-thrilling! + +A poet, much too poor to live, + Too poor in this rich world to rove; +Too poor for aught but verse to give, + But not, thank God, too poor to love! + +Gives thee his little doggerel lay;--One + truth I tell, in sorrow tell it: +I'm forced to give my verse away, + Because, alas! I cannot sell it. + +And should you with a critic's eye + Proclaim me 'gainst the Muse a sinner, +Reflect, dear girl I that such as I, + Six times a-week don't get a dinner. + +And want of comfort, food, and wine, + Will damp the genius, curb the spirit: +These wants I'll own are often mine;--But + can't allow a want of merit. + +For every stupid dog that drinks + At poet's pond, nicknamed divine; +Say what he will, I know he thinks + That all he writes is wondrous fine! + + + +THE STEAM-BOAT. + +Say, dark prow'd visitant! that o'er the brine + _Stalk'st_ proudly--heeding not what wind may blow, +What chart, what compass, shapes that course of thine, + Whence didst thou come, and whither dost thou go? + +Art thou a Monster born of sky and sea? + Art thou a Pagod moving in thine ire? +Were I a Savage I must bend to thee, + A Ghiber? I must own thee "God of fire." + +The affrighted billows fly thy hissing rout, + Thy wake is followed by turmoil and din, +Blackness and darkness track thy course without, + And fire and groans and vapours strive within. + +And they who cling about thee--who are they? + And canst thou be that fabled boat, that waits +On the dark banks of Styx for souls? Oh, say! + Let me not burst in ignorance--thy freight. + +Thus spake I, wandering near the Brighton shore, + Straining my very eye-balls from my _Cab;_ +First came two "ten-horse" laughs--and then a roar, + "Be off, queer Chap, or I'll soon stop your gab!" + +Then swept she onward, breathing mist and cloud, + While from my bosom this reflection broke; +Although I think the steam-boat something proud, + Such _lofty_ questions often end in _smoke_. +To all Grandiloquents a hint _I_ deem it, +And whilst I live, I'll ever such _esteem_ it. + + + +SONNET. + +TO LYDIA, + +ON HER BIRTH-DAY. + + +Bless'd be the hour that gave my LYDIA birth, + The day be sacred 'mid each varying year; +How oft the name recals thy spotless worth, + And joys departed, still to memory dear! +If matchless friendship, constancy, and love, + Have power to charm, or one sad grief beguile, +'Tis thine the gloom of sorrow to remove, + And on the tearful cheek imprint a smile. +May every after-season to thee bring + New joys, to cheer life's dark eventful way, +Till time shall close thee in his pond'rous wing, + And angels waft thee to eternal day! +Loved friend, farewell! thy name this heart shall fill, + Till memory sinks, and all its griefs are still! + + + +TO SARAH, WHILE SINGING. + +Written at the Cottage of T. LEWIS, Esq. Woodbury Downs. + + +In the retirement of this lovely spot, +Sacred to friendship, industry, and worth, +To boundless hospitality and mirth, +Be ever peace and joy--all care forgot, +Save that which carest for a higher, holier, lot! + +And thou, sweet girl, whose lovely modest mien, +Cheers the gay banquet with unconscious wiles, +Long mayest thou grace it with affection's smiles, +The vocal syren of this sylvan scene. +Warbling thy sweetest notes 'midst flowers and woodlands green. + +Long be the social circle's grace and pride, +Of parents' hopes, the dearest and the best, +"The Dove of promise to this ark of rest:" +Who, when around the world's fierce billows ride, +Beareth the branch that speaks of the receding tide! + +_July, 1827_ + + + +TO THADDEUS.[1] + +Farewell! loved youth, for still I hold thee dear, + Though thou hast left me friendless and alone; +Still, still thy name recals the heartfelt tear, + That hastes MATILDA to her wish'd-for home. + +Why leave the wretch thy perfidy hath made, + To journey cheerless through the world's wide waste? +Say, why so soon does all thy kindness fade, + And doom me, thus, affliction's cup to taste? + +Ungen'rous deed! to fly the faithful maid + Who, for thy arms, abandon'd every friend; +Oh! cruel thought, that virtue, thus betray'd, + Should feel a pang that death alone can end. + +Yet I'll not chide thee--And when hence you roam, + Should my sad fate one tear of pity move, +Ah! then return! this bosom's still thy home, + And all thy failings I'll repay with love. + +Believe me, dear, at midnight, or at morn, + In vain exhausted nature strives to rest, +Thy absence plants my pillow with a thorn, + And bids me hope no more, on earth, for rest. + +But if unkindly you refuse to hear, + And from despair thy poor MATILDA have; +Ah! don't deny one tributary tear, + To glisten sweetly o'er my early grave. + + MATILDA. + +[Footnote 1: The above lines were written at the request of a lady, +and meant to describe the feelings of one "who loved not wisely, but +too well."] + + + +YOUTH AND AGE. + +I love the joyous thoughtless heart, + The revels of the youthful mind, +'Ere sad experience points the dart, + Which wounds so surely all mankind. + +It glads me when the buoyant soul, + Unconscious ranges, fancy free, +Draining the sweets of pleasure's bowl, + And thinking all as blest as he. + +Ah! me, yet sad it is to know, + The many griefs the future brings, +That time must change that note to woe, + Which now its merry carrol sings. + +This "summer of the mind," alas! + Must have its autumn--leafless, bare, +When all these pleasing phantoms pass, + And end in winter, age, and care! + +Such, such is life, the moral tells-- + The tempest, and its sunny smiles, +A warning voice the cheerful bells, + The knell of death, our youth beguiles! + + + +SENT FOR THE ALBUM + +OF THE REV. G---- C----, + +With a Drawing of the Head of an Eminent Artist. + + +Dear Sir, you remember, when Herod of Jewry +Had given a ball, how a shocking old fury +Demanded, so bent was the vixen on slaughter. +The head of St. John at the hand of her daughter: +Now do not detest me, nor hold me in dread, +Because, like King Herod, I send you a head: +Not a saint's, by-the-bye, although _taken from life_, +But a head of my friend, by the hand of my wife. + + + +WRITTEN + +UNDER AN ELEGANT DRAWING OF A DEAD CANARY BIRD, + +By Miss A.M. TURNER, Daughter of the Eminent Engraver. + + +_Death_ to the very _life!_ not the closed eye, + Not those small paralytic limbs alone, +But every feather tells so mournfully + Thy fate, and that thy _little_ life has flown. + +Manhood forbids that I should weep, and yet + Sadness comes o'er my spirit, and I stand +Gazing intensely, and with mute regret, + Turn from the wonder of the artist's hand. + +Exquisite artist! could I praise thee more + Than by the silent admiration? no! +And now I try to praise I must deplore + How feeble is the verse that tells thee so; +But thou art gaining for thyself a fame +Worthy thyself, thy sex, and thy dear father's name! + + + +LINES + +SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF + +THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. + + +Genius of England! wherefore to the earth + Is thy plumed helm, thy peerless sceptre cast? +Thy courts of late with minstrelsy and mirth + Rang jubilant, and dazzling pageants past; +Kings, heroes, martial triumphs, nuptial rites-- + +Now, like a cypress, shiver'd by the blast, + Or mountain-cedar, which the lightning smites, +In dust and darkness sinks thy head declined, + Thy tresses streaming wild on ocean's reckless wind. + +Art thou not glorious?--In that night of storms, + When He, in Power's supremacy elate, + Gaul's fierce Usurper! fulminating fate, + The Goth's barbaric tyranny restored, +And science, art, and all life's fairer forms, + Sunk to the dark dominion of the sword: +Didst thou not, champion of insulted man! + Confront this stern Destroyer in his pride? + Didst thou not crush him in the battle shock, +While recent victory shouted in his van, + And shrunk the nations, shadow'd by his stride? + Yea, chain him howling to yon desert rock, + Where, thronging ghastly from uncounted graves, + His victims murmur 'midst the groans of waves, +And mock his soul's despair, his deep blaspheming ban! + +Nor erst, in Liberty's avenging day, + When, launching lightnings in her wrath divine, + She rose, and gave to never-dying fame, +Platæ, Marathon, Thermopylæ, + Did each, did all, sublimer laurels twine + Round Græcia's conquering brows, than Waterloo on thine! + +Then, wherefore, Albion! terror-struck, subdued, + Sitt'st thou, thy state foregone, thy banner furl'd? +What dire infliction shakes that fortitude, + Which propt the falling fortunes of the world?-- +Hush! hark! portentous, like a withering spell + From lips unblest--strange sounds mine ear appal; +Now the dread omens more distinctly swell-- + That thrilling shriek from Claremont's royal hall, +The death-note peal'd from yon terrific bell, + The deepening gale with lamentation swoln-- +These, Albion! these, too eloquently tell, + That from her radiant sphere, thy brightest star has fall'n! + +And art thou gone?--graced vision of an hour! + Daughter of Monarchs! gem of England's crown! +Thou loveliest lily! fair imperial flower! + In beauty's vernal bloom to dust gone down; +Gone when, dispers'd each inauspicious cloud, + In blissful sunshine 'gan thy hopes to glow: +From pain's fierce grasp, no refuge but the shroud, + Destin'd a Mother's pangs, but not her joys, to know. + +Lost excellence! what harp shall hymn thy worth, + Nor wrong the theme? conspicuously in thee, +Beyond the blind pre-eminence of birth, + Shone Nature in her own regality! +Coerced, thy Spirit smiled, sedate in pride, + Fixt as the pine, while circling storms contend; +But, when in Life's serener duties tried, + How sweetly did its gentle essence blend, +All-beauteous in the wife, the daughter, and the + friend! + +Not lull'd in langours, indolent and weak, + Nor winged by pleasure, fled thy early hours; +But ceaseless vigils blanch'd thy virgin cheek, + In silent Study's dim-sequester'd bowers: +Propitious there, to thy admiring mind, + With brow unveil'd, consenting Science came; +There Taste awoke her sympathies refined; + There Genius, kindling his etherial flame, +Led thy young soul the Muse's heights to dare, + And mount on Milton's wing, and breathe empyreal air! + +But chiefly, conscious of thy promised throne, + Intent to grace that destiny sublime; +Thou sought'st to make the historic page thine own, + And win the treasures of recorded time; +The forms of polity, the springs of power, + Exploring still with inexhausted zeal; +Still, the pole-star which led thy studious hour + Through Thought's unfolding tracts--thy Country's weal! +While Fancy, radiant with unearthly charms, + Thus breathed the whisper Wisdom sanctified: +"Eliza's, Anna's glories, arts, or arms, + Beneath thy sway shall blaze revivified, +And still prolonged, and still augmenting, shine +Interminably bright in thy illustrious line!" + +'Tis past--thy name, with every charm it bore, +Melts on our souls, like music heard no more, +The dying minstrel's last ecstatic strain, +Which mortal hand shall never wake again-- +But, if, blest spirit! in thy shrine of light, +Life's visions rise to thy celestial sight; +If that bright sphere where raptured seraphs glow, +Permit communion with this world of woe; +And sore, if thus our fond affections deem, +Hope mocks us not, for Heaven inspires the dream-- +Benignant shade! the beatific kiss +That seal'd thy welcome to the shores of bliss, +No holier joy instill'd, than then wilt feel +If thine the task thy kindred's woes to heal; +If hovering yet, with viewless ministry, +In scenes which Memory consecrates to thee, +Thou soothe with binding balm which grief endears, +A Sire's, a Husband's, and--a Mother's tears!-- + +Till Pity's self expire, a Nation's sighs, +Spontaneous incense! o'er thy tomb shall rise: +And, 'midst the dark vicissitudes that wait +Earth's balanced empires in the scales of Fate, +Be thou OUR angel-advocate the while, +And gleam, a guardian saint, around thy native isle! + + + +THE PRESUMPTUOUS FLY. + +Sung by Mr. PYNE.--Composed by Mr. ROOKE. + + +Come away, come away, little fly! + Don't disturb the sweet calm of lore's nest; +If you do, I protest you shall die, + And your tomb be that beautiful breast. +Don't tickle the girl in her sleep, + Don't cause so much beauty to sigh; +If she frown, half the graces will weep, + If she weep, all the graces will die. + Come away, little fly, &c. + +Now she wakes! steal a kiss and be gone; + Life is precious: away, little fly! +Should your rudeness provoke her to scorn, + You'll meet death from the glance of her eye. +Were I ask'd by fair Chloe to say + How I felt, as the flutterer I chid; +I should own, as I drove it away, + I wish'd to be there in its stead! + Come away, little fly, &c. + + + +THE HEROES OF WATERLOO. + +Address, written for a Benefit, at a Provincial Theatre, for the +Wounded Survivors, Families, and Relatives, of the Heroes of +Waterloo. + +Once more Britannia sheathes her conqu'ring sword, +And Peace returns, by Victory restored; +Peace, that erewhile estranged, 'midst long alarms, +Scarce welcomed home, was ravish'd from our arms; +What time, fierce bounding from his broken chain, +Gaul's banish'd Despot re-aspired to reign; +Whilst at his call, prompt minions of his breath, +Round his dire throne rush'd Havoc, Spoil, and Death; +With wonted pomp his baleful ensign blazed, +And Europe shrunk, and shudder'd as she gazed. +Insulted Liberty her tocsin rung; +Again Britannia to the combat sprung: +Star of the Nations! her auspicious form +Led on their march, and foremost braved the storm. + +Pent-in its clouds, ere yet the tempest flash'd, +Ere peal on peal the mingling thunder crash'd; +While Fate hung dubious o'er the marshall'd powers, +What anxious fears, what trembling hopes, were ours! +For never yet from Gallia's confines came +War's fell eruption with so fierce a flame: +She sent a Chief, matur'd in martial strife, +Who fought for fame, for empire, and for life; +Whose Host had sworn, deep-stung with recent shame, +To satiate vengeance, and retrieve their fame! +Each furious impulse, each hot throb, was there, +That spurs Ambition, or inflames Despair. +Then Britain fix'd on her Unconquer'd Son, +Her eye, her hope--immortal WELLINGTON! +He, skill'd to crash, with one collective blow +Sustain'd sedate the fierce assaulting foe. +How stood his squadrons like the steadfast rock, +Frowning on Ocean's ineffectual shock! +Till forward summon'd to the fierce attack, +They give to Gaul his furious onset back; +Swift on its prey each fiery legion springs, +As when Heaven's ire the vollied lightning wings! +Then Gallia's blood in expiation stream'd, +Then trembling Europe saw her fate redeem'd; +And England, radiant in her triumph past, +Beheld them all transcended in the last: +Yes, raptured Britons blest the gale that blew +The tidings home--the tale of Waterloo! +But, oh! while joy tumultuous hail'd the day, +Cold on the plain what gallant victims lay! +Deaf to the triumph of their sacred cause, +Deaf to their country's shout, the world's applause! + +Rear high the column, bid the marble breathe, +Pour soft the verse, and twine the laureate wreath; +From year to year let musing Memory shed +Her tenderest tears, to grace the glorious dead. +'Tis ours with grateful ardour to sustain +The wounded veteran on his bed of pain; +To soothe the widow, sunk in anguish deep, +Whose orphan weeps to see its mother weep. + +Oh! when, outstretch'd on that triumphant field, +The prostrate Warrior felt his labours seal'd; +Felt, 'midst the shout of Victory pealing round, +Life's eddying stream fast welling from his wound; +Perchance Affection bade her visions rise-- +Wife, children, floated o'er his closing eyes: +For them alone he heaved the bitter sigh; +Yet for his country glorying thus to die! +To her bequeath'd them with his parting breath, +And sunk serene in unregretted death.-- + +To no cold ear was that appeal prefer'd; +With glowing bosom grateful England heard; +With liberal hand she pours the prompt relief, +Soothes the sick head, and wipes the tear of grief. + +Our humble efforts consecrate, to-night, +To this great cause, our small but willing mite. +Bright are the wreaths the warrior's urn which grace, +And bless'd the bounty that protects his race! +Thus warm'd, thus waken'd, with congenial fire, +Each hero's son shall emulate his sire; +From age to age prolong the glorious line, +And guard their country with a shield divine! + + + +THE NIGHT-BLOWING CEREUS. + +Can it be true, so fragrant and so fair, + To give thy perfumes to the dews of night? +Can aught so beautiful, despise the glare, + And fade, and sicken in the morning light? + +Yes! peerless flower, the Heavens alone exhale + Thy fragrance, while the glittering stars attest, +And incense wafted by the midnight gale, + Untainted rises from thy spotless breast. + +How like that Faith whose nature is apart + From human gaze, to love and work unseen, +Which gives to God an undivided heart, + In sorrow steadfast, and in joy serene; +That night-flower of the soul, whose fragrant power +Breathes on the darkness of the closing hour! + + + +1827; + +OR, THE POET'S LAST POEM. + + +Ye Bards in all your thousand dens, +Great souls with fewer pence than pens, +Sublime adorers of Apollo, +With folios full, and purses hollow; +Whose very souls with rapture glisten, +When you can find a fool to listen; +Who, if a debt were paid by pun, +Would never be completely _done_. +Ye bright inhabitants of garrets, +Whose dreams are rich in ports and clarets, +Who, in your lofty paradise, +See aldermanic banquets rise-- +And though the duns around you troop, +Still float in seas of turtle soup. +I here forsake the tuneful trade, +Where none but lordlings now are paid, +Or where some northern rogue sits puling, +(The curse of universal schooling)-- +A ploughman to his country lost, +An author to his printer's cost-- +A slave to every man who'll buy him, +A knave to every man who'll try him-- +Yet let him take the pen, at once +The laurel gathers round his sconce! + +On every subject superseded, +My favorite topics all invaded, +I scarcely dip my pen in praise, +When fifty bardlings grasp my bays; +Or let me touch a drop of satire, +(I once knew something of the matter), +Just fifty bardlings take the trouble, +To be my tuneful worship's double. +Fine similies that nothing fit, +Joe Miller's, that _must_ pass for wit; +The dull, dry, brain-besieging jokes, +The humour that no laugh provokes-- +The nameless, worthless, witless rancours, +The rage that souls of scribblers cankers-- +(Administer'd in gall go thick, +It makes even Sunday critic's sick!) +Disgust my passion, fill my place, +And snatch my prize before my face. + +If then I take the "brilliant" pen. +And "scorning measures" talk of men-- +There Luttrel steps 'twixt me and fame-- +So like, egad, we're just the same; +I never half squeeze out a thought, +But jumps its fellow on the spot-- +My tenderest dreams, my fondest touch, +Are victims to his ready clutch; +The whirling waltz, the gay costume, +The porcelain tooth, the gallic bloom; +The vapid smiles, the lisping loves +Of turtles (never meant for doves)-- +The dreary stuff that fills the ears, +Where _all_ the orators are peers-- +The hides reveal'd through ball-room dresses, +Where all the parties are peer-esses; +The dulness of the _toujours gai_, +The yawning night, the sleepy day, +The visages of cheese and chalk, +The drowsy, dreamy, languid talk; +The fifty other horrid things, +That strip old Time of both his wings! +There's not a topic of them all +But comes, hey presto! at _his_ call. + +Or when I turn my pen to love, +A theme that fits me like my glove, +A pang I've borne these twenty years +With ten-times twenty several dears, +Each glance a dart, each smile a quiver, +Stinging their bard from lungs to liver-- +To work my ruin, or my cure, +Up starts thy pen, Anacreon Moore! +In vain I pour my shower of roses, +On which the matchless fair one dozes, +And plant around her conch the graces, +While jealous Venus breaks her laces, +To see a younger face promoted, +To see her own old face out-voted; +And myrtle branches twisting o'er her, +Bow down, each turn'd a true adorer. +Up starts the Irish Bard--in vain +I write, 'tis all against the grain: +In vain I talk of smiles or sighs, +The girls all have him in their eyes; +And not a soul--mamma, or miss-- +But vows he's the sole Bard of Bliss! + +Since first I dipp'd in the romantic, +A hundred thousand have run frantic-- +There's not a hideous highland spot, +(Long fallowed to the core by Scott)-- +No rill, through rack and thistle dribbling, +But has its deadlier crop of scribbling. +Each fen, and flat, and flood, and fell, +Gives birth to verses by the ell-- +There Wordsworth, for his muse's sallies, +Claims all the ponds, the lanes, and alleys-- +There Coleridge swears none else shall tune +A bag-pipe to the list'ning moon; +On come in clouds the scribbling columns, +Each prowling for his next three volumes. +I scorn the rascal tribe, and spurn all +The yearly, monthly, and diurnal. + +I write the finest things that ever +Made duchess fond, or marquiss clever-- +(Although I'd rather half turn Turk, +The thing's such monstrous up-hill work). +My _ton's_ the very cream of fashion, +My passion the sublimest passion, +My rage _satanic_, love the same, +Of all blue flames, the bluest flame-- +My piety perpetual matins, +A quaker propp'd on double pattens; +My lovely girls the most precocious, +My beaus delightfully atrocious! +Yet scarcely have I play'd my card, +When up comes politician Ward, +Before my face he trumps my trump, +Sweeps off my honours in the lump, +And never asking my permission, +Talks sermons to the third edition. + +Or Boulogne, Highway Byeway, Grattan, +(The Pyrenees begin to flatten, +A feast denied to storm and shower, +The pen's the wonder-working power); +Or Smith, the master of "Addresses," +Carves history out in modern messes:-- +Tells how gay Charles cook'd up his collops, +How fleeced his friends, how paid his trollops-- +How pledged his soul, and pawn'd his oath, +'Till none would give a straw for both; +And touching paupers for the Evil, +Touch'd England half way to the devil +Or Hook, picks up my favorite hits, +For when was friendship between wits? +Or Lyster, doubly dandyfied, +Fidgets his donkey by my side; +Or Bulwer rambles back from Greece, +Woolgathering from the Golden fleece-- +Or forty volumes, piping hot, +Come blazing from volcano Scott; +When pens like their's play all my game. +The tasteless world must bear the blame. + +I had a budget, full of fan, +But here again, I'm lost, undone! +I'm so forestall'd--that faith, I could +Half quarrel with--my _lively Hood_: +For _odd it is_, my "Oddities," +Are _even_ all the same with his; +Would _Sherwood_ (him of Paternoster), +Assist my pilferings to foster, +I'd turn free-booter--nay, I would +E'en play the part of _robbing Hood_-- +But brother Wits should never quarrel, +Nor try to "pluck each other's laurel," +And tho' my income's scarce enough +To find friend Petersham with snuff, +Here's peace to all! and kind regards! +And _Brother Hood_ among the Bards. + +So all, friends, countrymen, and lovers, +With one, or one and twenty covers, +Farewell to all;--my glories past, +I pen my lay, my sweetest, last! +Another Phoenix, build my nest +Of spices, Phoebus' very best, +Concentrating in these gay pages, +Wit, worth the wit of all the stages; +Love, tender as the midnight talk, +In softest summer's midnight walk, +With leave to all earth's fools to spurn 'em, +Nay (if they first will _buy_) to burn 'em. + + + +TO THE REVIEWERS. + +Oh! ye, enthroned in presidential awe, +To give the song-smit generation law; +Who wield Apollo's delegated rod, +And shake Parnassus with your sovereign nod; +A pensive Pilgrim, worn with base turmoils, +Plebeian cares, and mercenary toils, +Implores your pity, while with footsteps rude, +He dares within the mountain's pale intrude; +For, oh! enchantment through its empire dwells. +And rules the spirit with Lethëan spells; +By hands unseen aërial harps are hung, +And Spring, like Hebe, ever fair and young, +On her broad bosom rears the laughing Loves, +And breathes bland incense through the warbling groves; +Spontaneous, bids unfading blossoms blow, +And nectar'd streams mellifluously flow. + +There, while the Muses wanton unconfined, +And wreaths resplendent round their temples bind, +'Tis yours to strew their steps with votive flowers; +To watch them slumbering 'midst the blissful bowers; +To guard the shades that hide their sacred charms; +And shield their beauties from unhallow'd arms! +Oh! may their suppliant steal a passing kiss? +Alas! he pants not for superior bliss; +Thrice-bless'd his virgin modesty shall be +To snatch an evanescent ecstacy! +The fierce extremes of superhuman love, +For his frail sense too exquisite might prove; +He turns, all blushing, from th' Aönian shade, +To humbler raptures with a mortal maid. + +I know 'tis yours, when unscholastic wights +Unloose their fancies in presumptuous flights, +Awaked to vengeance, on such flights to frown, +Clip the wing'd horse, and roll his rider down. +But, if empower'd to strike th' immortal lyre, +The ardent vot'ry glows with genuine fire, +'Tis yours, while care recoils, and envy flies, +Subdued by his resistless energies, +'Tis yours to bid Piërian fountains flow, +And toast his name in Wit's seraglio; +To bind his brows with amaranthine bays, +And bless, with beef and beer, his mundane days! +Alas! nor beef, nor beer, nor bays, are mine, +If by your looks my doom I may divine, +Ye frown so dreadful, and ye swell so big, +Your fateful arms, the goose-quill, and the wig: +The wig, with wisdom's somb'rous seal impress'd, +Mysterious terrors, grim portents, invest; +And shame and honour on the goose-quill perch, +Like doves and ravens on a country church. + +As some raw 'Squire, by rustic nymphs admired, +Of vulgar charms, and easy conquests tired, +Resolves new scenes and nobler flights to dare, +Nor "waste his sweetness in the desert air," +To town repairs, some famed assembly seeks, +With red importance blust'ring in his cheeks; +But when, electric on th' astonish'd wight +Burst the full floods of music and of light, +While levell'd mirrors multiply the rows +Of radiant beauties, and accomplish'd beaus, +At once confounded into sober sense, +He feels his pristine insignificance: +And blinking, blund'ring, from the general _quiz_ +Retreats, "to ponder on the thing he is." +By pride inflated, and by praise allured, +Small Authors thus strut forth, and thus get cured; +But, Critics, hear I an angel pleads for _me_, +That tongueless, ten-tongued cherub, _Modesty_. + +Sirs! if you damn me, you'll resemble those +That flay'd the Traveller who had lost his clothes; +Are there not foes enough to _do_ my books? +Relentless trunk-makers and pastry-cooks? +Acknowledge not those barbarous allies, +The wooden box-men, and the men of pies: +For Heav'n's sake, let it ne'er be understood +That you, great Censors! coalesce with _wood;_ +Nor let your actions contradict your looks, +That tell the world you ne'er colleague with _cooks._ + +But, if the blithe Muse will indulge a smile, +Why scowls thy brow, O Bookseller! the while? +Thy sunk eyes glisten through eclipsing fears, +Fill'd, like Cassandra's, with prophetic tears: +With such a visage, withering, woe-begone, +Shrinks the pale poet from the damning dun. +Come, let us teach each other's tears to flow, +Like fasting bards, in fellowship of woe, +When the coy Muse puts on coquettish airs, +Nor deigns one line to their voracious prayers! +Thy spirit, groaning like th' encumber'd block +Which bears my works, deplores them as _dead stock._ +Doom'd by these undiscriminating times +To endless sleep, with Delia Cruscan rhymes; +Yes, Critics whisper thee, litigious wretches! +Oblivion's hand shall _finish_ all my _sketches._ +But see, _my_ soul, such bug-bears has repell'd +With magnanimity unparallel'd! +Take up the volume, every care dismiss, +And smile, gruff Gorgon! while I tell thee this: +Not one shall lie neglected on the shelf, +All shall be sold--I'll buy them in myself! + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems (1828), by Thomas Gent + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11215 *** diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8da68e1 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #11215 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11215) diff --git a/old/11215-8.txt b/old/11215-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2c62feb --- /dev/null +++ b/old/11215-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4492 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems (1828), by Thomas Gent + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems (1828) + +Author: Thomas Gent + +Release Date: February 21, 2004 [EBook #11215] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS (1828) *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Virginia Paque and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + + + + + + POEMS; + + BY + + THOMAS GENT. + + + + LONDON + + + 1828. + + + + +ADVERTISEMENT. + + +Some of the Pieces in this volume have been separately published, +at different times; the indulgence, I may say favour, +with which they were individually received, has encouraged me +to collect and re-publish them. I have added many others, +which are now first printed. I shall be well satisfied, if they +find as favourable a reception as their precursors; and are +thought not to have increased the size, without at all increasing +the merit, of the book. + +I cannot omit this opportunity of thanking those Critics, +who have honoured me by reviewing my verses. I owe them +my warm acknowledgments for candidly measuring my Poems +by their pretensions. They have looked at them as they really +were;--as the amusements of the leisure hours of a man +whose fortune will not favour his inclination to devote himself +to poetry; and conceiving a favourable opinion of them in +that character, have kindly expressed it. + +_London, December, 1827._ + +During the progress of these pages through the press, it has +pleased Providence to inflict upon me the severest calamity that +domestic life can sustain. In the private sorrows of the humble +candidate for literary fame, I am aware that the world will feel +no interest, yet humanity will forgive the weakness that struggles +under such a bereavement, and will pardon the tear that falls +upon such a tomb. If, indeed, the Being who is lost to her family +and society were endowed only with those gifts and graces, +which are shared by thousands of her sex, I should have been +silent at this moment. To those who knew her,[1] and to know +her was to esteem and love, this tribute will be superfluous; but +to those who knew her not, I would say, that, superadded to +every natural advantage, to the charms of every polite accomplishment, +and to a cheerful and sincere piety, she was deeply +imbued with the love of literature and of science. In these, her +Lectures on the Physiology of the External Senses exhibit a +splendid proof of her acquirements in their highest walks, and +are an imperishable memorial of her patient and laborious research. +They who were present at the delivery of these Lectures +will not soon forget the effect of her impressive elocution, +chastened as it was by as unaffected modesty as ever adorned +and dignified a woman. I speak of that which she performed--that +which her capacious mind had meditated I forbear to mention. +For the advancement of her sex in pursuits that are intellectual +she made many sacrifices, both of her feelings and her +time; yet, in all she did, and in all she contemplated, usefulness +was her end and aim--but I must not proceed; less than this I +could not say--more than this might be deemed ostentatious. + + +What earthly tongue, and, oh! what human pen + Can tell that scene of suffering, too severe. +'Tis ever present to my sight, oh! when + Will the sound cease its torture on mine ear? + +Oh! my lost love, thou patient Being, never! + Thy dying look of love can I forget; +The last fond pressure of thy hand, _for ever!_ + Thrills in my veins, I see thy struggles yet. + +Thy sculptured beauty is before me now: + In thy calm dignity, and sweet repose, +Alas! sad memory re-invests thy brow, + With death's stern agony, and pain's last throes. + +Desolate heart be still--forgive, oh God! + The cries of feeble nature stricken sore. +Father! assuage the terrors of thy rod. + Teach me to see thy wisdom--and adore! + + +[Footnote 1: I cannot resist the melancholy gratification of quoting +from the Literary Gazette, of August 18, in which the death of Mrs. Gent +was announced to the public.--"Science has, since our last, suffered a +severe lost by the death of this accomplished lady; she was well known +for her high attainments as a Lecturer, and her Course on the Physiology +of the External Senses was a perfect model of elegant composition and +refined oratory. Mrs. Gent died at the residence of her husband, Thomas +Gent, Esq. Doctor's Commons, after a month of severe suffering, which +she bore with singular fortitude, and the most pious resignation. There +is a fine bust of her, by Behnes; it was in the Exhibition two years +since, and, from its intrinsic simplicity and beauty alone, has had many +casts made from it." + +And one of the most distinguished Poets of the present day, will, I am +sure, forgive me if I quote his beautiful words in writing to me on +this subject--for his talents she had the highest admiration, and no +one was better able than himself to appreciate the excellence of her +character.--"As to condolence, I never condole--what condolence could +any one offer for the loss of so estimable a being as has been lost to +society in your accomplished wife? I had a very great respect and esteem +for her, and it would have highly gratified me to have been able to +lighten the least of her trials; but what avails writing or visiting on +occasions of such real pain. She lived a most amiable being--and for +such there is the highest hope in the Highest World. If I had conceived +that her illness was at all serious, I should have gone to gather wisdom +from her for my own hour--but now, that all her anxieties are past, I +can invent no condolence."] + +CONTENTS. + + +Poems +Mature Reflections +The Grave of Dibdin +A Sketch from Life +On the Portrait of the Son of J.G. Lambton, Esq. +Written in the Album of the Lady of Counsellor D. Pollock +The Heliotrope +Sonnet On seeing a Young Lady I had previously known, + confined in a Madhouse +Prometheus +Rosa's Grave +The Sibyl. A Sketch +Love +On a delightful Drawing in my Album +Stanzas +Shakspeare +Impromptu. To Oriana, on attending with her, as Sponsors, + at a Christening +To my Spaniel Fanny +Widowed Love +Written to the Lady of Dr. George Birkbeck +The Chain-pier, Brighton. A Sketch +Sonnet. Morning. +On the Death of Dr. Abel +Sonnet. Night. +Constancy. To ------ +Epistle to a Friend +Here in our Fairy Bowers we Dwell. A Glee +Henry and Eliza +Written on the Death of General Washington +To ------ +Monody on the Right Hon. R.B. Sheridan +On the beautiful Portrait of Mrs. Forman, as Pandora +Sonnet. To ------, on her Recovery from Illness +To Margaret Jane H------, on her Birth-day +The Runaway +On Reading the Poem of "Paris." +On the Death of Gen. Sir R. Abercrombie +Retaliation +Lines, written in a Copy of the Poem on the Princess Charlotte +Sonnet +To Robert Soothey, Esq. on reading his "Remains of Henry Kirke White" +The State Secret. An Impromptu +The Morning Call +Sonnet +On the Rupture of the Thames' Tunnel +Anacreontic. "The Wisest Men are Fools in Wine." +Lines, written in Hornsey Wood +To Mary +Black Eyes and Blue +Epigram. Auri Sacra Fames +Sonnet. To Faith +On a Spirited Portrait, by E. Landaeer, Esq. +Sonnet. To Hope +Lines, written on the Sixth of September +Sonnet. To Charity +Hymn +Reflections of a Poet on going to a great Dinner +Sunday +A Night-Storm +On the Death of Nelson +The Blue-eyed Maid +Taking Orders. A Tale, founded on fact +The Gipsy's Home. A Glee +Sonnet. The Beggar +To ------ +Song. "The Recal of the Hero." +To Eliza. Written in her Album +Elegy on the Death of A. Goldsmid, Esq. +Sonnet. On the Death of Mrs. Charlotte Smith +Mister Punch. A Hasty Sketch +Content +Epitaph. On Matilda +To ------. An Impromptu +The Steam-Boat +Sonnet To Lydia, on her Birth-day +To Sarah, while Singing +To Thaddeus +Youth and Age +Sent for the Album of the Rev. G----- C----- +Written under an elegant Drawing of a Dead Canary Bird +Lines suggested by the Death of the Princess Charlotte +The Presumptuous Fly +The Heroes of Waterloo +The Night-blowing Cereus +1827; or, the Poet's Last Poem +To the Reviewers + +POEMS. + +Tis sweet in boyhood's visionary mood, +When glowing Fancy, innocently gay, +Flings forth, like motes, her bright aërial brood, +To dance and shine in Hope's prolific ray; +'Tis sweet, unweeting how the flight of years +May darkling roll in trials and in tears, +To dress the future in what garb we list, +And shape the thousand joys that never may exist. +But he, sad wight! of all that feverish train, +Fool'd by those phantoms of the wizard brain, +Most wildly dotes, whom young ambition stings +To trust his weight upon poetic wings; +He, downward looking in his airy ride, +Beholds Elysium bloom on every side; +Unearthly bliss each thrilling nerve attunes, +And thus the dreamer with himself communes. +Yes! Earth shall witness, 'ere my star be set, +That partial nature mark'd me for her pet; +That Phoebus doom'd me, kind indulgent sire! +To mount his car, and set the world on fire. +Fame's steep ascent by easy flights to win, +With a neat pocket volume I'll begin; +And dirge, and sonnet, ode, and epigram, +Shall show mankind how versatile I am. +The buskin'd Muse shall next my pen descry: +The boxes from their inmost rows shall sigh; +The pit shall weep, the galleries deplore +Such moving woes as ne'er were heard before: +Enough--I'll leave them in their soft hysterics, +Mount, in a brighter blaze, and dazzle with Homerics. + +Then, while my name runs ringing through Reviews, +And maids, wives, widows, smitten with my Muse, +Assail me with Platonic _billet-doux_. +From this suburban attic I'll dismount, +With Coutts or Barclays open an account; +Ranged in my mirror, cards, with burnish'd ends, +Shall show the whole nobility my friends; +That happy host with whom I choose to dine, +Shall make set-parties, give his-choicest wine; +And age and infancy shall gape to see +The lucky bard, and whisper "That is he!" + +Poor youth! he print--and wakes, _to sleep no more_-- +The world goes on, indifferent, as before; +And the first notice of his metric skill +Comes in the likeness of--his printer's bill; +To pen soft notes no fair enthusiast stirs, +Except his laundress--and who values her's? +None but herself: for though the bard may burn +Her _note_, she still expects one in return. +The luckless maiden, all unblest shall sigh; +His pocket _tome_ hath drawn his pockets dry. +His tragedy expires in peals of laughter; +And that soul-thrilling wish--to live hereafter-- +Gives way to one as hopeless quite, I fear, +And far more needful--how to _live while here_. +Where are ye now, divine illusions all; +Cheques, dinners, wines, admirers great and small! +Changed to two followers, terrible to see, +Who dog his walks, and whisper "That is he!" + +Rhymesters attend! nor scorn & friendly hint, +Restrain your _cacoëths_ fierce to print. +But hark, _my_ printer's devil's at the door, +My leisure cannot yield one moment more: +Nor matters it, advice can ne'er restrain +Madman or poet from his bent:--'tis vain +To strive to point out colours to the blind, +Or set men seeking what they _will not find_. + + + +MATURE REFLECTIONS. + +O Love! divinest dream of youth, + Thy day of ecstacy is o'er, +My bosom, touch'd by time and truth, + Thrills at thy dear deceits no more. + +Nor thou, Ambition! e'er again, + With splendour dazzling to betray, +And aspirations fierce and vain, + Shall tempt my steps--away! away! + +Alas! by stern Experience cleft, + When life's romance is turn'd to sport; +If man hath consolation left + On this side death--'tis good old port. + +And thou, Advice! who glum and chill, + Do'st the _third bottle_ still gainsay; +Smile, and partake it, if you will, + But if you wont--away! away! + + + +THE GRAVE OF DIBDIN. + +Lives there who, with unhallow'd hand, would tear, +One leaf from that immortal wreath which shades +The Hero's living brow, or decks his urn? +Breathes there who does not triumph in the thought +That "Nelson's language is his mother tongue," +And that St. Vincent's country is his own? +Oh! these bright guerdons of renown are won +By means most palpable to sense and sight; +By days of peril and by nights of toil; +By Valour's long probation, closed at last +In Victory's arms--consummated and seal'd +In deathless Glory and immortal Fame. + +Musing I stand upon _his_ lowly grave, +Who, though he fought no battle--though he pour'd +No hostile thunders on his country's foes, +Achieved for Britain triumphs, less array'd +"In pomp and circumstance," nor visible +To vulgar gaze--the triumphs of the _Mind_. +He nursed the elements of courage--he +Supplied the aliment that feeds and guides +The daring spirit to its high emprise-- +A nation's moral energies, by him +Directed, found a nobler end and aim. +He gave that high discriminating tone +That marks the Brave from mercenary tools-- +Features that separate a British Crew +From hireling bravoes, and from pirate hordes. +And yet no marble marks the spot where lies +The dust of DIBDIN;--no inscription speaks +A Nation's gratitude--a Bard's desert. + +The youthful Sailor on his midnight watch, +Fixing his gaze upon the tranquil moon, +Felt his heart soften as the thoughts of home +Rush'd on his faithful memory;--then it was +In language meet, and in appropriate strains-- +Strains which thy lyre had taught him--he pour'd forth +The feelings of his soul, and all was calm. + +Thy Spirit still presides in that carouse, +When to "the Far away" the toast is given, +And "absent Wives and Sweethearts" claim their right, +With Woman's constancy thy songs are rife; +And this pure creed still teaches Man t' endure +Privations, danger, and each form of death. + +When not a breath responded to the call, +And Seamen whistled to the winds in vain; +When the loose canvass droop'd in lazy folds, +And idle pennants dangled from the mast;-- +There, in that trying moment, thou wert found +To teach the hardest lesson man can learn-- +Passive endurance--and the breeze has sprung, +As if obedient to the voice of Song:-- +And yet unhonour'd here thy ashes lie! + +A nobler lesson learn'd the gallant Tar +From his Orphean lyre--to temper right +The lion's courage with the attributes +That to the gentle and the meek belong; +O'er fallen foes to check the eye of fire-- +O'er fallen foes to soften heart of oak. + +He turn'd the Fatalist's rash eye to Him +In whom the issues are of life and death; +He taught to whom the battle is--to whom +The victory belongs. His cherub, that aloft +Kept sleepless watch, was Providence--not Chance. + +And yet no honours are decreed for him-- +Friend of the Brave, thy memory cannot die! +Th'inquiring voice, that eagerly demands +Where rest thy ashes?--shall preserve thy fame. +Thine immortality thyself hast wrought;-- +Familiar as the terms of art, thy verse, +Thine own peculiar words are still the mode +In which the Seaman aptly would express +His honest passions and his manly thoughts; +His feelings kindle at thy burning words, +Which speak his duty in the battle's front; +His parting whisper to the maid he loves +Is breathed in eloquence he learned from thee; +Thou art his Oracle in every mood-- +His trump of victory--his lyre of love! + + + +A SKETCH FROM LIFE. + +She sat in beauty, like some form of nymph +Or naïad, on the mossy, purpled bank +Of her wild woodland stream, that at her feet +Linger'd, and play'd, and dimpled, as in love. +Or like those shapes that on the western clouds +Spread gold-dropp'd plumes, and sing to harps of pearl, +And teach the evening winds their melody: +How shall I tell her beauty?--for the eye, +Fix'd on the sun, is blinded by its beam. +One glance, and then no more, upon that brow +Brighter than marble shining through those curls, +Richer than hyacinths when they wave their bells +In the low breathing of the twilight wind.-- +One glance upon that lip, beside whose hue +The morning rose would sicken and grow pale, +'Till it was waked again by the soft breath +That steals in music from those lips of love. +Wert thou a statue I could pine for thee, +But in thy living beauty there is awe; +The sacredness of modesty enshrines +The ruby lip, bright brow, and beaming eye;-- +I dare but worship what I must not love. + + + +ON THE PORTRAIT + +OF THE SON OF J.G. LAMBTON, ESQ., M.P. + +BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE, P.R.A. + + +Beautiful Boy--thy heavenward thoughts + Are pictured in thine eyes, +Thou hast no taint of mortal birth, +Thy communing is not of earth, + Thy holy musings rise: +Like incense kindled from on high, +Ascending to its native sky. + +And such a head might once have graced + The infant Samuel, when +Call'd by the favour of his God, +The youthful priest the Temple trod + Beloved of Heaven and men! +The same devotion on his brow +As brightens in thy forehead now. + +Or, thou may'st seem to Fancy's eye + One borne by arms Divine; +One, whom on Earth a Saviour bless'd, +And on whose features left impress'd + The Contact's holy sign: +A light, a halo, and a grace, +So pure th' expression of that face. + +Or, has the Painter's skill _alone_ + Such grace and glory given? +Clothed thee with attributes which seem +Creations of an angel's dream, + To raise the soul to Heaven? +_No, as he found thee, he arrayed, +And Genius taught what God had made!_ + + + +WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM + +OF THE LADY OF COUNSELLOR D. POLLOCK. + + +Joy to thee, Lady! many years of joy + To thee--and thine--that springtide of the heart, +The bliss of virtuous love, without alloy. + And all that health and gladsome life impart. +How gracefully hast thou thy task perform'd, + The watchful tender mother, matchless wife; +All woman boasts--thou hast indeed adorn'd-- + Thine the high merit of an useful life. +For ever cheerful, though the Tragic Muse[1] + May call thee Sister, both in form and mind; +Thou do'st to all those envied charms transfuse, + Which shine so highly temper'd and refined. +Lady revered--the sunbeam and the rose + Are poor in beauty to sweet woman's smiles: +'Tis the bright sunset of life's awful close, + The Poet's deathless wreath! a spell all grief beguiles! + +[Footnote 1: The Lady, to whom these lines are addressed has been greatly +noticed for the strong resemblance she bears to Mrs. Siddons.] + + + +THE HELIOTROPE. + +There is a flower, whose modest eye + Is turn'd with looks of light and love, +Who breathes her softest, sweetest sigh. + Whene'er the sun is bright above. + +Let clouds obscure, or darkness veil, + Her fond idolatry is fled, +Her sighs no more their sweets exhale. + The loving eye is cold--and dead. + +Canst thou not trace a moral here, + False flatterer of the prosperous hour? +Let but an adverse cloud appear, + And Thou art faithless, as the Flower! + + + +SONNET. + +ON SEEING A YOUNG LADY, + +I HAD PREVIOUSLY KNOWN, CONFINED IN A MADHOUSE. + + +Sweet wreck of loveliness! alas, how soon + The sad brief summer of thy joys hath fled: +How sorrows Friendship for thy hapless doom, + Thy beauty faded, and thy hopes all dead. +Oh! 'twas that beauty's power which first destroy'd + Thy mind's serenity; its charms but led +The faithless friend, that thy pure love enjoy'd, + To tear the beauteous blossom from its bed. +How reason shudders at thy frenzied air! + To see thee smile, with fancy's dreams possess'd; +Or shrink, the frozen image of despair. + Or, love-enraptured, chant thy griefs to rest: +Oh! cease that mournful voice, affliction's child, + My heart but bleeds to hear thy musings wild. + + + +PROMETHEUS. + +What sovereign good shall satiate man's desires, +Propell'd by Hope's unconquerable fires? +Vain each bright bauble by ambition prized; +Unwon, 'tis worshipp'd--but possess'd, despised. +Yet all defect with virtue shines allied, +His mightiest impulse genius owes to pride. +From conquer'd science graced with glorious spoils, +He still dares on, demands sublimer toils; +And, had not Nature check'd his vent'rous wing, +His eye had pierced her at her primal spring. + +Thus when, enwrapt, Prometheus strove to trace +Inspired perceptions of celestial grace, +Th' ideal spirit, fugitive as wind, +Art's forceful spells in adamant confined: +Curved with nice chisel floats the obsequious line; +From stone unconscious, beauty beams divine; +On magic poised, th' exulting structure swims, +And spurns attraction with elastic limbs. +While ravish'd fancy vivifies the form; +While judgment toils to analyze its charm; +While admiration spreads her speaking hands; +The lofty artist undelighted stands. +He longs to ravish from the bless'd abodes +The seal of heaven, the attribute of gods; +To give his labour more than man can give, +Breathe Jove's own breath, and bid the marble live! + +Won from her woof, embellishing the skies, +Descending, Pallas soothes her vot'ry's sighs, +Where, 'midst the twilight of o'er-arching groves, +By waking visions led, th' enthusiast roves; +Like summer suns, by showery clouds conceal'd, +With sudden blaze the goddess shines reveal'd: +Behold, she cries, in thy distinguished cause +I challenge Jove's inexorable laws! +With life-stol'n essence let th' awaken'd stone +A super-human generation own. +Defrauded nature shall admire the deed, +And time recoil at thy immortal meed. + +Impregn'd with action, and convoked to breathe, +Sighs the still form his ardent hands beneath; +Electric lustres flash from either eve, +O'er its pale cheeks suffusive flushes fly, +And glossy damps its clust'ring curls adorn, +Like dew-drops bright'ning on the brows of morn. +Through nerves that vibrate in unfolding chains, +Foams the warm life-blood, excavating veins; +'Till all infused, and organized the whole, +The finish'd fabric hails the breathing soul! +Then waked tumultuous in th' alarmed breast, +Contending passions claim th' etherial guest; +And still, as each alternate empire proves, +She hopes, she fears, she envies, and she loves; +Owns all sensations that deride the span, +And eternize the little life of man! + + + +ROSA'S GRAVE. + +It is a mournful pleasure to remember the exquisite taste and +delight she evinced in the arrangement of a Bouquet; and how +often she wished that, hereafter, she might appear to me as a +beautiful flower! + + +Oh! lay me where my Rosa lies, + And love shall o'er the moss-grown bed, +When dew-drops leave the weeping skies. + His tenderest tear of pity shed. + +And sacred shall the willow be, + That shades the spot where virtue sleeps; +And mournful memory weep to see + The hallow'd watch affection keeps. + +Yes, soul of love! this bleeding heart + Scarce beating, soon its griefs shall cease; +Soon from his woes the sufferer part, + And hail thee at the Throne of Peace + + + +THE SIBYL. + +A SKETCH. + + +So stood the Sibyl: stream'd her hoary hair +Wild as the blast, and with a comet's glare +Glow'd her red eye-balls 'midst the sunken gloom +Of their wild orbs, like death-fires in a tomb. +Slow, like the rising storm, in fitful moans, +Broke from her breast the deep prophetic tones. +Anon, with whirlwind rash, the Spirit came; +Then in dire splendour, like imprison'd flame +Flashing through rifted domes or towns amazed, +Her voice in thunder burst; her arm she raised; +Outstretch'd her hands, as with a Fury's force, +To grasp, and launch the slow descending curse: +Still as she spoke, her stature seem'd to grow; +Still she denounced unmitigable woe: +Pain, want, and madness, pestilence, and death, +Rode forth triumphant at her blasting breath: +Their march she marshall'd, taught their ire to fall-- +And seem'd herself the emblem of them all! + + + +LOVE. + +Love!--what is love? a mere machine, a spring +For freaks fantastic, a convenient thing, +A point to which each scribbling wight most steer, +Or vainly hope for food or favour here; +A summer's sigh; a winter's wistful tale: +A sound at which th' untutor'd maid turns pale; +Her soft eyes languish, and her bosom heaves, +And Hope delights as Fancy's dream deceives. + +Thus speaks the heart which cold disgust invades, +When time instructs, and Hope's enchantment fades; +Through life's wide stage, from sages down to kings, +The puppets move, as art directs the strings: +Imperious beauty bows to sordid gold, +Her smiles, whence heaven flows emanent, are sold; +And affectation swells th' entrancing tones, +Which nature subjugates, and truth disowns. + +I love th' ingenuous maiden, practised not +To pierce the heart with ambush'd glances, shot +From eyelashes, whose shadowy length she knows +To a hair's point, their high arch when to close +Half o'er the swimming orb, and when to raise, +Disclosing all the artificial blaze +Of unfelt passion, which alone can move +Him whom the genuine eloquence of love +Affected never, won with wanton wiles, +With soulless sighs, and meretricious smiles; +By nature unimpress'd, uncharm'd by thee, +Sweet goddess of my heart, Simplicity! + + + +ON A DELIGHTFUL DRAWING IN MY ALBUM, + +By my friend, T. WOODWARD, ESQ., of a Group, consisting of a +Donkey, a Boy, and a Dog. + + +Welcome, my pretty Neddy--welcome too +Thy merry Rider with his apron blue; +And thou, poor Dog, most patient thing of all, +Begging for morsels that may never fall! +Oh! 'tis a faithful group--and it might shame +Painters of bold pretence, and greater name-- +To see how nature triumphs, and how rare +Such matchless proofs of Nature's triumphs are-- +The smallest particle of sand may tell +With what rich ore Pactolus' tide may swell: +And Woodward! this ingenious, chaste design, +Proclaims what treasures lie within the mine-- +Pupil of Cooper--Nature's favorite son-- +Whom, but to name, and to admire, is one! + + + +STANZAS. + +Say, why is the stern eye averted with scorn + Of the stoic who passes along? +And why frowns the maid, else as mild as the morn. + On the victim of falsehood and wrong? + +For the wretch sunk in sorrow, repentance, and shame, + The tear of compassion is won: +And alone must she forfeit the wretch's sad claim, + Because she's deceived and undone? + +Oh! recal the stern look, ere it reaches her heart, + To bid its wounds rankle anew; +Oh! smile, or embalm with a tear the sad smart, + And angels will smile upon you. + +Time was, when she knew nor opprobrium nor pain, + And youth could its pleasures impart, +Till some serpent distill'd through her bosom the stain, + As he wound round the strings of her heart. + +Poor girl! let thy tears through thy blandishments break, + Nor strive to retrace them within; +For mine would I mingle with those on thy cheek, + Nor think that such sorrow were sin. + +When the low-trampled reed, and the pine in its pride, + Shall alike feel the hand of decay, +May thy God grant that mercy the world has denied, + And wipe all your sorrows away! + + + +SHAKSPEARE. + +Respectfully inscribed, with permission, to the Committee +(of which His Majesty is the Patron) for the proposed Monuments +to SHAKSPEARE at Stratford and in London. Intended to be +spoken at one of the Theatres. + + +While o'er this pageant of sublunar things +Oblivion spreads her unrelenting wings, +And sweeps adown her dark unebbing tide +Man, and his mightiest monuments of pride-- +Alone, aloft, immutable, sublime, +Star-like, ensphered above the track of time, +Great SHAKSPEARE beams with undiminish'd ray. +His bright creations sacred from decay, +Like Nature's self, whose living form he drew, +Though still the same, still beautiful and new. + +He came, untaught in academic bowers, +A gift to Glory from the Sylvan powers: +But what keen Sage, with all the science fraught, +By elder bards or later critics taught, +Shall count the cords of his mellifluous shell, +Span the vast fabric of his fame, and tell +By what strange arts he bade the structure rise-- +On what deep site the strong foundation lies? +This, why should scholiasts labour to reveal? +We all can answer it, we all can feel, +Ten thousand sympathies, attesting, start-- +For SHAKSPEARE'S Temple, _is the human heart!_ + +Lord of a throne which mortal ne'er shall share-- +Despot adored! he rales and revels there. +Who but has found, where'er his track hath been, +Through life's oft shifting, multifarious scene, +Still at his side the genial Bard attend, +His loved companion, counsellor, and friend! + +The Thespian Sisters nurtured in the schools +Of Greece and Rome, and long coerced by rules, +Scarce moved the inmates of their native hearth +With tiny pathos and with trivial mirth, +Till She, great muse of daring enterprise, +Delighted ENGLAND! saw her SHAKSPEARE rise! + +Then, first aroused in that appointed hour, +The Tragic Muse confess'd th' inspiring power; +Sudden before the startled earth she stood, +A giant spectre, weeping tears and blood; +Guilt shrunk appall'd, Despair embraced his shroud, +And Terror shriek'd, and Pity sobb'd aloud;-- +Then, first Thalia with dilated ken +And quicken'd footstep pierced the walks of men; +Then Folly blush'd, Vice fled the general hiss, +Delight met Reason with a loving kiss; +At Satire's glance Pride smooth'd his low'ring crest, +The Graces weaved the dance.--And last and best +Came Momus down in Falstaff's form to earth. +To make the world one universe of mirth! + +Such Sympathies the glorious Bard endear! +Thus fair he walks in Man's diurnal sphere. +But when, upborne on bright Invention's wings. +He dares the realms of uncreated things, +Forms more divine, more dreadful, start to view, +Than ever Hades or Olympus knew. +Round the dark cauldron, terrible and fell, +The midnight Witches breathe the songs of hell; +Delighted _Ariel_ wings his fiery way +To whirl the storm, the wheeling Orbs to stay; +Then bathes in honey-dews, and sleeps in flowers; +Meanwhile, young _Oberon_, girt with shadowy powers, +Pursues o'er Ocean's verge the pale cold Moon, +Or hymns her, riding in her highest noon. + +Thus graced, thus glorified, shall SHAKSPEARE crave +The Sculptor's skill, the pageant of the grave? +HE needs it not--but Gratitude demands +This votive offering at his Country's hands. +Haply, e'er now, from blissful bowers on high, +From some Parnassus of the empyreal sky, +Pleased, o'er this dome the gentle Spirit bends, +Accepts the gift, and hails us as his friends-- +Yet smiles, perchance, to think when envious Time +O'er Bust and Urn shall bid his ivies climb, +When Palaces and Pyramids shall fall-- +HIS PAGE SHALL TRIUMPH--still surviving all-- +'Till Earth itself, "like breath upon the wind," +Shall melt away, "nor leave a rack behind!" + + + +IMPROMPTU, TO ORIANA. + +ON ATTENDING WITH HER, AS SPONSORS, AT A CHRISTENING + + +Lady! who didst--with angel-look and smile, +And the sweet lustre of those dear, dark eyes, +Gracefully bend before the font of Christ, +In humble adoration, faith, and prayer! +Oh!--as the infant pledge of friends beloved +Received from thy pure lips its future name, +Sweetly unconscious look'd the baby-boy! +How beautifully helpless--and how mild! +--Methought, a seraph spread her shelt'ring wings +Over the solemn scene; and as the sun, +In its full splendour, on the altar came, +God's blessing seem'd to sanctify the deed. + + + +TO MY SPANIEL FANNY. + +Fanny! were all the world like thee, + How cheerly then this life would glide, +Dear emblem of Fidelity! + Long may'st thou grace thy master's side. + +Long cheer his hours of solitude, + With watchful eye each wish to learn, +And anxious speechless gratitude + Hail with delight each short sojourn. + +When sick at heart, thy welcome home + A weary load of grief dispels, +Gladdens with hope the hours to come, + And yet a mournful lesson tells! + +To find _thee_ ever faithful, kind, + My guard by night, my friend by day, +While those in friendship more refined + Have with my fortunes flown away. + +Why bounteous nature hast thou given + To this poor _Brute_--a boon so kind +As constancy--bless'd gift of Heaven! + And MAN--to waver like the wind? + + + +WIDOWED LOVE.[1] + +Tell me, chaste spirit! in yon orb of light, + Which seems to wearied souls an ark of rest, +So calm, so peaceful, so divinely bright-- + Solace of broken hearts, the mansion of the bless'd! + +Tell me, oh! tell me--shall I meet again + The long lost object of my only love! +--This hope but mine, death were release from pain; + Angel of mercy! haste, and waft my soul above! + +[Footnote 1: Mr. T. Millar has composed sweet music to these lines, and +has been peculiarly fortunate in composing and singing some of +the exquisite Melodies of T.H. Bayly, Esq. of Bath.] + + + +WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM + +OF THE LADY OF DR. GEORGE BIRKBECK, M.D. + +President of the London Mechanic's Institution, and of the Chemical +and Meteorological Societies. Founder and Patron of the +Glasgow Mechanic's Institute, &c. &c. &c. + + +Lady unknown! a pilgrim from the shrine +Of Poesy's fair temple, brings a wreath +Which fame and gratitude alike entwine, +Around a name that charms the monster Death, +And bids him pause!--Amidst despairing life +BIRKBECK's the harbinger of hope and health; +When sordid affluence was with man at strife, +He boldly stripp'd the veil, and show'd the wealth +To aged ignorance, and ardent youth, +Of cultured minds--the freedom of the soul! +The sun of science, and the light of truth, +The bliss of reason--mind without control. + +Accept this tribute. Lady! and the praise, +As Consort and the soother of his care! +His offspring's pride--his friend's commingled rays, +And every other grace that man has deem'd most rare! + + + +THE CHAIN-PIER, BRIGHTON; + +A SKETCH. + + +Hail, lovely morn! and thou, all-beauteous sea! +Sun-sparkling with the diamond's countless rays: +Thy look, how tranquil, one eternal calm, +Which seems to woo the troubled soul to peace! +Now, all is sunshine, and thy boundless breast +Scarce heaves; unruffled, all thy waves subside +(Light murmuring, like the baby sighs of rest) +Into a gentle ripple on the shore. + +All hail, dear Woman! saving-ark of man, +His surest solace in this world of woe; +How cheering are thy smiles, which, like the breeze +Of health, play softly o'er the pallid cheek, +And turn its rigid markings to a smile. +England may well be proud of scenes like this; +The beaming Beauty which adorns the PIER! + +Hung like a fairy fabric o'er the sea, +The graceful wonder of this wondrous age; +Intrepid Brown,[1] the future page shall tell +Thy generous spirit's persevering aim, +That wrought so much, so well, thy country's weal; +How fit for thee, the gallant seaman's life, +His restless nights, and days of ceaseless toil; +Framed by thy mighty hand, the giant work +Check'd the rude tempest, in its fearful way. +Thy bold inventions gave new life to hope, +Steadied the wavering, and confirm'd the brave, +And bade the timid smile, amidst the storm! + +Spirit of Hogarth! had I but one ray +Of that vast sun which warm'd thy varied mind; +How would I now describe the motley groups +Which crowd, in thoughtless ease, thy moving road. +Mark the young Confidence of yesterday, +Offspring of pride, and fortune's blinded fool, +(Engender'd like the vermin of an hour) +All would-be fashion, elegance, and ease, +While, by his side, the weaker vessel smirks, +In tawdry finery, with presuming gait, +As though the world were made for them alone; +Their liveried Lacquey, half-conceal'd in lace, +The vulgar wonder of an upstart race. +How heartlessly they pass that mourner by, +The poor lone Widow, with her death-struck load. +In speechless poverty, she courts the air, +To give its blessing to her suff'ring babe; +Not asking it herself; for life, to her, +Has now no charm--her refuge is the grave! + +Here comes the moral Almanack of years-- +The prim old maid, and, by her side, her Niece, +Full of bewitching beauty, health, and love. +See, how the tabby watches Laura's eyes, +Lest they should smile upon some pleasing spark, +And violate grim prudery's tyrant ties. +With icy finger, she her charge directs, +To view the faithful dial of the sun, +Whose moral tells how tide and time pass on. +See, there--the fated victim of mischance; +Read, in that hollow eye, and alter'd look, +The deep anxiety which gnaws the heart, +Incessant struggling 'gainst a tide of care, +Which wears his life away;--and there, again, +The empty, lucky Fool, who never thought, +Nor ever will, yet lives and smiles, and thrives! +Mark ye, that Ready-reckoner's figured face? +Cold calculation in his thoughtful step; +The heartless wretch, who never trusts his land, +And never is deceived!--And, next him, comes +Laughing Good-nature, with ruddy cheeks, +And welcome look, determined to be pleased. +He comes to ask--or go with friend to dine; +His labour but to dress--to eat, to sleep: +He knows no suffering equal to bad wine. +There--the prig-Parson, with indented hat, +And formal step--demanding your respect-- +Yonder, the lovely insect-chasing Child. +His is, indeed, a life of envious joy; +Hope and anticipation, on the wing, +To him no sad realities e'er bring! + +And now, the humble Quaker, plain and proud. +Humility, is this, indeed, thy type? +(I know it is not, for I know the man.) +His lovely Daughter bears an angel form +And mind, that glorifies her sex's charms; +Meekness and charity her life employ-- +A seraph sorrowing for a suffering world! +Lo! too, the Matron, with her household gods, +The deities she worships night and day. +Affection has no bounds, nor language words. +To tell a mother's tender ceaseless charge. +Children! can all your future lore repay +The nights of watchfulness, and days of care, +Which a fond parent gives?-- +See, last, sad sight! the hardy British Tar, +Cutlass unsheath'd, unlike the truly brave. +Here, watching, night and day--degenerate lot! +To seize a fisherman, or stop a cart, +Or "fright the wandering spirits from the shore." +His "brief authority" has just detain'd +A boat of cockles and a quart of gin! +The smart Lieutenant's epaulette, methinks, +Blushes at this degrading, pimping trade.-- +For deeds like these--let objects be employ'd, +Who never shared their country's high renown! +Adieu! vast Ocean, cradle of the brave, +Tablet of England's glory, and her shield! +To thee--and those dear friends who lured me here, +With hospitality's enchanting smile, +And chased away a little age of woe-- +Gratefully--I dedicate these _tuneful lays!_ + +_July_, 1826. + +[Footnote 1: My friend, Captain Samuel Brown, of the Royal Navy, whose +inventions and improvements of the iron chain cable, and various +others connected with the naval service, deserve the gratitude of +his country, independent of the admirable Chain-Pier at Brighton, +a Suspension Bridge over the Tweed, Pier at Newhaven, Bridge at +Heckham, the iron work for Hammersmith Suspension Bridge, +and other successful undertakings.] + + + +SONNET. + +MORNING. + + +Light as the breeze that hails the infant morn + The Milkmaid trips, as o'er her arm she slings + Her cleanly pail, some fav'rite lay she sings +As sweetly wild and cheerful as the horn. +O! happy girl I may never faithless love, + Or fancied splendour, lead thy steps astray; + No cares becloud the sunshine of thy day, +Nor want e'er urge thee from thy cot to rove. +What though thy station dooms thee to be poor, + And by the hard-earn'd morsel thou art fed; + Yet sweet content bedecks thy lowly bed, +And health and peace sit smiling at thy door: +Of these possess'd--thou hast a gracious meed, +Which Heaven's high wisdom gives, to make thee rich indeed! + + + +ON THE DEATH OF DR. ABEL,[1] + +Physician and Naturalist to Lord Amherst, Governor General of +India, who died at Cawnpoor, 24th of November, 1826. + + +Another awful warning voice of death +To human dignity, and human pride; +'Tis sad, to mark how short the longest life-- +How brief was thine! Thy day is done, +And all its complicated hopes and fears +Lie buried, ABEL! in an early grave. +The unavailing tear for thee shall flow, +And love and friendship faithful record keep +Of all thy varied worth, thy anxious strife +For fame and years, now gone for ever! +Yet o'er thy tomb science and learning +Bend in mute regret, and truth proclaims +Thy just inheritance an honour'd name! + +Lamented most by those who knew thee best, +Accept this humble, tributary lay, +From one, who in thy boyhood and thy prime +Had shared thy friendship, and had fondly hoped +When last we parted, many years were thine +And joys in store--that thy elastic mind +Might long have gladden'd life's monotony. +Thine was a princely heart, a joyous soul, +The charm of reason, and the sprightly wit +Which kept dull letter'd ignorance in awe, +Shook the pretender on his tinsel throne, +And claim'd the glorious dignity of mind! + +Alas! that in thy prime, when time began +To make thee nearly all the World could wish, +The spoiler Death should unrelenting come +(As though in envy of thy wondrous skill) +And stop the fountain of a noble heart. + +Rest, anxious spirit! from life's feverish dream, +From all its sad realities and cares: +Be this thy Epitaph, thy honour'd boast-- +Thine was the fame, which thine own mind achieved! + +[Footnote 1: Dr. Abel was greatly distinguished in his profession for +his love of it, and for the ardour of his pursuits in useful knowledge. +--He published many ingenious Papers on Medical Science and Natural +History. His account of the Embassy to China, under Lord Amherst, has +been generally admired. He practised with increasing respect as a +Physician, at Brighton, previous to his leaving England for India; and +meditated (as the Author of this article knows) one or two works, which, +from the activity of his mind, may yet be anticipated. Dr. Abel was a +native of Bungay, in Suffolk (where his father was a banker), and it is +supposed was about 35 years of age when he died. It is worthy of remark, +that the present eminent and estimable Dr. Gooch, Librarian to His +Majesty, and Dr. Abel, should both have been pupils of Mr. Borrett, +Surgeon, of Yarmouth.] + + + +SONNET. + +NIGHT. + + +Now when dun Night her shadowy veil has spread, + See want and infamy, as forth they come, + Lead their wan daughter from her branded home, +To woo the stranger for unhallow'd bread. +Poor outcast! o'er thy sickly-tinted cheek + And half-clad form, what havoc want hath made; + And the sweet lustre of thine eye doth fade, +And all thy soul's sad sorrow seems to speak. +O! miserable state! compell'd to wear + The wooing smile, as on thy aching breast + Some wretch reclines, who feeling ne'er possess'd; +Thy poor heart bursting with the stifled tear! +Oh! GOD OF MERCY! bid her woes subside, +And be to her a friend, who hath no friend beside. + + + +CONSTANCY. + +TO----. + + +Dearest love! when thy God shall recall thee, + Be this record inscribed on thy tomb: +Truth, and gratitude, well may applaud thee, + And all thy past virtues relume. + +It shall tell--to thy sex's proud honour, + Of sufferings and trials severe, +While still, through protracted affliction, + Not a murmur escaped; but the tear + +Of resignment to Heaven's high dictates, + 'Twas thine, like a martyr, to shed: +That heart--all affection for others-- + For thyself, uncomplainingly, bled. + +Midst the storms, which misfortune had gather'd, + What an angel thou wert unto me; +In that hour, when all friendship seem'd sever'd, + Thou didst bloom like the ever-green tree! + +All was gloom; and in vain had I striven, + For hope ceased a ray to impart; +When thou cam'st, like a meteor from heaven, + And gave peace to my desolate heart! + + + +EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. + +Give me the wreath of friendship true, + Whose flowerets fade not in a breath: +From memory gaining many a hue, + To bloom beyond the touch of death. + +And I will send it to thy home-- + Thy home beloved, my faithful friend! +And pray for its perpetual bloom + And every bliss that earth can send. + +Within its magic wreath I'd place + Hearts'-ease and every lovely flower; +To win thee by their matchless grace, + And cheer and bless the lonely hour. + +When at the world's unkind return + Of all thy worth, and all thy care, +Thou may'st in spite of manhood turn, + And shed the sad, the bitter, tear. + +Then, midst this holy grief of thine, + The thought of some true friend may bless, +And cheer the gloom like angel's smile, + Or sunbeam in a wilderness. + +And could I hope I had a claim + On thee in such a rapturous hour? +Oh! that, indeed, I'd own were fame. + The saving ark of friendship's power. + +Or that, in future years, thy babes + Should o'er this frail memorial bend, +(For first affection rarely fades!) + And boast that I was once the friend + +Whose wit, or worth, possess'd a charm, + By Parents loved, and them caress'd. +That spell would every sorrow calm, + And bid my anxious spirit rest! + + + +HERE IN OUR FAIRY BOWERS WE DWELL. + +A GLEE. + +Sung by Messrs. GOULDEN, PYNE, and NELSON.--Composed by +Mr. ROOKE. + + +Here, in our fairy bowers, we dwell, + Women our idol, life's best treasure! +Echo enchanted joys to tell, + Our feast of laugh, of love, and pleasure. + Say, is not this then bliss divine, + Beauty's smiles and rosy wine? + +Eternal mirth and sunshine reign, + For grief we cannot find the leisure; +Night's social gods have banish'd pain, + Morn lights us to increasing pleasure. + Say, is not this then bliss divine, + Beauty's smiles and rosy wine? + Here in our fairy bowers, &c. + + + +HENRY AND ELIZA. + +O'er the wide heath now moon-tide horrors hung, + And night's dark pencil dimm'd the tints of spring; +The boding minstrel now harsh omens sung, + And the bat spread his dark nocturnal wing. + +At that still hour, pale Cynthia oft had seen + The fair Eliza (joyous once and gay), +With pensive step, and melancholy mien, + O'er the broad plain in love-born anguish stray. + +Long had her heart with Henry's been entwined, + And love's soft voice had waked the sacred blaze +Of Hymen's altar; while, with him combined, + His cherub train prepared the torch to raise: + +When, lo! his standard raging war uprear'd, + And honour call'd her Henry from her charms. +He fought, but ah! torn, mangled, blood-besmear'd, + Fell, nobly fell, amid his conquering arms! + +In her sad bosom, a tumultuous world + Of hopes and fears on his dear mem'ry spread; +For fate had not the clouded roll unfurl'd, + Nor yet with baleful hemlock crown'd her head. + +Reflection, oft to sad remembrance brought + The well known spot, where they so oft had stray'd; +While fond affection ten-fold ardour caught, + And smiling innocence around them play'd. + +But these were past! and now the distant bell + (For deep and pensive thought had held her there) +Toll'd midnight out, with long resounding knell, + While dismal echoes quiver'd in the air. + +Again 'twas silence--when from out the gloom + She saw, with awe-struck eye, a phantom glide: +'Twas Henry's form!--what pencil shall presume + To paint her horror!----HENRY AS HE DIED! + +Enervate, long she stood--a sculptured dread, + Till waking sense dissolved amazement's chain; +Then home, with timid haste, distracted fled, + And sunk in dreadful agony of pain. + +Not the deep sigh, which madden'd Sappho gave, + When from Leucate's craggy height she sprung, +Could equal that which gave her to the grave, + The last sad sound that echo'd from her tongue. + + + +WRITTEN ON THE + +DEATH OF GENERAL WASHINGTON. + + +Lamented Chief! at thy distinguish'd deeds + The world shall gaze with wonder and applause, +While, on fair History's page, the patriot reads + Thy matchless virtue in thy Country's cause. + +Yes, it was thine, amid destructive war, + To shield it nobly from oppression's chain; +By justice arm'd, to brave each threat'ning jar, + Assert its freedom, and its rights maintain. + +Much honour'd Statesman, Husband, Father, Friend, + A generous nation's grateful tears are thine; +E'en unborn ages shall thy worth commend, + And never-fading laurels deck thy shrine. + +Illustrious Warrior! on the immortal base, + By Freedom rear'd, thy envied name shall stand; +And Fame, by Truth inspired, shall fondly trace + Thee, Pride and Guardian of thy Native Land! + + + +To----. + +In vain, sweet Maid! for me you bring +The first-blown blossoms of the spring; +My tearful cheek you wipe in vain, +And bid its pale rose bloom again. + +In vain! unconscious, did I say? +Oh! you alone these tears can stay; +Alone, the pale rose can renew, +Whose sunshine is a smile from you. + +Yet not in friendship's smile it lives; +Too cold the gifts that friendship gives: +The beam that warms a winter's day, +Plays coldly in the lap of May. + +You bid my sad heart cease to swell, +But will you, if its tale I tell, +Nor turn away, nor frown the while, +But smile, as you were wont to smile? + +Then bring me not the blossoms young, +That erst on Flora's forehead hung; +But round thy radiant temples twine, +The flowers whose flaunting mocks at mine. + +Give me--nor pinks, nor pansies gay, +Nor violets, fading fast away, +Nor myrtle, rue, nor rosemary, +But give, oh! give, thyself to me! + + + +MONODY + +TO THE MEMORY + +OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE + +RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. + + +PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. + + +The very flattering success which attended the first Edition of this +brief but affectionate Sketch, I must attribute to the interest of the +subject, rather than the merit of the composition; and I cannot but feel +grateful to those Writers who have honoured me by their notice and +approbation. + +I must not again go to press, without acknowledging how much I am +indebted to a kind friend, who happened to be in Norfolk at the time I +was printing the first Edition; with whom I had the happiness to pass +many delightful hours, and to whose admirable taste and judgment I owe +many valuable suggestions. In mentioning John Kemble with Sheridan, I +associate two of the brightest stars that have illumined the Literature +and Drama of the Country. + +T.G. + +_Yarmouth, Norfolk_, 1816. + + + +SHERIDAN. + +Embalm'd in fame, and sacred from decay, + What mighty name, in arms, in arts, or verse, +From England claims this consecrated day. + Her nobles crowding round the shadowy hearse? + +Hark! from yon fane, within whose hallow'd mounds, + Her bards, her warriors, and her statesmen, sleep; +The solemn, slow, funereal bell resounds, + While mournful echoes dread accordance keep. + +Spirits revered! beyond that awful bourne. + Who share the dark communion of the tomb, +A kindred genius seeks your dread sojourn; + Ye heirs of glory! hail a brother home. + +Obscured, as SHERIDAN to dust descends, + Recedes each ray from Wit's effulgent sphere; +Lo! every Muse in silent sorrow bends, + Her votive laurels mingling o'er his bier. + +But chiefly thou, from whose polluted shrine + His filial hand Circean rabble drove; +What pangs, Thalia! in this hour are thine; + What fervent anguish of maternal love! + +How long perverted, had the Comic scene, + (The flattering reflex of a sensual age) +Shown prurient Folly's rank licentious mien, + Refined, embellish'd on the pander stage: + +While Vanburgh, Congreve, Farquhar, heaven-endow'd, + To scourge bold Vice with Wit's resistless rod, +Embraced her chains, stood forth her priests avow'd, + And scatter'd flowers in every path she trod: + +Inglorious praise! though Judgment's self admired + Those wanton strains which Virtue blush'd to hear; +While pamper'd Passion from the scene retired, + With wilder rage to urge his fierce career. + +At length, all graced in Fancy's orient hues, + His native fires with added culture bright, +Rose SHERIDAN! to vindicate the Muse, + And gild the drama with meridian light. + +Him, skill'd alike great Nature's genuine form, + Or Fashion's light factitious traits to trace, +The scene confess'd;--with glowing pathos warm, + Or gaily sportive in familiar grace. + +With what nice art his master-hand he flung + O'er each fine chord which thrills the polish'd breast, +Let Faukland tell! with woes ideal stung; + Let gentle Julia's generous flame attest![1] + +Satire, that oft with castigation rude + Degrades, while zealous to correct mankind, +Refined by him, more generous aims pursued, + Reform'd the vice--but left no sting behind. + +Yet, though with Wit's imperishable bays + Enwreath'd, he held an uncontested throne; +Though circling climes, unanimous in praise, + Confirm'd the partial suffrage of his own: + +In careless mood he sought the Muse's bower; + His lyre, like that to great Pelides strong, +The soft'ning solace of a vacant boor, + Its airy descant indolently rung. + +But when, portentous 'mid the storms of war, + Glared Public danger; when, with withering din, +The spoil-flush'd foe strode furious from afar; + And direr dread! Rebellion raged within: + +Then SHERIDAN! dilating to the storm, + Bright as the pharos, as the watch-tower strong, +With all the patriot's inspiration warm, + Thy genius pour'd its thundering voice along. + +Who heard thee not, in that tremendous hour, + When Britain mourn'd her surest anchor lost, +And saw her alienated Navies lour, + Like the charged tempest, round their parent coast? + +With active zeal, which no cold medium knew, + Nor party ruled, nor prejudice confined, +But, to thy heart's spontaneous impulse true, + Thou gay'st thy country ALL thy mighty mind. + +What time Iberia, gash'd with many a scar, + Braved the fierce Gaul, in fervour uncontroll'd, +Though doubts and fears bedimm'd her struggling star, + Its bright ascent thy prescient soul foretold. + +Late, too, when France, with sophist cunning fraught, + Essay'd that field which force had fail'd to gain, +And proudly question'd, by success untaught, + Britannia's lineal right--her watery reign! + +While meaner foes denounced with equal hate + Her flag, which wide in Freedom's cause unfurl'd, +The saving sign of many a sinking state, + Had chased Oppression from th' insulted world.-- + +Oh! that beyond the light diurnal page, + Inscribed on high in monumental gold, +That strain might kindle each succeeding age, + Which thus thy generous indignation roll'd: + +"If e'er, of ancient energy bereaved, + Britannia, bent by menace or design, +Should stain her naval sceptre, hard-achieved, + And yield one claim, one cherish'd right resign: + +"Then, hurl'd in ruin from her radiant sphere, + Sunk her proud Isle in Ocean's depths profound; +May all her glories pass from Memory's ear, + An idle legend--a derided sound!" + +Such were his merits whom the Muse deplores, + The Wit, the Statesman, Orator, and Bard! +Nor when his frailties jealous truth explores, + Shall Candour shrink from her supreme award? + +If, all propitious, when his ardent prime + Beat high with hope, in conscious powers elate, +Ambition woo'd him from her height sublime, + And partial Fortune op'd her golden gate; + +What hostile influence, glooming o'er his way, + Chill'd each fine impulse, each aspiring aim, +Effused bleak clouds round Life's declining ray, + And left his labours no reward but fame? + +'Twas not alone that in the festive bower, + Prompt in the social sympathies to melt, +Too long he linger'd; that the genial hour + His fervid sense too exquisitely felt. + +But that in tasks of public duty proved, + Onward with faith inflexible he trod; +Alike by Fortune's dazzling lure unmoved, + Or stern Necessity's relentless rod. + +E'en Envy's self shall sanction that applause: + And oft, slow pacing yon sepulchral gloom, +With fond regret shall Meditation pause, + And breathe these accents o'er his honour'd tomb: + +Ye Muses! come, with ministry divine. + Protect the shrine where SHERIDAN is laid; +Ye Patriot Virtues! here your homage join; + Assert his worth, and soothe his hovering shade. + +Emblazon'd high in Albion's rolls of fame, + A guiding star by which her sons may steer; +This proud inscription let his memory claim-- + Above himself, he held his Country dear! + +[Footnote 1: Rivals.] + + + +ON THE BEAUTIFUL PORTRAIT OF MRS. FOREMAN, AS PANDORA. + +In the Somerset-house Exhibition, 1826.--Painted by J.P. Davis. + + +Oh! had'st thou, Jove! with adamantine locks +Fix'd fast the springs of poor Pandora's box, +Then had she, bright enchantment! bloom'd for ever +In all the charms consenting Gods could give her-- +Wit, Wisdom, Beauty, she had every grace +Which makes man play the madman for a face! +But chief, bless'd gift! for him ordain'd to ask it, +The gem of gems, th' incomparable casket; +And, lo! with trembling hands and ardent eyes +The bridegroom claims it--and--behold the prize! +First, like a vapour o'er the heavens obscured, +From that dark confine, rose the fiends immured, +Then groan'd the earth, in fury swell'd the floods, +Blasts smote the harvests, lightning fired the woods; +Blue spotted Plague rode gibbering on the blast, +And nations shriek'd, and perish'd, as he pass'd. +Amazed, indignant, Epimetheus stood, +Vow'd dire revenge, and strung his nerves for blood. +It was not then, that from the coffer's lid +Hope's roseate smile his fierce delirium chid; +He saw, in that fair wife which heaven had sent +But mighty Mischiefs mortal instrument, +And swore not Hope, nor Mercy's self should save her, +Look'd in her face, smiled, sigh'd, and then--forgave her! + + + +SONNET + +TO----, + +ON HER RECOVERY FROM ILLNESS. + + +Fair flower! that fall'n beneath the angry blast, +Which marks with wither'd sweets its fearful way, +I grieve to see thee on the low earth cast, +While beauty's trembling tints fade fast away. +But who is she, that from the mountain's head +Comes gaily on, cheering the child of earth? +The walks of woe bloom bright beneath her tread, +And Nature smiles with renovated mirth? +'Tis Health! She comes: and, hark! the vallies ring, +And, hark! the echoing hills repeat the sound: +She sheds the new-blown blossoms of the spring, +And all their fragrance floats her footsteps round. +And, hark! she whispers in the zephyr's voice, +Lift up thy head, fair floweret, and rejoice! + + + +THE RUNAWAY. + +Ah! who is he by Cynthia's gleam + Discern'd, the statue of distress; +Weeping beside the willow'd stream + That laves the woodland wilderness? + +Why talks he to the idle air? + Why, listless, at his length reclined, +Heaves he the groan of deep despair, + Responsive of the midnight wind? + +Speak, gentle shepherd! tell me why? + --Sir! he has lost his wife, they say:-- +Of what disorder did, she die? + --Lord, sir! of none--she ran away. + + + + +TO MARGARET JANE H----, + +ON HER BIRTH-DAY, 17 JUNE. + + +Thou art indeed a lovely flower, +And I, just like the fleeting hour, +Which few will heed on folly's brink, +So rarely deigns the world to think. +Yet, ere I go, child of my heart-- +One faithful offering I'll impart +To thee--thy parents' sole delight: +To me--an angel, pure as light. +Sent on this earth to cheer and bless, +Like sunbeam in a wilderness, +With fascination's form and face, +And all the charms that please and grace. +A guileless heart, a lovely mind, +A temper ardent, yet refined, +And in the early dawn of youth, +Taught to love honour, faith, and truth. + +Ah! these--when all the transient joys +Of idle life, when all its toys +Shall fade like mist before the sun, +Yet, ere thy little day is done, +Shall give that calm, that true delight, +Which gilds the darkling hues of night, +The sunset of a well spent day, +A glorious immortality! + + + +ON READING THE POEM OF "PARIS." + +BY THE REV GEORGE CROLY, A.M. + +Author of "The Angel of the World," "Sebastian," &c. + + +By the trim taper, and the blazing hearth, + (While loud without the blast of winter sung), +Now thrill'd with awe, and now relax'd with mirth, + Paris, I've roam'd thy varied haunts among, +Loitering where Fashion's insect myriads spread + Their painted wings, and sport their little day; +Anon, by beckoning recollection led + To the dark shadow of the stern ABBAYE, +Pale Fancy heard the petrifying shriek +Of midnight Murder from its turrets bleak, +And to her horrent eye came passing on +Phantoms of those dark times, elapsed and gone, + When Rapine yell'd o'er his defenceless prey, +As unchain'd Anarchy her tocsin rung, + And France! in dust and blood thy throne and altars lay! + +Oh! thou, thus skill'd with absolute controul, +Where'er thou wilt to lead th' admiring soul, +Gifted alike with Fancy's train to sport, +And tread light measures in her elfin court; +Or pierce the height where Grandeur sits alone, +Girt by the tempest, on his mountain throne: +Whate'er the theme which wakes thy vocal shell, +Well-pleased I follow where its concords swell; +In regal halls, where pleasure wings the night +With pomp and music, revelry and light, +Or where, unwept by Love's deploring eyes, +In the lone Morgue, the self-doom'd victim lies-- +Then, midst the twilight of yon Chapel dim, +To mark Religion's reverend Martyr, him +Who kneels entranced in agony of prayer, +His fellow victims torpid with despair, +Thrill'd by his piercing tones, his beaming eye +Glows, as he glows, nor longer dread to die! + +Now, borne to Belgium's plain on bolder wings, +Where England's warriors fix'd the fate of Kings: +At once the Patriot and the Poet glows, +And full the mingling inspiration flows:-- +Resume the lyre: not thine in myrtle bowers +To trifle light with Life's uncounted hours-- +To crown thy toils, propitious Fame from far +Entwines her noblest wreath, illumes her loftiest star! + + + +WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF + +GENERAL SIR RALPH ABERCROMBIE. + + +Mute Memory stands at Valour's awful shrine, + In tears Britannia mourns her hero dead; +A world's regret, brave ABERCROMBIE's thine, + For nature sorrow'd as thy spirit fled! + +For, not the tear that matchless courage claims, + To honest zeal, and soft compassion due, +Alone is thine--o'er thy adored remains +Each virtue weeps, for all once lived in you. + +Yes, on thy deeds exulting I could dwell, + To speak the merits of thy honour'd name; +But, ah! what need my humble muse to tell, + When Rapture's self has echoed forth thy fame? + +Yet, still thy name its energies shall deal, + When wild storms gather round thy country's sun; +Her glowing youth shall grasp the gleamy steel, + Rank'd round the glorious wreaths which thou hast + won! + + + +WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM +OF +I---- H---- P----, ESQ. + + +Dear P----, while Painters, Poets, Sages, +Inscribe this volume's votive pages +With partial friendship: why invite +The tribute of a luckless wight +Unknown--by wisdom or by wit +Indulged with no certificate? + +Perchance, as in a diadem +Glittering with many a radiant gem, +Some mean metallic foil is placed +Judicious, by the hand of taste; +You seek, amidst the sons of fame, +To set an undistinguish'd name? +If so--that name is freely lent, +A pebble to your gems--T. GENT. + + + +RETALIATION. + +Love, Cupid, Gallantry, whate'er +We call that elf, seen every where, +Half frolicsome, half _ennuyeuse_, +Had chanced a country walk to choose; +When sudden, sweet and bright as May, +Young Beauty tripp'd across his way.-- + +"Upon my word," exclaims the boy, +"A lucky hit! this pretty toy +To pass an hour, with vapours haunted, +Is quite the thing I wish'd and wanted; +I do not so far condescend +As serious mischief to intend, +But just to show my powers of pleasing +In flattery, _badinage_, and teasing; +But should she, for young girls, poor things! +Are tender as yon insect's wings-- +Should she mistake me, and grow fond, +Why, I'll grow serious--and abscond." + +First, not abruptly to confound her, +With glance and smile he hovers round her: +Next, like a Bond-street or Pall-mall beau, +Begins to press her gentle elbow; +Then plays at once, familiar walking, +His whole artillery of talking:-- +Like a young fawn the blushing maid +Trips on, half pleased and half afraid-- +And while she palpitates and listens, +Still fluttering where the sunbeam glistens, +He shows her all his pretty things, +His bow and quiver, dart, and wings; +Now, proud in power, he sees her eyes +Dilate with beautiful surprise; +But most, though fraught with perturbation. +His weapons claim her admiration, +And with an archness most bewitching +(Her naive simplicity enriching), +She wonders where a maid might buy than, +And begs to be allow'd to try them. + +With secret scorn, but smiling bland, +He yields them to her curious hand, +When, instant, twang! the arrow flew, +So just her aim, it pierced him through, +Right through his heart, the luckless lad! +(A heart, to do him right, he had); +All prone he lies, in throbbing anguish, +Through many an hour to pine and languish, +And what made all his pangs more bitter, +Off flew the damsel in a titter. +Prudence, conceal'd behind a tree, +Cries out, "you've always laughed at me-- +Henceforth you'll recollect, young sir! +'Tis not so safe to laugh at her." + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN IN A COPY OF THE POEM ON PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. + +Presented to Mrs. D---- T----. + + +Madam! when sorrowing o'er the virtuous dead, +The gentlest solace of the tears we shed, +Is, to surviving excellence to turn, +And honour there those merits that we mourn. + +The Muse, whose hand fair Brunswick's ashes strew +With votive flowers, would weave a wreath for You; +But living worth forbids th' applausive lay. +Therefore, repressing all respect, would say, +She proffers silently her simple strain; +If you approve--she has not toil'd in vain! + + + +SONNET. + +When the rough storm roars round the peasant's cot, + And bursting thunders roll their awful din; +While shrieks the frighted night-bird o'er the spot, + Oh! what serenity remains within! +For there contentment, health, and peace, abide, + And pillow'd age, with calm eye fix'd above; +Labour's bold son, his blithe and blooming bride, + And lisping innocence, and filial love. +To such a scene let proud Ambition turn, + Whose aching breast conceals its secret woe; +Then shall his fireful spirit melt, and mourn + The mild enjoyments it can never know; +Then shall he feel the littleness of state, +And sigh that fortune e'er had made him great. + + + +TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ. + +ON READING HIS + +"REMAINS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE." + + +Southey! high placed on the contested throne +Of modern verse, a Muse, herself unknown, +Sues that her tears may consecrate the strains +Pour'd o'er the urn enrich'd with WHITE'S Remains! +While touch'd to transport, Taste's responding tone +Makes the rapt poet's ecstasies thine own; +Ah! think that he, whose hand supremely skill'd, +The heart's fine chords with deep vibration thrill'd, +In stagnant silence and petrific gloom, +Unconscious sleeps, the tenant of the tomb! +Extinct that spirit, whose strong-bidding drew +From Fancy's confines Wonder's wild-eyed crew, +Which bade Despair's terrific phantoms pass +Like Macbeth's monarchs in the mystic glass. +Before the youthful bard's impassion'd eye, +Like him, led on, to triumph and to die; +Like him, by mighty magic compass'd round, +And seeking sceptres on enchanted ground. +Such spells invest, such blear illusion waits +The trav'ller bound for Fame's receding gates, +Delusive splendours gild the proud abode, +But lurking demons haunt th' alluring road; +There gaunt-eyed Want asserts her iron reign, +There, as in vengeance of the world's disdain, +This half-flesh'd hag midst Wit's bright blossoms stalks, +And, breathing winter, withers where she walks; +Though there, long outlaw'd, desp'rate with disgrace, +Invidious Dulness wields the critic mace, +And sworn in hate, exerts his ruffian might +Where'er young genius meditates his flight. +Erewhile, when WHITE, by this fell fiend oppress'd, +Felt Hope's fine fervours languish in his breast, +When shrunk with scorn, and trembling to aspire, +He dropp'd desponding his insulted lyre. +Alert in zeal, with art benigh endued, +SOUTHEY! thy hand his blasted strength renew'd, +And lured him on, his labours scarce begun, +To win those laurels which thyself had won. +In vain! though vivified with pristine force, +O'er learning's realms he shot with meteor course; +To worth relentless, Fate's despotic frown +Scowl'd in the bright perspective of renown: +Timeless he falls, in Death's pale triumph led. +And his first laurels shade his grassy bed. +So sinks the Muse's offspring, doom'd to try, +Like a caged eagle panting tow'rds the sky, +A foil'd ascent, while adverse fortune flings +Her strong link'd meshes o'er his flutt'ring wings, +Sinks, while exalted Ignorance supine, +Unheeded slumbers like the pamper'd swine; +Obsequious slaves in his voluptuous bowers +Young pleasures warble, while the dancing Hours +In sickly sweetness languishingly move, +Like new-waked virgins flush'd with dreams of love-- +Him, when by Death's dark angel swept away +From sloth's embrace, in premature decay, +Surviving friends, donation'd into grief, +Shall mourn with anguish audible and brief, +And pander-bards ring round in goodly chime +His liberal heart, high wit, and soul sublime; +But Flattery's frauds impartial Time disowns, +Funereal pomp, and adulative tones; +Slow where she moves through monumental aisles, +With stern contempt insulted Reason smiles, +While Falsehood, shrined above th' emblazon'd palls, +Shames sanctity from consecrated walls: +She seeks, with pensive step and saintly eyes, +Some lonely grave, where rude the grass-tufts rise; +Nor sculptured angels tell, nor chisell'd lines, +There slumbers CHATTERTON--here WHITE reclines! +But nobler triumphs WHITE'S probation claims +Than ever blazon'd Wit's recorded names; +For Virtue's sons, to bliss immortal born, +Tower to their native heaven, and view with scorn +The vain distinction of the trophied sod, +'Tis theirs to gain distinction with their God! + + + +THE STATE SECRET. + +AN IMPROMPTU. + + +"Murder will out:"--and so will truth sometimes; +For once I'll prove it in a dozen lines.-- + +At one of those parties where Julia's sweet face +Added interest to beauty, and archness to grace, +Where many fine folks met; and one very great, +Proud and stupid, an embryo minister sate; +Like a damper he came to put good humour out, +And it chanced that, as Julia's pet-bird flew about. +It presumptuously 'lit on this mighty man's head; +When her lore-laughing sister, sweet Eleanor, said, +"Naughty bird! I must cage you for being so rude, +On Lord------head, oh! how dare you intrude?" +"Let it rest," replied Julia, with an exquisite grace, +"Don't frighten it off--for it likes a _soft place_!" + + + +THE MORNING CALL. + +TO THE HONOURABLE LADY--------. + +Written and left on her Table during her absence--Bathing. + + +I dare not look at those dear eyes, + The sun was never half so bright, +There surely more of rapture lies + Than ever bless'd a mortal's sight. + +In thy sweet face I see impress'd + Ten thousand thousand charms divine, +The sunbeams of thy guileless breast + Like Heaven's eternal mercies shine! + +Angel of love! life's endless joy, + Our hope at morn, our evening prayer; +The bliss above would have alloy, + Unless dear--------- thou wert there! + +Oh! Woman--what a charm hast thou + Our rebel nature thus to tame: +We ever must adore and bow. + While virtue guards thy holy fane! + +_Werthing_. + + + +SONNET. + +ON THE DEATH OF TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. + + +His weary warfare done, his woes forgot, + Freedom! thy son, oppress'd so long, is free: +He seeks the realms where tyranny is not, + And those shall hail him who have died for thee! +Immortal TELL! receive a soul like thine, + Who scorn'd obedience to usurp'd command: +Who rose a giant from a sphere indign, + To tear the rod from proud oppression's hand. +Alas! no victor-wreaths enzon'd his brow, + But freedom long his hapless fate shall mourn; +Her holy tears shall nurse the laurel-bough, + Whose green leaves grace his consecrated urn. +Nursed by these tears, that bough shall rise sublime, + And bloom triumphant 'mid the wrecks of time! + + + +ON THE RUPTURE OF THE THAMES' TUNNEL, + +WRITTEN 2nd JULY, 1827. + + +Every poor Quidnunc _now_ condemns +The Tunnel underneath Old Thames, +And swears, his science all forgetting, +Friend Brunel's judgment wanted _whetting;_ +'Tis thus great characters are dish'd, +When they get _wetter_ than was wish'd,-- +Brunel to _Gravesend_ meant to go +Under the water, wags say so, +And under that same water put +His hopes to find a shorter cut; +But when we leave the light of day. +Water hath many a devious way, +Which, like a naughty woman, leads +The best of men to strange misdeeds: +Had nearly, 'twas a toss-up whether, +Gone to his grave and end together. +How the performance went amiss +The _classical_ account is this-- + +The Naiads, Thames' stream that swim in, +Being _curious_, just like mortal _women_, +Dear souls! 'tis said, midst all their cares, +They love to peep at man's affairs, +And wondering at the workmen's hammers, +The noise of axes, engines, rammers, +Thought 'twould be well, nor meant the fun ill, +To make an opening through the Tunnel, +Just to see how the work went on, +And then, down dash'd they, every one; +When these same _belles_ began to dire, +'Twas well the workmen 'scaped alive: +Brunel, indeed, who knew full well +The nature of a _diving bell_, +Remain'd some time, nor made wry faces, +Within their aqueous embraces; +Nay, fierce and ungallant, adventured +To oust them by the breach they entered. +Vain man! 'twas well that he could swim, +Or, certes, they had ousted _him_. +Speed on great projects! though we rate 'em +_Rash_, for alluvial pomatum, +And under that a sandy stratum, +Will offer at a little distance +An insurmountable resistance. + +How strange! to find the labour done +Just as the _sand_ begins to _run_; +In general human projects drop, +Just when our _sand_ begins to _stop!_ + + + +ANACREONTIC. + +"THE WISEST MEN ARE FOOLS IN WINE." + + +The wisest men are fools in wine, + Experience makes us think: +Its magic spells are so divine, + We reason--yet we drink! + +How short's the longest life of man, + How soon its brightest laurels fade-- +Then, as our life is but a span, + Let all its hours be joyous made. + +Wine o'er the ardent restless mind + Entwines its poppy chain; +A solace, then, the wretched find. + In fictions of the brain. + +Oh! as the charmed glass we sip, +We conquer care and pain: +It woos like woman's dewy lip, +To kiss--and come again! + +This Song has been admirably set to Music, and Sung with great +success, by MR. HENRY PHILLIPS.--It is published by MORI and +LAVENU, 28, New Bond-street. + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN IN HORNSEY WOOD + + +Oh! ye, who pine, in London smoke immured, +With spirits wearied, and with pains uncured, +With all the catalogue of city evils, +Colds, asthmas, rheumatism, coughs, blue devils! +Who bid each bold empiric roll in wealth, +Who drains your fortunes while he saps your health: +So well ye love your dirty streets and lanes, +Ye court your ailments and embrace your pains. +And scarce ye know, so little have ye seen, +If corn be yellow, or if grass be green; +Why leave ye not your smoke-obstructed holes, +With wholesome air to cheer your sickly souls? +In scenes where Health's bright goddess wakes the breeze, +Floats on the stream, and fans the whisp'ring trees: +Soon would the brighten'd eye her influence speak, +And her full roses flush the faded cheek. + +Then, where romantic Hornsey courts the eye +With all the charms of sylvan scenery, +Let the pale sons of Diligence repair, +And pause, like me, from sedentary care; +Here the rich landscape spreads profusely wide, +And here embowering shades the prospect hide: +Each mazy walk in wild meanders moves, +And infant oaks, luxuriant, grace the groves: +Oaks, that by time matured, removed afar, +Shall ride triumphant, 'midst the wat'ry war; +Shall blast the bulwarks of Britannia's foes, +And claim her empire, wide as ocean flows! +O'er all the scene, mellifluous and bland, +The blissful powers of harmony expand; +Soft sigh the zephyrs 'mid the still retreats, +And steal from Flora's lips ambrosial sweets; +Their notes of love the feather'd songsters sing, +And Cupid peeps behind the vest of Spring. + +Ye swains! who ne'er obtain'd with all your sighs +One tender look from Chloe's sparkling eyes, +In shades like these her cruelty assail, +Here, whisper soft your amatory tale; +The scene to sympathy the maid shall move, +And smiles propitious crown your slighted love. + +While the fresh air with fragrance summer fills, +And lifts her voice, heard jocund o'er the hills, +All jubilant the waving woods display +Her gorgeous gifts, magnificently gay! +The wond'ring eye beholds these waving woods +Reflected bright in artificial floods, +And still, the tufts of clust'ring shrubs between, +Like passing sprites, the nymphs and swains are seen; +Till fancy triumphs in th'exulting breast, +And Care shrinks back, astonish'd! dispossess'd! +For all breathes rapture, all enchantment seems, +Like fairy visions, and poetic dreams! + +Though on such scenes the fancy loves to dwell, +The stomach oft a different tale will tell; +Then, leave the wood, and seek the shelt'ring roof, +And put the pantry's vital strength to proof; +The aërial banquets of the tuneful nine +May suit some appetites, but faith! not mine; +For my coarse palate coarser food must please, +Substantial beef, pies, puddings, ducks, and peas; +Such food the fangs of keen disease defies, +And such rare feeding Hornsey-house supplies: +Nor these alone the joys that court us here, +Wine! generous wine! that drowns corroding care, +Asserts its empire in the glittering bowl, +And pours Promethean vigour o'er the soul. +Here, too, _that_ bluff John Bull, whose blood boils high +At such base wares of foreign luxury; +Who scorns to revel in imported cheer, +Who prides in perry, and exults in beer: +On these his surly virtue shall regale, +With quickening cyder, and with fattening ale. + +Nor think, ye Fair! our Hornsey has denied +The elegant repasts where you preside: +Here, may the heart rejoice, expanding free +In all the social luxury of Tea! +Whose essence pure inspires such charming chat, +With nods, and winks, and whispers, and _all that_; +Here, then, while 'wrapt inspired, like Horace old, +We chant convivial hymns to Bacchus bold; +Or heave the incense of unconscious sighs, +To catch the grace that beams from beauty's eyes; +Or, in the winding wilds, sequester'd deep, +Th' unwilling Muse invoking, fall asleep; +Or cursing her, and her ungranted smiles, +Chase butterflies along the echoing aisles: +Howe'er employ'd, _here_ be the town forgot, +Where fogs, and smoke, and jostling crowds, _are not_. + + + +TO MARY. + +WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. + + +Oh! is there not in infant smiles + A witching power, a cheering ray, +A charm, that every care beguiles, + And bids the weary soul be gay? +There surely is--for thou hast been, + Child of my heart, my peaceful dove, +Gladdening life's sad and chequer'd scene, + An emblem of the peace above. +Now all is calm, and dark, and still, + And bright the beam the moonlight throws +On ocean wave, and gentle rill, + And on thy slumbering cheek of rose. +And may no care disturb that breast, + Nor sorrow dim that brow serene; +And may thy latest years be bless'd + As thy sweet infancy has been. + + + +BLACK EYES AND BLUE. + +FROM THE ITALIAN. + + +Blue eyes and jet + Fell out one morn, +Azure cried in a pet, + "Away, dark scorn!-- +"We are brilliant and blue + "As the waves of the sea-- +"And as cold and untrue + "And as changeable ye. + +"We are born of the sky, + "Of a summer night, +"When the first stars lie + "In a bed of blue light; +"From the cloudy zone + "Round the setting sun, +"Like an angel's throne, + "Are our glories won." + +"Pretty ladies, hold," + Cupid said to the eyes-- +For beauties that scold + "Are seldom wise; +"'Tis not colour I seek + "Love's fires to impart-- +"Give me eyes that can speak + "From the depths of the heart." + + + +EPIGRAM. + +AURI SACRA FAMES. + + +I knew a being once, his peaked head +With a few lank and greasy hairs was spread; +His visage blue, in length was like your own +Seen in the convex of a table-spoon. +His mouth, or rather gash athwart his face, +To stop at either ear had just the grace, +A hideous rift: his teeth were all canine, +And just like Death's (in Milton) was his grin. +One shilling, and one fourteen-penny leg, +(This shorter was than that, and not so big), +He had; and they, when meeting at his knees, +An angle formed of ninety-eight degrees. +Nature, in scheming how his back to vary, +A hint had taken from the dromedary: +His eyes an inward, screwing vision threw, +Striving each other through his nose to view. + +His intellect was just one ray above +The idiot Cymon's ere he fell in love. +At school they Taraxippus[1] called the wight; +The Misses, when they met him, shriek'd with fright. +But, spite of all that Nature had denied, +When sudden Fortune made the cub her pride, +And gave him twenty thousand pounds a-year, +_Then_, from the pretty Misses you might hear, +"_His face was not the finest, and, indeed, +He was a little, they must own, in-kneed; +His shoulders, certainly, were rather high, +But, then, he had a most expressive eye; +Nor were their hearts by outward charms inclined: +Give them the higher beauties of the mind_!" + +[Footnote 1: Greek: Taraxippus, a Grecian Deity; the god of the Hippodrome, +literally, in English, _horse-frightener_.] + + + +SONNET. + +TO FAITH. + + +Hail! holy FAITH, on life's wide ocean toss'd, + I see thee sit calm in thy beaten bark; + As NOAH sat, throned in his high-borne ark, +Secure and fearless while a world was lost! +In vain contending storms thy head enzone, + Thy bosom shrinks not from the bolt that falls: + The dreadful shaft plays harmless, nor appals +Thy stedfast eye, fix'd on Jehovah's throne! +E'en though thou saw'st the mighty fabric nod, + Of system'd worlds, thou hear'st a sacred charm, + Graved on thy heart, to shelter thee from harm. +And thus it speaks:--"Thou art my trust, O GOD! +And thou canst bid the jarring-powers be still, +Each ponderous orb, subservient to thy will!" + + + +ON A SPIRITED PORTRAIT IN MY ALBUM, + +Of a favorite Deer-hound, belonging to SIR WALTER SCOTT, by +my friend, EDWIN LANDSEER, Esq. + + +Who in this sketchey wonder does not trace +The fire, the spirit, and the living grace, +That mark the hand of genius and of taste? +Who does not recognize in such a head +Truth, vigilance, fidelity, inbred, +Sagacity that's human, and a waste +Of those high qualities, and virtues rare, +Which poor humanity has not to spare? + +Then, faithful Hound! thy happy lot is cast +In pleasant places--and thy life has pass'd +In the dear service of a Master--whom +The world's concurrent voice has yielded now +The meed of highest praise--and on whose brow +Th' imperishable wreath of fame shall bloom; +Nor is this fate less happy than the rest, +That _he_ should paint thee, _who can paint thee best!_ + + + +SONNET. + +TO HOPE. + + +How droops the wretch whom adverse fates pursue, + While sad experience, from his aching sight + Sweeps the fair prospects of unproved delight, +Which flattering friends and flattering fancies drew. +When want assails his solitary shed, + When dire distraction's horrent eye-ball glares, + Seen 'midst the myriad of tumultuous cares, +That shower their shafts on his devoted head. +Then, ere despair usurp his vanquish'd heart, + Is there a power, whose influence benign + Can bid his head in pillow'd peace recline, +And from his breast withdraw the barbed dart? +There is--sweet Hope! misfortune rests on thee-- +Unswerving anchor of humanity! + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN ON THE SIXTH OF SEPTEMBER. + + +Ill-fated hour! oft as thy annual reign +Leads on th' autumnal tide, my pinion'd joys +Fade with the glories of the fading year; +"Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train," +And bids affection heave the heart-drawn sigh +O'er the cold tomb, rich with the spoils of death, +And wet with many a tributary tear! + +Eight times has each successive season sway'd +The fruitful sceptre of our milder clime +Since my loved----died! but why, ah! why +Should melancholy cloud my early years? +Religion spurns earth's visionary scene, +Philosophy revolts at misery's chain: +Just Heaven recall'd its own; the pilgrim call'd +From human woes: from sorrow's rankling worm-- +Shall frailty then prevail? + + Oh! be it mine +To curb the sigh which bursts o'er Heaven's decree; +To tread the path of rectitude--that when +Life's dying ray shall glimmer in the frame, +That latest breath I may in peace resign, +"Firm in the faith of seeing thee and God." + + + +SONNET. + +TO CHARITY. + + +O! best-beloved of Heaven, on earth bestow'd, + To raise the pilgrim sunk with ghastly fears, + To cool his burning wounds, to wipe his tears, +And strew with amaranths his thorny road. +Alas! how long has Superstition hurl'd + Thine altars down, thine attributes reviled, + The hearts of men with witchcrafts foul beguiled. +And spread his empire o'er the vassal world? +But truth returns! she spreads resistless day; + And mark, the monster's cloud-wrapt fabric falls-- + He shrinks--he trembles 'mid his inmost halls, +And all his damn'd illusions melt away! +The charm dissolved--immortal, fair, and free, +Thy holy fanes shall rise, celestial Charity! + + + +HYMN. + +Sung by the Children of the City of London School of Instruction +and Industry. + + +CHORUS. + +Sacred, and heart-deep be the sound + Which speaks the Great Redeemer's praise, +His mercies every where abound, + Let all their grateful voices raise. + +BOYS. + +The friendless child, to manhood grown, + Will ne'er forget your parent care; +You've made each youthful heart your own, + Oh! then accept our humble prayer. + +GIRLS. + +For ever be that bounty praised, + Which every comfort doth impart; +In tears of joy the song is raised + From minstrels of the glowing heart. + +CHORUS. + +Glory to Thee, all-bounteous Power! + In notes of thankfulness be given; +Sure solace in affliction's hour! + Our hope on Earth, our bliss in Heaven. + Hallelujah! Amen. + + + +REFLECTIONS OF A POET, + +ON GOING TO A GREAT DINNER. + + +Great epoch in the history of bards! + Important day to those who woo the nine; +Better than fame are visitation-cards, + And heaven on earth at a great house to dine. + +O cruel memory! do not conjure up + The ghost of Sally Dab, the famous cook; +Who gave me solid food, the cheering cup, + And on her virtues begg'd I'd write a book. + +For her dear sake I braved the letter'd fates, + And all her loose thoughts in one volume cramm'd; +"The Accomplish'd Cook, in verse, with twenty plates:" + Which (O! ungrateful deed!) the critics d----d. + +D--n them, I say, the tasteless envious elves; + Malicious fancy makes them so expert, +They write 'bout dinners, who ne'er dine themselves, + And boast of linen, who ne'er had a shirt. + +Rest, goddess, from all broils! I bless thy name, + Dear kitchen-nymph, as ever eyes did glut on! +I'd give thee all I have, my slice of fame, + If thou, fat shade! could'st give one slice of mutton. + +Yet hold--ten minutes more, and I am bless'd; + Fly quick, ye seconds; quick, ye moments, fly: +Soon shall I put my hunger to the test, + And all the host of miseries defy. + +Thrice is he arm'd, who hath his dinner first, + For well-fed valour always fights the best; +And though he may of over-eating burst, + His life is happy, and his death is just. + +To-day I dine--not on my usual fare; + Not near the sacred mount with skinny nine; +Not in the park upon a dish of air: + But on true eatables, and rosy wine. + +Delightful task! to cram the hungry maw, + To teach the empty stomach how to fill, +To pour red port adown the parched craw; + Without that dread dessert--to pay the bill. + +I'm off--methinks I smell the long-lost savour; + Hail, platter-sound! to poet music sweet: +Now grant me, Jove, if not too great a favour, + Once in my life as much as I can eat! + + + +SUNDAY. + +Come, thou blessed day of rest! +Soother of the tortured breast, +Wearied souls release from toil, +Life's eternal sad turmoil; +How I love thy tuneful bells +Which a welcome story tells! +Bids the wanderer rest and pray +On this peaceful holy-day. +All creation seems to pause-- +Man, uncatechized by laws, +Looks to God with grateful eyes, +In such blessed sympathies, +All his rebel nature dies! +See the monster crime hath made, +Resting from his restless trade, +Unfit to live, afraid to die, +Hear his deep unconscious sigh, +See his former horrid mien, +Changed to the bright, serene, +View him on his BIBLE rest, +Care no longer gnaws his breast; +Heaven, in mercy, let him live, +Religion, such the peace you give! + + + +A NIGHT-STORM. + +Let this rough fragment lend its mossy seat; +Let Contemplation hail this lone retreat: +Come, meek-eyed goddess, through the midnight gloom, +Born of the silent awe which robes the tomb! +This gothic front, this antiquated pile, +The bleak wind howling through each mazy aisle; +Its high gray towers, faint peeping through the shade, +Shall hail thy presence, consecrated maid! +Whether beneath some vaulted abbey's dome, +Where ev'ry footstep sounds in every tomb; +Where Superstition, from the marble stone, +Gives every sound, a pilgrim-spirit's groan: +Pensive thou readest by the moon's full glare +The sculptured children of Affection's tear; +Or in the church-yard lone thou sitt'st to weep +O'er some sad wreck, beneath the tufty heap-- +Perchance some victim to Seduction's spell, +Who yielded, wept, and then neglected fell! + +But hither come, on yon swoln arch to gaze, +And view the vivid flash eruptive blare; +Light those high walls with transitory gleam, +Illume the air, and sparkle in the stream. +Ah! look, where yonder tempest-shaken cloud, +Awful and black as the chaosian shroud, +Breaks, like the waves which lash the sandy shore, +And speaks its mission in a feeble row. +Thus Meditation hears: "Aspiring height! +Of old, the splendid mansions of the great; +Thy fate (tremendous) lours upon the blast, +And waits to write on thy remains:--'tis past! +Oft have the genii of the hoary blade +Around thy walls their hell-born demons led; +Yet hast thou triumph'd o'er each monster's car, +And braved the ills of pestilential war: +Oft hast thou seen the circling seasons roll +In fond succession round thy native pole; +Defied the hoary matron of the ring, +And seen her sicken in the lap of Spring. +But, ah! no more thy time-clad head shall rise +To dare the tempest, while it shakes the skies; +Nor one small wreck invade the fair concave, +Nor shout above its crumbling basis, Save! +When rising zephyr from thy ruin brings +A world of atoms on its fairy wings." + +Din horrible! as though the rebel train +Had sprung from chaos, fought, and fall'n again, +Raves the high bolt: how yon old structure fell; +How every cranny trembled with the yell +Of frighted owls, whose secret haunts forlorn +Were from their kindred vaults and windings torn; +Of bold Antiquity's rough pencil born. +Thrice Fancy leads the dismal echo round, +And paints the spectre gliding o'er the ground. +From ev'ry turret, ev'ry vanquish'd tower, +In heaps confused the broken fragments pour; +And, as they plunge toward the pebbly grave, +Like wizard wand, draw circles in the wave. +Meand'ring stream! thy liquid jaws extend, +Anoint with Lethe now thy fallen friend. +Again the heralds of the thunder fly, +In forky squadrons, from the trembling sky! + +Again the thunder its harsh menace swells, +And light-wing'd echoes hail the humbled cells! +Weep, weep, ye clouds! with heav'n-bespangled tears; +And, ah! if pity rules your sacred spheres, +Invoke the thunder to withstay its rage, +Disarm its fury, and its wrath assuage. + +But now, Aurora, from the Ocean's verge, +Trims her gray lamp, to light the mournful dirge. +She comes, to light the ruinated heap: +But lights, to wake the pensive soul to weep! + + + +ON THE DEATH OF NELSON. + +Swift through the land while Fame transported flies, +And shouts triumphant shake th' illumined skies; +Britannia, bending o'er her dauntless prows, +With laurels thickening round her blazon'd brows, +In joy dejected, sees her triumph cross'd, +Exults in Victory won, but mourns the Victor lost. +Immortal NELSON! still with fond amaze +Thy glorious deed each British eye surveys, +Beholds thee still, on conquer'd floods afar: +Fate's flaming shaft! the thunderbolt of war! +Hurl'd from thy hands, Britannia's vengeance roars, +And bloody billows stain the hostile shores: +Thy sacred ire Confed'rate Kingdoms braves, +And 'whelms their Navies in Sepulchral waves! +--Graced with each attribute which Heaven supplies +To Godlike Chiefs: humane, intrepid, wise: +His Nation's Bulwark, and all Nature's pride, +The Hero lived, and as he lived--he died: +Transcendant destiny! how bless'd the brave, +Whose fall his Country's tears attend, shower'd on his trophied grave! + + + +THE BLUE-EYED MAID. + +Sweet are the hours when roseate spring + With health and joy salutes the day. +When zephyr, borne on wanton wing, + Soft whispering, wakes the blushing May. +Sweet are the hours, yet not so sweet +As when my blue-eyed Maid I meet, +And hear her soul-entrancing tale, +Sequester'd in the shadowy vale. + +The mellow horn's long-echoing notes + Startle the morn, commingling strong; +At eve, the harp's wild music floats. + And ravish'd Silence drinks the song. +Yet sweeter is the song of love, +When EMMA'S voice enchants the grove, +While listening sylphs repeat the tale, +Sequester'd in the silent vale. + + + +TAKING ORDERS. + +A TALE, FOUNDED ON FACT. + + +A parson once--and poorer he +Than ever parson ought to be; +Yet not so proud as _some_ from College, +Who fancy they alone have knowledge; +Who only learn to dress and drink, +And, strange to say, still seem to think +That no real talent's to be found +Except within their classic ground; +Yet prove that Cam's nor Oxon's plains +Can't furnish empty skulls with brains. +But for my tale--Our churchman came, +And, in religion's honour'd name, +Sought Cam's delightful classic borders, +To be prefer'd to Holy Orders. +Chance led him to the Trav'llers' Inn, +Where living's cheap, and often whim +Enlivens many a weary soul, +And helps, in the o'erflowing bowl, +In spite of fogs, and threatening weather, +To drown both grief and gloom together:-- +(Oh, Wit! thou'rt like a little blue, +Soft cloud, in summer breaking through +A frowning one, and lighting it +Till darkness fadeth bit by bit; +And Whim to thee is near allied, +And follows closely at thy side; +So oft, oh, Wit! I'm told that she +By some folks is mista'en for thee; +Yet I may say unto my eyes, +Just whereabouts the difference lies; +One's diamond quite, and, to my taste, +The other is but _Dovey's Paste.)_-- +He there a ready welcome found +From one who travell'd England round: +"Sir, your obedient--quite alone? +I'm truly happy you are come: +Pray, sir, be seated;--business dull;-- +Or else this room had now been full; +Orders and cash are strangers here, +And every thing looks dev'lish queer; +Bad times these, sir, sad lack of wealth; +Must hope for better;--Sir, your health!" +Then added, with inquiring face, +"_Come to take Orders in this place_?" + +"Yes, sir, I am," replied the priest: +"With that intent I came at least." +"Ha! ha! I knew it very well; +We business-men can others tell: +Often before I've seen your face, +Though memory can't recal the place-- +Ah! now I have it; head of mine! +_You travel in the button line_?" + +"Begging your pardon, sir, I fear +Some error has arisen here; +You have mista'en my trade divine, +But, sir, the worldly loss is mine-- +_I travel in a much worse line_." + + + +THE GIPSY'S HOME. + +A GLEE. + +Sung by Messrs. PYNE, NELSON, Miss WITHAM, and Master +LONGHURST.--Composed by Mr. ROOKE. + + +We, who the wide world make our home; + The barren heath our cheerful bed; +Careless o'er mount and moor we roam, + And never tears of sorrow shed. + But merrily, O! Merrily, O! + Through this world of care we go. + +Love, that a palace left in tears, + Flew to our houseless feast of mirth: +For here, unfetter'd, beauty cheers, + The heaven alone that's found on earth! + Then merrily, O! Merrily, O! + Through this world of care we go. + + + +SONNET. + +THE BEGGAR. + + +Of late I saw him on his staff reclined, + Bow'd down beneath a weary weight of woes, +Without a roof to shelter from the wind + His head, all hoar with many a winter's snows. +All trembling he approach'd, he strove to speak; + The voice of misery scarce my ear assail'd; +A flood of sorrow swept his furrow'd cheek, + Remembrance check'd him, and his utt'rance fail'd. +For he had known full many a better day; + And when the poor man at his threshold bent, +He drove him not with aching heart away, + But freely shared what Providence had sent. +How hard for him, the stranger's boon to crave, +And live to want the mite his bounty gave! + + + +TO ------. + +Come, JENNY, let me sip the dew + That on those coral lips doth play, +One kiss would every care subdue, + And bid my weary soul be gay. + +For surely thou wert form'd by love + To bless the suff'rer's parting sigh; +In pity then my griefs remove, + And on that bosom let me die! + + + +SONG. + +THE RECAL OF THE HERO. + + +When Discord blew her fell alarm + On Gallia's blood-stain'd ground, +When Usurpation's giant arm + Enslaved the nations round: +The thunders of avenging Heaven +To NELSON'S chosen hand were given! +By NELSON'S chosen hand were hurl'd, +To rescue the devoted world! + +The tyrant power, his vengeance dread + To Egypt's shores pursued; +At Trafalgar its hydra-head + For ever sunk subdued. +The freedom of mankind was won! +The hero's glorious task was done! +When Heaven, Oppression's ensigns furl'd, +Recall'd him from the rescued world. + + + +TO ELIZA. + +WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM. + + +I dare not spoil this spotless page + With any feeble verse of mine; +The Poet's fire has lost its rage, + Around his lyre no myrtles twine. + +The voice of fame cannot recal + Those fairy days of past delight, +When pleasure seem'd to welcome all, + And morning hail'd a welcome night. + +E'en love has lost its soothing power, + Its spells no more can chain my soul; +I must not venture in the bower, + Where Wit and Verse and Wine controul. + +And yet, I fear, in thoughtless mirth + I once did say, Eliza, dear! +That I would tell the world thy worth, + And write the living record here. + +Come Love, and Truth, and Friendship, come, + Enwreath'd in Virtue's snowy arms, +With magic rhymes the page illume, + And fancy sketch her varied charms-- + +Which o'er the cares of home has thrown + A thousand blessings, deep engraved, +For every heart she makes her own, + And every friend is free-enslaved. + +No Inspiration o'er my pen + Glows with the lightning's vivid spell; +My soul is sad--forgive me then, + My heart's too full the tale to tell! + +Yet, if the humblest poet's theme + Be welcome in Eliza's name; +Then, angel, give the cheering gleam, + For thy approving smile is fame! + + + +ELEGY + +On THE DEATH OF + +ABRAHAM GOLDSMID, ESQ. + + +When stern Misfortune, monitress severe! + Dissolves Prosperity's enchanting dreams, +And, chased from Man's probationary sphere, + Fair Hope withdraws her vivifying beams. + +If then, untaught to bend at Heaven's high will, + The desp'rate mortal dares the dread unknown, +To future fate appeals from present ill, + And stands, uncall'd, before th' Eternal throne! + +Shall justice there _immutably_ decide? + Dread thought! which Reason trembles to explore, +She feels, be mercy granted or denied, + 'Tis her's in dumb submission to adore. + +Yet, could the self-doom'd victim be forgiven + His final error, for his merits past; +Could virtuous life, propitiating Heaven + With former deeds, extenuate the last: + +Then GOLDSMID! Mercy, to thy humble shrine, + Angel of heaven beloved, should wing her flight, +Should in her bosom bid thy head recline, + And waft thee onward to the realms of light. + +And, oh! could human intercession plead, + Breathed ardent to'ards that undiscover'd shore, +What hearts unnumber'd for thy fate that bleed, + Would warm oblations for thy pardon pour. + +Misfortune's various tribes thy worth should tell, + Whose acts to no peculiar sect confined; +Impartial, with expansive bounty fell, + Like heaven's refreshing dews on all mankind. + +Where stern Disease his rankling arrows sped, + While Want, with hard inexorable band, +Strew'd keener thorns on Pain's afflictive bed, + And urged the flight of life's diminish'd sand. + +By hostile stars oppress'd, where Talent toil'd, + Encountering fate with perseverance vain; +The Merchant's hopes, when War's dire arm despoil'd, + Or tempests 'whelm'd in the remorseless main. + +GOLDSMID! thy hand benign assuagement spread, + Sustain'd pale sickness, drooping o'er the tomb; +Raised modest Merit from his lowly shed, + And gave Misfortune's blasted hopes to bloom. + +Yet wealth, too oft perverted from its end, + Suspends the noblest functions of the soul; +Where, chill'd as Apathy's cold frosts, extends, + Compassion's sacred stream forgets to roll. + +And oft, where seeming Pity moves the mind, + From self's mean source the liberal current flows; +While Ostentation, insolently kind, + Wounds while he soothes, insults while he bestows. + +But thy free bounty, undebased by pride, + Prompt to anticipate the meek request, +Unask'd the wants of modest Worth supplied, + And spared the pang that shook the suppliant's breast. + +Yet say! on Fortune's orb, which o'er thy head + Blazed forth erewhile pre-eminently bright, +When dark Adversity her eclipse spread, + And veil'd its splendours in petrific night! + +Did those, thy benefits had placed on high, + Who revell'd still in wealth's meridian ray; +Did those impatient to thy succour fly, + Anxious the debt of gratitude to pay? + +Or, thy fall'n fortunes coldly whispering round, + Scowl'd they aloof in that disastrous hour? +On keen Misfortune's agonizing wound + Did foul Ingratitude her poisons pour? + +If thy distress such aggravation knew, + Thy first reverse could such perdition wait; +Well might Despair thy generous heart subdue, + And Desperation close the scene of fate. + +Yet while Distraction urged her purpose dire, + Rose not, at Nature's interposed command, +The sacred claims of Brother, Husband, Sire, + To win the weapon from thy lifted hand? + +Ah, yes! and ere that agony was o'er, + Ere yet thy soul its last resolve embraced, +What pangs could equal those thy breast that tore, + Thy breast with Nature's tenderest feelings graced? + +Those only which, at thy accomplish'd fate, + That home display'd, thy smiles were wont to bless; +That dreadful scene what language can relate, + What words describe that exquisite distress. + +The Muse recedes--in Grief's domestic scene + Th' intrusive gaze prophanes the tears that flow: +Drop, Pity! there thy hallowed veil between; + Guard, Silence! there the sacredness of woe. + +Nor let the sectarist, whose faith austere + Pretends alone to point th' eternal road; +Proud of his creed, pronounce with voice severe, + All else excluded from the blest abode. + +If error thine, not GOLDSMID! thine the fault, + Since first thy infant years instruction drew; +From youth's gradations up to manhood taught + That faith to reverence which thy fathers knew. + +In Retribution's last tremendous hour, + When its pale captives, long in dust declined, +The grave shall yield, and time shall death devour, + When He who saved, shall come to judge mankind. + +While Christian-infidels shall tremble round, + Who call'd HIM Master! whom their acts denied: +Imputed faith may in _thy_ deeds be found, + And thy eternal doom those deeds decide. + + + +SONNET. + +ON THE DEATH OF MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. + + +Sweet songstress! whom the melancholy Muse + With more than fondness loved, for thee she strung + The lyre, on which herself enraptured hung, +And bade thee through the world its sweets diffuse. +Oft hath my childhood's tributary tear + Paid homage to the sad harmonious strain, + That told, alas! too true, the grief and pain +Which thy afflicted mind was doom'd to bear. + Rest, sainted spirit! from a life of woe, + And though no friendly hand on thee bestow +The stately marble, or emblazon'd name, + To tell a thoughtless world who sleeps below: + Yet o'er thy narrow bed a wreath shall blow. +Deriving vigour from the breath of fame! + + + +MISTER PUNCH. + +A HASTY SKETCH. + + +Who stops the Minister of State, +When hurrying to the Lords' debate? +Who, spite of gravity beguiles, +The solemn Bishop of his smiles? +See from the window, "burly big," +The Judge pops out his awful wig, +Yet, seems to love a bit of gig!--While +_both_ the Sheriffs and the Mayor +Forget the "Address"--and stop to stare--And +who detains the Husband true, +Running to Doctor Doode-Doo, +To save his Wife "in greatest danger;" +While e'en the Doctor keeps the stranger +Another hour from life and light, +To gape at the bewitching sight. +The Bard, in debt, whom Bailiffs ferret, +Despite his poetry and merit, +Stops in his quick retreat awhile, +And tries the long-forgotten smile; +E'en the pursuing _Bum_ forgets +His business, and the man of Debts; +The one neglecting "Caption"--"Bail"-- +The other "thoughts of gyves and Jail"-- +So wondrous are the spells that bind +The noble and ignoble mind. +The Paviour halts in mid-grunt--stands +With rammer in his idle hands; +And quite refined, and at his ease, +Forgetting onions, bread, and cheese, +The hungry Drayman leaves his lunch, +To take a peep at _Mister Punch_. + +Delightful thy effects to see, +Thou charm of age and infancy! +The old Man clears his rheumy eye, +The six months' Babe forgets to cry; +No passers by--all fondly gloat, +So welcome is thy cheering note, +Which time nor taste has ever changed; +And after every clime we've ranged, +Return to thee--our childhood's joy, +And, spite of age, still play the boy! + +Yon pious Thing who walks by rule, +Unconscious laughs, and plays the fool, +And by his side the prim old Maid +_Looks_ "welcome fun" and "who's afraid." +Behold, that happy ruddy face, +In which there seems no vacant place, +That could another joy impart, +For one laugh more would break his heart. +And, lo, behind! his sober Brother, +Striving in vain the laugh to smother. +That giggling Girl must burst outright, +For _Punch_ has now possess'd her quite. +While She, who ran to Chemist's shop +For life or death--here finds a stop: +Forgets for whom--for what--she ran, +And leaves to Heaven the bleeding man! +The Parish Beadle, gilded calf, +Lays by his terror, joins the laugh, +Permits poor souls, without offence, +To sell their fruit and count their pence, +And, as by humour grown insane, +Allows the boys to touch his cane! +Poor little Sweep true comfort quaffs, +Ceases to cry--and loudly laughs. +See! what a wondrous powerful spell +_Punch_ holds o'er Dustman and his bell; +And scolding Wife with clapper still-- +The Landlord quits awhile his till, +While Pot-boy, busiest of the bunch, +Steals pence for self, and beer for _Punch_. +Look at that window, you may trace +At every pane a laughing face. +Yon graceful Girl and her smart Lover, +And in the story just above her, +The Housemaid, with her hair in papers, +All finding _Punch_ a cure for vapours. +E'en the pale Dandy, fresh from France, +Throws on the group an eye askance; +Twirls his moustache, and seems to fear +That some gay friend may catch him here. +The Widowed wretch, who only fed, +On bitter thoughts and tear-wash'd bread, +Forgets her cares, and seems to smile +To see friend _Punch_ her babe beguile. +Magician of the wounded heart, +Oh! there thy wonted aid impart: +Long be the merryman of our Isle, +And win the universal smile! + + + +CONTENT. + +In some lone hamlet it were better far + To live unknown amid Contentment's isle, +Than court the bauble of an air-blown star, + Or barter honour for a prince's smile! + +Hail! tranquil-brow'd Content, forth sylvan god, + Who lov'st to sit beside some cottage fire, +Where the brown presence of the blazing clod + Regales the aspect of the aged sire. + +There, when the Winter's children, bleak and cold, + Are through December's gloomy regions led; +The church-yard tale of sheeted ghost is told, + While fix'd attention dares not turn its head. + +Or if the tale of ghost, or pigmy sprite, + Is stripp'd by theme more cheerful of its power, +The song employs the early dim of night, + Till village-curfew counts a later hour. + +And oft the welcome neighbour loves to stop, + To tell the market news, to laugh, and sing, +O'er the loved circling jug, whose old brown top + Is wet with kisses from the florid ring! + +There, whilst the cricket chirps its chimney song, + Within some crumbling chink, with moss embrown'd, +The lighted stick diverts the infant throng, + And fans are waved, and ribbands twirl'd around. + +Entwine for me the wreath of rural mirth, + And blast the murm'ring fiend, from chaos sent; +Then, while the house-dog snores upon the hearth, + I'll sit, and hail thy sacred name, CONTENT! + + + +EPITAPH. + +ON MATILDA. + + +Sacred to Pity! is upraised this stone, +The humble tribute of a friend unknown; +To grant the beauteous wreck its hallow'd claim, +And add to misery's scroll another name. +Poor lost MATILDA! now in silence laid +Within the early grave thy sorrows made. +Sleep on!--his heart still holds thy image dear, +Who view'd, through life, thy errors with a tear; +Who ne'er with stoic apathy repress'd +The heartfelt sigh for loveliness distress'd. +That sigh for thee shall ne'er forget to heave; +'Tis all he now can give, or thou receive. +When last I saw thee in thy envied bloom, +That promised health and joy for years to come, +Methought the lily nature proudly gave, +Would never wither in th' untimely grave. + +Ah, sad reverse! too soon the fated hour +Saw the dire tempest 'whelm th' expanding flower! +Then from thy tongue its music ceased to flow; +Thine eye forgot to gleam with aught but woe; +Peace fled thy breast; invincible despair +Usurp'd her seat, and struck his daggers there. +Did not the unpitying world thy sorrows fly? +And, ah! what then was left thee--but to die! +Yet not a friend beheld thy parting breath, +Or mingled solace with the pangs of death: +No priest proclaim'd the erring hour forgiven, +Or sooth'd thy spirit to its native heav'n: +But Heaven, more bounteous, bade the pilgrim come, +And hovering angels hail'd their sister home. +I, where the marble swells not, to rehearse +Thy hapless fate, inscribe my simple verse. +Thy tale, dear shade, my heart essays to tell; +Accept its offering, while it heaves--farewell! + + + +TO ------. + +AN IMPROMPTU. + + +O Sue! you certainly have been + A little raking, roguish creature, +And in that face may still be seen + Each laughing love's bewitching feature! + +For thou hast stolen many a heart; + And robb'd the sweetness of the rose; +Placed on that cheek, it doth impart + More lovely tints--more fragrant blows! + +Yes, thou art Nature's favourite child, + Array'd in smiles, seducing, killing; +Did Joseph live, you'd drive him wild, + And set his very soul a-thrilling! + +A poet, much too poor to live, + Too poor in this rich world to rove; +Too poor for aught but verse to give, + But not, thank God, too poor to love! + +Gives thee his little doggerel lay;--One + truth I tell, in sorrow tell it: +I'm forced to give my verse away, + Because, alas! I cannot sell it. + +And should you with a critic's eye + Proclaim me 'gainst the Muse a sinner, +Reflect, dear girl I that such as I, + Six times a-week don't get a dinner. + +And want of comfort, food, and wine, + Will damp the genius, curb the spirit: +These wants I'll own are often mine;--But + can't allow a want of merit. + +For every stupid dog that drinks + At poet's pond, nicknamed divine; +Say what he will, I know he thinks + That all he writes is wondrous fine! + + + +THE STEAM-BOAT. + +Say, dark prow'd visitant! that o'er the brine + _Stalk'st_ proudly--heeding not what wind may blow, +What chart, what compass, shapes that course of thine, + Whence didst thou come, and whither dost thou go? + +Art thou a Monster born of sky and sea? + Art thou a Pagod moving in thine ire? +Were I a Savage I must bend to thee, + A Ghiber? I must own thee "God of fire." + +The affrighted billows fly thy hissing rout, + Thy wake is followed by turmoil and din, +Blackness and darkness track thy course without, + And fire and groans and vapours strive within. + +And they who cling about thee--who are they? + And canst thou be that fabled boat, that waits +On the dark banks of Styx for souls? Oh, say! + Let me not burst in ignorance--thy freight. + +Thus spake I, wandering near the Brighton shore, + Straining my very eye-balls from my _Cab;_ +First came two "ten-horse" laughs--and then a roar, + "Be off, queer Chap, or I'll soon stop your gab!" + +Then swept she onward, breathing mist and cloud, + While from my bosom this reflection broke; +Although I think the steam-boat something proud, + Such _lofty_ questions often end in _smoke_. +To all Grandiloquents a hint _I_ deem it, +And whilst I live, I'll ever such _esteem_ it. + + + +SONNET. + +TO LYDIA, + +ON HER BIRTH-DAY. + + +Bless'd be the hour that gave my LYDIA birth, + The day be sacred 'mid each varying year; +How oft the name recals thy spotless worth, + And joys departed, still to memory dear! +If matchless friendship, constancy, and love, + Have power to charm, or one sad grief beguile, +'Tis thine the gloom of sorrow to remove, + And on the tearful cheek imprint a smile. +May every after-season to thee bring + New joys, to cheer life's dark eventful way, +Till time shall close thee in his pond'rous wing, + And angels waft thee to eternal day! +Loved friend, farewell! thy name this heart shall fill, + Till memory sinks, and all its griefs are still! + + + +TO SARAH, WHILE SINGING. + +Written at the Cottage of T. LEWIS, Esq. Woodbury Downs. + + +In the retirement of this lovely spot, +Sacred to friendship, industry, and worth, +To boundless hospitality and mirth, +Be ever peace and joy--all care forgot, +Save that which carest for a higher, holier, lot! + +And thou, sweet girl, whose lovely modest mien, +Cheers the gay banquet with unconscious wiles, +Long mayest thou grace it with affection's smiles, +The vocal syren of this sylvan scene. +Warbling thy sweetest notes 'midst flowers and woodlands green. + +Long be the social circle's grace and pride, +Of parents' hopes, the dearest and the best, +"The Dove of promise to this ark of rest:" +Who, when around the world's fierce billows ride, +Beareth the branch that speaks of the receding tide! + +_July, 1827_ + + + +TO THADDEUS.[1] + +Farewell! loved youth, for still I hold thee dear, + Though thou hast left me friendless and alone; +Still, still thy name recals the heartfelt tear, + That hastes MATILDA to her wish'd-for home. + +Why leave the wretch thy perfidy hath made, + To journey cheerless through the world's wide waste? +Say, why so soon does all thy kindness fade, + And doom me, thus, affliction's cup to taste? + +Ungen'rous deed! to fly the faithful maid + Who, for thy arms, abandon'd every friend; +Oh! cruel thought, that virtue, thus betray'd, + Should feel a pang that death alone can end. + +Yet I'll not chide thee--And when hence you roam, + Should my sad fate one tear of pity move, +Ah! then return! this bosom's still thy home, + And all thy failings I'll repay with love. + +Believe me, dear, at midnight, or at morn, + In vain exhausted nature strives to rest, +Thy absence plants my pillow with a thorn, + And bids me hope no more, on earth, for rest. + +But if unkindly you refuse to hear, + And from despair thy poor MATILDA have; +Ah! don't deny one tributary tear, + To glisten sweetly o'er my early grave. + + MATILDA. + +[Footnote 1: The above lines were written at the request of a lady, +and meant to describe the feelings of one "who loved not wisely, but +too well."] + + + +YOUTH AND AGE. + +I love the joyous thoughtless heart, + The revels of the youthful mind, +'Ere sad experience points the dart, + Which wounds so surely all mankind. + +It glads me when the buoyant soul, + Unconscious ranges, fancy free, +Draining the sweets of pleasure's bowl, + And thinking all as blest as he. + +Ah! me, yet sad it is to know, + The many griefs the future brings, +That time must change that note to woe, + Which now its merry carrol sings. + +This "summer of the mind," alas! + Must have its autumn--leafless, bare, +When all these pleasing phantoms pass, + And end in winter, age, and care! + +Such, such is life, the moral tells-- + The tempest, and its sunny smiles, +A warning voice the cheerful bells, + The knell of death, our youth beguiles! + + + +SENT FOR THE ALBUM + +OF THE REV. G---- C----, + +With a Drawing of the Head of an Eminent Artist. + + +Dear Sir, you remember, when Herod of Jewry +Had given a ball, how a shocking old fury +Demanded, so bent was the vixen on slaughter. +The head of St. John at the hand of her daughter: +Now do not detest me, nor hold me in dread, +Because, like King Herod, I send you a head: +Not a saint's, by-the-bye, although _taken from life_, +But a head of my friend, by the hand of my wife. + + + +WRITTEN + +UNDER AN ELEGANT DRAWING OF A DEAD CANARY BIRD, + +By Miss A.M. TURNER, Daughter of the Eminent Engraver. + + +_Death_ to the very _life!_ not the closed eye, + Not those small paralytic limbs alone, +But every feather tells so mournfully + Thy fate, and that thy _little_ life has flown. + +Manhood forbids that I should weep, and yet + Sadness comes o'er my spirit, and I stand +Gazing intensely, and with mute regret, + Turn from the wonder of the artist's hand. + +Exquisite artist! could I praise thee more + Than by the silent admiration? no! +And now I try to praise I must deplore + How feeble is the verse that tells thee so; +But thou art gaining for thyself a fame +Worthy thyself, thy sex, and thy dear father's name! + + + +LINES + +SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF + +THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. + + +Genius of England! wherefore to the earth + Is thy plumed helm, thy peerless sceptre cast? +Thy courts of late with minstrelsy and mirth + Rang jubilant, and dazzling pageants past; +Kings, heroes, martial triumphs, nuptial rites-- + +Now, like a cypress, shiver'd by the blast, + Or mountain-cedar, which the lightning smites, +In dust and darkness sinks thy head declined, + Thy tresses streaming wild on ocean's reckless wind. + +Art thou not glorious?--In that night of storms, + When He, in Power's supremacy elate, + Gaul's fierce Usurper! fulminating fate, + The Goth's barbaric tyranny restored, +And science, art, and all life's fairer forms, + Sunk to the dark dominion of the sword: +Didst thou not, champion of insulted man! + Confront this stern Destroyer in his pride? + Didst thou not crush him in the battle shock, +While recent victory shouted in his van, + And shrunk the nations, shadow'd by his stride? + Yea, chain him howling to yon desert rock, + Where, thronging ghastly from uncounted graves, + His victims murmur 'midst the groans of waves, +And mock his soul's despair, his deep blaspheming ban! + +Nor erst, in Liberty's avenging day, + When, launching lightnings in her wrath divine, + She rose, and gave to never-dying fame, +Platæ, Marathon, Thermopylæ, + Did each, did all, sublimer laurels twine + Round Græcia's conquering brows, than Waterloo on thine! + +Then, wherefore, Albion! terror-struck, subdued, + Sitt'st thou, thy state foregone, thy banner furl'd? +What dire infliction shakes that fortitude, + Which propt the falling fortunes of the world?-- +Hush! hark! portentous, like a withering spell + From lips unblest--strange sounds mine ear appal; +Now the dread omens more distinctly swell-- + That thrilling shriek from Claremont's royal hall, +The death-note peal'd from yon terrific bell, + The deepening gale with lamentation swoln-- +These, Albion! these, too eloquently tell, + That from her radiant sphere, thy brightest star has fall'n! + +And art thou gone?--graced vision of an hour! + Daughter of Monarchs! gem of England's crown! +Thou loveliest lily! fair imperial flower! + In beauty's vernal bloom to dust gone down; +Gone when, dispers'd each inauspicious cloud, + In blissful sunshine 'gan thy hopes to glow: +From pain's fierce grasp, no refuge but the shroud, + Destin'd a Mother's pangs, but not her joys, to know. + +Lost excellence! what harp shall hymn thy worth, + Nor wrong the theme? conspicuously in thee, +Beyond the blind pre-eminence of birth, + Shone Nature in her own regality! +Coerced, thy Spirit smiled, sedate in pride, + Fixt as the pine, while circling storms contend; +But, when in Life's serener duties tried, + How sweetly did its gentle essence blend, +All-beauteous in the wife, the daughter, and the + friend! + +Not lull'd in langours, indolent and weak, + Nor winged by pleasure, fled thy early hours; +But ceaseless vigils blanch'd thy virgin cheek, + In silent Study's dim-sequester'd bowers: +Propitious there, to thy admiring mind, + With brow unveil'd, consenting Science came; +There Taste awoke her sympathies refined; + There Genius, kindling his etherial flame, +Led thy young soul the Muse's heights to dare, + And mount on Milton's wing, and breathe empyreal air! + +But chiefly, conscious of thy promised throne, + Intent to grace that destiny sublime; +Thou sought'st to make the historic page thine own, + And win the treasures of recorded time; +The forms of polity, the springs of power, + Exploring still with inexhausted zeal; +Still, the pole-star which led thy studious hour + Through Thought's unfolding tracts--thy Country's weal! +While Fancy, radiant with unearthly charms, + Thus breathed the whisper Wisdom sanctified: +"Eliza's, Anna's glories, arts, or arms, + Beneath thy sway shall blaze revivified, +And still prolonged, and still augmenting, shine +Interminably bright in thy illustrious line!" + +'Tis past--thy name, with every charm it bore, +Melts on our souls, like music heard no more, +The dying minstrel's last ecstatic strain, +Which mortal hand shall never wake again-- +But, if, blest spirit! in thy shrine of light, +Life's visions rise to thy celestial sight; +If that bright sphere where raptured seraphs glow, +Permit communion with this world of woe; +And sore, if thus our fond affections deem, +Hope mocks us not, for Heaven inspires the dream-- +Benignant shade! the beatific kiss +That seal'd thy welcome to the shores of bliss, +No holier joy instill'd, than then wilt feel +If thine the task thy kindred's woes to heal; +If hovering yet, with viewless ministry, +In scenes which Memory consecrates to thee, +Thou soothe with binding balm which grief endears, +A Sire's, a Husband's, and--a Mother's tears!-- + +Till Pity's self expire, a Nation's sighs, +Spontaneous incense! o'er thy tomb shall rise: +And, 'midst the dark vicissitudes that wait +Earth's balanced empires in the scales of Fate, +Be thou OUR angel-advocate the while, +And gleam, a guardian saint, around thy native isle! + + + +THE PRESUMPTUOUS FLY. + +Sung by Mr. PYNE.--Composed by Mr. ROOKE. + + +Come away, come away, little fly! + Don't disturb the sweet calm of lore's nest; +If you do, I protest you shall die, + And your tomb be that beautiful breast. +Don't tickle the girl in her sleep, + Don't cause so much beauty to sigh; +If she frown, half the graces will weep, + If she weep, all the graces will die. + Come away, little fly, &c. + +Now she wakes! steal a kiss and be gone; + Life is precious: away, little fly! +Should your rudeness provoke her to scorn, + You'll meet death from the glance of her eye. +Were I ask'd by fair Chloe to say + How I felt, as the flutterer I chid; +I should own, as I drove it away, + I wish'd to be there in its stead! + Come away, little fly, &c. + + + +THE HEROES OF WATERLOO. + +Address, written for a Benefit, at a Provincial Theatre, for the +Wounded Survivors, Families, and Relatives, of the Heroes of +Waterloo. + +Once more Britannia sheathes her conqu'ring sword, +And Peace returns, by Victory restored; +Peace, that erewhile estranged, 'midst long alarms, +Scarce welcomed home, was ravish'd from our arms; +What time, fierce bounding from his broken chain, +Gaul's banish'd Despot re-aspired to reign; +Whilst at his call, prompt minions of his breath, +Round his dire throne rush'd Havoc, Spoil, and Death; +With wonted pomp his baleful ensign blazed, +And Europe shrunk, and shudder'd as she gazed. +Insulted Liberty her tocsin rung; +Again Britannia to the combat sprung: +Star of the Nations! her auspicious form +Led on their march, and foremost braved the storm. + +Pent-in its clouds, ere yet the tempest flash'd, +Ere peal on peal the mingling thunder crash'd; +While Fate hung dubious o'er the marshall'd powers, +What anxious fears, what trembling hopes, were ours! +For never yet from Gallia's confines came +War's fell eruption with so fierce a flame: +She sent a Chief, matur'd in martial strife, +Who fought for fame, for empire, and for life; +Whose Host had sworn, deep-stung with recent shame, +To satiate vengeance, and retrieve their fame! +Each furious impulse, each hot throb, was there, +That spurs Ambition, or inflames Despair. +Then Britain fix'd on her Unconquer'd Son, +Her eye, her hope--immortal WELLINGTON! +He, skill'd to crash, with one collective blow +Sustain'd sedate the fierce assaulting foe. +How stood his squadrons like the steadfast rock, +Frowning on Ocean's ineffectual shock! +Till forward summon'd to the fierce attack, +They give to Gaul his furious onset back; +Swift on its prey each fiery legion springs, +As when Heaven's ire the vollied lightning wings! +Then Gallia's blood in expiation stream'd, +Then trembling Europe saw her fate redeem'd; +And England, radiant in her triumph past, +Beheld them all transcended in the last: +Yes, raptured Britons blest the gale that blew +The tidings home--the tale of Waterloo! +But, oh! while joy tumultuous hail'd the day, +Cold on the plain what gallant victims lay! +Deaf to the triumph of their sacred cause, +Deaf to their country's shout, the world's applause! + +Rear high the column, bid the marble breathe, +Pour soft the verse, and twine the laureate wreath; +From year to year let musing Memory shed +Her tenderest tears, to grace the glorious dead. +'Tis ours with grateful ardour to sustain +The wounded veteran on his bed of pain; +To soothe the widow, sunk in anguish deep, +Whose orphan weeps to see its mother weep. + +Oh! when, outstretch'd on that triumphant field, +The prostrate Warrior felt his labours seal'd; +Felt, 'midst the shout of Victory pealing round, +Life's eddying stream fast welling from his wound; +Perchance Affection bade her visions rise-- +Wife, children, floated o'er his closing eyes: +For them alone he heaved the bitter sigh; +Yet for his country glorying thus to die! +To her bequeath'd them with his parting breath, +And sunk serene in unregretted death.-- + +To no cold ear was that appeal prefer'd; +With glowing bosom grateful England heard; +With liberal hand she pours the prompt relief, +Soothes the sick head, and wipes the tear of grief. + +Our humble efforts consecrate, to-night, +To this great cause, our small but willing mite. +Bright are the wreaths the warrior's urn which grace, +And bless'd the bounty that protects his race! +Thus warm'd, thus waken'd, with congenial fire, +Each hero's son shall emulate his sire; +From age to age prolong the glorious line, +And guard their country with a shield divine! + + + +THE NIGHT-BLOWING CEREUS. + +Can it be true, so fragrant and so fair, + To give thy perfumes to the dews of night? +Can aught so beautiful, despise the glare, + And fade, and sicken in the morning light? + +Yes! peerless flower, the Heavens alone exhale + Thy fragrance, while the glittering stars attest, +And incense wafted by the midnight gale, + Untainted rises from thy spotless breast. + +How like that Faith whose nature is apart + From human gaze, to love and work unseen, +Which gives to God an undivided heart, + In sorrow steadfast, and in joy serene; +That night-flower of the soul, whose fragrant power +Breathes on the darkness of the closing hour! + + + +1827; + +OR, THE POET'S LAST POEM. + + +Ye Bards in all your thousand dens, +Great souls with fewer pence than pens, +Sublime adorers of Apollo, +With folios full, and purses hollow; +Whose very souls with rapture glisten, +When you can find a fool to listen; +Who, if a debt were paid by pun, +Would never be completely _done_. +Ye bright inhabitants of garrets, +Whose dreams are rich in ports and clarets, +Who, in your lofty paradise, +See aldermanic banquets rise-- +And though the duns around you troop, +Still float in seas of turtle soup. +I here forsake the tuneful trade, +Where none but lordlings now are paid, +Or where some northern rogue sits puling, +(The curse of universal schooling)-- +A ploughman to his country lost, +An author to his printer's cost-- +A slave to every man who'll buy him, +A knave to every man who'll try him-- +Yet let him take the pen, at once +The laurel gathers round his sconce! + +On every subject superseded, +My favorite topics all invaded, +I scarcely dip my pen in praise, +When fifty bardlings grasp my bays; +Or let me touch a drop of satire, +(I once knew something of the matter), +Just fifty bardlings take the trouble, +To be my tuneful worship's double. +Fine similies that nothing fit, +Joe Miller's, that _must_ pass for wit; +The dull, dry, brain-besieging jokes, +The humour that no laugh provokes-- +The nameless, worthless, witless rancours, +The rage that souls of scribblers cankers-- +(Administer'd in gall go thick, +It makes even Sunday critic's sick!) +Disgust my passion, fill my place, +And snatch my prize before my face. + +If then I take the "brilliant" pen. +And "scorning measures" talk of men-- +There Luttrel steps 'twixt me and fame-- +So like, egad, we're just the same; +I never half squeeze out a thought, +But jumps its fellow on the spot-- +My tenderest dreams, my fondest touch, +Are victims to his ready clutch; +The whirling waltz, the gay costume, +The porcelain tooth, the gallic bloom; +The vapid smiles, the lisping loves +Of turtles (never meant for doves)-- +The dreary stuff that fills the ears, +Where _all_ the orators are peers-- +The hides reveal'd through ball-room dresses, +Where all the parties are peer-esses; +The dulness of the _toujours gai_, +The yawning night, the sleepy day, +The visages of cheese and chalk, +The drowsy, dreamy, languid talk; +The fifty other horrid things, +That strip old Time of both his wings! +There's not a topic of them all +But comes, hey presto! at _his_ call. + +Or when I turn my pen to love, +A theme that fits me like my glove, +A pang I've borne these twenty years +With ten-times twenty several dears, +Each glance a dart, each smile a quiver, +Stinging their bard from lungs to liver-- +To work my ruin, or my cure, +Up starts thy pen, Anacreon Moore! +In vain I pour my shower of roses, +On which the matchless fair one dozes, +And plant around her conch the graces, +While jealous Venus breaks her laces, +To see a younger face promoted, +To see her own old face out-voted; +And myrtle branches twisting o'er her, +Bow down, each turn'd a true adorer. +Up starts the Irish Bard--in vain +I write, 'tis all against the grain: +In vain I talk of smiles or sighs, +The girls all have him in their eyes; +And not a soul--mamma, or miss-- +But vows he's the sole Bard of Bliss! + +Since first I dipp'd in the romantic, +A hundred thousand have run frantic-- +There's not a hideous highland spot, +(Long fallowed to the core by Scott)-- +No rill, through rack and thistle dribbling, +But has its deadlier crop of scribbling. +Each fen, and flat, and flood, and fell, +Gives birth to verses by the ell-- +There Wordsworth, for his muse's sallies, +Claims all the ponds, the lanes, and alleys-- +There Coleridge swears none else shall tune +A bag-pipe to the list'ning moon; +On come in clouds the scribbling columns, +Each prowling for his next three volumes. +I scorn the rascal tribe, and spurn all +The yearly, monthly, and diurnal. + +I write the finest things that ever +Made duchess fond, or marquiss clever-- +(Although I'd rather half turn Turk, +The thing's such monstrous up-hill work). +My _ton's_ the very cream of fashion, +My passion the sublimest passion, +My rage _satanic_, love the same, +Of all blue flames, the bluest flame-- +My piety perpetual matins, +A quaker propp'd on double pattens; +My lovely girls the most precocious, +My beaus delightfully atrocious! +Yet scarcely have I play'd my card, +When up comes politician Ward, +Before my face he trumps my trump, +Sweeps off my honours in the lump, +And never asking my permission, +Talks sermons to the third edition. + +Or Boulogne, Highway Byeway, Grattan, +(The Pyrenees begin to flatten, +A feast denied to storm and shower, +The pen's the wonder-working power); +Or Smith, the master of "Addresses," +Carves history out in modern messes:-- +Tells how gay Charles cook'd up his collops, +How fleeced his friends, how paid his trollops-- +How pledged his soul, and pawn'd his oath, +'Till none would give a straw for both; +And touching paupers for the Evil, +Touch'd England half way to the devil +Or Hook, picks up my favorite hits, +For when was friendship between wits? +Or Lyster, doubly dandyfied, +Fidgets his donkey by my side; +Or Bulwer rambles back from Greece, +Woolgathering from the Golden fleece-- +Or forty volumes, piping hot, +Come blazing from volcano Scott; +When pens like their's play all my game. +The tasteless world must bear the blame. + +I had a budget, full of fan, +But here again, I'm lost, undone! +I'm so forestall'd--that faith, I could +Half quarrel with--my _lively Hood_: +For _odd it is_, my "Oddities," +Are _even_ all the same with his; +Would _Sherwood_ (him of Paternoster), +Assist my pilferings to foster, +I'd turn free-booter--nay, I would +E'en play the part of _robbing Hood_-- +But brother Wits should never quarrel, +Nor try to "pluck each other's laurel," +And tho' my income's scarce enough +To find friend Petersham with snuff, +Here's peace to all! and kind regards! +And _Brother Hood_ among the Bards. + +So all, friends, countrymen, and lovers, +With one, or one and twenty covers, +Farewell to all;--my glories past, +I pen my lay, my sweetest, last! +Another Phoenix, build my nest +Of spices, Phoebus' very best, +Concentrating in these gay pages, +Wit, worth the wit of all the stages; +Love, tender as the midnight talk, +In softest summer's midnight walk, +With leave to all earth's fools to spurn 'em, +Nay (if they first will _buy_) to burn 'em. + + + +TO THE REVIEWERS. + +Oh! ye, enthroned in presidential awe, +To give the song-smit generation law; +Who wield Apollo's delegated rod, +And shake Parnassus with your sovereign nod; +A pensive Pilgrim, worn with base turmoils, +Plebeian cares, and mercenary toils, +Implores your pity, while with footsteps rude, +He dares within the mountain's pale intrude; +For, oh! enchantment through its empire dwells. +And rules the spirit with Lethëan spells; +By hands unseen aërial harps are hung, +And Spring, like Hebe, ever fair and young, +On her broad bosom rears the laughing Loves, +And breathes bland incense through the warbling groves; +Spontaneous, bids unfading blossoms blow, +And nectar'd streams mellifluously flow. + +There, while the Muses wanton unconfined, +And wreaths resplendent round their temples bind, +'Tis yours to strew their steps with votive flowers; +To watch them slumbering 'midst the blissful bowers; +To guard the shades that hide their sacred charms; +And shield their beauties from unhallow'd arms! +Oh! may their suppliant steal a passing kiss? +Alas! he pants not for superior bliss; +Thrice-bless'd his virgin modesty shall be +To snatch an evanescent ecstacy! +The fierce extremes of superhuman love, +For his frail sense too exquisite might prove; +He turns, all blushing, from th' Aönian shade, +To humbler raptures with a mortal maid. + +I know 'tis yours, when unscholastic wights +Unloose their fancies in presumptuous flights, +Awaked to vengeance, on such flights to frown, +Clip the wing'd horse, and roll his rider down. +But, if empower'd to strike th' immortal lyre, +The ardent vot'ry glows with genuine fire, +'Tis yours, while care recoils, and envy flies, +Subdued by his resistless energies, +'Tis yours to bid Piërian fountains flow, +And toast his name in Wit's seraglio; +To bind his brows with amaranthine bays, +And bless, with beef and beer, his mundane days! +Alas! nor beef, nor beer, nor bays, are mine, +If by your looks my doom I may divine, +Ye frown so dreadful, and ye swell so big, +Your fateful arms, the goose-quill, and the wig: +The wig, with wisdom's somb'rous seal impress'd, +Mysterious terrors, grim portents, invest; +And shame and honour on the goose-quill perch, +Like doves and ravens on a country church. + +As some raw 'Squire, by rustic nymphs admired, +Of vulgar charms, and easy conquests tired, +Resolves new scenes and nobler flights to dare, +Nor "waste his sweetness in the desert air," +To town repairs, some famed assembly seeks, +With red importance blust'ring in his cheeks; +But when, electric on th' astonish'd wight +Burst the full floods of music and of light, +While levell'd mirrors multiply the rows +Of radiant beauties, and accomplish'd beaus, +At once confounded into sober sense, +He feels his pristine insignificance: +And blinking, blund'ring, from the general _quiz_ +Retreats, "to ponder on the thing he is." +By pride inflated, and by praise allured, +Small Authors thus strut forth, and thus get cured; +But, Critics, hear I an angel pleads for _me_, +That tongueless, ten-tongued cherub, _Modesty_. + +Sirs! if you damn me, you'll resemble those +That flay'd the Traveller who had lost his clothes; +Are there not foes enough to _do_ my books? +Relentless trunk-makers and pastry-cooks? +Acknowledge not those barbarous allies, +The wooden box-men, and the men of pies: +For Heav'n's sake, let it ne'er be understood +That you, great Censors! coalesce with _wood;_ +Nor let your actions contradict your looks, +That tell the world you ne'er colleague with _cooks._ + +But, if the blithe Muse will indulge a smile, +Why scowls thy brow, O Bookseller! the while? +Thy sunk eyes glisten through eclipsing fears, +Fill'd, like Cassandra's, with prophetic tears: +With such a visage, withering, woe-begone, +Shrinks the pale poet from the damning dun. +Come, let us teach each other's tears to flow, +Like fasting bards, in fellowship of woe, +When the coy Muse puts on coquettish airs, +Nor deigns one line to their voracious prayers! +Thy spirit, groaning like th' encumber'd block +Which bears my works, deplores them as _dead stock._ +Doom'd by these undiscriminating times +To endless sleep, with Delia Cruscan rhymes; +Yes, Critics whisper thee, litigious wretches! +Oblivion's hand shall _finish_ all my _sketches._ +But see, _my_ soul, such bug-bears has repell'd +With magnanimity unparallel'd! +Take up the volume, every care dismiss, +And smile, gruff Gorgon! while I tell thee this: +Not one shall lie neglected on the shelf, +All shall be sold--I'll buy them in myself! + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems (1828), by Thomas Gent + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS (1828) *** + +***** This file should be named 11215-8.txt or 11215-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/2/1/11215/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Virginia Paque and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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For +example an eBook of filename 10234 would be found at: + + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/2/3/10234 + +or filename 24689 would be found at: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/6/8/24689 + +An alternative method of locating eBooks: + https://www.gutenberg.org/GUTINDEX.ALL + + diff --git a/old/11215-8.zip b/old/11215-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1a7b57c --- /dev/null +++ b/old/11215-8.zip diff --git a/old/11215.txt b/old/11215.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..edac0dc --- /dev/null +++ b/old/11215.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4492 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems (1828), by Thomas Gent + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems (1828) + +Author: Thomas Gent + +Release Date: February 21, 2004 [EBook #11215] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS (1828) *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Virginia Paque and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + + + + + + POEMS; + + BY + + THOMAS GENT. + + + + LONDON + + + 1828. + + + + +ADVERTISEMENT. + + +Some of the Pieces in this volume have been separately published, +at different times; the indulgence, I may say favour, +with which they were individually received, has encouraged me +to collect and re-publish them. I have added many others, +which are now first printed. I shall be well satisfied, if they +find as favourable a reception as their precursors; and are +thought not to have increased the size, without at all increasing +the merit, of the book. + +I cannot omit this opportunity of thanking those Critics, +who have honoured me by reviewing my verses. I owe them +my warm acknowledgments for candidly measuring my Poems +by their pretensions. They have looked at them as they really +were;--as the amusements of the leisure hours of a man +whose fortune will not favour his inclination to devote himself +to poetry; and conceiving a favourable opinion of them in +that character, have kindly expressed it. + +_London, December, 1827._ + +During the progress of these pages through the press, it has +pleased Providence to inflict upon me the severest calamity that +domestic life can sustain. In the private sorrows of the humble +candidate for literary fame, I am aware that the world will feel +no interest, yet humanity will forgive the weakness that struggles +under such a bereavement, and will pardon the tear that falls +upon such a tomb. If, indeed, the Being who is lost to her family +and society were endowed only with those gifts and graces, +which are shared by thousands of her sex, I should have been +silent at this moment. To those who knew her,[1] and to know +her was to esteem and love, this tribute will be superfluous; but +to those who knew her not, I would say, that, superadded to +every natural advantage, to the charms of every polite accomplishment, +and to a cheerful and sincere piety, she was deeply +imbued with the love of literature and of science. In these, her +Lectures on the Physiology of the External Senses exhibit a +splendid proof of her acquirements in their highest walks, and +are an imperishable memorial of her patient and laborious research. +They who were present at the delivery of these Lectures +will not soon forget the effect of her impressive elocution, +chastened as it was by as unaffected modesty as ever adorned +and dignified a woman. I speak of that which she performed--that +which her capacious mind had meditated I forbear to mention. +For the advancement of her sex in pursuits that are intellectual +she made many sacrifices, both of her feelings and her +time; yet, in all she did, and in all she contemplated, usefulness +was her end and aim--but I must not proceed; less than this I +could not say--more than this might be deemed ostentatious. + + +What earthly tongue, and, oh! what human pen + Can tell that scene of suffering, too severe. +'Tis ever present to my sight, oh! when + Will the sound cease its torture on mine ear? + +Oh! my lost love, thou patient Being, never! + Thy dying look of love can I forget; +The last fond pressure of thy hand, _for ever!_ + Thrills in my veins, I see thy struggles yet. + +Thy sculptured beauty is before me now: + In thy calm dignity, and sweet repose, +Alas! sad memory re-invests thy brow, + With death's stern agony, and pain's last throes. + +Desolate heart be still--forgive, oh God! + The cries of feeble nature stricken sore. +Father! assuage the terrors of thy rod. + Teach me to see thy wisdom--and adore! + + +[Footnote 1: I cannot resist the melancholy gratification of quoting +from the Literary Gazette, of August 18, in which the death of Mrs. Gent +was announced to the public.--"Science has, since our last, suffered a +severe lost by the death of this accomplished lady; she was well known +for her high attainments as a Lecturer, and her Course on the Physiology +of the External Senses was a perfect model of elegant composition and +refined oratory. Mrs. Gent died at the residence of her husband, Thomas +Gent, Esq. Doctor's Commons, after a month of severe suffering, which +she bore with singular fortitude, and the most pious resignation. There +is a fine bust of her, by Behnes; it was in the Exhibition two years +since, and, from its intrinsic simplicity and beauty alone, has had many +casts made from it." + +And one of the most distinguished Poets of the present day, will, I am +sure, forgive me if I quote his beautiful words in writing to me on +this subject--for his talents she had the highest admiration, and no +one was better able than himself to appreciate the excellence of her +character.--"As to condolence, I never condole--what condolence could +any one offer for the loss of so estimable a being as has been lost to +society in your accomplished wife? I had a very great respect and esteem +for her, and it would have highly gratified me to have been able to +lighten the least of her trials; but what avails writing or visiting on +occasions of such real pain. She lived a most amiable being--and for +such there is the highest hope in the Highest World. If I had conceived +that her illness was at all serious, I should have gone to gather wisdom +from her for my own hour--but now, that all her anxieties are past, I +can invent no condolence."] + +CONTENTS. + + +Poems +Mature Reflections +The Grave of Dibdin +A Sketch from Life +On the Portrait of the Son of J.G. Lambton, Esq. +Written in the Album of the Lady of Counsellor D. Pollock +The Heliotrope +Sonnet On seeing a Young Lady I had previously known, + confined in a Madhouse +Prometheus +Rosa's Grave +The Sibyl. A Sketch +Love +On a delightful Drawing in my Album +Stanzas +Shakspeare +Impromptu. To Oriana, on attending with her, as Sponsors, + at a Christening +To my Spaniel Fanny +Widowed Love +Written to the Lady of Dr. George Birkbeck +The Chain-pier, Brighton. A Sketch +Sonnet. Morning. +On the Death of Dr. Abel +Sonnet. Night. +Constancy. To ------ +Epistle to a Friend +Here in our Fairy Bowers we Dwell. A Glee +Henry and Eliza +Written on the Death of General Washington +To ------ +Monody on the Right Hon. R.B. Sheridan +On the beautiful Portrait of Mrs. Forman, as Pandora +Sonnet. To ------, on her Recovery from Illness +To Margaret Jane H------, on her Birth-day +The Runaway +On Reading the Poem of "Paris." +On the Death of Gen. Sir R. Abercrombie +Retaliation +Lines, written in a Copy of the Poem on the Princess Charlotte +Sonnet +To Robert Soothey, Esq. on reading his "Remains of Henry Kirke White" +The State Secret. An Impromptu +The Morning Call +Sonnet +On the Rupture of the Thames' Tunnel +Anacreontic. "The Wisest Men are Fools in Wine." +Lines, written in Hornsey Wood +To Mary +Black Eyes and Blue +Epigram. Auri Sacra Fames +Sonnet. To Faith +On a Spirited Portrait, by E. Landaeer, Esq. +Sonnet. To Hope +Lines, written on the Sixth of September +Sonnet. To Charity +Hymn +Reflections of a Poet on going to a great Dinner +Sunday +A Night-Storm +On the Death of Nelson +The Blue-eyed Maid +Taking Orders. A Tale, founded on fact +The Gipsy's Home. A Glee +Sonnet. The Beggar +To ------ +Song. "The Recal of the Hero." +To Eliza. Written in her Album +Elegy on the Death of A. Goldsmid, Esq. +Sonnet. On the Death of Mrs. Charlotte Smith +Mister Punch. A Hasty Sketch +Content +Epitaph. On Matilda +To ------. An Impromptu +The Steam-Boat +Sonnet To Lydia, on her Birth-day +To Sarah, while Singing +To Thaddeus +Youth and Age +Sent for the Album of the Rev. G----- C----- +Written under an elegant Drawing of a Dead Canary Bird +Lines suggested by the Death of the Princess Charlotte +The Presumptuous Fly +The Heroes of Waterloo +The Night-blowing Cereus +1827; or, the Poet's Last Poem +To the Reviewers + +POEMS. + +Tis sweet in boyhood's visionary mood, +When glowing Fancy, innocently gay, +Flings forth, like motes, her bright aerial brood, +To dance and shine in Hope's prolific ray; +'Tis sweet, unweeting how the flight of years +May darkling roll in trials and in tears, +To dress the future in what garb we list, +And shape the thousand joys that never may exist. +But he, sad wight! of all that feverish train, +Fool'd by those phantoms of the wizard brain, +Most wildly dotes, whom young ambition stings +To trust his weight upon poetic wings; +He, downward looking in his airy ride, +Beholds Elysium bloom on every side; +Unearthly bliss each thrilling nerve attunes, +And thus the dreamer with himself communes. +Yes! Earth shall witness, 'ere my star be set, +That partial nature mark'd me for her pet; +That Phoebus doom'd me, kind indulgent sire! +To mount his car, and set the world on fire. +Fame's steep ascent by easy flights to win, +With a neat pocket volume I'll begin; +And dirge, and sonnet, ode, and epigram, +Shall show mankind how versatile I am. +The buskin'd Muse shall next my pen descry: +The boxes from their inmost rows shall sigh; +The pit shall weep, the galleries deplore +Such moving woes as ne'er were heard before: +Enough--I'll leave them in their soft hysterics, +Mount, in a brighter blaze, and dazzle with Homerics. + +Then, while my name runs ringing through Reviews, +And maids, wives, widows, smitten with my Muse, +Assail me with Platonic _billet-doux_. +From this suburban attic I'll dismount, +With Coutts or Barclays open an account; +Ranged in my mirror, cards, with burnish'd ends, +Shall show the whole nobility my friends; +That happy host with whom I choose to dine, +Shall make set-parties, give his-choicest wine; +And age and infancy shall gape to see +The lucky bard, and whisper "That is he!" + +Poor youth! he print--and wakes, _to sleep no more_-- +The world goes on, indifferent, as before; +And the first notice of his metric skill +Comes in the likeness of--his printer's bill; +To pen soft notes no fair enthusiast stirs, +Except his laundress--and who values her's? +None but herself: for though the bard may burn +Her _note_, she still expects one in return. +The luckless maiden, all unblest shall sigh; +His pocket _tome_ hath drawn his pockets dry. +His tragedy expires in peals of laughter; +And that soul-thrilling wish--to live hereafter-- +Gives way to one as hopeless quite, I fear, +And far more needful--how to _live while here_. +Where are ye now, divine illusions all; +Cheques, dinners, wines, admirers great and small! +Changed to two followers, terrible to see, +Who dog his walks, and whisper "That is he!" + +Rhymesters attend! nor scorn & friendly hint, +Restrain your _cacoeths_ fierce to print. +But hark, _my_ printer's devil's at the door, +My leisure cannot yield one moment more: +Nor matters it, advice can ne'er restrain +Madman or poet from his bent:--'tis vain +To strive to point out colours to the blind, +Or set men seeking what they _will not find_. + + + +MATURE REFLECTIONS. + +O Love! divinest dream of youth, + Thy day of ecstacy is o'er, +My bosom, touch'd by time and truth, + Thrills at thy dear deceits no more. + +Nor thou, Ambition! e'er again, + With splendour dazzling to betray, +And aspirations fierce and vain, + Shall tempt my steps--away! away! + +Alas! by stern Experience cleft, + When life's romance is turn'd to sport; +If man hath consolation left + On this side death--'tis good old port. + +And thou, Advice! who glum and chill, + Do'st the _third bottle_ still gainsay; +Smile, and partake it, if you will, + But if you wont--away! away! + + + +THE GRAVE OF DIBDIN. + +Lives there who, with unhallow'd hand, would tear, +One leaf from that immortal wreath which shades +The Hero's living brow, or decks his urn? +Breathes there who does not triumph in the thought +That "Nelson's language is his mother tongue," +And that St. Vincent's country is his own? +Oh! these bright guerdons of renown are won +By means most palpable to sense and sight; +By days of peril and by nights of toil; +By Valour's long probation, closed at last +In Victory's arms--consummated and seal'd +In deathless Glory and immortal Fame. + +Musing I stand upon _his_ lowly grave, +Who, though he fought no battle--though he pour'd +No hostile thunders on his country's foes, +Achieved for Britain triumphs, less array'd +"In pomp and circumstance," nor visible +To vulgar gaze--the triumphs of the _Mind_. +He nursed the elements of courage--he +Supplied the aliment that feeds and guides +The daring spirit to its high emprise-- +A nation's moral energies, by him +Directed, found a nobler end and aim. +He gave that high discriminating tone +That marks the Brave from mercenary tools-- +Features that separate a British Crew +From hireling bravoes, and from pirate hordes. +And yet no marble marks the spot where lies +The dust of DIBDIN;--no inscription speaks +A Nation's gratitude--a Bard's desert. + +The youthful Sailor on his midnight watch, +Fixing his gaze upon the tranquil moon, +Felt his heart soften as the thoughts of home +Rush'd on his faithful memory;--then it was +In language meet, and in appropriate strains-- +Strains which thy lyre had taught him--he pour'd forth +The feelings of his soul, and all was calm. + +Thy Spirit still presides in that carouse, +When to "the Far away" the toast is given, +And "absent Wives and Sweethearts" claim their right, +With Woman's constancy thy songs are rife; +And this pure creed still teaches Man t' endure +Privations, danger, and each form of death. + +When not a breath responded to the call, +And Seamen whistled to the winds in vain; +When the loose canvass droop'd in lazy folds, +And idle pennants dangled from the mast;-- +There, in that trying moment, thou wert found +To teach the hardest lesson man can learn-- +Passive endurance--and the breeze has sprung, +As if obedient to the voice of Song:-- +And yet unhonour'd here thy ashes lie! + +A nobler lesson learn'd the gallant Tar +From his Orphean lyre--to temper right +The lion's courage with the attributes +That to the gentle and the meek belong; +O'er fallen foes to check the eye of fire-- +O'er fallen foes to soften heart of oak. + +He turn'd the Fatalist's rash eye to Him +In whom the issues are of life and death; +He taught to whom the battle is--to whom +The victory belongs. His cherub, that aloft +Kept sleepless watch, was Providence--not Chance. + +And yet no honours are decreed for him-- +Friend of the Brave, thy memory cannot die! +Th'inquiring voice, that eagerly demands +Where rest thy ashes?--shall preserve thy fame. +Thine immortality thyself hast wrought;-- +Familiar as the terms of art, thy verse, +Thine own peculiar words are still the mode +In which the Seaman aptly would express +His honest passions and his manly thoughts; +His feelings kindle at thy burning words, +Which speak his duty in the battle's front; +His parting whisper to the maid he loves +Is breathed in eloquence he learned from thee; +Thou art his Oracle in every mood-- +His trump of victory--his lyre of love! + + + +A SKETCH FROM LIFE. + +She sat in beauty, like some form of nymph +Or naiad, on the mossy, purpled bank +Of her wild woodland stream, that at her feet +Linger'd, and play'd, and dimpled, as in love. +Or like those shapes that on the western clouds +Spread gold-dropp'd plumes, and sing to harps of pearl, +And teach the evening winds their melody: +How shall I tell her beauty?--for the eye, +Fix'd on the sun, is blinded by its beam. +One glance, and then no more, upon that brow +Brighter than marble shining through those curls, +Richer than hyacinths when they wave their bells +In the low breathing of the twilight wind.-- +One glance upon that lip, beside whose hue +The morning rose would sicken and grow pale, +'Till it was waked again by the soft breath +That steals in music from those lips of love. +Wert thou a statue I could pine for thee, +But in thy living beauty there is awe; +The sacredness of modesty enshrines +The ruby lip, bright brow, and beaming eye;-- +I dare but worship what I must not love. + + + +ON THE PORTRAIT + +OF THE SON OF J.G. LAMBTON, ESQ., M.P. + +BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE, P.R.A. + + +Beautiful Boy--thy heavenward thoughts + Are pictured in thine eyes, +Thou hast no taint of mortal birth, +Thy communing is not of earth, + Thy holy musings rise: +Like incense kindled from on high, +Ascending to its native sky. + +And such a head might once have graced + The infant Samuel, when +Call'd by the favour of his God, +The youthful priest the Temple trod + Beloved of Heaven and men! +The same devotion on his brow +As brightens in thy forehead now. + +Or, thou may'st seem to Fancy's eye + One borne by arms Divine; +One, whom on Earth a Saviour bless'd, +And on whose features left impress'd + The Contact's holy sign: +A light, a halo, and a grace, +So pure th' expression of that face. + +Or, has the Painter's skill _alone_ + Such grace and glory given? +Clothed thee with attributes which seem +Creations of an angel's dream, + To raise the soul to Heaven? +_No, as he found thee, he arrayed, +And Genius taught what God had made!_ + + + +WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM + +OF THE LADY OF COUNSELLOR D. POLLOCK. + + +Joy to thee, Lady! many years of joy + To thee--and thine--that springtide of the heart, +The bliss of virtuous love, without alloy. + And all that health and gladsome life impart. +How gracefully hast thou thy task perform'd, + The watchful tender mother, matchless wife; +All woman boasts--thou hast indeed adorn'd-- + Thine the high merit of an useful life. +For ever cheerful, though the Tragic Muse[1] + May call thee Sister, both in form and mind; +Thou do'st to all those envied charms transfuse, + Which shine so highly temper'd and refined. +Lady revered--the sunbeam and the rose + Are poor in beauty to sweet woman's smiles: +'Tis the bright sunset of life's awful close, + The Poet's deathless wreath! a spell all grief beguiles! + +[Footnote 1: The Lady, to whom these lines are addressed has been greatly +noticed for the strong resemblance she bears to Mrs. Siddons.] + + + +THE HELIOTROPE. + +There is a flower, whose modest eye + Is turn'd with looks of light and love, +Who breathes her softest, sweetest sigh. + Whene'er the sun is bright above. + +Let clouds obscure, or darkness veil, + Her fond idolatry is fled, +Her sighs no more their sweets exhale. + The loving eye is cold--and dead. + +Canst thou not trace a moral here, + False flatterer of the prosperous hour? +Let but an adverse cloud appear, + And Thou art faithless, as the Flower! + + + +SONNET. + +ON SEEING A YOUNG LADY, + +I HAD PREVIOUSLY KNOWN, CONFINED IN A MADHOUSE. + + +Sweet wreck of loveliness! alas, how soon + The sad brief summer of thy joys hath fled: +How sorrows Friendship for thy hapless doom, + Thy beauty faded, and thy hopes all dead. +Oh! 'twas that beauty's power which first destroy'd + Thy mind's serenity; its charms but led +The faithless friend, that thy pure love enjoy'd, + To tear the beauteous blossom from its bed. +How reason shudders at thy frenzied air! + To see thee smile, with fancy's dreams possess'd; +Or shrink, the frozen image of despair. + Or, love-enraptured, chant thy griefs to rest: +Oh! cease that mournful voice, affliction's child, + My heart but bleeds to hear thy musings wild. + + + +PROMETHEUS. + +What sovereign good shall satiate man's desires, +Propell'd by Hope's unconquerable fires? +Vain each bright bauble by ambition prized; +Unwon, 'tis worshipp'd--but possess'd, despised. +Yet all defect with virtue shines allied, +His mightiest impulse genius owes to pride. +From conquer'd science graced with glorious spoils, +He still dares on, demands sublimer toils; +And, had not Nature check'd his vent'rous wing, +His eye had pierced her at her primal spring. + +Thus when, enwrapt, Prometheus strove to trace +Inspired perceptions of celestial grace, +Th' ideal spirit, fugitive as wind, +Art's forceful spells in adamant confined: +Curved with nice chisel floats the obsequious line; +From stone unconscious, beauty beams divine; +On magic poised, th' exulting structure swims, +And spurns attraction with elastic limbs. +While ravish'd fancy vivifies the form; +While judgment toils to analyze its charm; +While admiration spreads her speaking hands; +The lofty artist undelighted stands. +He longs to ravish from the bless'd abodes +The seal of heaven, the attribute of gods; +To give his labour more than man can give, +Breathe Jove's own breath, and bid the marble live! + +Won from her woof, embellishing the skies, +Descending, Pallas soothes her vot'ry's sighs, +Where, 'midst the twilight of o'er-arching groves, +By waking visions led, th' enthusiast roves; +Like summer suns, by showery clouds conceal'd, +With sudden blaze the goddess shines reveal'd: +Behold, she cries, in thy distinguished cause +I challenge Jove's inexorable laws! +With life-stol'n essence let th' awaken'd stone +A super-human generation own. +Defrauded nature shall admire the deed, +And time recoil at thy immortal meed. + +Impregn'd with action, and convoked to breathe, +Sighs the still form his ardent hands beneath; +Electric lustres flash from either eve, +O'er its pale cheeks suffusive flushes fly, +And glossy damps its clust'ring curls adorn, +Like dew-drops bright'ning on the brows of morn. +Through nerves that vibrate in unfolding chains, +Foams the warm life-blood, excavating veins; +'Till all infused, and organized the whole, +The finish'd fabric hails the breathing soul! +Then waked tumultuous in th' alarmed breast, +Contending passions claim th' etherial guest; +And still, as each alternate empire proves, +She hopes, she fears, she envies, and she loves; +Owns all sensations that deride the span, +And eternize the little life of man! + + + +ROSA'S GRAVE. + +It is a mournful pleasure to remember the exquisite taste and +delight she evinced in the arrangement of a Bouquet; and how +often she wished that, hereafter, she might appear to me as a +beautiful flower! + + +Oh! lay me where my Rosa lies, + And love shall o'er the moss-grown bed, +When dew-drops leave the weeping skies. + His tenderest tear of pity shed. + +And sacred shall the willow be, + That shades the spot where virtue sleeps; +And mournful memory weep to see + The hallow'd watch affection keeps. + +Yes, soul of love! this bleeding heart + Scarce beating, soon its griefs shall cease; +Soon from his woes the sufferer part, + And hail thee at the Throne of Peace + + + +THE SIBYL. + +A SKETCH. + + +So stood the Sibyl: stream'd her hoary hair +Wild as the blast, and with a comet's glare +Glow'd her red eye-balls 'midst the sunken gloom +Of their wild orbs, like death-fires in a tomb. +Slow, like the rising storm, in fitful moans, +Broke from her breast the deep prophetic tones. +Anon, with whirlwind rash, the Spirit came; +Then in dire splendour, like imprison'd flame +Flashing through rifted domes or towns amazed, +Her voice in thunder burst; her arm she raised; +Outstretch'd her hands, as with a Fury's force, +To grasp, and launch the slow descending curse: +Still as she spoke, her stature seem'd to grow; +Still she denounced unmitigable woe: +Pain, want, and madness, pestilence, and death, +Rode forth triumphant at her blasting breath: +Their march she marshall'd, taught their ire to fall-- +And seem'd herself the emblem of them all! + + + +LOVE. + +Love!--what is love? a mere machine, a spring +For freaks fantastic, a convenient thing, +A point to which each scribbling wight most steer, +Or vainly hope for food or favour here; +A summer's sigh; a winter's wistful tale: +A sound at which th' untutor'd maid turns pale; +Her soft eyes languish, and her bosom heaves, +And Hope delights as Fancy's dream deceives. + +Thus speaks the heart which cold disgust invades, +When time instructs, and Hope's enchantment fades; +Through life's wide stage, from sages down to kings, +The puppets move, as art directs the strings: +Imperious beauty bows to sordid gold, +Her smiles, whence heaven flows emanent, are sold; +And affectation swells th' entrancing tones, +Which nature subjugates, and truth disowns. + +I love th' ingenuous maiden, practised not +To pierce the heart with ambush'd glances, shot +From eyelashes, whose shadowy length she knows +To a hair's point, their high arch when to close +Half o'er the swimming orb, and when to raise, +Disclosing all the artificial blaze +Of unfelt passion, which alone can move +Him whom the genuine eloquence of love +Affected never, won with wanton wiles, +With soulless sighs, and meretricious smiles; +By nature unimpress'd, uncharm'd by thee, +Sweet goddess of my heart, Simplicity! + + + +ON A DELIGHTFUL DRAWING IN MY ALBUM, + +By my friend, T. WOODWARD, ESQ., of a Group, consisting of a +Donkey, a Boy, and a Dog. + + +Welcome, my pretty Neddy--welcome too +Thy merry Rider with his apron blue; +And thou, poor Dog, most patient thing of all, +Begging for morsels that may never fall! +Oh! 'tis a faithful group--and it might shame +Painters of bold pretence, and greater name-- +To see how nature triumphs, and how rare +Such matchless proofs of Nature's triumphs are-- +The smallest particle of sand may tell +With what rich ore Pactolus' tide may swell: +And Woodward! this ingenious, chaste design, +Proclaims what treasures lie within the mine-- +Pupil of Cooper--Nature's favorite son-- +Whom, but to name, and to admire, is one! + + + +STANZAS. + +Say, why is the stern eye averted with scorn + Of the stoic who passes along? +And why frowns the maid, else as mild as the morn. + On the victim of falsehood and wrong? + +For the wretch sunk in sorrow, repentance, and shame, + The tear of compassion is won: +And alone must she forfeit the wretch's sad claim, + Because she's deceived and undone? + +Oh! recal the stern look, ere it reaches her heart, + To bid its wounds rankle anew; +Oh! smile, or embalm with a tear the sad smart, + And angels will smile upon you. + +Time was, when she knew nor opprobrium nor pain, + And youth could its pleasures impart, +Till some serpent distill'd through her bosom the stain, + As he wound round the strings of her heart. + +Poor girl! let thy tears through thy blandishments break, + Nor strive to retrace them within; +For mine would I mingle with those on thy cheek, + Nor think that such sorrow were sin. + +When the low-trampled reed, and the pine in its pride, + Shall alike feel the hand of decay, +May thy God grant that mercy the world has denied, + And wipe all your sorrows away! + + + +SHAKSPEARE. + +Respectfully inscribed, with permission, to the Committee +(of which His Majesty is the Patron) for the proposed Monuments +to SHAKSPEARE at Stratford and in London. Intended to be +spoken at one of the Theatres. + + +While o'er this pageant of sublunar things +Oblivion spreads her unrelenting wings, +And sweeps adown her dark unebbing tide +Man, and his mightiest monuments of pride-- +Alone, aloft, immutable, sublime, +Star-like, ensphered above the track of time, +Great SHAKSPEARE beams with undiminish'd ray. +His bright creations sacred from decay, +Like Nature's self, whose living form he drew, +Though still the same, still beautiful and new. + +He came, untaught in academic bowers, +A gift to Glory from the Sylvan powers: +But what keen Sage, with all the science fraught, +By elder bards or later critics taught, +Shall count the cords of his mellifluous shell, +Span the vast fabric of his fame, and tell +By what strange arts he bade the structure rise-- +On what deep site the strong foundation lies? +This, why should scholiasts labour to reveal? +We all can answer it, we all can feel, +Ten thousand sympathies, attesting, start-- +For SHAKSPEARE'S Temple, _is the human heart!_ + +Lord of a throne which mortal ne'er shall share-- +Despot adored! he rales and revels there. +Who but has found, where'er his track hath been, +Through life's oft shifting, multifarious scene, +Still at his side the genial Bard attend, +His loved companion, counsellor, and friend! + +The Thespian Sisters nurtured in the schools +Of Greece and Rome, and long coerced by rules, +Scarce moved the inmates of their native hearth +With tiny pathos and with trivial mirth, +Till She, great muse of daring enterprise, +Delighted ENGLAND! saw her SHAKSPEARE rise! + +Then, first aroused in that appointed hour, +The Tragic Muse confess'd th' inspiring power; +Sudden before the startled earth she stood, +A giant spectre, weeping tears and blood; +Guilt shrunk appall'd, Despair embraced his shroud, +And Terror shriek'd, and Pity sobb'd aloud;-- +Then, first Thalia with dilated ken +And quicken'd footstep pierced the walks of men; +Then Folly blush'd, Vice fled the general hiss, +Delight met Reason with a loving kiss; +At Satire's glance Pride smooth'd his low'ring crest, +The Graces weaved the dance.--And last and best +Came Momus down in Falstaff's form to earth. +To make the world one universe of mirth! + +Such Sympathies the glorious Bard endear! +Thus fair he walks in Man's diurnal sphere. +But when, upborne on bright Invention's wings. +He dares the realms of uncreated things, +Forms more divine, more dreadful, start to view, +Than ever Hades or Olympus knew. +Round the dark cauldron, terrible and fell, +The midnight Witches breathe the songs of hell; +Delighted _Ariel_ wings his fiery way +To whirl the storm, the wheeling Orbs to stay; +Then bathes in honey-dews, and sleeps in flowers; +Meanwhile, young _Oberon_, girt with shadowy powers, +Pursues o'er Ocean's verge the pale cold Moon, +Or hymns her, riding in her highest noon. + +Thus graced, thus glorified, shall SHAKSPEARE crave +The Sculptor's skill, the pageant of the grave? +HE needs it not--but Gratitude demands +This votive offering at his Country's hands. +Haply, e'er now, from blissful bowers on high, +From some Parnassus of the empyreal sky, +Pleased, o'er this dome the gentle Spirit bends, +Accepts the gift, and hails us as his friends-- +Yet smiles, perchance, to think when envious Time +O'er Bust and Urn shall bid his ivies climb, +When Palaces and Pyramids shall fall-- +HIS PAGE SHALL TRIUMPH--still surviving all-- +'Till Earth itself, "like breath upon the wind," +Shall melt away, "nor leave a rack behind!" + + + +IMPROMPTU, TO ORIANA. + +ON ATTENDING WITH HER, AS SPONSORS, AT A CHRISTENING + + +Lady! who didst--with angel-look and smile, +And the sweet lustre of those dear, dark eyes, +Gracefully bend before the font of Christ, +In humble adoration, faith, and prayer! +Oh!--as the infant pledge of friends beloved +Received from thy pure lips its future name, +Sweetly unconscious look'd the baby-boy! +How beautifully helpless--and how mild! +--Methought, a seraph spread her shelt'ring wings +Over the solemn scene; and as the sun, +In its full splendour, on the altar came, +God's blessing seem'd to sanctify the deed. + + + +TO MY SPANIEL FANNY. + +Fanny! were all the world like thee, + How cheerly then this life would glide, +Dear emblem of Fidelity! + Long may'st thou grace thy master's side. + +Long cheer his hours of solitude, + With watchful eye each wish to learn, +And anxious speechless gratitude + Hail with delight each short sojourn. + +When sick at heart, thy welcome home + A weary load of grief dispels, +Gladdens with hope the hours to come, + And yet a mournful lesson tells! + +To find _thee_ ever faithful, kind, + My guard by night, my friend by day, +While those in friendship more refined + Have with my fortunes flown away. + +Why bounteous nature hast thou given + To this poor _Brute_--a boon so kind +As constancy--bless'd gift of Heaven! + And MAN--to waver like the wind? + + + +WIDOWED LOVE.[1] + +Tell me, chaste spirit! in yon orb of light, + Which seems to wearied souls an ark of rest, +So calm, so peaceful, so divinely bright-- + Solace of broken hearts, the mansion of the bless'd! + +Tell me, oh! tell me--shall I meet again + The long lost object of my only love! +--This hope but mine, death were release from pain; + Angel of mercy! haste, and waft my soul above! + +[Footnote 1: Mr. T. Millar has composed sweet music to these lines, and +has been peculiarly fortunate in composing and singing some of +the exquisite Melodies of T.H. Bayly, Esq. of Bath.] + + + +WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM + +OF THE LADY OF DR. GEORGE BIRKBECK, M.D. + +President of the London Mechanic's Institution, and of the Chemical +and Meteorological Societies. Founder and Patron of the +Glasgow Mechanic's Institute, &c. &c. &c. + + +Lady unknown! a pilgrim from the shrine +Of Poesy's fair temple, brings a wreath +Which fame and gratitude alike entwine, +Around a name that charms the monster Death, +And bids him pause!--Amidst despairing life +BIRKBECK's the harbinger of hope and health; +When sordid affluence was with man at strife, +He boldly stripp'd the veil, and show'd the wealth +To aged ignorance, and ardent youth, +Of cultured minds--the freedom of the soul! +The sun of science, and the light of truth, +The bliss of reason--mind without control. + +Accept this tribute. Lady! and the praise, +As Consort and the soother of his care! +His offspring's pride--his friend's commingled rays, +And every other grace that man has deem'd most rare! + + + +THE CHAIN-PIER, BRIGHTON; + +A SKETCH. + + +Hail, lovely morn! and thou, all-beauteous sea! +Sun-sparkling with the diamond's countless rays: +Thy look, how tranquil, one eternal calm, +Which seems to woo the troubled soul to peace! +Now, all is sunshine, and thy boundless breast +Scarce heaves; unruffled, all thy waves subside +(Light murmuring, like the baby sighs of rest) +Into a gentle ripple on the shore. + +All hail, dear Woman! saving-ark of man, +His surest solace in this world of woe; +How cheering are thy smiles, which, like the breeze +Of health, play softly o'er the pallid cheek, +And turn its rigid markings to a smile. +England may well be proud of scenes like this; +The beaming Beauty which adorns the PIER! + +Hung like a fairy fabric o'er the sea, +The graceful wonder of this wondrous age; +Intrepid Brown,[1] the future page shall tell +Thy generous spirit's persevering aim, +That wrought so much, so well, thy country's weal; +How fit for thee, the gallant seaman's life, +His restless nights, and days of ceaseless toil; +Framed by thy mighty hand, the giant work +Check'd the rude tempest, in its fearful way. +Thy bold inventions gave new life to hope, +Steadied the wavering, and confirm'd the brave, +And bade the timid smile, amidst the storm! + +Spirit of Hogarth! had I but one ray +Of that vast sun which warm'd thy varied mind; +How would I now describe the motley groups +Which crowd, in thoughtless ease, thy moving road. +Mark the young Confidence of yesterday, +Offspring of pride, and fortune's blinded fool, +(Engender'd like the vermin of an hour) +All would-be fashion, elegance, and ease, +While, by his side, the weaker vessel smirks, +In tawdry finery, with presuming gait, +As though the world were made for them alone; +Their liveried Lacquey, half-conceal'd in lace, +The vulgar wonder of an upstart race. +How heartlessly they pass that mourner by, +The poor lone Widow, with her death-struck load. +In speechless poverty, she courts the air, +To give its blessing to her suff'ring babe; +Not asking it herself; for life, to her, +Has now no charm--her refuge is the grave! + +Here comes the moral Almanack of years-- +The prim old maid, and, by her side, her Niece, +Full of bewitching beauty, health, and love. +See, how the tabby watches Laura's eyes, +Lest they should smile upon some pleasing spark, +And violate grim prudery's tyrant ties. +With icy finger, she her charge directs, +To view the faithful dial of the sun, +Whose moral tells how tide and time pass on. +See, there--the fated victim of mischance; +Read, in that hollow eye, and alter'd look, +The deep anxiety which gnaws the heart, +Incessant struggling 'gainst a tide of care, +Which wears his life away;--and there, again, +The empty, lucky Fool, who never thought, +Nor ever will, yet lives and smiles, and thrives! +Mark ye, that Ready-reckoner's figured face? +Cold calculation in his thoughtful step; +The heartless wretch, who never trusts his land, +And never is deceived!--And, next him, comes +Laughing Good-nature, with ruddy cheeks, +And welcome look, determined to be pleased. +He comes to ask--or go with friend to dine; +His labour but to dress--to eat, to sleep: +He knows no suffering equal to bad wine. +There--the prig-Parson, with indented hat, +And formal step--demanding your respect-- +Yonder, the lovely insect-chasing Child. +His is, indeed, a life of envious joy; +Hope and anticipation, on the wing, +To him no sad realities e'er bring! + +And now, the humble Quaker, plain and proud. +Humility, is this, indeed, thy type? +(I know it is not, for I know the man.) +His lovely Daughter bears an angel form +And mind, that glorifies her sex's charms; +Meekness and charity her life employ-- +A seraph sorrowing for a suffering world! +Lo! too, the Matron, with her household gods, +The deities she worships night and day. +Affection has no bounds, nor language words. +To tell a mother's tender ceaseless charge. +Children! can all your future lore repay +The nights of watchfulness, and days of care, +Which a fond parent gives?-- +See, last, sad sight! the hardy British Tar, +Cutlass unsheath'd, unlike the truly brave. +Here, watching, night and day--degenerate lot! +To seize a fisherman, or stop a cart, +Or "fright the wandering spirits from the shore." +His "brief authority" has just detain'd +A boat of cockles and a quart of gin! +The smart Lieutenant's epaulette, methinks, +Blushes at this degrading, pimping trade.-- +For deeds like these--let objects be employ'd, +Who never shared their country's high renown! +Adieu! vast Ocean, cradle of the brave, +Tablet of England's glory, and her shield! +To thee--and those dear friends who lured me here, +With hospitality's enchanting smile, +And chased away a little age of woe-- +Gratefully--I dedicate these _tuneful lays!_ + +_July_, 1826. + +[Footnote 1: My friend, Captain Samuel Brown, of the Royal Navy, whose +inventions and improvements of the iron chain cable, and various +others connected with the naval service, deserve the gratitude of +his country, independent of the admirable Chain-Pier at Brighton, +a Suspension Bridge over the Tweed, Pier at Newhaven, Bridge at +Heckham, the iron work for Hammersmith Suspension Bridge, +and other successful undertakings.] + + + +SONNET. + +MORNING. + + +Light as the breeze that hails the infant morn + The Milkmaid trips, as o'er her arm she slings + Her cleanly pail, some fav'rite lay she sings +As sweetly wild and cheerful as the horn. +O! happy girl I may never faithless love, + Or fancied splendour, lead thy steps astray; + No cares becloud the sunshine of thy day, +Nor want e'er urge thee from thy cot to rove. +What though thy station dooms thee to be poor, + And by the hard-earn'd morsel thou art fed; + Yet sweet content bedecks thy lowly bed, +And health and peace sit smiling at thy door: +Of these possess'd--thou hast a gracious meed, +Which Heaven's high wisdom gives, to make thee rich indeed! + + + +ON THE DEATH OF DR. ABEL,[1] + +Physician and Naturalist to Lord Amherst, Governor General of +India, who died at Cawnpoor, 24th of November, 1826. + + +Another awful warning voice of death +To human dignity, and human pride; +'Tis sad, to mark how short the longest life-- +How brief was thine! Thy day is done, +And all its complicated hopes and fears +Lie buried, ABEL! in an early grave. +The unavailing tear for thee shall flow, +And love and friendship faithful record keep +Of all thy varied worth, thy anxious strife +For fame and years, now gone for ever! +Yet o'er thy tomb science and learning +Bend in mute regret, and truth proclaims +Thy just inheritance an honour'd name! + +Lamented most by those who knew thee best, +Accept this humble, tributary lay, +From one, who in thy boyhood and thy prime +Had shared thy friendship, and had fondly hoped +When last we parted, many years were thine +And joys in store--that thy elastic mind +Might long have gladden'd life's monotony. +Thine was a princely heart, a joyous soul, +The charm of reason, and the sprightly wit +Which kept dull letter'd ignorance in awe, +Shook the pretender on his tinsel throne, +And claim'd the glorious dignity of mind! + +Alas! that in thy prime, when time began +To make thee nearly all the World could wish, +The spoiler Death should unrelenting come +(As though in envy of thy wondrous skill) +And stop the fountain of a noble heart. + +Rest, anxious spirit! from life's feverish dream, +From all its sad realities and cares: +Be this thy Epitaph, thy honour'd boast-- +Thine was the fame, which thine own mind achieved! + +[Footnote 1: Dr. Abel was greatly distinguished in his profession for +his love of it, and for the ardour of his pursuits in useful knowledge. +--He published many ingenious Papers on Medical Science and Natural +History. His account of the Embassy to China, under Lord Amherst, has +been generally admired. He practised with increasing respect as a +Physician, at Brighton, previous to his leaving England for India; and +meditated (as the Author of this article knows) one or two works, which, +from the activity of his mind, may yet be anticipated. Dr. Abel was a +native of Bungay, in Suffolk (where his father was a banker), and it is +supposed was about 35 years of age when he died. It is worthy of remark, +that the present eminent and estimable Dr. Gooch, Librarian to His +Majesty, and Dr. Abel, should both have been pupils of Mr. Borrett, +Surgeon, of Yarmouth.] + + + +SONNET. + +NIGHT. + + +Now when dun Night her shadowy veil has spread, + See want and infamy, as forth they come, + Lead their wan daughter from her branded home, +To woo the stranger for unhallow'd bread. +Poor outcast! o'er thy sickly-tinted cheek + And half-clad form, what havoc want hath made; + And the sweet lustre of thine eye doth fade, +And all thy soul's sad sorrow seems to speak. +O! miserable state! compell'd to wear + The wooing smile, as on thy aching breast + Some wretch reclines, who feeling ne'er possess'd; +Thy poor heart bursting with the stifled tear! +Oh! GOD OF MERCY! bid her woes subside, +And be to her a friend, who hath no friend beside. + + + +CONSTANCY. + +TO----. + + +Dearest love! when thy God shall recall thee, + Be this record inscribed on thy tomb: +Truth, and gratitude, well may applaud thee, + And all thy past virtues relume. + +It shall tell--to thy sex's proud honour, + Of sufferings and trials severe, +While still, through protracted affliction, + Not a murmur escaped; but the tear + +Of resignment to Heaven's high dictates, + 'Twas thine, like a martyr, to shed: +That heart--all affection for others-- + For thyself, uncomplainingly, bled. + +Midst the storms, which misfortune had gather'd, + What an angel thou wert unto me; +In that hour, when all friendship seem'd sever'd, + Thou didst bloom like the ever-green tree! + +All was gloom; and in vain had I striven, + For hope ceased a ray to impart; +When thou cam'st, like a meteor from heaven, + And gave peace to my desolate heart! + + + +EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. + +Give me the wreath of friendship true, + Whose flowerets fade not in a breath: +From memory gaining many a hue, + To bloom beyond the touch of death. + +And I will send it to thy home-- + Thy home beloved, my faithful friend! +And pray for its perpetual bloom + And every bliss that earth can send. + +Within its magic wreath I'd place + Hearts'-ease and every lovely flower; +To win thee by their matchless grace, + And cheer and bless the lonely hour. + +When at the world's unkind return + Of all thy worth, and all thy care, +Thou may'st in spite of manhood turn, + And shed the sad, the bitter, tear. + +Then, midst this holy grief of thine, + The thought of some true friend may bless, +And cheer the gloom like angel's smile, + Or sunbeam in a wilderness. + +And could I hope I had a claim + On thee in such a rapturous hour? +Oh! that, indeed, I'd own were fame. + The saving ark of friendship's power. + +Or that, in future years, thy babes + Should o'er this frail memorial bend, +(For first affection rarely fades!) + And boast that I was once the friend + +Whose wit, or worth, possess'd a charm, + By Parents loved, and them caress'd. +That spell would every sorrow calm, + And bid my anxious spirit rest! + + + +HERE IN OUR FAIRY BOWERS WE DWELL. + +A GLEE. + +Sung by Messrs. GOULDEN, PYNE, and NELSON.--Composed by +Mr. ROOKE. + + +Here, in our fairy bowers, we dwell, + Women our idol, life's best treasure! +Echo enchanted joys to tell, + Our feast of laugh, of love, and pleasure. + Say, is not this then bliss divine, + Beauty's smiles and rosy wine? + +Eternal mirth and sunshine reign, + For grief we cannot find the leisure; +Night's social gods have banish'd pain, + Morn lights us to increasing pleasure. + Say, is not this then bliss divine, + Beauty's smiles and rosy wine? + Here in our fairy bowers, &c. + + + +HENRY AND ELIZA. + +O'er the wide heath now moon-tide horrors hung, + And night's dark pencil dimm'd the tints of spring; +The boding minstrel now harsh omens sung, + And the bat spread his dark nocturnal wing. + +At that still hour, pale Cynthia oft had seen + The fair Eliza (joyous once and gay), +With pensive step, and melancholy mien, + O'er the broad plain in love-born anguish stray. + +Long had her heart with Henry's been entwined, + And love's soft voice had waked the sacred blaze +Of Hymen's altar; while, with him combined, + His cherub train prepared the torch to raise: + +When, lo! his standard raging war uprear'd, + And honour call'd her Henry from her charms. +He fought, but ah! torn, mangled, blood-besmear'd, + Fell, nobly fell, amid his conquering arms! + +In her sad bosom, a tumultuous world + Of hopes and fears on his dear mem'ry spread; +For fate had not the clouded roll unfurl'd, + Nor yet with baleful hemlock crown'd her head. + +Reflection, oft to sad remembrance brought + The well known spot, where they so oft had stray'd; +While fond affection ten-fold ardour caught, + And smiling innocence around them play'd. + +But these were past! and now the distant bell + (For deep and pensive thought had held her there) +Toll'd midnight out, with long resounding knell, + While dismal echoes quiver'd in the air. + +Again 'twas silence--when from out the gloom + She saw, with awe-struck eye, a phantom glide: +'Twas Henry's form!--what pencil shall presume + To paint her horror!----HENRY AS HE DIED! + +Enervate, long she stood--a sculptured dread, + Till waking sense dissolved amazement's chain; +Then home, with timid haste, distracted fled, + And sunk in dreadful agony of pain. + +Not the deep sigh, which madden'd Sappho gave, + When from Leucate's craggy height she sprung, +Could equal that which gave her to the grave, + The last sad sound that echo'd from her tongue. + + + +WRITTEN ON THE + +DEATH OF GENERAL WASHINGTON. + + +Lamented Chief! at thy distinguish'd deeds + The world shall gaze with wonder and applause, +While, on fair History's page, the patriot reads + Thy matchless virtue in thy Country's cause. + +Yes, it was thine, amid destructive war, + To shield it nobly from oppression's chain; +By justice arm'd, to brave each threat'ning jar, + Assert its freedom, and its rights maintain. + +Much honour'd Statesman, Husband, Father, Friend, + A generous nation's grateful tears are thine; +E'en unborn ages shall thy worth commend, + And never-fading laurels deck thy shrine. + +Illustrious Warrior! on the immortal base, + By Freedom rear'd, thy envied name shall stand; +And Fame, by Truth inspired, shall fondly trace + Thee, Pride and Guardian of thy Native Land! + + + +To----. + +In vain, sweet Maid! for me you bring +The first-blown blossoms of the spring; +My tearful cheek you wipe in vain, +And bid its pale rose bloom again. + +In vain! unconscious, did I say? +Oh! you alone these tears can stay; +Alone, the pale rose can renew, +Whose sunshine is a smile from you. + +Yet not in friendship's smile it lives; +Too cold the gifts that friendship gives: +The beam that warms a winter's day, +Plays coldly in the lap of May. + +You bid my sad heart cease to swell, +But will you, if its tale I tell, +Nor turn away, nor frown the while, +But smile, as you were wont to smile? + +Then bring me not the blossoms young, +That erst on Flora's forehead hung; +But round thy radiant temples twine, +The flowers whose flaunting mocks at mine. + +Give me--nor pinks, nor pansies gay, +Nor violets, fading fast away, +Nor myrtle, rue, nor rosemary, +But give, oh! give, thyself to me! + + + +MONODY + +TO THE MEMORY + +OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE + +RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. + + +PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. + + +The very flattering success which attended the first Edition of this +brief but affectionate Sketch, I must attribute to the interest of the +subject, rather than the merit of the composition; and I cannot but feel +grateful to those Writers who have honoured me by their notice and +approbation. + +I must not again go to press, without acknowledging how much I am +indebted to a kind friend, who happened to be in Norfolk at the time I +was printing the first Edition; with whom I had the happiness to pass +many delightful hours, and to whose admirable taste and judgment I owe +many valuable suggestions. In mentioning John Kemble with Sheridan, I +associate two of the brightest stars that have illumined the Literature +and Drama of the Country. + +T.G. + +_Yarmouth, Norfolk_, 1816. + + + +SHERIDAN. + +Embalm'd in fame, and sacred from decay, + What mighty name, in arms, in arts, or verse, +From England claims this consecrated day. + Her nobles crowding round the shadowy hearse? + +Hark! from yon fane, within whose hallow'd mounds, + Her bards, her warriors, and her statesmen, sleep; +The solemn, slow, funereal bell resounds, + While mournful echoes dread accordance keep. + +Spirits revered! beyond that awful bourne. + Who share the dark communion of the tomb, +A kindred genius seeks your dread sojourn; + Ye heirs of glory! hail a brother home. + +Obscured, as SHERIDAN to dust descends, + Recedes each ray from Wit's effulgent sphere; +Lo! every Muse in silent sorrow bends, + Her votive laurels mingling o'er his bier. + +But chiefly thou, from whose polluted shrine + His filial hand Circean rabble drove; +What pangs, Thalia! in this hour are thine; + What fervent anguish of maternal love! + +How long perverted, had the Comic scene, + (The flattering reflex of a sensual age) +Shown prurient Folly's rank licentious mien, + Refined, embellish'd on the pander stage: + +While Vanburgh, Congreve, Farquhar, heaven-endow'd, + To scourge bold Vice with Wit's resistless rod, +Embraced her chains, stood forth her priests avow'd, + And scatter'd flowers in every path she trod: + +Inglorious praise! though Judgment's self admired + Those wanton strains which Virtue blush'd to hear; +While pamper'd Passion from the scene retired, + With wilder rage to urge his fierce career. + +At length, all graced in Fancy's orient hues, + His native fires with added culture bright, +Rose SHERIDAN! to vindicate the Muse, + And gild the drama with meridian light. + +Him, skill'd alike great Nature's genuine form, + Or Fashion's light factitious traits to trace, +The scene confess'd;--with glowing pathos warm, + Or gaily sportive in familiar grace. + +With what nice art his master-hand he flung + O'er each fine chord which thrills the polish'd breast, +Let Faukland tell! with woes ideal stung; + Let gentle Julia's generous flame attest![1] + +Satire, that oft with castigation rude + Degrades, while zealous to correct mankind, +Refined by him, more generous aims pursued, + Reform'd the vice--but left no sting behind. + +Yet, though with Wit's imperishable bays + Enwreath'd, he held an uncontested throne; +Though circling climes, unanimous in praise, + Confirm'd the partial suffrage of his own: + +In careless mood he sought the Muse's bower; + His lyre, like that to great Pelides strong, +The soft'ning solace of a vacant boor, + Its airy descant indolently rung. + +But when, portentous 'mid the storms of war, + Glared Public danger; when, with withering din, +The spoil-flush'd foe strode furious from afar; + And direr dread! Rebellion raged within: + +Then SHERIDAN! dilating to the storm, + Bright as the pharos, as the watch-tower strong, +With all the patriot's inspiration warm, + Thy genius pour'd its thundering voice along. + +Who heard thee not, in that tremendous hour, + When Britain mourn'd her surest anchor lost, +And saw her alienated Navies lour, + Like the charged tempest, round their parent coast? + +With active zeal, which no cold medium knew, + Nor party ruled, nor prejudice confined, +But, to thy heart's spontaneous impulse true, + Thou gay'st thy country ALL thy mighty mind. + +What time Iberia, gash'd with many a scar, + Braved the fierce Gaul, in fervour uncontroll'd, +Though doubts and fears bedimm'd her struggling star, + Its bright ascent thy prescient soul foretold. + +Late, too, when France, with sophist cunning fraught, + Essay'd that field which force had fail'd to gain, +And proudly question'd, by success untaught, + Britannia's lineal right--her watery reign! + +While meaner foes denounced with equal hate + Her flag, which wide in Freedom's cause unfurl'd, +The saving sign of many a sinking state, + Had chased Oppression from th' insulted world.-- + +Oh! that beyond the light diurnal page, + Inscribed on high in monumental gold, +That strain might kindle each succeeding age, + Which thus thy generous indignation roll'd: + +"If e'er, of ancient energy bereaved, + Britannia, bent by menace or design, +Should stain her naval sceptre, hard-achieved, + And yield one claim, one cherish'd right resign: + +"Then, hurl'd in ruin from her radiant sphere, + Sunk her proud Isle in Ocean's depths profound; +May all her glories pass from Memory's ear, + An idle legend--a derided sound!" + +Such were his merits whom the Muse deplores, + The Wit, the Statesman, Orator, and Bard! +Nor when his frailties jealous truth explores, + Shall Candour shrink from her supreme award? + +If, all propitious, when his ardent prime + Beat high with hope, in conscious powers elate, +Ambition woo'd him from her height sublime, + And partial Fortune op'd her golden gate; + +What hostile influence, glooming o'er his way, + Chill'd each fine impulse, each aspiring aim, +Effused bleak clouds round Life's declining ray, + And left his labours no reward but fame? + +'Twas not alone that in the festive bower, + Prompt in the social sympathies to melt, +Too long he linger'd; that the genial hour + His fervid sense too exquisitely felt. + +But that in tasks of public duty proved, + Onward with faith inflexible he trod; +Alike by Fortune's dazzling lure unmoved, + Or stern Necessity's relentless rod. + +E'en Envy's self shall sanction that applause: + And oft, slow pacing yon sepulchral gloom, +With fond regret shall Meditation pause, + And breathe these accents o'er his honour'd tomb: + +Ye Muses! come, with ministry divine. + Protect the shrine where SHERIDAN is laid; +Ye Patriot Virtues! here your homage join; + Assert his worth, and soothe his hovering shade. + +Emblazon'd high in Albion's rolls of fame, + A guiding star by which her sons may steer; +This proud inscription let his memory claim-- + Above himself, he held his Country dear! + +[Footnote 1: Rivals.] + + + +ON THE BEAUTIFUL PORTRAIT OF MRS. FOREMAN, AS PANDORA. + +In the Somerset-house Exhibition, 1826.--Painted by J.P. Davis. + + +Oh! had'st thou, Jove! with adamantine locks +Fix'd fast the springs of poor Pandora's box, +Then had she, bright enchantment! bloom'd for ever +In all the charms consenting Gods could give her-- +Wit, Wisdom, Beauty, she had every grace +Which makes man play the madman for a face! +But chief, bless'd gift! for him ordain'd to ask it, +The gem of gems, th' incomparable casket; +And, lo! with trembling hands and ardent eyes +The bridegroom claims it--and--behold the prize! +First, like a vapour o'er the heavens obscured, +From that dark confine, rose the fiends immured, +Then groan'd the earth, in fury swell'd the floods, +Blasts smote the harvests, lightning fired the woods; +Blue spotted Plague rode gibbering on the blast, +And nations shriek'd, and perish'd, as he pass'd. +Amazed, indignant, Epimetheus stood, +Vow'd dire revenge, and strung his nerves for blood. +It was not then, that from the coffer's lid +Hope's roseate smile his fierce delirium chid; +He saw, in that fair wife which heaven had sent +But mighty Mischiefs mortal instrument, +And swore not Hope, nor Mercy's self should save her, +Look'd in her face, smiled, sigh'd, and then--forgave her! + + + +SONNET + +TO----, + +ON HER RECOVERY FROM ILLNESS. + + +Fair flower! that fall'n beneath the angry blast, +Which marks with wither'd sweets its fearful way, +I grieve to see thee on the low earth cast, +While beauty's trembling tints fade fast away. +But who is she, that from the mountain's head +Comes gaily on, cheering the child of earth? +The walks of woe bloom bright beneath her tread, +And Nature smiles with renovated mirth? +'Tis Health! She comes: and, hark! the vallies ring, +And, hark! the echoing hills repeat the sound: +She sheds the new-blown blossoms of the spring, +And all their fragrance floats her footsteps round. +And, hark! she whispers in the zephyr's voice, +Lift up thy head, fair floweret, and rejoice! + + + +THE RUNAWAY. + +Ah! who is he by Cynthia's gleam + Discern'd, the statue of distress; +Weeping beside the willow'd stream + That laves the woodland wilderness? + +Why talks he to the idle air? + Why, listless, at his length reclined, +Heaves he the groan of deep despair, + Responsive of the midnight wind? + +Speak, gentle shepherd! tell me why? + --Sir! he has lost his wife, they say:-- +Of what disorder did, she die? + --Lord, sir! of none--she ran away. + + + + +TO MARGARET JANE H----, + +ON HER BIRTH-DAY, 17 JUNE. + + +Thou art indeed a lovely flower, +And I, just like the fleeting hour, +Which few will heed on folly's brink, +So rarely deigns the world to think. +Yet, ere I go, child of my heart-- +One faithful offering I'll impart +To thee--thy parents' sole delight: +To me--an angel, pure as light. +Sent on this earth to cheer and bless, +Like sunbeam in a wilderness, +With fascination's form and face, +And all the charms that please and grace. +A guileless heart, a lovely mind, +A temper ardent, yet refined, +And in the early dawn of youth, +Taught to love honour, faith, and truth. + +Ah! these--when all the transient joys +Of idle life, when all its toys +Shall fade like mist before the sun, +Yet, ere thy little day is done, +Shall give that calm, that true delight, +Which gilds the darkling hues of night, +The sunset of a well spent day, +A glorious immortality! + + + +ON READING THE POEM OF "PARIS." + +BY THE REV GEORGE CROLY, A.M. + +Author of "The Angel of the World," "Sebastian," &c. + + +By the trim taper, and the blazing hearth, + (While loud without the blast of winter sung), +Now thrill'd with awe, and now relax'd with mirth, + Paris, I've roam'd thy varied haunts among, +Loitering where Fashion's insect myriads spread + Their painted wings, and sport their little day; +Anon, by beckoning recollection led + To the dark shadow of the stern ABBAYE, +Pale Fancy heard the petrifying shriek +Of midnight Murder from its turrets bleak, +And to her horrent eye came passing on +Phantoms of those dark times, elapsed and gone, + When Rapine yell'd o'er his defenceless prey, +As unchain'd Anarchy her tocsin rung, + And France! in dust and blood thy throne and altars lay! + +Oh! thou, thus skill'd with absolute controul, +Where'er thou wilt to lead th' admiring soul, +Gifted alike with Fancy's train to sport, +And tread light measures in her elfin court; +Or pierce the height where Grandeur sits alone, +Girt by the tempest, on his mountain throne: +Whate'er the theme which wakes thy vocal shell, +Well-pleased I follow where its concords swell; +In regal halls, where pleasure wings the night +With pomp and music, revelry and light, +Or where, unwept by Love's deploring eyes, +In the lone Morgue, the self-doom'd victim lies-- +Then, midst the twilight of yon Chapel dim, +To mark Religion's reverend Martyr, him +Who kneels entranced in agony of prayer, +His fellow victims torpid with despair, +Thrill'd by his piercing tones, his beaming eye +Glows, as he glows, nor longer dread to die! + +Now, borne to Belgium's plain on bolder wings, +Where England's warriors fix'd the fate of Kings: +At once the Patriot and the Poet glows, +And full the mingling inspiration flows:-- +Resume the lyre: not thine in myrtle bowers +To trifle light with Life's uncounted hours-- +To crown thy toils, propitious Fame from far +Entwines her noblest wreath, illumes her loftiest star! + + + +WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF + +GENERAL SIR RALPH ABERCROMBIE. + + +Mute Memory stands at Valour's awful shrine, + In tears Britannia mourns her hero dead; +A world's regret, brave ABERCROMBIE's thine, + For nature sorrow'd as thy spirit fled! + +For, not the tear that matchless courage claims, + To honest zeal, and soft compassion due, +Alone is thine--o'er thy adored remains +Each virtue weeps, for all once lived in you. + +Yes, on thy deeds exulting I could dwell, + To speak the merits of thy honour'd name; +But, ah! what need my humble muse to tell, + When Rapture's self has echoed forth thy fame? + +Yet, still thy name its energies shall deal, + When wild storms gather round thy country's sun; +Her glowing youth shall grasp the gleamy steel, + Rank'd round the glorious wreaths which thou hast + won! + + + +WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM +OF +I---- H---- P----, ESQ. + + +Dear P----, while Painters, Poets, Sages, +Inscribe this volume's votive pages +With partial friendship: why invite +The tribute of a luckless wight +Unknown--by wisdom or by wit +Indulged with no certificate? + +Perchance, as in a diadem +Glittering with many a radiant gem, +Some mean metallic foil is placed +Judicious, by the hand of taste; +You seek, amidst the sons of fame, +To set an undistinguish'd name? +If so--that name is freely lent, +A pebble to your gems--T. GENT. + + + +RETALIATION. + +Love, Cupid, Gallantry, whate'er +We call that elf, seen every where, +Half frolicsome, half _ennuyeuse_, +Had chanced a country walk to choose; +When sudden, sweet and bright as May, +Young Beauty tripp'd across his way.-- + +"Upon my word," exclaims the boy, +"A lucky hit! this pretty toy +To pass an hour, with vapours haunted, +Is quite the thing I wish'd and wanted; +I do not so far condescend +As serious mischief to intend, +But just to show my powers of pleasing +In flattery, _badinage_, and teasing; +But should she, for young girls, poor things! +Are tender as yon insect's wings-- +Should she mistake me, and grow fond, +Why, I'll grow serious--and abscond." + +First, not abruptly to confound her, +With glance and smile he hovers round her: +Next, like a Bond-street or Pall-mall beau, +Begins to press her gentle elbow; +Then plays at once, familiar walking, +His whole artillery of talking:-- +Like a young fawn the blushing maid +Trips on, half pleased and half afraid-- +And while she palpitates and listens, +Still fluttering where the sunbeam glistens, +He shows her all his pretty things, +His bow and quiver, dart, and wings; +Now, proud in power, he sees her eyes +Dilate with beautiful surprise; +But most, though fraught with perturbation. +His weapons claim her admiration, +And with an archness most bewitching +(Her naive simplicity enriching), +She wonders where a maid might buy than, +And begs to be allow'd to try them. + +With secret scorn, but smiling bland, +He yields them to her curious hand, +When, instant, twang! the arrow flew, +So just her aim, it pierced him through, +Right through his heart, the luckless lad! +(A heart, to do him right, he had); +All prone he lies, in throbbing anguish, +Through many an hour to pine and languish, +And what made all his pangs more bitter, +Off flew the damsel in a titter. +Prudence, conceal'd behind a tree, +Cries out, "you've always laughed at me-- +Henceforth you'll recollect, young sir! +'Tis not so safe to laugh at her." + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN IN A COPY OF THE POEM ON PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. + +Presented to Mrs. D---- T----. + + +Madam! when sorrowing o'er the virtuous dead, +The gentlest solace of the tears we shed, +Is, to surviving excellence to turn, +And honour there those merits that we mourn. + +The Muse, whose hand fair Brunswick's ashes strew +With votive flowers, would weave a wreath for You; +But living worth forbids th' applausive lay. +Therefore, repressing all respect, would say, +She proffers silently her simple strain; +If you approve--she has not toil'd in vain! + + + +SONNET. + +When the rough storm roars round the peasant's cot, + And bursting thunders roll their awful din; +While shrieks the frighted night-bird o'er the spot, + Oh! what serenity remains within! +For there contentment, health, and peace, abide, + And pillow'd age, with calm eye fix'd above; +Labour's bold son, his blithe and blooming bride, + And lisping innocence, and filial love. +To such a scene let proud Ambition turn, + Whose aching breast conceals its secret woe; +Then shall his fireful spirit melt, and mourn + The mild enjoyments it can never know; +Then shall he feel the littleness of state, +And sigh that fortune e'er had made him great. + + + +TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ. + +ON READING HIS + +"REMAINS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE." + + +Southey! high placed on the contested throne +Of modern verse, a Muse, herself unknown, +Sues that her tears may consecrate the strains +Pour'd o'er the urn enrich'd with WHITE'S Remains! +While touch'd to transport, Taste's responding tone +Makes the rapt poet's ecstasies thine own; +Ah! think that he, whose hand supremely skill'd, +The heart's fine chords with deep vibration thrill'd, +In stagnant silence and petrific gloom, +Unconscious sleeps, the tenant of the tomb! +Extinct that spirit, whose strong-bidding drew +From Fancy's confines Wonder's wild-eyed crew, +Which bade Despair's terrific phantoms pass +Like Macbeth's monarchs in the mystic glass. +Before the youthful bard's impassion'd eye, +Like him, led on, to triumph and to die; +Like him, by mighty magic compass'd round, +And seeking sceptres on enchanted ground. +Such spells invest, such blear illusion waits +The trav'ller bound for Fame's receding gates, +Delusive splendours gild the proud abode, +But lurking demons haunt th' alluring road; +There gaunt-eyed Want asserts her iron reign, +There, as in vengeance of the world's disdain, +This half-flesh'd hag midst Wit's bright blossoms stalks, +And, breathing winter, withers where she walks; +Though there, long outlaw'd, desp'rate with disgrace, +Invidious Dulness wields the critic mace, +And sworn in hate, exerts his ruffian might +Where'er young genius meditates his flight. +Erewhile, when WHITE, by this fell fiend oppress'd, +Felt Hope's fine fervours languish in his breast, +When shrunk with scorn, and trembling to aspire, +He dropp'd desponding his insulted lyre. +Alert in zeal, with art benigh endued, +SOUTHEY! thy hand his blasted strength renew'd, +And lured him on, his labours scarce begun, +To win those laurels which thyself had won. +In vain! though vivified with pristine force, +O'er learning's realms he shot with meteor course; +To worth relentless, Fate's despotic frown +Scowl'd in the bright perspective of renown: +Timeless he falls, in Death's pale triumph led. +And his first laurels shade his grassy bed. +So sinks the Muse's offspring, doom'd to try, +Like a caged eagle panting tow'rds the sky, +A foil'd ascent, while adverse fortune flings +Her strong link'd meshes o'er his flutt'ring wings, +Sinks, while exalted Ignorance supine, +Unheeded slumbers like the pamper'd swine; +Obsequious slaves in his voluptuous bowers +Young pleasures warble, while the dancing Hours +In sickly sweetness languishingly move, +Like new-waked virgins flush'd with dreams of love-- +Him, when by Death's dark angel swept away +From sloth's embrace, in premature decay, +Surviving friends, donation'd into grief, +Shall mourn with anguish audible and brief, +And pander-bards ring round in goodly chime +His liberal heart, high wit, and soul sublime; +But Flattery's frauds impartial Time disowns, +Funereal pomp, and adulative tones; +Slow where she moves through monumental aisles, +With stern contempt insulted Reason smiles, +While Falsehood, shrined above th' emblazon'd palls, +Shames sanctity from consecrated walls: +She seeks, with pensive step and saintly eyes, +Some lonely grave, where rude the grass-tufts rise; +Nor sculptured angels tell, nor chisell'd lines, +There slumbers CHATTERTON--here WHITE reclines! +But nobler triumphs WHITE'S probation claims +Than ever blazon'd Wit's recorded names; +For Virtue's sons, to bliss immortal born, +Tower to their native heaven, and view with scorn +The vain distinction of the trophied sod, +'Tis theirs to gain distinction with their God! + + + +THE STATE SECRET. + +AN IMPROMPTU. + + +"Murder will out:"--and so will truth sometimes; +For once I'll prove it in a dozen lines.-- + +At one of those parties where Julia's sweet face +Added interest to beauty, and archness to grace, +Where many fine folks met; and one very great, +Proud and stupid, an embryo minister sate; +Like a damper he came to put good humour out, +And it chanced that, as Julia's pet-bird flew about. +It presumptuously 'lit on this mighty man's head; +When her lore-laughing sister, sweet Eleanor, said, +"Naughty bird! I must cage you for being so rude, +On Lord------head, oh! how dare you intrude?" +"Let it rest," replied Julia, with an exquisite grace, +"Don't frighten it off--for it likes a _soft place_!" + + + +THE MORNING CALL. + +TO THE HONOURABLE LADY--------. + +Written and left on her Table during her absence--Bathing. + + +I dare not look at those dear eyes, + The sun was never half so bright, +There surely more of rapture lies + Than ever bless'd a mortal's sight. + +In thy sweet face I see impress'd + Ten thousand thousand charms divine, +The sunbeams of thy guileless breast + Like Heaven's eternal mercies shine! + +Angel of love! life's endless joy, + Our hope at morn, our evening prayer; +The bliss above would have alloy, + Unless dear--------- thou wert there! + +Oh! Woman--what a charm hast thou + Our rebel nature thus to tame: +We ever must adore and bow. + While virtue guards thy holy fane! + +_Werthing_. + + + +SONNET. + +ON THE DEATH OF TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. + + +His weary warfare done, his woes forgot, + Freedom! thy son, oppress'd so long, is free: +He seeks the realms where tyranny is not, + And those shall hail him who have died for thee! +Immortal TELL! receive a soul like thine, + Who scorn'd obedience to usurp'd command: +Who rose a giant from a sphere indign, + To tear the rod from proud oppression's hand. +Alas! no victor-wreaths enzon'd his brow, + But freedom long his hapless fate shall mourn; +Her holy tears shall nurse the laurel-bough, + Whose green leaves grace his consecrated urn. +Nursed by these tears, that bough shall rise sublime, + And bloom triumphant 'mid the wrecks of time! + + + +ON THE RUPTURE OF THE THAMES' TUNNEL, + +WRITTEN 2nd JULY, 1827. + + +Every poor Quidnunc _now_ condemns +The Tunnel underneath Old Thames, +And swears, his science all forgetting, +Friend Brunel's judgment wanted _whetting;_ +'Tis thus great characters are dish'd, +When they get _wetter_ than was wish'd,-- +Brunel to _Gravesend_ meant to go +Under the water, wags say so, +And under that same water put +His hopes to find a shorter cut; +But when we leave the light of day. +Water hath many a devious way, +Which, like a naughty woman, leads +The best of men to strange misdeeds: +Had nearly, 'twas a toss-up whether, +Gone to his grave and end together. +How the performance went amiss +The _classical_ account is this-- + +The Naiads, Thames' stream that swim in, +Being _curious_, just like mortal _women_, +Dear souls! 'tis said, midst all their cares, +They love to peep at man's affairs, +And wondering at the workmen's hammers, +The noise of axes, engines, rammers, +Thought 'twould be well, nor meant the fun ill, +To make an opening through the Tunnel, +Just to see how the work went on, +And then, down dash'd they, every one; +When these same _belles_ began to dire, +'Twas well the workmen 'scaped alive: +Brunel, indeed, who knew full well +The nature of a _diving bell_, +Remain'd some time, nor made wry faces, +Within their aqueous embraces; +Nay, fierce and ungallant, adventured +To oust them by the breach they entered. +Vain man! 'twas well that he could swim, +Or, certes, they had ousted _him_. +Speed on great projects! though we rate 'em +_Rash_, for alluvial pomatum, +And under that a sandy stratum, +Will offer at a little distance +An insurmountable resistance. + +How strange! to find the labour done +Just as the _sand_ begins to _run_; +In general human projects drop, +Just when our _sand_ begins to _stop!_ + + + +ANACREONTIC. + +"THE WISEST MEN ARE FOOLS IN WINE." + + +The wisest men are fools in wine, + Experience makes us think: +Its magic spells are so divine, + We reason--yet we drink! + +How short's the longest life of man, + How soon its brightest laurels fade-- +Then, as our life is but a span, + Let all its hours be joyous made. + +Wine o'er the ardent restless mind + Entwines its poppy chain; +A solace, then, the wretched find. + In fictions of the brain. + +Oh! as the charmed glass we sip, +We conquer care and pain: +It woos like woman's dewy lip, +To kiss--and come again! + +This Song has been admirably set to Music, and Sung with great +success, by MR. HENRY PHILLIPS.--It is published by MORI and +LAVENU, 28, New Bond-street. + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN IN HORNSEY WOOD + + +Oh! ye, who pine, in London smoke immured, +With spirits wearied, and with pains uncured, +With all the catalogue of city evils, +Colds, asthmas, rheumatism, coughs, blue devils! +Who bid each bold empiric roll in wealth, +Who drains your fortunes while he saps your health: +So well ye love your dirty streets and lanes, +Ye court your ailments and embrace your pains. +And scarce ye know, so little have ye seen, +If corn be yellow, or if grass be green; +Why leave ye not your smoke-obstructed holes, +With wholesome air to cheer your sickly souls? +In scenes where Health's bright goddess wakes the breeze, +Floats on the stream, and fans the whisp'ring trees: +Soon would the brighten'd eye her influence speak, +And her full roses flush the faded cheek. + +Then, where romantic Hornsey courts the eye +With all the charms of sylvan scenery, +Let the pale sons of Diligence repair, +And pause, like me, from sedentary care; +Here the rich landscape spreads profusely wide, +And here embowering shades the prospect hide: +Each mazy walk in wild meanders moves, +And infant oaks, luxuriant, grace the groves: +Oaks, that by time matured, removed afar, +Shall ride triumphant, 'midst the wat'ry war; +Shall blast the bulwarks of Britannia's foes, +And claim her empire, wide as ocean flows! +O'er all the scene, mellifluous and bland, +The blissful powers of harmony expand; +Soft sigh the zephyrs 'mid the still retreats, +And steal from Flora's lips ambrosial sweets; +Their notes of love the feather'd songsters sing, +And Cupid peeps behind the vest of Spring. + +Ye swains! who ne'er obtain'd with all your sighs +One tender look from Chloe's sparkling eyes, +In shades like these her cruelty assail, +Here, whisper soft your amatory tale; +The scene to sympathy the maid shall move, +And smiles propitious crown your slighted love. + +While the fresh air with fragrance summer fills, +And lifts her voice, heard jocund o'er the hills, +All jubilant the waving woods display +Her gorgeous gifts, magnificently gay! +The wond'ring eye beholds these waving woods +Reflected bright in artificial floods, +And still, the tufts of clust'ring shrubs between, +Like passing sprites, the nymphs and swains are seen; +Till fancy triumphs in th'exulting breast, +And Care shrinks back, astonish'd! dispossess'd! +For all breathes rapture, all enchantment seems, +Like fairy visions, and poetic dreams! + +Though on such scenes the fancy loves to dwell, +The stomach oft a different tale will tell; +Then, leave the wood, and seek the shelt'ring roof, +And put the pantry's vital strength to proof; +The aerial banquets of the tuneful nine +May suit some appetites, but faith! not mine; +For my coarse palate coarser food must please, +Substantial beef, pies, puddings, ducks, and peas; +Such food the fangs of keen disease defies, +And such rare feeding Hornsey-house supplies: +Nor these alone the joys that court us here, +Wine! generous wine! that drowns corroding care, +Asserts its empire in the glittering bowl, +And pours Promethean vigour o'er the soul. +Here, too, _that_ bluff John Bull, whose blood boils high +At such base wares of foreign luxury; +Who scorns to revel in imported cheer, +Who prides in perry, and exults in beer: +On these his surly virtue shall regale, +With quickening cyder, and with fattening ale. + +Nor think, ye Fair! our Hornsey has denied +The elegant repasts where you preside: +Here, may the heart rejoice, expanding free +In all the social luxury of Tea! +Whose essence pure inspires such charming chat, +With nods, and winks, and whispers, and _all that_; +Here, then, while 'wrapt inspired, like Horace old, +We chant convivial hymns to Bacchus bold; +Or heave the incense of unconscious sighs, +To catch the grace that beams from beauty's eyes; +Or, in the winding wilds, sequester'd deep, +Th' unwilling Muse invoking, fall asleep; +Or cursing her, and her ungranted smiles, +Chase butterflies along the echoing aisles: +Howe'er employ'd, _here_ be the town forgot, +Where fogs, and smoke, and jostling crowds, _are not_. + + + +TO MARY. + +WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. + + +Oh! is there not in infant smiles + A witching power, a cheering ray, +A charm, that every care beguiles, + And bids the weary soul be gay? +There surely is--for thou hast been, + Child of my heart, my peaceful dove, +Gladdening life's sad and chequer'd scene, + An emblem of the peace above. +Now all is calm, and dark, and still, + And bright the beam the moonlight throws +On ocean wave, and gentle rill, + And on thy slumbering cheek of rose. +And may no care disturb that breast, + Nor sorrow dim that brow serene; +And may thy latest years be bless'd + As thy sweet infancy has been. + + + +BLACK EYES AND BLUE. + +FROM THE ITALIAN. + + +Blue eyes and jet + Fell out one morn, +Azure cried in a pet, + "Away, dark scorn!-- +"We are brilliant and blue + "As the waves of the sea-- +"And as cold and untrue + "And as changeable ye. + +"We are born of the sky, + "Of a summer night, +"When the first stars lie + "In a bed of blue light; +"From the cloudy zone + "Round the setting sun, +"Like an angel's throne, + "Are our glories won." + +"Pretty ladies, hold," + Cupid said to the eyes-- +For beauties that scold + "Are seldom wise; +"'Tis not colour I seek + "Love's fires to impart-- +"Give me eyes that can speak + "From the depths of the heart." + + + +EPIGRAM. + +AURI SACRA FAMES. + + +I knew a being once, his peaked head +With a few lank and greasy hairs was spread; +His visage blue, in length was like your own +Seen in the convex of a table-spoon. +His mouth, or rather gash athwart his face, +To stop at either ear had just the grace, +A hideous rift: his teeth were all canine, +And just like Death's (in Milton) was his grin. +One shilling, and one fourteen-penny leg, +(This shorter was than that, and not so big), +He had; and they, when meeting at his knees, +An angle formed of ninety-eight degrees. +Nature, in scheming how his back to vary, +A hint had taken from the dromedary: +His eyes an inward, screwing vision threw, +Striving each other through his nose to view. + +His intellect was just one ray above +The idiot Cymon's ere he fell in love. +At school they Taraxippus[1] called the wight; +The Misses, when they met him, shriek'd with fright. +But, spite of all that Nature had denied, +When sudden Fortune made the cub her pride, +And gave him twenty thousand pounds a-year, +_Then_, from the pretty Misses you might hear, +"_His face was not the finest, and, indeed, +He was a little, they must own, in-kneed; +His shoulders, certainly, were rather high, +But, then, he had a most expressive eye; +Nor were their hearts by outward charms inclined: +Give them the higher beauties of the mind_!" + +[Footnote 1: Greek: Taraxippus, a Grecian Deity; the god of the Hippodrome, +literally, in English, _horse-frightener_.] + + + +SONNET. + +TO FAITH. + + +Hail! holy FAITH, on life's wide ocean toss'd, + I see thee sit calm in thy beaten bark; + As NOAH sat, throned in his high-borne ark, +Secure and fearless while a world was lost! +In vain contending storms thy head enzone, + Thy bosom shrinks not from the bolt that falls: + The dreadful shaft plays harmless, nor appals +Thy stedfast eye, fix'd on Jehovah's throne! +E'en though thou saw'st the mighty fabric nod, + Of system'd worlds, thou hear'st a sacred charm, + Graved on thy heart, to shelter thee from harm. +And thus it speaks:--"Thou art my trust, O GOD! +And thou canst bid the jarring-powers be still, +Each ponderous orb, subservient to thy will!" + + + +ON A SPIRITED PORTRAIT IN MY ALBUM, + +Of a favorite Deer-hound, belonging to SIR WALTER SCOTT, by +my friend, EDWIN LANDSEER, Esq. + + +Who in this sketchey wonder does not trace +The fire, the spirit, and the living grace, +That mark the hand of genius and of taste? +Who does not recognize in such a head +Truth, vigilance, fidelity, inbred, +Sagacity that's human, and a waste +Of those high qualities, and virtues rare, +Which poor humanity has not to spare? + +Then, faithful Hound! thy happy lot is cast +In pleasant places--and thy life has pass'd +In the dear service of a Master--whom +The world's concurrent voice has yielded now +The meed of highest praise--and on whose brow +Th' imperishable wreath of fame shall bloom; +Nor is this fate less happy than the rest, +That _he_ should paint thee, _who can paint thee best!_ + + + +SONNET. + +TO HOPE. + + +How droops the wretch whom adverse fates pursue, + While sad experience, from his aching sight + Sweeps the fair prospects of unproved delight, +Which flattering friends and flattering fancies drew. +When want assails his solitary shed, + When dire distraction's horrent eye-ball glares, + Seen 'midst the myriad of tumultuous cares, +That shower their shafts on his devoted head. +Then, ere despair usurp his vanquish'd heart, + Is there a power, whose influence benign + Can bid his head in pillow'd peace recline, +And from his breast withdraw the barbed dart? +There is--sweet Hope! misfortune rests on thee-- +Unswerving anchor of humanity! + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN ON THE SIXTH OF SEPTEMBER. + + +Ill-fated hour! oft as thy annual reign +Leads on th' autumnal tide, my pinion'd joys +Fade with the glories of the fading year; +"Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train," +And bids affection heave the heart-drawn sigh +O'er the cold tomb, rich with the spoils of death, +And wet with many a tributary tear! + +Eight times has each successive season sway'd +The fruitful sceptre of our milder clime +Since my loved----died! but why, ah! why +Should melancholy cloud my early years? +Religion spurns earth's visionary scene, +Philosophy revolts at misery's chain: +Just Heaven recall'd its own; the pilgrim call'd +From human woes: from sorrow's rankling worm-- +Shall frailty then prevail? + + Oh! be it mine +To curb the sigh which bursts o'er Heaven's decree; +To tread the path of rectitude--that when +Life's dying ray shall glimmer in the frame, +That latest breath I may in peace resign, +"Firm in the faith of seeing thee and God." + + + +SONNET. + +TO CHARITY. + + +O! best-beloved of Heaven, on earth bestow'd, + To raise the pilgrim sunk with ghastly fears, + To cool his burning wounds, to wipe his tears, +And strew with amaranths his thorny road. +Alas! how long has Superstition hurl'd + Thine altars down, thine attributes reviled, + The hearts of men with witchcrafts foul beguiled. +And spread his empire o'er the vassal world? +But truth returns! she spreads resistless day; + And mark, the monster's cloud-wrapt fabric falls-- + He shrinks--he trembles 'mid his inmost halls, +And all his damn'd illusions melt away! +The charm dissolved--immortal, fair, and free, +Thy holy fanes shall rise, celestial Charity! + + + +HYMN. + +Sung by the Children of the City of London School of Instruction +and Industry. + + +CHORUS. + +Sacred, and heart-deep be the sound + Which speaks the Great Redeemer's praise, +His mercies every where abound, + Let all their grateful voices raise. + +BOYS. + +The friendless child, to manhood grown, + Will ne'er forget your parent care; +You've made each youthful heart your own, + Oh! then accept our humble prayer. + +GIRLS. + +For ever be that bounty praised, + Which every comfort doth impart; +In tears of joy the song is raised + From minstrels of the glowing heart. + +CHORUS. + +Glory to Thee, all-bounteous Power! + In notes of thankfulness be given; +Sure solace in affliction's hour! + Our hope on Earth, our bliss in Heaven. + Hallelujah! Amen. + + + +REFLECTIONS OF A POET, + +ON GOING TO A GREAT DINNER. + + +Great epoch in the history of bards! + Important day to those who woo the nine; +Better than fame are visitation-cards, + And heaven on earth at a great house to dine. + +O cruel memory! do not conjure up + The ghost of Sally Dab, the famous cook; +Who gave me solid food, the cheering cup, + And on her virtues begg'd I'd write a book. + +For her dear sake I braved the letter'd fates, + And all her loose thoughts in one volume cramm'd; +"The Accomplish'd Cook, in verse, with twenty plates:" + Which (O! ungrateful deed!) the critics d----d. + +D--n them, I say, the tasteless envious elves; + Malicious fancy makes them so expert, +They write 'bout dinners, who ne'er dine themselves, + And boast of linen, who ne'er had a shirt. + +Rest, goddess, from all broils! I bless thy name, + Dear kitchen-nymph, as ever eyes did glut on! +I'd give thee all I have, my slice of fame, + If thou, fat shade! could'st give one slice of mutton. + +Yet hold--ten minutes more, and I am bless'd; + Fly quick, ye seconds; quick, ye moments, fly: +Soon shall I put my hunger to the test, + And all the host of miseries defy. + +Thrice is he arm'd, who hath his dinner first, + For well-fed valour always fights the best; +And though he may of over-eating burst, + His life is happy, and his death is just. + +To-day I dine--not on my usual fare; + Not near the sacred mount with skinny nine; +Not in the park upon a dish of air: + But on true eatables, and rosy wine. + +Delightful task! to cram the hungry maw, + To teach the empty stomach how to fill, +To pour red port adown the parched craw; + Without that dread dessert--to pay the bill. + +I'm off--methinks I smell the long-lost savour; + Hail, platter-sound! to poet music sweet: +Now grant me, Jove, if not too great a favour, + Once in my life as much as I can eat! + + + +SUNDAY. + +Come, thou blessed day of rest! +Soother of the tortured breast, +Wearied souls release from toil, +Life's eternal sad turmoil; +How I love thy tuneful bells +Which a welcome story tells! +Bids the wanderer rest and pray +On this peaceful holy-day. +All creation seems to pause-- +Man, uncatechized by laws, +Looks to God with grateful eyes, +In such blessed sympathies, +All his rebel nature dies! +See the monster crime hath made, +Resting from his restless trade, +Unfit to live, afraid to die, +Hear his deep unconscious sigh, +See his former horrid mien, +Changed to the bright, serene, +View him on his BIBLE rest, +Care no longer gnaws his breast; +Heaven, in mercy, let him live, +Religion, such the peace you give! + + + +A NIGHT-STORM. + +Let this rough fragment lend its mossy seat; +Let Contemplation hail this lone retreat: +Come, meek-eyed goddess, through the midnight gloom, +Born of the silent awe which robes the tomb! +This gothic front, this antiquated pile, +The bleak wind howling through each mazy aisle; +Its high gray towers, faint peeping through the shade, +Shall hail thy presence, consecrated maid! +Whether beneath some vaulted abbey's dome, +Where ev'ry footstep sounds in every tomb; +Where Superstition, from the marble stone, +Gives every sound, a pilgrim-spirit's groan: +Pensive thou readest by the moon's full glare +The sculptured children of Affection's tear; +Or in the church-yard lone thou sitt'st to weep +O'er some sad wreck, beneath the tufty heap-- +Perchance some victim to Seduction's spell, +Who yielded, wept, and then neglected fell! + +But hither come, on yon swoln arch to gaze, +And view the vivid flash eruptive blare; +Light those high walls with transitory gleam, +Illume the air, and sparkle in the stream. +Ah! look, where yonder tempest-shaken cloud, +Awful and black as the chaosian shroud, +Breaks, like the waves which lash the sandy shore, +And speaks its mission in a feeble row. +Thus Meditation hears: "Aspiring height! +Of old, the splendid mansions of the great; +Thy fate (tremendous) lours upon the blast, +And waits to write on thy remains:--'tis past! +Oft have the genii of the hoary blade +Around thy walls their hell-born demons led; +Yet hast thou triumph'd o'er each monster's car, +And braved the ills of pestilential war: +Oft hast thou seen the circling seasons roll +In fond succession round thy native pole; +Defied the hoary matron of the ring, +And seen her sicken in the lap of Spring. +But, ah! no more thy time-clad head shall rise +To dare the tempest, while it shakes the skies; +Nor one small wreck invade the fair concave, +Nor shout above its crumbling basis, Save! +When rising zephyr from thy ruin brings +A world of atoms on its fairy wings." + +Din horrible! as though the rebel train +Had sprung from chaos, fought, and fall'n again, +Raves the high bolt: how yon old structure fell; +How every cranny trembled with the yell +Of frighted owls, whose secret haunts forlorn +Were from their kindred vaults and windings torn; +Of bold Antiquity's rough pencil born. +Thrice Fancy leads the dismal echo round, +And paints the spectre gliding o'er the ground. +From ev'ry turret, ev'ry vanquish'd tower, +In heaps confused the broken fragments pour; +And, as they plunge toward the pebbly grave, +Like wizard wand, draw circles in the wave. +Meand'ring stream! thy liquid jaws extend, +Anoint with Lethe now thy fallen friend. +Again the heralds of the thunder fly, +In forky squadrons, from the trembling sky! + +Again the thunder its harsh menace swells, +And light-wing'd echoes hail the humbled cells! +Weep, weep, ye clouds! with heav'n-bespangled tears; +And, ah! if pity rules your sacred spheres, +Invoke the thunder to withstay its rage, +Disarm its fury, and its wrath assuage. + +But now, Aurora, from the Ocean's verge, +Trims her gray lamp, to light the mournful dirge. +She comes, to light the ruinated heap: +But lights, to wake the pensive soul to weep! + + + +ON THE DEATH OF NELSON. + +Swift through the land while Fame transported flies, +And shouts triumphant shake th' illumined skies; +Britannia, bending o'er her dauntless prows, +With laurels thickening round her blazon'd brows, +In joy dejected, sees her triumph cross'd, +Exults in Victory won, but mourns the Victor lost. +Immortal NELSON! still with fond amaze +Thy glorious deed each British eye surveys, +Beholds thee still, on conquer'd floods afar: +Fate's flaming shaft! the thunderbolt of war! +Hurl'd from thy hands, Britannia's vengeance roars, +And bloody billows stain the hostile shores: +Thy sacred ire Confed'rate Kingdoms braves, +And 'whelms their Navies in Sepulchral waves! +--Graced with each attribute which Heaven supplies +To Godlike Chiefs: humane, intrepid, wise: +His Nation's Bulwark, and all Nature's pride, +The Hero lived, and as he lived--he died: +Transcendant destiny! how bless'd the brave, +Whose fall his Country's tears attend, shower'd on his trophied grave! + + + +THE BLUE-EYED MAID. + +Sweet are the hours when roseate spring + With health and joy salutes the day. +When zephyr, borne on wanton wing, + Soft whispering, wakes the blushing May. +Sweet are the hours, yet not so sweet +As when my blue-eyed Maid I meet, +And hear her soul-entrancing tale, +Sequester'd in the shadowy vale. + +The mellow horn's long-echoing notes + Startle the morn, commingling strong; +At eve, the harp's wild music floats. + And ravish'd Silence drinks the song. +Yet sweeter is the song of love, +When EMMA'S voice enchants the grove, +While listening sylphs repeat the tale, +Sequester'd in the silent vale. + + + +TAKING ORDERS. + +A TALE, FOUNDED ON FACT. + + +A parson once--and poorer he +Than ever parson ought to be; +Yet not so proud as _some_ from College, +Who fancy they alone have knowledge; +Who only learn to dress and drink, +And, strange to say, still seem to think +That no real talent's to be found +Except within their classic ground; +Yet prove that Cam's nor Oxon's plains +Can't furnish empty skulls with brains. +But for my tale--Our churchman came, +And, in religion's honour'd name, +Sought Cam's delightful classic borders, +To be prefer'd to Holy Orders. +Chance led him to the Trav'llers' Inn, +Where living's cheap, and often whim +Enlivens many a weary soul, +And helps, in the o'erflowing bowl, +In spite of fogs, and threatening weather, +To drown both grief and gloom together:-- +(Oh, Wit! thou'rt like a little blue, +Soft cloud, in summer breaking through +A frowning one, and lighting it +Till darkness fadeth bit by bit; +And Whim to thee is near allied, +And follows closely at thy side; +So oft, oh, Wit! I'm told that she +By some folks is mista'en for thee; +Yet I may say unto my eyes, +Just whereabouts the difference lies; +One's diamond quite, and, to my taste, +The other is but _Dovey's Paste.)_-- +He there a ready welcome found +From one who travell'd England round: +"Sir, your obedient--quite alone? +I'm truly happy you are come: +Pray, sir, be seated;--business dull;-- +Or else this room had now been full; +Orders and cash are strangers here, +And every thing looks dev'lish queer; +Bad times these, sir, sad lack of wealth; +Must hope for better;--Sir, your health!" +Then added, with inquiring face, +"_Come to take Orders in this place_?" + +"Yes, sir, I am," replied the priest: +"With that intent I came at least." +"Ha! ha! I knew it very well; +We business-men can others tell: +Often before I've seen your face, +Though memory can't recal the place-- +Ah! now I have it; head of mine! +_You travel in the button line_?" + +"Begging your pardon, sir, I fear +Some error has arisen here; +You have mista'en my trade divine, +But, sir, the worldly loss is mine-- +_I travel in a much worse line_." + + + +THE GIPSY'S HOME. + +A GLEE. + +Sung by Messrs. PYNE, NELSON, Miss WITHAM, and Master +LONGHURST.--Composed by Mr. ROOKE. + + +We, who the wide world make our home; + The barren heath our cheerful bed; +Careless o'er mount and moor we roam, + And never tears of sorrow shed. + But merrily, O! Merrily, O! + Through this world of care we go. + +Love, that a palace left in tears, + Flew to our houseless feast of mirth: +For here, unfetter'd, beauty cheers, + The heaven alone that's found on earth! + Then merrily, O! Merrily, O! + Through this world of care we go. + + + +SONNET. + +THE BEGGAR. + + +Of late I saw him on his staff reclined, + Bow'd down beneath a weary weight of woes, +Without a roof to shelter from the wind + His head, all hoar with many a winter's snows. +All trembling he approach'd, he strove to speak; + The voice of misery scarce my ear assail'd; +A flood of sorrow swept his furrow'd cheek, + Remembrance check'd him, and his utt'rance fail'd. +For he had known full many a better day; + And when the poor man at his threshold bent, +He drove him not with aching heart away, + But freely shared what Providence had sent. +How hard for him, the stranger's boon to crave, +And live to want the mite his bounty gave! + + + +TO ------. + +Come, JENNY, let me sip the dew + That on those coral lips doth play, +One kiss would every care subdue, + And bid my weary soul be gay. + +For surely thou wert form'd by love + To bless the suff'rer's parting sigh; +In pity then my griefs remove, + And on that bosom let me die! + + + +SONG. + +THE RECAL OF THE HERO. + + +When Discord blew her fell alarm + On Gallia's blood-stain'd ground, +When Usurpation's giant arm + Enslaved the nations round: +The thunders of avenging Heaven +To NELSON'S chosen hand were given! +By NELSON'S chosen hand were hurl'd, +To rescue the devoted world! + +The tyrant power, his vengeance dread + To Egypt's shores pursued; +At Trafalgar its hydra-head + For ever sunk subdued. +The freedom of mankind was won! +The hero's glorious task was done! +When Heaven, Oppression's ensigns furl'd, +Recall'd him from the rescued world. + + + +TO ELIZA. + +WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM. + + +I dare not spoil this spotless page + With any feeble verse of mine; +The Poet's fire has lost its rage, + Around his lyre no myrtles twine. + +The voice of fame cannot recal + Those fairy days of past delight, +When pleasure seem'd to welcome all, + And morning hail'd a welcome night. + +E'en love has lost its soothing power, + Its spells no more can chain my soul; +I must not venture in the bower, + Where Wit and Verse and Wine controul. + +And yet, I fear, in thoughtless mirth + I once did say, Eliza, dear! +That I would tell the world thy worth, + And write the living record here. + +Come Love, and Truth, and Friendship, come, + Enwreath'd in Virtue's snowy arms, +With magic rhymes the page illume, + And fancy sketch her varied charms-- + +Which o'er the cares of home has thrown + A thousand blessings, deep engraved, +For every heart she makes her own, + And every friend is free-enslaved. + +No Inspiration o'er my pen + Glows with the lightning's vivid spell; +My soul is sad--forgive me then, + My heart's too full the tale to tell! + +Yet, if the humblest poet's theme + Be welcome in Eliza's name; +Then, angel, give the cheering gleam, + For thy approving smile is fame! + + + +ELEGY + +On THE DEATH OF + +ABRAHAM GOLDSMID, ESQ. + + +When stern Misfortune, monitress severe! + Dissolves Prosperity's enchanting dreams, +And, chased from Man's probationary sphere, + Fair Hope withdraws her vivifying beams. + +If then, untaught to bend at Heaven's high will, + The desp'rate mortal dares the dread unknown, +To future fate appeals from present ill, + And stands, uncall'd, before th' Eternal throne! + +Shall justice there _immutably_ decide? + Dread thought! which Reason trembles to explore, +She feels, be mercy granted or denied, + 'Tis her's in dumb submission to adore. + +Yet, could the self-doom'd victim be forgiven + His final error, for his merits past; +Could virtuous life, propitiating Heaven + With former deeds, extenuate the last: + +Then GOLDSMID! Mercy, to thy humble shrine, + Angel of heaven beloved, should wing her flight, +Should in her bosom bid thy head recline, + And waft thee onward to the realms of light. + +And, oh! could human intercession plead, + Breathed ardent to'ards that undiscover'd shore, +What hearts unnumber'd for thy fate that bleed, + Would warm oblations for thy pardon pour. + +Misfortune's various tribes thy worth should tell, + Whose acts to no peculiar sect confined; +Impartial, with expansive bounty fell, + Like heaven's refreshing dews on all mankind. + +Where stern Disease his rankling arrows sped, + While Want, with hard inexorable band, +Strew'd keener thorns on Pain's afflictive bed, + And urged the flight of life's diminish'd sand. + +By hostile stars oppress'd, where Talent toil'd, + Encountering fate with perseverance vain; +The Merchant's hopes, when War's dire arm despoil'd, + Or tempests 'whelm'd in the remorseless main. + +GOLDSMID! thy hand benign assuagement spread, + Sustain'd pale sickness, drooping o'er the tomb; +Raised modest Merit from his lowly shed, + And gave Misfortune's blasted hopes to bloom. + +Yet wealth, too oft perverted from its end, + Suspends the noblest functions of the soul; +Where, chill'd as Apathy's cold frosts, extends, + Compassion's sacred stream forgets to roll. + +And oft, where seeming Pity moves the mind, + From self's mean source the liberal current flows; +While Ostentation, insolently kind, + Wounds while he soothes, insults while he bestows. + +But thy free bounty, undebased by pride, + Prompt to anticipate the meek request, +Unask'd the wants of modest Worth supplied, + And spared the pang that shook the suppliant's breast. + +Yet say! on Fortune's orb, which o'er thy head + Blazed forth erewhile pre-eminently bright, +When dark Adversity her eclipse spread, + And veil'd its splendours in petrific night! + +Did those, thy benefits had placed on high, + Who revell'd still in wealth's meridian ray; +Did those impatient to thy succour fly, + Anxious the debt of gratitude to pay? + +Or, thy fall'n fortunes coldly whispering round, + Scowl'd they aloof in that disastrous hour? +On keen Misfortune's agonizing wound + Did foul Ingratitude her poisons pour? + +If thy distress such aggravation knew, + Thy first reverse could such perdition wait; +Well might Despair thy generous heart subdue, + And Desperation close the scene of fate. + +Yet while Distraction urged her purpose dire, + Rose not, at Nature's interposed command, +The sacred claims of Brother, Husband, Sire, + To win the weapon from thy lifted hand? + +Ah, yes! and ere that agony was o'er, + Ere yet thy soul its last resolve embraced, +What pangs could equal those thy breast that tore, + Thy breast with Nature's tenderest feelings graced? + +Those only which, at thy accomplish'd fate, + That home display'd, thy smiles were wont to bless; +That dreadful scene what language can relate, + What words describe that exquisite distress. + +The Muse recedes--in Grief's domestic scene + Th' intrusive gaze prophanes the tears that flow: +Drop, Pity! there thy hallowed veil between; + Guard, Silence! there the sacredness of woe. + +Nor let the sectarist, whose faith austere + Pretends alone to point th' eternal road; +Proud of his creed, pronounce with voice severe, + All else excluded from the blest abode. + +If error thine, not GOLDSMID! thine the fault, + Since first thy infant years instruction drew; +From youth's gradations up to manhood taught + That faith to reverence which thy fathers knew. + +In Retribution's last tremendous hour, + When its pale captives, long in dust declined, +The grave shall yield, and time shall death devour, + When He who saved, shall come to judge mankind. + +While Christian-infidels shall tremble round, + Who call'd HIM Master! whom their acts denied: +Imputed faith may in _thy_ deeds be found, + And thy eternal doom those deeds decide. + + + +SONNET. + +ON THE DEATH OF MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. + + +Sweet songstress! whom the melancholy Muse + With more than fondness loved, for thee she strung + The lyre, on which herself enraptured hung, +And bade thee through the world its sweets diffuse. +Oft hath my childhood's tributary tear + Paid homage to the sad harmonious strain, + That told, alas! too true, the grief and pain +Which thy afflicted mind was doom'd to bear. + Rest, sainted spirit! from a life of woe, + And though no friendly hand on thee bestow +The stately marble, or emblazon'd name, + To tell a thoughtless world who sleeps below: + Yet o'er thy narrow bed a wreath shall blow. +Deriving vigour from the breath of fame! + + + +MISTER PUNCH. + +A HASTY SKETCH. + + +Who stops the Minister of State, +When hurrying to the Lords' debate? +Who, spite of gravity beguiles, +The solemn Bishop of his smiles? +See from the window, "burly big," +The Judge pops out his awful wig, +Yet, seems to love a bit of gig!--While +_both_ the Sheriffs and the Mayor +Forget the "Address"--and stop to stare--And +who detains the Husband true, +Running to Doctor Doode-Doo, +To save his Wife "in greatest danger;" +While e'en the Doctor keeps the stranger +Another hour from life and light, +To gape at the bewitching sight. +The Bard, in debt, whom Bailiffs ferret, +Despite his poetry and merit, +Stops in his quick retreat awhile, +And tries the long-forgotten smile; +E'en the pursuing _Bum_ forgets +His business, and the man of Debts; +The one neglecting "Caption"--"Bail"-- +The other "thoughts of gyves and Jail"-- +So wondrous are the spells that bind +The noble and ignoble mind. +The Paviour halts in mid-grunt--stands +With rammer in his idle hands; +And quite refined, and at his ease, +Forgetting onions, bread, and cheese, +The hungry Drayman leaves his lunch, +To take a peep at _Mister Punch_. + +Delightful thy effects to see, +Thou charm of age and infancy! +The old Man clears his rheumy eye, +The six months' Babe forgets to cry; +No passers by--all fondly gloat, +So welcome is thy cheering note, +Which time nor taste has ever changed; +And after every clime we've ranged, +Return to thee--our childhood's joy, +And, spite of age, still play the boy! + +Yon pious Thing who walks by rule, +Unconscious laughs, and plays the fool, +And by his side the prim old Maid +_Looks_ "welcome fun" and "who's afraid." +Behold, that happy ruddy face, +In which there seems no vacant place, +That could another joy impart, +For one laugh more would break his heart. +And, lo, behind! his sober Brother, +Striving in vain the laugh to smother. +That giggling Girl must burst outright, +For _Punch_ has now possess'd her quite. +While She, who ran to Chemist's shop +For life or death--here finds a stop: +Forgets for whom--for what--she ran, +And leaves to Heaven the bleeding man! +The Parish Beadle, gilded calf, +Lays by his terror, joins the laugh, +Permits poor souls, without offence, +To sell their fruit and count their pence, +And, as by humour grown insane, +Allows the boys to touch his cane! +Poor little Sweep true comfort quaffs, +Ceases to cry--and loudly laughs. +See! what a wondrous powerful spell +_Punch_ holds o'er Dustman and his bell; +And scolding Wife with clapper still-- +The Landlord quits awhile his till, +While Pot-boy, busiest of the bunch, +Steals pence for self, and beer for _Punch_. +Look at that window, you may trace +At every pane a laughing face. +Yon graceful Girl and her smart Lover, +And in the story just above her, +The Housemaid, with her hair in papers, +All finding _Punch_ a cure for vapours. +E'en the pale Dandy, fresh from France, +Throws on the group an eye askance; +Twirls his moustache, and seems to fear +That some gay friend may catch him here. +The Widowed wretch, who only fed, +On bitter thoughts and tear-wash'd bread, +Forgets her cares, and seems to smile +To see friend _Punch_ her babe beguile. +Magician of the wounded heart, +Oh! there thy wonted aid impart: +Long be the merryman of our Isle, +And win the universal smile! + + + +CONTENT. + +In some lone hamlet it were better far + To live unknown amid Contentment's isle, +Than court the bauble of an air-blown star, + Or barter honour for a prince's smile! + +Hail! tranquil-brow'd Content, forth sylvan god, + Who lov'st to sit beside some cottage fire, +Where the brown presence of the blazing clod + Regales the aspect of the aged sire. + +There, when the Winter's children, bleak and cold, + Are through December's gloomy regions led; +The church-yard tale of sheeted ghost is told, + While fix'd attention dares not turn its head. + +Or if the tale of ghost, or pigmy sprite, + Is stripp'd by theme more cheerful of its power, +The song employs the early dim of night, + Till village-curfew counts a later hour. + +And oft the welcome neighbour loves to stop, + To tell the market news, to laugh, and sing, +O'er the loved circling jug, whose old brown top + Is wet with kisses from the florid ring! + +There, whilst the cricket chirps its chimney song, + Within some crumbling chink, with moss embrown'd, +The lighted stick diverts the infant throng, + And fans are waved, and ribbands twirl'd around. + +Entwine for me the wreath of rural mirth, + And blast the murm'ring fiend, from chaos sent; +Then, while the house-dog snores upon the hearth, + I'll sit, and hail thy sacred name, CONTENT! + + + +EPITAPH. + +ON MATILDA. + + +Sacred to Pity! is upraised this stone, +The humble tribute of a friend unknown; +To grant the beauteous wreck its hallow'd claim, +And add to misery's scroll another name. +Poor lost MATILDA! now in silence laid +Within the early grave thy sorrows made. +Sleep on!--his heart still holds thy image dear, +Who view'd, through life, thy errors with a tear; +Who ne'er with stoic apathy repress'd +The heartfelt sigh for loveliness distress'd. +That sigh for thee shall ne'er forget to heave; +'Tis all he now can give, or thou receive. +When last I saw thee in thy envied bloom, +That promised health and joy for years to come, +Methought the lily nature proudly gave, +Would never wither in th' untimely grave. + +Ah, sad reverse! too soon the fated hour +Saw the dire tempest 'whelm th' expanding flower! +Then from thy tongue its music ceased to flow; +Thine eye forgot to gleam with aught but woe; +Peace fled thy breast; invincible despair +Usurp'd her seat, and struck his daggers there. +Did not the unpitying world thy sorrows fly? +And, ah! what then was left thee--but to die! +Yet not a friend beheld thy parting breath, +Or mingled solace with the pangs of death: +No priest proclaim'd the erring hour forgiven, +Or sooth'd thy spirit to its native heav'n: +But Heaven, more bounteous, bade the pilgrim come, +And hovering angels hail'd their sister home. +I, where the marble swells not, to rehearse +Thy hapless fate, inscribe my simple verse. +Thy tale, dear shade, my heart essays to tell; +Accept its offering, while it heaves--farewell! + + + +TO ------. + +AN IMPROMPTU. + + +O Sue! you certainly have been + A little raking, roguish creature, +And in that face may still be seen + Each laughing love's bewitching feature! + +For thou hast stolen many a heart; + And robb'd the sweetness of the rose; +Placed on that cheek, it doth impart + More lovely tints--more fragrant blows! + +Yes, thou art Nature's favourite child, + Array'd in smiles, seducing, killing; +Did Joseph live, you'd drive him wild, + And set his very soul a-thrilling! + +A poet, much too poor to live, + Too poor in this rich world to rove; +Too poor for aught but verse to give, + But not, thank God, too poor to love! + +Gives thee his little doggerel lay;--One + truth I tell, in sorrow tell it: +I'm forced to give my verse away, + Because, alas! I cannot sell it. + +And should you with a critic's eye + Proclaim me 'gainst the Muse a sinner, +Reflect, dear girl I that such as I, + Six times a-week don't get a dinner. + +And want of comfort, food, and wine, + Will damp the genius, curb the spirit: +These wants I'll own are often mine;--But + can't allow a want of merit. + +For every stupid dog that drinks + At poet's pond, nicknamed divine; +Say what he will, I know he thinks + That all he writes is wondrous fine! + + + +THE STEAM-BOAT. + +Say, dark prow'd visitant! that o'er the brine + _Stalk'st_ proudly--heeding not what wind may blow, +What chart, what compass, shapes that course of thine, + Whence didst thou come, and whither dost thou go? + +Art thou a Monster born of sky and sea? + Art thou a Pagod moving in thine ire? +Were I a Savage I must bend to thee, + A Ghiber? I must own thee "God of fire." + +The affrighted billows fly thy hissing rout, + Thy wake is followed by turmoil and din, +Blackness and darkness track thy course without, + And fire and groans and vapours strive within. + +And they who cling about thee--who are they? + And canst thou be that fabled boat, that waits +On the dark banks of Styx for souls? Oh, say! + Let me not burst in ignorance--thy freight. + +Thus spake I, wandering near the Brighton shore, + Straining my very eye-balls from my _Cab;_ +First came two "ten-horse" laughs--and then a roar, + "Be off, queer Chap, or I'll soon stop your gab!" + +Then swept she onward, breathing mist and cloud, + While from my bosom this reflection broke; +Although I think the steam-boat something proud, + Such _lofty_ questions often end in _smoke_. +To all Grandiloquents a hint _I_ deem it, +And whilst I live, I'll ever such _esteem_ it. + + + +SONNET. + +TO LYDIA, + +ON HER BIRTH-DAY. + + +Bless'd be the hour that gave my LYDIA birth, + The day be sacred 'mid each varying year; +How oft the name recals thy spotless worth, + And joys departed, still to memory dear! +If matchless friendship, constancy, and love, + Have power to charm, or one sad grief beguile, +'Tis thine the gloom of sorrow to remove, + And on the tearful cheek imprint a smile. +May every after-season to thee bring + New joys, to cheer life's dark eventful way, +Till time shall close thee in his pond'rous wing, + And angels waft thee to eternal day! +Loved friend, farewell! thy name this heart shall fill, + Till memory sinks, and all its griefs are still! + + + +TO SARAH, WHILE SINGING. + +Written at the Cottage of T. LEWIS, Esq. Woodbury Downs. + + +In the retirement of this lovely spot, +Sacred to friendship, industry, and worth, +To boundless hospitality and mirth, +Be ever peace and joy--all care forgot, +Save that which carest for a higher, holier, lot! + +And thou, sweet girl, whose lovely modest mien, +Cheers the gay banquet with unconscious wiles, +Long mayest thou grace it with affection's smiles, +The vocal syren of this sylvan scene. +Warbling thy sweetest notes 'midst flowers and woodlands green. + +Long be the social circle's grace and pride, +Of parents' hopes, the dearest and the best, +"The Dove of promise to this ark of rest:" +Who, when around the world's fierce billows ride, +Beareth the branch that speaks of the receding tide! + +_July, 1827_ + + + +TO THADDEUS.[1] + +Farewell! loved youth, for still I hold thee dear, + Though thou hast left me friendless and alone; +Still, still thy name recals the heartfelt tear, + That hastes MATILDA to her wish'd-for home. + +Why leave the wretch thy perfidy hath made, + To journey cheerless through the world's wide waste? +Say, why so soon does all thy kindness fade, + And doom me, thus, affliction's cup to taste? + +Ungen'rous deed! to fly the faithful maid + Who, for thy arms, abandon'd every friend; +Oh! cruel thought, that virtue, thus betray'd, + Should feel a pang that death alone can end. + +Yet I'll not chide thee--And when hence you roam, + Should my sad fate one tear of pity move, +Ah! then return! this bosom's still thy home, + And all thy failings I'll repay with love. + +Believe me, dear, at midnight, or at morn, + In vain exhausted nature strives to rest, +Thy absence plants my pillow with a thorn, + And bids me hope no more, on earth, for rest. + +But if unkindly you refuse to hear, + And from despair thy poor MATILDA have; +Ah! don't deny one tributary tear, + To glisten sweetly o'er my early grave. + + MATILDA. + +[Footnote 1: The above lines were written at the request of a lady, +and meant to describe the feelings of one "who loved not wisely, but +too well."] + + + +YOUTH AND AGE. + +I love the joyous thoughtless heart, + The revels of the youthful mind, +'Ere sad experience points the dart, + Which wounds so surely all mankind. + +It glads me when the buoyant soul, + Unconscious ranges, fancy free, +Draining the sweets of pleasure's bowl, + And thinking all as blest as he. + +Ah! me, yet sad it is to know, + The many griefs the future brings, +That time must change that note to woe, + Which now its merry carrol sings. + +This "summer of the mind," alas! + Must have its autumn--leafless, bare, +When all these pleasing phantoms pass, + And end in winter, age, and care! + +Such, such is life, the moral tells-- + The tempest, and its sunny smiles, +A warning voice the cheerful bells, + The knell of death, our youth beguiles! + + + +SENT FOR THE ALBUM + +OF THE REV. G---- C----, + +With a Drawing of the Head of an Eminent Artist. + + +Dear Sir, you remember, when Herod of Jewry +Had given a ball, how a shocking old fury +Demanded, so bent was the vixen on slaughter. +The head of St. John at the hand of her daughter: +Now do not detest me, nor hold me in dread, +Because, like King Herod, I send you a head: +Not a saint's, by-the-bye, although _taken from life_, +But a head of my friend, by the hand of my wife. + + + +WRITTEN + +UNDER AN ELEGANT DRAWING OF A DEAD CANARY BIRD, + +By Miss A.M. TURNER, Daughter of the Eminent Engraver. + + +_Death_ to the very _life!_ not the closed eye, + Not those small paralytic limbs alone, +But every feather tells so mournfully + Thy fate, and that thy _little_ life has flown. + +Manhood forbids that I should weep, and yet + Sadness comes o'er my spirit, and I stand +Gazing intensely, and with mute regret, + Turn from the wonder of the artist's hand. + +Exquisite artist! could I praise thee more + Than by the silent admiration? no! +And now I try to praise I must deplore + How feeble is the verse that tells thee so; +But thou art gaining for thyself a fame +Worthy thyself, thy sex, and thy dear father's name! + + + +LINES + +SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF + +THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. + + +Genius of England! wherefore to the earth + Is thy plumed helm, thy peerless sceptre cast? +Thy courts of late with minstrelsy and mirth + Rang jubilant, and dazzling pageants past; +Kings, heroes, martial triumphs, nuptial rites-- + +Now, like a cypress, shiver'd by the blast, + Or mountain-cedar, which the lightning smites, +In dust and darkness sinks thy head declined, + Thy tresses streaming wild on ocean's reckless wind. + +Art thou not glorious?--In that night of storms, + When He, in Power's supremacy elate, + Gaul's fierce Usurper! fulminating fate, + The Goth's barbaric tyranny restored, +And science, art, and all life's fairer forms, + Sunk to the dark dominion of the sword: +Didst thou not, champion of insulted man! + Confront this stern Destroyer in his pride? + Didst thou not crush him in the battle shock, +While recent victory shouted in his van, + And shrunk the nations, shadow'd by his stride? + Yea, chain him howling to yon desert rock, + Where, thronging ghastly from uncounted graves, + His victims murmur 'midst the groans of waves, +And mock his soul's despair, his deep blaspheming ban! + +Nor erst, in Liberty's avenging day, + When, launching lightnings in her wrath divine, + She rose, and gave to never-dying fame, +Platae, Marathon, Thermopylae, + Did each, did all, sublimer laurels twine + Round Graecia's conquering brows, than Waterloo on thine! + +Then, wherefore, Albion! terror-struck, subdued, + Sitt'st thou, thy state foregone, thy banner furl'd? +What dire infliction shakes that fortitude, + Which propt the falling fortunes of the world?-- +Hush! hark! portentous, like a withering spell + From lips unblest--strange sounds mine ear appal; +Now the dread omens more distinctly swell-- + That thrilling shriek from Claremont's royal hall, +The death-note peal'd from yon terrific bell, + The deepening gale with lamentation swoln-- +These, Albion! these, too eloquently tell, + That from her radiant sphere, thy brightest star has fall'n! + +And art thou gone?--graced vision of an hour! + Daughter of Monarchs! gem of England's crown! +Thou loveliest lily! fair imperial flower! + In beauty's vernal bloom to dust gone down; +Gone when, dispers'd each inauspicious cloud, + In blissful sunshine 'gan thy hopes to glow: +From pain's fierce grasp, no refuge but the shroud, + Destin'd a Mother's pangs, but not her joys, to know. + +Lost excellence! what harp shall hymn thy worth, + Nor wrong the theme? conspicuously in thee, +Beyond the blind pre-eminence of birth, + Shone Nature in her own regality! +Coerced, thy Spirit smiled, sedate in pride, + Fixt as the pine, while circling storms contend; +But, when in Life's serener duties tried, + How sweetly did its gentle essence blend, +All-beauteous in the wife, the daughter, and the + friend! + +Not lull'd in langours, indolent and weak, + Nor winged by pleasure, fled thy early hours; +But ceaseless vigils blanch'd thy virgin cheek, + In silent Study's dim-sequester'd bowers: +Propitious there, to thy admiring mind, + With brow unveil'd, consenting Science came; +There Taste awoke her sympathies refined; + There Genius, kindling his etherial flame, +Led thy young soul the Muse's heights to dare, + And mount on Milton's wing, and breathe empyreal air! + +But chiefly, conscious of thy promised throne, + Intent to grace that destiny sublime; +Thou sought'st to make the historic page thine own, + And win the treasures of recorded time; +The forms of polity, the springs of power, + Exploring still with inexhausted zeal; +Still, the pole-star which led thy studious hour + Through Thought's unfolding tracts--thy Country's weal! +While Fancy, radiant with unearthly charms, + Thus breathed the whisper Wisdom sanctified: +"Eliza's, Anna's glories, arts, or arms, + Beneath thy sway shall blaze revivified, +And still prolonged, and still augmenting, shine +Interminably bright in thy illustrious line!" + +'Tis past--thy name, with every charm it bore, +Melts on our souls, like music heard no more, +The dying minstrel's last ecstatic strain, +Which mortal hand shall never wake again-- +But, if, blest spirit! in thy shrine of light, +Life's visions rise to thy celestial sight; +If that bright sphere where raptured seraphs glow, +Permit communion with this world of woe; +And sore, if thus our fond affections deem, +Hope mocks us not, for Heaven inspires the dream-- +Benignant shade! the beatific kiss +That seal'd thy welcome to the shores of bliss, +No holier joy instill'd, than then wilt feel +If thine the task thy kindred's woes to heal; +If hovering yet, with viewless ministry, +In scenes which Memory consecrates to thee, +Thou soothe with binding balm which grief endears, +A Sire's, a Husband's, and--a Mother's tears!-- + +Till Pity's self expire, a Nation's sighs, +Spontaneous incense! o'er thy tomb shall rise: +And, 'midst the dark vicissitudes that wait +Earth's balanced empires in the scales of Fate, +Be thou OUR angel-advocate the while, +And gleam, a guardian saint, around thy native isle! + + + +THE PRESUMPTUOUS FLY. + +Sung by Mr. PYNE.--Composed by Mr. ROOKE. + + +Come away, come away, little fly! + Don't disturb the sweet calm of lore's nest; +If you do, I protest you shall die, + And your tomb be that beautiful breast. +Don't tickle the girl in her sleep, + Don't cause so much beauty to sigh; +If she frown, half the graces will weep, + If she weep, all the graces will die. + Come away, little fly, &c. + +Now she wakes! steal a kiss and be gone; + Life is precious: away, little fly! +Should your rudeness provoke her to scorn, + You'll meet death from the glance of her eye. +Were I ask'd by fair Chloe to say + How I felt, as the flutterer I chid; +I should own, as I drove it away, + I wish'd to be there in its stead! + Come away, little fly, &c. + + + +THE HEROES OF WATERLOO. + +Address, written for a Benefit, at a Provincial Theatre, for the +Wounded Survivors, Families, and Relatives, of the Heroes of +Waterloo. + +Once more Britannia sheathes her conqu'ring sword, +And Peace returns, by Victory restored; +Peace, that erewhile estranged, 'midst long alarms, +Scarce welcomed home, was ravish'd from our arms; +What time, fierce bounding from his broken chain, +Gaul's banish'd Despot re-aspired to reign; +Whilst at his call, prompt minions of his breath, +Round his dire throne rush'd Havoc, Spoil, and Death; +With wonted pomp his baleful ensign blazed, +And Europe shrunk, and shudder'd as she gazed. +Insulted Liberty her tocsin rung; +Again Britannia to the combat sprung: +Star of the Nations! her auspicious form +Led on their march, and foremost braved the storm. + +Pent-in its clouds, ere yet the tempest flash'd, +Ere peal on peal the mingling thunder crash'd; +While Fate hung dubious o'er the marshall'd powers, +What anxious fears, what trembling hopes, were ours! +For never yet from Gallia's confines came +War's fell eruption with so fierce a flame: +She sent a Chief, matur'd in martial strife, +Who fought for fame, for empire, and for life; +Whose Host had sworn, deep-stung with recent shame, +To satiate vengeance, and retrieve their fame! +Each furious impulse, each hot throb, was there, +That spurs Ambition, or inflames Despair. +Then Britain fix'd on her Unconquer'd Son, +Her eye, her hope--immortal WELLINGTON! +He, skill'd to crash, with one collective blow +Sustain'd sedate the fierce assaulting foe. +How stood his squadrons like the steadfast rock, +Frowning on Ocean's ineffectual shock! +Till forward summon'd to the fierce attack, +They give to Gaul his furious onset back; +Swift on its prey each fiery legion springs, +As when Heaven's ire the vollied lightning wings! +Then Gallia's blood in expiation stream'd, +Then trembling Europe saw her fate redeem'd; +And England, radiant in her triumph past, +Beheld them all transcended in the last: +Yes, raptured Britons blest the gale that blew +The tidings home--the tale of Waterloo! +But, oh! while joy tumultuous hail'd the day, +Cold on the plain what gallant victims lay! +Deaf to the triumph of their sacred cause, +Deaf to their country's shout, the world's applause! + +Rear high the column, bid the marble breathe, +Pour soft the verse, and twine the laureate wreath; +From year to year let musing Memory shed +Her tenderest tears, to grace the glorious dead. +'Tis ours with grateful ardour to sustain +The wounded veteran on his bed of pain; +To soothe the widow, sunk in anguish deep, +Whose orphan weeps to see its mother weep. + +Oh! when, outstretch'd on that triumphant field, +The prostrate Warrior felt his labours seal'd; +Felt, 'midst the shout of Victory pealing round, +Life's eddying stream fast welling from his wound; +Perchance Affection bade her visions rise-- +Wife, children, floated o'er his closing eyes: +For them alone he heaved the bitter sigh; +Yet for his country glorying thus to die! +To her bequeath'd them with his parting breath, +And sunk serene in unregretted death.-- + +To no cold ear was that appeal prefer'd; +With glowing bosom grateful England heard; +With liberal hand she pours the prompt relief, +Soothes the sick head, and wipes the tear of grief. + +Our humble efforts consecrate, to-night, +To this great cause, our small but willing mite. +Bright are the wreaths the warrior's urn which grace, +And bless'd the bounty that protects his race! +Thus warm'd, thus waken'd, with congenial fire, +Each hero's son shall emulate his sire; +From age to age prolong the glorious line, +And guard their country with a shield divine! + + + +THE NIGHT-BLOWING CEREUS. + +Can it be true, so fragrant and so fair, + To give thy perfumes to the dews of night? +Can aught so beautiful, despise the glare, + And fade, and sicken in the morning light? + +Yes! peerless flower, the Heavens alone exhale + Thy fragrance, while the glittering stars attest, +And incense wafted by the midnight gale, + Untainted rises from thy spotless breast. + +How like that Faith whose nature is apart + From human gaze, to love and work unseen, +Which gives to God an undivided heart, + In sorrow steadfast, and in joy serene; +That night-flower of the soul, whose fragrant power +Breathes on the darkness of the closing hour! + + + +1827; + +OR, THE POET'S LAST POEM. + + +Ye Bards in all your thousand dens, +Great souls with fewer pence than pens, +Sublime adorers of Apollo, +With folios full, and purses hollow; +Whose very souls with rapture glisten, +When you can find a fool to listen; +Who, if a debt were paid by pun, +Would never be completely _done_. +Ye bright inhabitants of garrets, +Whose dreams are rich in ports and clarets, +Who, in your lofty paradise, +See aldermanic banquets rise-- +And though the duns around you troop, +Still float in seas of turtle soup. +I here forsake the tuneful trade, +Where none but lordlings now are paid, +Or where some northern rogue sits puling, +(The curse of universal schooling)-- +A ploughman to his country lost, +An author to his printer's cost-- +A slave to every man who'll buy him, +A knave to every man who'll try him-- +Yet let him take the pen, at once +The laurel gathers round his sconce! + +On every subject superseded, +My favorite topics all invaded, +I scarcely dip my pen in praise, +When fifty bardlings grasp my bays; +Or let me touch a drop of satire, +(I once knew something of the matter), +Just fifty bardlings take the trouble, +To be my tuneful worship's double. +Fine similies that nothing fit, +Joe Miller's, that _must_ pass for wit; +The dull, dry, brain-besieging jokes, +The humour that no laugh provokes-- +The nameless, worthless, witless rancours, +The rage that souls of scribblers cankers-- +(Administer'd in gall go thick, +It makes even Sunday critic's sick!) +Disgust my passion, fill my place, +And snatch my prize before my face. + +If then I take the "brilliant" pen. +And "scorning measures" talk of men-- +There Luttrel steps 'twixt me and fame-- +So like, egad, we're just the same; +I never half squeeze out a thought, +But jumps its fellow on the spot-- +My tenderest dreams, my fondest touch, +Are victims to his ready clutch; +The whirling waltz, the gay costume, +The porcelain tooth, the gallic bloom; +The vapid smiles, the lisping loves +Of turtles (never meant for doves)-- +The dreary stuff that fills the ears, +Where _all_ the orators are peers-- +The hides reveal'd through ball-room dresses, +Where all the parties are peer-esses; +The dulness of the _toujours gai_, +The yawning night, the sleepy day, +The visages of cheese and chalk, +The drowsy, dreamy, languid talk; +The fifty other horrid things, +That strip old Time of both his wings! +There's not a topic of them all +But comes, hey presto! at _his_ call. + +Or when I turn my pen to love, +A theme that fits me like my glove, +A pang I've borne these twenty years +With ten-times twenty several dears, +Each glance a dart, each smile a quiver, +Stinging their bard from lungs to liver-- +To work my ruin, or my cure, +Up starts thy pen, Anacreon Moore! +In vain I pour my shower of roses, +On which the matchless fair one dozes, +And plant around her conch the graces, +While jealous Venus breaks her laces, +To see a younger face promoted, +To see her own old face out-voted; +And myrtle branches twisting o'er her, +Bow down, each turn'd a true adorer. +Up starts the Irish Bard--in vain +I write, 'tis all against the grain: +In vain I talk of smiles or sighs, +The girls all have him in their eyes; +And not a soul--mamma, or miss-- +But vows he's the sole Bard of Bliss! + +Since first I dipp'd in the romantic, +A hundred thousand have run frantic-- +There's not a hideous highland spot, +(Long fallowed to the core by Scott)-- +No rill, through rack and thistle dribbling, +But has its deadlier crop of scribbling. +Each fen, and flat, and flood, and fell, +Gives birth to verses by the ell-- +There Wordsworth, for his muse's sallies, +Claims all the ponds, the lanes, and alleys-- +There Coleridge swears none else shall tune +A bag-pipe to the list'ning moon; +On come in clouds the scribbling columns, +Each prowling for his next three volumes. +I scorn the rascal tribe, and spurn all +The yearly, monthly, and diurnal. + +I write the finest things that ever +Made duchess fond, or marquiss clever-- +(Although I'd rather half turn Turk, +The thing's such monstrous up-hill work). +My _ton's_ the very cream of fashion, +My passion the sublimest passion, +My rage _satanic_, love the same, +Of all blue flames, the bluest flame-- +My piety perpetual matins, +A quaker propp'd on double pattens; +My lovely girls the most precocious, +My beaus delightfully atrocious! +Yet scarcely have I play'd my card, +When up comes politician Ward, +Before my face he trumps my trump, +Sweeps off my honours in the lump, +And never asking my permission, +Talks sermons to the third edition. + +Or Boulogne, Highway Byeway, Grattan, +(The Pyrenees begin to flatten, +A feast denied to storm and shower, +The pen's the wonder-working power); +Or Smith, the master of "Addresses," +Carves history out in modern messes:-- +Tells how gay Charles cook'd up his collops, +How fleeced his friends, how paid his trollops-- +How pledged his soul, and pawn'd his oath, +'Till none would give a straw for both; +And touching paupers for the Evil, +Touch'd England half way to the devil +Or Hook, picks up my favorite hits, +For when was friendship between wits? +Or Lyster, doubly dandyfied, +Fidgets his donkey by my side; +Or Bulwer rambles back from Greece, +Woolgathering from the Golden fleece-- +Or forty volumes, piping hot, +Come blazing from volcano Scott; +When pens like their's play all my game. +The tasteless world must bear the blame. + +I had a budget, full of fan, +But here again, I'm lost, undone! +I'm so forestall'd--that faith, I could +Half quarrel with--my _lively Hood_: +For _odd it is_, my "Oddities," +Are _even_ all the same with his; +Would _Sherwood_ (him of Paternoster), +Assist my pilferings to foster, +I'd turn free-booter--nay, I would +E'en play the part of _robbing Hood_-- +But brother Wits should never quarrel, +Nor try to "pluck each other's laurel," +And tho' my income's scarce enough +To find friend Petersham with snuff, +Here's peace to all! and kind regards! +And _Brother Hood_ among the Bards. + +So all, friends, countrymen, and lovers, +With one, or one and twenty covers, +Farewell to all;--my glories past, +I pen my lay, my sweetest, last! +Another Phoenix, build my nest +Of spices, Phoebus' very best, +Concentrating in these gay pages, +Wit, worth the wit of all the stages; +Love, tender as the midnight talk, +In softest summer's midnight walk, +With leave to all earth's fools to spurn 'em, +Nay (if they first will _buy_) to burn 'em. + + + +TO THE REVIEWERS. + +Oh! ye, enthroned in presidential awe, +To give the song-smit generation law; +Who wield Apollo's delegated rod, +And shake Parnassus with your sovereign nod; +A pensive Pilgrim, worn with base turmoils, +Plebeian cares, and mercenary toils, +Implores your pity, while with footsteps rude, +He dares within the mountain's pale intrude; +For, oh! enchantment through its empire dwells. +And rules the spirit with Lethean spells; +By hands unseen aerial harps are hung, +And Spring, like Hebe, ever fair and young, +On her broad bosom rears the laughing Loves, +And breathes bland incense through the warbling groves; +Spontaneous, bids unfading blossoms blow, +And nectar'd streams mellifluously flow. + +There, while the Muses wanton unconfined, +And wreaths resplendent round their temples bind, +'Tis yours to strew their steps with votive flowers; +To watch them slumbering 'midst the blissful bowers; +To guard the shades that hide their sacred charms; +And shield their beauties from unhallow'd arms! +Oh! may their suppliant steal a passing kiss? +Alas! he pants not for superior bliss; +Thrice-bless'd his virgin modesty shall be +To snatch an evanescent ecstacy! +The fierce extremes of superhuman love, +For his frail sense too exquisite might prove; +He turns, all blushing, from th' Aoenian shade, +To humbler raptures with a mortal maid. + +I know 'tis yours, when unscholastic wights +Unloose their fancies in presumptuous flights, +Awaked to vengeance, on such flights to frown, +Clip the wing'd horse, and roll his rider down. +But, if empower'd to strike th' immortal lyre, +The ardent vot'ry glows with genuine fire, +'Tis yours, while care recoils, and envy flies, +Subdued by his resistless energies, +'Tis yours to bid Pierian fountains flow, +And toast his name in Wit's seraglio; +To bind his brows with amaranthine bays, +And bless, with beef and beer, his mundane days! +Alas! nor beef, nor beer, nor bays, are mine, +If by your looks my doom I may divine, +Ye frown so dreadful, and ye swell so big, +Your fateful arms, the goose-quill, and the wig: +The wig, with wisdom's somb'rous seal impress'd, +Mysterious terrors, grim portents, invest; +And shame and honour on the goose-quill perch, +Like doves and ravens on a country church. + +As some raw 'Squire, by rustic nymphs admired, +Of vulgar charms, and easy conquests tired, +Resolves new scenes and nobler flights to dare, +Nor "waste his sweetness in the desert air," +To town repairs, some famed assembly seeks, +With red importance blust'ring in his cheeks; +But when, electric on th' astonish'd wight +Burst the full floods of music and of light, +While levell'd mirrors multiply the rows +Of radiant beauties, and accomplish'd beaus, +At once confounded into sober sense, +He feels his pristine insignificance: +And blinking, blund'ring, from the general _quiz_ +Retreats, "to ponder on the thing he is." +By pride inflated, and by praise allured, +Small Authors thus strut forth, and thus get cured; +But, Critics, hear I an angel pleads for _me_, +That tongueless, ten-tongued cherub, _Modesty_. + +Sirs! if you damn me, you'll resemble those +That flay'd the Traveller who had lost his clothes; +Are there not foes enough to _do_ my books? +Relentless trunk-makers and pastry-cooks? +Acknowledge not those barbarous allies, +The wooden box-men, and the men of pies: +For Heav'n's sake, let it ne'er be understood +That you, great Censors! coalesce with _wood;_ +Nor let your actions contradict your looks, +That tell the world you ne'er colleague with _cooks._ + +But, if the blithe Muse will indulge a smile, +Why scowls thy brow, O Bookseller! the while? +Thy sunk eyes glisten through eclipsing fears, +Fill'd, like Cassandra's, with prophetic tears: +With such a visage, withering, woe-begone, +Shrinks the pale poet from the damning dun. +Come, let us teach each other's tears to flow, +Like fasting bards, in fellowship of woe, +When the coy Muse puts on coquettish airs, +Nor deigns one line to their voracious prayers! +Thy spirit, groaning like th' encumber'd block +Which bears my works, deplores them as _dead stock._ +Doom'd by these undiscriminating times +To endless sleep, with Delia Cruscan rhymes; +Yes, Critics whisper thee, litigious wretches! +Oblivion's hand shall _finish_ all my _sketches._ +But see, _my_ soul, such bug-bears has repell'd +With magnanimity unparallel'd! +Take up the volume, every care dismiss, +And smile, gruff Gorgon! while I tell thee this: +Not one shall lie neglected on the shelf, +All shall be sold--I'll buy them in myself! + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems (1828), by Thomas Gent + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS (1828) *** + +***** This file should be named 11215.txt or 11215.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/2/1/11215/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Virginia Paque and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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