And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine,
Harmonious favourite of the Nine !
Repine not at thy lot.
Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When Persecution's arm is dead,
And critics are forgot.
Still I must yield those worthies merit,
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,
Bad rhymes, and those who write them;
And though myself may be the next
By criticism to be vext,
I really will not fight them.
Perhaps they would do quite as well
To break the rudely sounding shell
Of such a young beginner:
He who offends at pert nineteen,
Ere thirty may become, I ween,
A very harden'd sinner.
Now, Clare, I must return to you;
And, sure, apologies are due :
Accept, then, my concession.
In truth, dear Clare, in fancy's flight
I soar along from left to right;
My muse admires digression.
I think I said 't would be your fate
To add one star to royal state;-
May regal smiles attend you!
And should a noble monarch reign,
You will not seek his smiles in vain,
If worth can recommend you.
Yet since in danger courts abound,
Where specious rivals glitter round,
From snares may saints preserve you;
And grant your love or friendship ne'er
From any claim a kindred care,
But those who best deserve you!
Not for a moment may you stray
From truth's secure, unerring way!
May no delights decoy!
O'er roses may your footsteps move,
Your smiles be ever smiles of love,
Your tears be tears of joy!
Oh! if you wish that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless,
And virtues crown your brow;
Be still as you were wont to be,
Spotless as you've been known to me,-
Be still as you are now
And though some trifling share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,
To me were doubly dear;
Whilst blessing your beloved name,
I'd waive at once a poet's fame,
To prove a prophet here.
LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN
THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW.
SPOT of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mused the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But, ah! without the thoughts which then were
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, [mine:
Invite the bosom to recall the past,
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,
"Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!"
When fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd And calm its cares and passions into rest, [breast, Oft have I thought, 't would soothe my dying hour,If aught may soothe when life resigns her power,To know some humble grave, some narrow cell, Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell; With this fond dream, methinks 't were sweet to die
And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie;
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose,
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose;
For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade,
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd;
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved,
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps
moved;
Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear,
Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here;
Deplored by those in early days allied,
And unremember'd by the world beside.
WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE
AUTHOR WOULD SOON DIE.
ADIEU, thou Hill! where early joy
Spread roses o'er my brow;
Where Science seeks each loitering boy
With knowledge to endow.
Adieu, my youthful friends or foes,
Partners of former bliss or woes;
No more through Ida's paths we stray;
Soon must I share the gloomy cell,
Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell
Unconscious of the day.
Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes,
Ye spires of Granta's vale,
Where Learning robed in sable reigns,
And Melancholy pale.
Ye comrades of the jovial hour,
Ye tenants of the classic bower,
On Cama's verdant margin placed,
Adieu! while memory still is mine,
For, offerings on Oblivion's shrine,
These scenes must be effaced.
Adieu, ye mountains of the clime
Where grew my youthful years;
Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime
His giant summit rears.
Why did my childhood wander forth
From you, ye regions of the North,
With sons of pride to roam?
Why did I quit my Highland cave,
Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave,
To seek a Sotheron home!
Hall of my Sires! a long farewell
Yet why to thee adieu?
Thy vaults will echo back my knell,
Thy towers my tomb will view:
The faltering tongue which sung thy fall,
And former glories of thy Hall,
Forgets its wonted simple note-
But yet the Lyre retains the strings,
And sometimes, on Æolian wings,
In dying strains may float.
Fields, which surround yon rustic cot,
While yet I linger here,
Adieu! you are not now forgot,
To retrospection dear.
Streamlet along whose rippling surge
My youthful limbs were wont to urge,
At noontide heat, their pliant course; Plunging with ardour from the shore, Thy springs will lave these limbs no more, Deprived of active force.
And shall I here forget the scene,
Still nearest to my breast?
Rocks rise and rivers roll between
The spot which passion blest;
Yet, Mary, all thy beauties seem
Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream,
To me in smiles display'd;
Till slow disease resigns his prey
To Death, the parent of decay,
Thine image cannot fade.
And thou, my Friend! whose gentle love
Yet thrills my bosom's chords,
How much thy friendship was above
Description's power of words!
Still near my breast thy gift I wear
Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear,
Of Love the pure, the sacred gem;
Our souls were equal, and our lot
In that dear moment quite forgot;
Let Pride alone condemn !
All, all is dark and cheerless now!
No smile of Love's deceit
Can warın my veins with wonted glow,
Can bid Life's pulses beat:
Not e'en the hope of future fame
Can wake my faint, exhausted frame,
Or crown with fancied wreaths my head. Mine is a short inglorious race,
To humble in the dust my face,
And mingle with the dead.
Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart;
On him who gains thy praise,
Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart,
Consumed in Glory's blaze;
But me she beckons from the earth,
My name obscure, unmark'd my birth,
My life a short and vulgar dream:
Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd,
My hopes recline within a shroud,
My fate is Lethe's stream.
When I repose beneath the sod,
Unheeded in the clay,
Where once my playful footsteps trod,
Where now my head must lay,
The meed of Pity will be shed
In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed,
By nightly skies, and storms alone;
No mortal eye will deign to steep
With tears the dark sepulchral deep
Which hides a name unknown.
Forget this world, my restless sprite,
Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven:
There must thou soon direct thy flight,
If errors are forgiven.
To bigots and to sects unknown,
Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne ;
To Him address thy trembling prayer:
He, who is merciful and just,
Will not reject a child of dust,
Although his meanest care.
Father of Light! to Thee I call;
My soul is dark within:
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall,
Avert the death of sin.
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star,
Who calm'st the elemental war,
Whose mantle is yon boundless sky,
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive:
And, since I soon must cease to live,
Instruct me how to die.
1807.
[First published, 1832.]
Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign!
No jealousy bids me reprove:
One, who is thus from nature vain,
I pity, but I cannot love.
January 15, 1807. [First published, 1832.
OH, Anne, your offences to me have been grievous: I thought from my wrath no atonement could save you:
But woman is made to command and deceive usI look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you.
I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you, Yet thought that a day's separation was long; When we met, I determined again to suspect youYour smile soon convinced me suspicion was I swore, in a transport of young indignation. [wrong. With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you: I saw you-my anger became admiration;
And now, all my wish, all my hope 's to regain you. With beauty like yours, ob, how vain the contention !
Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you; At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension, Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore you! January 16, 1807. [First published, 1832.]
AH! heedless girl! why thus disclose What ne'er was meant for other ears; Why thus destroy thine own repose
And dig the source of future tears?
Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid,
While lurking envious foes, will smile,
For all the follies thou hast said
Of those who spoke but to beguile.
Vain girl! thy ling'ring woes are nigh,
If thou believ'st what striplings say:
Oh, from the deep temptation fly,
Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey.
Dost thou repeat, in childish boast,
The words man utters to deceive?
Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost,
If thou canst venture to believe.
While now amongst thy female peers
Thou tell'st again the soothing tale,
Canst thou not mark the rising sneers
Duplicity in vain would veil?
These tales in secret silence hush,
Nor make thyself the public gaze:
What modest maid without a blush
Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise?
Will not the laughing boy despise
Her who relates each fond conceitWho, thinking Heaven is in her eyes, Yet cannot see the slight deceit ? For she who takes a soft delight These amorous nothings in revealing, Must credit all we say or write, While vanity prevents concealing.
OH, say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed The heart which adores you should wish to dissever;
Such Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed,-
To bear me from love and from beauty for ever.
Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone
Could bid me from fond admiration refrain;
By these, every hope, every wish were o'erthrown,
Till smiles should restore me to rapture again.
As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined,
The rage of the tempest united must weather;
My love and my life were by nature design'd
To flourish alike, or to perish together.
Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have de-
Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu; [creed
Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed,
His soul, his existence, are centred in you.
1807. [First published, 1832.]
TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING "SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, 'AND YET NO TEAR.'"
THY verse is "sad" enough, no doubt:
A devilish deal more sad than witty!
Why we should weep I can't find out,
Unless for thee we weep in pity.
Yet there is one I pity more;
And much, alas! I think he needs it; For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore,
Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.
Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic,
May once be read-but never after:
Yet their effect 's by no means tragic,
Although by far too dull for laughter.
But would you make our bosoms bleed,
And of no common pang complain-
If you would make us weep indeed,
Tell us, you'll read them o'er again.
March 8, 1807. [First published, 1832.]
ON FINDING A FAN.
IN one who felt as once he felt,
This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame;
But now his heart no more will melt,
Because that heart is not the same.
As when the ebbing flames are low,
The aid which once improved their light,
And bade them burn with fiercer glow,
Now quenches all their blaze in night.
Thus has it been with passion's fires-
As many a boy and girl remembers-
While every hope of love expires,
Extinguish'd with the dying embers.
The first, though not a spark survive,
Some careful hand may teach to burn;
The last, alas! can ne'er survive ;
No touch can bid its warmth return.
Or, if it chance to wake again,
Not always doom'd its heat to smother,
It sheds (so wayward fates ordain)
Its former warmth around another.
1807.
[First published, 1832.]
FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.
THOU Power! who hast ruled me through infancy's days,
Young offspring of fancy, 't is time we should part; Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,
The coldest effusion which springs from my heart. This bosom, responsive to rapture no more,
Shall hush thy wild notes,nor implore thee to sing; The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre, Yet even these themes are departed for ever; No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire,
My visions are flown, to return,-alas! never. When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl, How vain is the effort delight to prolong! When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul,
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?
Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone,
Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign?
Or dwell with delight on the bours that are flown?
Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.
Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love?
Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain !
But how can my numbers in sympathy move,
When I scarcely can hope to behold them again?
Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done,
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires?
For glorics like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone!
For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires!
Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast-
"T is hush'd; and my feeble endeavours are o'cr;
And those who have heard it will pardon the past,
When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate
And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot,
Since early affection and love are o'ercast:
Oh! blest had my fate been, and happy my lot,
Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the
last.
Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er
meet;
[few;
If our songs have been languid, they surely are Let us hope that the present at least will be sweetThe present-which seals our eternal Adicu. 1807. [First published, 1832.]
TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD.
YOUNG Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground,
I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine; That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around,
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. Such, such was my hope, when in infancy's years, On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride; They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide.
I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour,
Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power,
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire;
But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire.
Oh! hardy thou wert-even now little care
Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds
gently heal:
But thou wert not fated affection to share
For who could suppose that a stranger would feel! Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while;
Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, When Infancy's years of probation are done. Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds, That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay, For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds, And still may thy branches their beauty display.
Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine,
Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death,
On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine,
Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath.
For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave
O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid;
While the branches thus gratefully shelter his
grave,
The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot,
He will tell them in whispers more softly to Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot; [tread. Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime,
Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay, And here must he sleep, till the moments of time Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day. 1807. [First published, 1832.]
ON REVISITING HARROW. HERE once engaged the stranger's view Young Friendship's record simply traced; Few were her words,-but yet, though few, Resentment's hand the line defaced. Deeply she cut-but not erased,
The characters were still so plain, That Friendship once return'd, and gazed,Till Memory hail'd the words again. Repentance placed them as before; Forgiveness join'd her gentle name; So fair the inscription seem'd once more, That Friendship thought it still the same. Thus might the Record now have been; But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavour, Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between, And blotted out the line for ever.
EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF
SOUTHWELL,
A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS.
JOHN ADAMS lies here, of the parish of Southwell,
A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth well:
He carried so much, and he carried so fast,
He could carry no more-so was carried at last;
For, the liquor he drank, being too much for one,
He could not carry off,-so he's now carri-on.
September, 1807.
THOSE flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, Bright as thy mother's in their hue; Those rosy lips, whose dimples play And smile to steal the heart away, Recall a scene of former joy,
And touch thy father's heart, my Boy!
And thou canst lisp a father's name-
Ah, William, were thine own the same,-
No self-reproach-but, let me cease-
My care for thee shall purchase peace;
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy,
And pardon all the past, my Boy!
Her lowly grave the turf has prest,
And thou hast known a stranger's breast;
Derision sneers upon thy birth,
And yields thee scarce a name on earth;
Yet shall not these one hope destroy,-
A Father's heart is thine, my Boy!
Why, let the world unfeeling frown,
Must I fond Nature's claim disown?
Ah, no-though moralists reprove,
I hail thee, dearest child of love,
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy-
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy!
Oh, 't will be sweet in thee to trace,
Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face,
Ere half my glass of life is run,
At once a brother and a son;
And all my wane of years employ
In justice done to thee, my Boy!
Although so young thy heedless sire,
Youth will not damp parental fire;
And, wert thou still less dear to me,
While Helen's form revives in thee,
The breast, which beat to former joy,
Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy!
1807. [First published, 1830.]
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