Page images
PDF
EPUB

Had Fortune aided Nature's care,
For once forgetting to be blind,
His would have been an ample share,
If well-proportion'd to his mind.

But had the goddess clearly seen,

His form had fix'd her fickle breast;
Her countless hoards would his have been,
And none remain'd to give the rest.

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY,*
COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY
DEAR TO HIM.†

HUSH'D are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
Not e'en a zephyr, wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb,
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,

That clay where once such animation beam'd;
The King of Terrors seized her as his prey,
Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd.

Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,

Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate! Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, Not here the muse her virtues would relate.

But wherefore weep? her matchless spirit soars
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers
Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay.

And shall presumptuous mortals heaven arraign,
And, madly, godlike providence accuse?
Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain,
I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse.

Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,

Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face; Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, Still in my heart retain their wonted place.

TO EMMA.‡

SINCE now the hour is come at last,
When you must quit your anxious lover;
Since now our dream of bliss is past,

One pang, my girl, and all is over.

Alas! that pang will be severe,

[ocr errors]

Which bids us part to meet no more,. Which tears me far from one so dear, Departing for a distant shore.

• Miss Parker.

Well: we have pass'd some happy hours,
And joy will mingle with our tears;
When thinking on these ancient towers,
The shelter of our infant years;

Where from the gothic casement's height,
We view'd the lake, the park, the dale,
And still, though tears obstruct our sight,
We lingering look a last farewell.

O'er fields through which we used to run,
And spend the hours in childish play;
O'er shades where when our race was done,
Reposing on my breast you lay;

Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,
Forgot to scare the hov'ring flies,
Yet envied every fly the kiss

It dared to give your slumbering eyes.

See still the little painted bark,

In which I row'd you o'er the lake,
See there, high waving o'er the park,
The elm I clamber'd for your sake.

These times are past-our joys are gone,
You leave me, leave this happy vale:
These scenes I must retrace alone;
Without thee what will they avail?

Who can conceive, who has not proved,
The anguish of a last embrace?
When, torn from all you fondly loved,

You bid a long adieu to peace.

This is the deepest of our woes,

For this these tears our cheeks bedew;
This is of love the final close,
Oh God, the fondest, last adieu!

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE.

DELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF
"THE
WHEEL OF FORTUNE" AT A PRIVATE
THEATRE.

SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;
Since now to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence, though she find not fame.
Still, not for her alone we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect:
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
No COOKE, no KEMBLE, can salute you here,
No SIDDONS draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the debut
Of embryo actors, to the Drama new:
Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try;
Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly :

To these stanzas, which are from the private volume, the following note
was attached: "The author claims the indulgence of the reader more for
this piece than, perhaps, any other in the collection; but as it was written at
an earlier period than the rest (being composed at the age of fourteen,) and
his first essay, ho preferred submitting it to the indulgence of his friends in Failing in this our first attempt to soar,

ts present state, to making either addition or alteration."

• This poem is inserted from the private volume.

Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more.

[ocr errors]

Not one poor trembler only fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise;
But all our dramatis personæ wait
In fond suspense this crisis of our* fate.
No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward;
For these, each Hero all his power displays,
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze.
Surely the last will some protection find;
None to the softer sex can prove unkind:
Whilst Youth and Beauty form the female shield,
The sternest Censort to the fair must yield.
Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail,
Should, after all, our best endeavors fail,
Still let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.

[blocks in formation]

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT

THE FOLLOWING REPLY. §

Он, factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth,
What though our "nation's foes" lament the fate,
With generous feelings, of the good and great,
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name
Of him whose meed exists in endless fame?
When PITT expired in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscured his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits "war not with the dead:"
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave;
He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state:
When lo! a Hercules in Fox appear'd,
Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd:
He, too, is fall'n who Britain's loss supplied,
With him our fast-reviving hopes have died;
Not one great people only raise his urn,
All Europe's far extended regions mourn.
"These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue,
To give the palm where Justice points its due;"
Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail,

Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.
Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear remains in honor'd marble sleep:
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes alike his talents own;
Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine,
Nor e'en to PITT the patiot's palm resign;
Which Envy wearing Candor's sacred mask,
For PITT, and PITT alone, has dared to ask.

[blocks in formation]

TO M. S. G.*

WHENE'ER I view those lips of thine,
Their hue invites my fervent kiss;
Yet I forego that bliss divine,
Alas! it were unhallowed bliss.

Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, How could I dwell upon its snows? Yet is the daring wish represt,

For that, would banish its repose.

A glance from thy soul-searching eye
Can raise with hope, depress with fear;
Yet I conceal my love, and why?

I would not force a painful tear.

I ne'er have told my love, yet thou Hast seen my ardent flame too well; And shall I plead my passion now,

To make thy bosom's heaven a hell?

No! for thou never canst be mine,
United by the priest's decree;
By any ties but those divine,

Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be.

Then let the secret fire consume,
Let it consume, thou shalt not know;
With joy I court a certain doom,
Rather than spread its guilty glow.

I will not ease my tortured heart,
By driving dove-eyed peace from thine,
Rather than such a sting impart,

Each thought presumptuous I resign.

Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave
More than I here shall dare to tell;
Thy innocence and mine to save,-
I bid thee now a last farewell.

Yes, yield that breast to seek despair,

And hope no more thy soft embrace, Which to obtain my soul would dare,

All, all reproach, but thy disgrace.

At least from guilt shalt thou be free, No matron shall thy shame reprove, Though cureless pangs may prey on me, No martyr shalt thou be to love.

TO CAROLINE.†

THINK'ST thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,
Suffused in tears implore to stay;
And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs,
Which said far more than words can say?

Though keen the grief thy tears exprest, When love and hope lay both o'erthrown; Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own.

Only printed in the private volume. † Printed only in the private volume.

419

[blocks in formation]

Then read, dear girl! with feeling read,

For thou wilt ne'er be one of those; To thee in vain I shall not plead In pity for the poet's woes.

He was in sooth a genuine bard;
He was no faint fictitious flame
Like his, may love be thy reward,
But not thy hapless fate the same.

THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE.*

« Α Βαρβιτος δε χορδαῖς Έρωτα μουνον ἠχει.”

Anacreon.

AWAY with your fictions of flimsy romance

Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove; Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.

Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove, From what blest inspirations your sonnets would flow,

Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love!

If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse,

Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove, Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse,

And try the effect of the first kiss of love.

I hate you, ye cold compositions of art,

Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove,

I court the effusions that spring from the heart Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love.

Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes,

Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move : Arcadia displays but a region of dreams;

What are visions like these to the first kiss of love?

Oh! cease to affirm that man since his birth, § From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove;

Some portion of paradise still is on earth,
And Eden revives in the first kiss of love.

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past

For years fleet away with the wings of the doveThe dearest remembrance will still be the last, Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.

• These stanzas were printed in the private volume, and in the first edition

of Hours of 1 tleness, but omitted in the second.

↑ "Those tissues of fancy Moriah' has wove."-Private volume. "Your shepherds, your pipes, &c.-Private volume.

"Oh! cease to affirm that man, from his birth," &c.-Private volume.

"Moriah, the Goddess of Folly."

TO MARY.

OH! did those eyes, instead of fire,

With bright but mild affection shine, Though they might kindle less desire,

Love, more than mortal, would be thine.

For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, We must admire, but still despair; That fatal glance forbids esteem.

When nature stamped thy beauteous birth, So much perfection in thee shone,

She fear'd that too divine for earth,

The skies might claim thee for their own.

Therefore, to guard her dearest work, Lest angels might dispute the prize She bade a secret lightning lurk

Within those once celestial eyes.

These might the boldest sylph appal, When gleaming with meridian blaze, Thy beauty must enrapture all,

But who can dare thine ardent gaze?

'Tis said that Berenice's hair

In stars adorns the vault of heaven : But they would ne'er permit thee there, Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven.

For did those eyes as planets roll,

Thy sister-lights would scarce appear: E'en suns, which systems now control, Would twinkle dimly through their sphere. 1806.

TO WOMAN.

WOMAN! experience might have told me
That all must love thee who behold thee;
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are nought;
But placed in all thy charms before me,
All I forget but to adore thee.

Oh, Memory thou choicest blessing

When join'd with hope, when still possessing, But how much cursed by every lover

When hope is filed and passion's over.

Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,

How prompt are striplings to believe her!

How throbs the pulse when first we view
The eye
that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth
Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,

"Woman, thy vows are traced in sand."

• The last line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish proverb.

TO M. S. G.

WHEN I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive,

Extend not your anger to sleep;

For in visions alone your affection can live,-
I rise, and it leaves me to weep.

Then, Morpheus! envelope my faculties fast,
Shed o'er me your languor benign;

Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,
What rapture celestial is mine!

They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,
Mortality's emblem is given:

To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,
If this be a foretaste of heaven.

Ah! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow,
Nor deem me too happy in this;

If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now,
Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss.

Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may
smile,

Oh! think not my penance deficient!
When dreams of your presence my slumber beguile,
To awake will be torture sufficient.

Awake, with it my fancy teems;
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams
The vision charms the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora's ray
For breaking slumbers of delight
Which make me wish for endless night.
Since, oh! whate'er my future fate,
Shall joy or wo my steps await,
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image I can ne'er forget.

Alas! again no more we meet,
No more our former looks repeat;
Then let me breathe this parting prayer
The dictate of my bosom's care:
"May heaven so guard my lovely Quaker,
That anguish never can o'ertake her;
That peace and virtue ne'r forsake her,
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker;
Oh! may the happy mortal, fated
To be by dearest ties, related,
For her each hour new joys discover,
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair bosom never know
What 'tis to feel the restless wo
Which stings the soul with vain regret,
Of him who never can forget!"

TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER.*

SWEET girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne'er forget;
And though we ne'er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain.
I would not say, "I love," but still
My senses struggle with my will:
In vain to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt;
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies:
Perhaps this is not love, but yet
Our meeting I can ne'er forget.

What though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spokę;
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale it never feels:
Deceit the guilty lips impart,
And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul's interpreter, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise.
As thus our glances oft conversed,
And all our bosoms felt rehearsed,
No spirit, from within reproved us,
Say rather, "'twas the spirit moved us."
Though what they utter'd I repress,
Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess;
For as on thee my memory ponders,
Perchance to me thine also wanders.
This for myself, at least, I'll say,

:

[blocks in formation]

† Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire: "Gormal of snow," is an expression frequently to be found in Ossian.

This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been accustomed to the mountains; it is by no means uncommon on attaining the top of Bene-vis Ben-y-bourd, &c., to perceive between the summit and the valley, clouds pouring down rain, and occasionally accompanied by lightning, while the

Thy form appears through night, through day spectator literally looks down upon the storm, perfectly secure from is effecta.

• These lines were published in the private volume, and the first edition of Hours of Idleness, but subsequently omitted by the author.

Breasting the lofty surge.-Shakspeare.

The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge, and hile inte the sea at New Aberdeen.

« PreviousContinue »