4518 
 C44n
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 1 
 
 'Nuqk Canovje* 
 
 BT 
 
 MISS M. S. CROKER, 
 AUTHOR OF "THE QUESTION," c. %c. 
 
 " Heaven first, in its mercy, taught mortals their letters, 
 For ladies in limbo, and lovers in fetters, 
 Or some Author, who, placing his persons before ye, 
 Ungallantly leaves them to write their own story." 
 
 JLcmDon : 
 
 PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR, 
 
 By G. Sidney, Northumberland Street, Strand; 
 
 PUBLISHED BY J. SOUTER, J3> ST. PAUL'S CHUKCH-YARD. 
 
 1818.
 
 %
 
 
 TO 
 
 MRS. HARVEY COMBE, 
 
 AS A SINCERE TOKEN OF RESPECT, THESE POEMS 
 
 ARE INSCRIBED BY HER OBLIGED, AND 
 
 AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 a 2 
 
 f" <r* jr\ r* i-t t f~\
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 In presenting these Poems to the Subscribers, 
 the Author cannot avoid expressing her deep 
 sense of gratitude for the very distinguished 
 patronage she has received, and hopes that this 
 small volume may not be deemed quite unworthy 
 of the perusal of those eminent and distinguished 
 Characters who have honoured her Subscription 
 List with their Names.
 
 *a
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Monody on the Death of the late Captain Croker 1 
 
 To the Blackbird 6 
 
 To Mrs. Harvey Combe , 9 
 
 The Foundling ,, 11 
 
 Ellen's Wedding , 14 
 
 Quarrel with Poverty 16 
 
 The Wounded Deer 25 
 
 To a Lily < 30 
 
 Edric and Myra 31 
 
 To Pity 3S 
 
 The Dream 40 
 
 Reflections in Winter . 44 
 
 The Vintage Feast ... 46 
 
 To Friendship 60 
 
 Ode to England 63 
 
 Stanzas 67 
 
 Sonnet to Solitude 6S 
 
 The Two Vicars 61) 
 
 The Parish Clerk and the Honeysuckle 77 
 
 A tribute to the Memory of Her Royal Highness the Prin- 
 cess Charlotte Augusta of Wales 83 
 
 Elegy , 90
 
 *** The Author respectfully informs the Subscribers, 
 that the second part of the List of Names will be 
 published in a short time.
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE REGENT. 
 
 6 Copies. 
 The Most Noble the Marquis of Abercorn. 
 Countess of Aberdeen. 
 
 Viscountess Anson. k 2 Copies. 
 
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 R. Ackerman, Esq. 
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 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
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 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. XI 
 
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 F. 
 
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 XH LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
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 The Hon. and Right Rev. the Lord Bishop of Glou- 
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 H. 
 
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 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. Xlll 
 
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 XIV LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 M 
 
 Sir Digby Mackworth, Bart. Gt. Ormond Street. 
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 y Miss Penny, Charlotte Street. 
 
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 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. XV 
 
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 R. 
 
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 XVI LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 T. 
 
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 U. & V. 
 
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 VV. 
 
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 Mrs. Watson. 
 
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 Y . Gower Street.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 MONODY 
 
 ON THE 
 
 Beaft til fte Sfatftor'S Rafter, 
 
 THE LATE 
 
 CAPTAIN CROKER, 
 
 Of the ggth Regiment. 
 
 Yes, Spring returns, and every plant and flower, 
 Restored by its invigorating power, 
 
 Resumes its bloom : 
 Nature revives, the world around looks gay. 
 And who, amidst the charms of May, 
 
 Remembers Winter's gloom ? 
 
 I do, alas ! and oft the falling tear, 
 Moist'ning the varied beauties of the year, 
 
 Obscures the brightest hour : 
 Memory recalls a dismal day, 
 (Sad contrast) to a scene so gay, 
 
 Wjth agonizing power. 
 B
 
 " Yet 'tis the lot of life." I know it well, 
 
 That takes not from the misery of farewell. 
 
 " Thousands have felt the loss as well as you" 
 
 Is unavailing, and it is not true. 
 
 I mourn a Father of no common cast ; 
 
 Remembrance sad recalls each hour that's past, 
 
 E'en from the time he wiped the infant tear, 
 
 His children's good or ill, his hope, his fear. 
 
 To them his every thought and care was given, 
 
 Gave all he had on Earth, then prayed to Heaven I 
 
 Grateful, I trust, in Providence Divine, 
 
 That Heaven received him with a love like mine ! 
 
 And, Oh ! to guide me through this world of care, 
 
 Give me a hope that I may meet him there. 
 
 Gifted by nature, with the strongest mind, 
 
 The clearest Judgment, and a Wit refined, 
 
 In varied active life he passed his days ; 
 
 He did his duty, and he sought no praise. 
 
 Though gay good humour cheered the social hour, 
 
 Yet Pride and Folly always felt his power. 
 
 His eye was keen ; and arrogance represt 
 
 Shrunk into silence, could not stand his jest. 
 
 Careless what others said, what others thought, 
 
 He spoke, he lived, he acted as he ought ; 
 
 Yet, when he heard of woes he could not heal, 
 
 The starting tear his feeling would reveal.
 
 By age compelled to quit the busy scene, 
 Composed he left it, and with mind serene, 
 The few remaining years he had to spend, 
 To a small circle was the cheerful friend. 
 To all around him amiable and mild, 
 Kind to a servant, playful with a child. 
 His smile benignant ended others' strife, 
 Thus passed the evening of his closing life: 
 And all around, with gratitude sincere, 
 Joined with his weeping children o'er his bier.
 
 6 
 
 TO 
 
 THE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 Tuou seest, sweet Bird ! with wondering eyes, 
 
 The face of nature change ; 
 Perch on each tree with wild surprize, 
 
 Unknowing where to range. 
 
 But yesterday the fields were green ; 
 
 Thy food thy nest secure : 
 To-day, alas ! nor food, nor rest, 
 
 Thy efforts can procure. 
 
 The sunbeams, darting from the East, 
 
 Awoke thy jocund strain ; 
 And bounteous nature spread thy feast, 
 
 On every hedge and plain. 
 
 Sweet Wanderer ! how hard thy fate ! 
 
 Yet cease thy plaintive moan, 
 Wliile I a sad reverse relate, 
 
 For sure thy fate's my own.
 
 On me, like thee, the world looked gay, 
 But ah ! it would not last ; 
 
 Hope gilded every future day, 
 And comfort closed the past. 
 
 Lowering and cold, as snow in showers, 
 
 Adversity appeared ; 
 And crushed, as if by magic powers, 
 
 The fabric Hope had reared. 
 
 Wondering, like thee, I gazed around, 
 Though grief my pride supprest ; 
 
 Nor love, nor friendship, could be found, 
 Both vanished, like thy nest. 
 
 Yet Summer's sun again will shine, 
 Thy woes be quickly o'er : 
 
 Soon Fortune's smile may banish mine, 
 And place me as before. 
 
 Thou wilt forget thy cause to grieve, 
 Yet when the world I view, 
 
 Though pleased its favours to receive, 
 I'll know their value too.
 
 8 
 
 But sombre thought presents, I know, 
 
 A prospect more forlorn ; 
 For thou may'st perish in the snow, 
 
 I sink beneath the storm. 
 
 Poor Bird ! this comfort yet is ours, 
 Should others come too late ; 
 
 Thou could'st not shun the piercing showers, 
 Nor I the storms of Fate.
 
 TO 
 
 MRS. HARVEY COMBE. 
 
 I've mark'd the first blush of the Morning appear, 
 While my heart was with pleasure elate ; 
 
 I've mark'd the first flower at the Spring of the year, 
 And at Winter I've mourn'd o'er its fate. 
 
 I've mark'd on the cheek of the loveliest fair, 
 The beauteous rose-bud grow pale ; 
 
 The tempest of Sorrow that beauty impair, 
 As leaves shook by the Autumnal gale. 
 
 I've wept o'er the fate of the poor and distressed, 
 I've soothed of sad Misery the groan ; 
 
 Alas ! little thought, at that time, that this breast, 
 Would e'er claim such a fate for its own. 
 
 Yet a pleasure, a comfort much brighter is mine, 
 'Tis sacred to Friendship and thee ; 
 
 And I gratefully pray to that Power so benign, 
 To repay every kindness to me.
 
 10 
 
 The varied sensations that circle my heart, 
 My words are too weak to define ; 
 
 They sink into air ere they've power to depart,- 
 Still the pleasing sensation is mine.
 
 11 
 
 THE FOUNDLING. 
 
 If to protect, to save, the tender babe, 
 
 Offspring of love nhallowed, from the grave ; 
 
 To shield from ill, from penury and pain, 
 
 The'infant branded with an error's stain, 
 
 Claims praise, claims gratitude from Briton's eyes, 
 
 For such did yon fair pile, the honoured Foundling, rise. 
 
 Yes, there ethereal sweetness smiling on her brow, 
 
 Does the fair nymph, " soft Charity repair," 
 Protects the child, who (never plighted vow 
 
 Giv'n at the altar,) claims no Father's care. 
 
 Theirs is, as yet, a scene of unmix'd joy 
 
 Not those vain pleasures which disgust and cloy 
 
 But those of Nature. Innocent of crime, 
 
 The real pleasures of the happiest time ; 
 
 A warm soft bliss that breaks with genial beam, 
 
 As Sol's bright rays upon the crystal stream. 
 
 See yon poor youth no Father's smile was his, 
 
 No Grandsire's blessing, no fond Mother's kiss ; 
 
 No Sister's love his infant hours to tend, 
 
 No Brother's guidance, nor no pitying friend.
 
 12 
 
 No friend ? Yes, here the best of friends he greets, 
 Friend of the friendless in these walls he meets ; 
 Guarded from vice, the safer path he's trod, 
 Prays for his guardians, and adores his God. 
 How different him whose mirth in yonder street, 
 
 Breaks on the ear in sounds obscene and rude ; 
 Those peals of riot with disgust we meet, 
 
 Like the sad night-bird's shriek in dreary solitude. 
 He, like the nettle, rankest stinging weed, 
 
 Is shunned by those who fear the rankling pain 
 Of wakeful Conscience, which recounts the deed, 
 
 Of Virtue bartered for dark Vice's gain. 
 
 Ye whom the hand of Providence has saved 
 From scenes like this ; for whom is waved 
 The Christian's banner ! mark, observe, and shun, 
 The sad conclusion when their race is run : 
 Despised, neglected in their latest hour 
 No hope of mercy from the Almighty Power, 
 They yield to Death, and like the savage race, 
 Sink to the earth, their only resting place. 
 For you, what pleasure ! for 'tis yours to share, 
 Your generous Patrons' unremitting care. 
 The cheerful voice of Industry invites, 
 And Learning summons to her mild delights.
 
 13 
 
 Sons of adoption, thus their love you share, 
 And the fond Matron gives a Mother's care. 
 
 Scenes such as this awake the Muse's fire, 
 To worth like yours I strike my humble lyre ; 
 Pleased if you smile, the tale so justly true, 
 The meed of merit where 'tis justly due.
 
 n 
 
 ELLEN'S WEDDING. 
 
 Hark ! heard ye the sound of the tabor and pipe ? 
 'Tis Colin has made the fair Ellen his wife ; 
 And the village musicians are greeting the day, 
 That gave the fair Ellen to Colin away. 
 
 No maid in the hamlet with her could compare, 
 
 So lovely, so modest, so gentle, so fair ; 
 
 Yet Ellen had virtue, and Ellen had pride, 
 
 And tho' the Squire flattered, the Squire was denied. 
 
 The Vicar too gazed with an affable smile, 
 And the Curate oft tried the fair maid to beguile ; 
 But she was too modest, although she was gay, 
 And kept both the Vicar and Curate at bay. 
 
 Her Sire was a Farmer, and though he was poor, 
 By industry banished distress from his door ; 
 No vices he cherished, and rose with the sun, 
 And blithely returned when his labour was done.
 
 15 
 
 Ellen, offspring of Love, the dear child of his heart, 
 In his labours and pleasures alike took a part ; 
 And when at the closing of day he returned, 
 Enraptured her fond heart with ecstacy burned. 
 
 Colin tended his flocks on a neighbouring plain, 
 And deeply in love with the maid was the swain ; 
 He kissed, and he whispered his love in her ear, 
 She blushed, and returned him a love as sincere. 
 
 How Ellen was envied, and Colin delighted, 
 When the friends of their youth to the feast were invited ; 
 The heart of her Father was flowing with joy, 
 Which Colin nor Ellen would ever destroy. 
 
 Ever bright be the hour, and unclouded the day, 
 That gave the fair Ellen to Colin away ; 
 Each pleasure attend, and each blessing betide, 
 The worthiest swain, and the loveliest bride.
 
 16 
 
 QUARREL WITH POVERTY. 
 
 The happiest taste not happiness sincere, 
 
 But find the cordial draught is dash'd with care. 
 
 Burder's Oriental Customs, ii. 275. 
 
 I rose one morning with the Lark, 
 
 And bent my steps towards the Park. 
 
 Bright was the Sun, my mind serene, 
 
 Accorded with the charming scene. 
 
 Looking around, " Is this," I cried, 
 
 " A world where Want and Care preside ?" 
 
 When close, too close, a Hag appeared, 
 
 One always hated, always feared. 
 
 'Twas Poverty ! I knew her well, 
 
 Encircled by her potent spell, 
 
 The plague of Life ! a fiend of Hell ! 
 
 Hollow her eye, and pale her cheek, 
 
 Her tattered rags her name bespeak. 
 
 She held within her squalid fist, 
 
 Of numerous wants a fatal list.
 
 17 
 
 11 Begone," I cried, " thou odious sprite, 
 Thou bane to pleasure and delight ; 
 Avaunt ! I say, see me no more, 
 Of late thou'rt always at my door/' 
 
 " I call," she said, " on others too, 
 Why then complain I visit you ? 
 Observe, be calm, and bear thy lot ; 
 You scarce can go where I am not. 
 To keep my votaries from his door 
 The rich man adds a Porter more." 
 
 " Peace !" I exclaimed, " thou power malign, 
 
 Can others' miseries lessen mine? 
 
 Thy fatal influence most I feel, 
 
 When starving wretches want a meal. 
 
 If racking pains distract my head, 
 
 Thy cure would be ' my Neighbour's dead !* 
 
 My heart, oppressed by various cares, 
 
 Seeks not a balm from others' tears ; 
 
 The world from Sorrow I would free, 
 
 And clear it of a pest like thee !" 
 
 The Sybil, with a sneer replied, 
 " What pity 'tis your hands are tied \ 
 Hast thou forgot how freely those 
 Give who have nothing to dispose ? 
 C
 
 IS 
 
 The Beggar's generous and kind ; 
 But follow me, for words are wind : 
 I'll take you where you'll truly know, 
 The real ills I can bestow." 
 
 "Indeed," I said, " I can't be seen 
 With one so wretched and so mean." 
 
 ** Dismiss that fear," she scoffing cried, 
 "Who'll know you when I'm by your side? 
 At sight of me e'en friends will fly, 
 And old acquaintance pass you by. 
 Enveloped by the shade I spread, 
 Your talent's lost, your merit's fled ; 
 Few recognize, followed by me, 
 Those known with gay prosperity. 
 E'en Beauty's smile I do not spare, 
 'Tis banished by my follower, Care. 
 The Lover swears the fault was mine. 
 He perjured, bowed at Fortune's shrine ; 
 But Love, indeed, I always smother, 
 And interfere one way or t'other : 
 I am that Urchin's deadliest foe, 
 He disappears where'er I go ; 
 You seldom meet him now-a-days, 
 He sometimes peeps but rarely stays ;
 
 19 
 
 The love of gold, and fear of me, 
 Have driven him from society." 
 
 " You boast," I said, " for I can prove, 
 You cannot always conquer Love." 
 
 " That maybe true," was her reply, 
 But with derision in her eye, 
 Proceeded thus : " Lovers I can't divide, 
 Must madly take me for their guide : 
 And even thou wilt fail to prove, 
 That I w T as conquered e'er by Love. 
 But talk no more, await the scene, 
 I'm truly styled here Misery's Queen !" 
 
 Through narrow paths, and deep 'ning gloom, 
 We reached at last a spacious room ; 
 Wretches of all description there, 
 Indolence, Languor, and Despair, 
 Mixed with the group ; while Discontent 
 Teazed us with murmurs as we went. 
 The vaulted roof with clamour rung 
 'Gainst Poverty, and every tongue 
 Loudly expressed to her their hate, 
 'Twas she had brought them to their fate : 
 
 C2
 
 20 
 
 " I'd work," said one, "and earn some gold, 
 Through Poverty my tools are sold : 
 I'd ask the great they'd not refuse; 
 Through Poverty I've got no shoes." 
 
 I asked the Hag if this were true ? 
 
 "Do all these miseries spring from you?'" 
 
 " I brought them here," she quick replied, 
 
 " And here continue by their side ; 
 
 " Idleness Pride Credulity 
 
 " Have many of them led to me. 
 
 " Misfortune some ; 'tis all the same, 
 
 " Once Knk'd with me the world will blame i 
 
 " And in my power, 'tis past a doubt, 
 
 " 'Tis very hard to get you out. 
 
 " You spake of Love defying me, 
 
 " The dire effect of this you'll see," 
 
 A female form, still fair and young, 
 
 Pale w T as her cheek, her garments loosely hung ; 
 
 Her fine dark eyes all swoll'n and red, 
 
 Sad vouchers of the tears she'd shed, 
 
 Were fixed upon a wretched bed ; 
 
 A sheet thrown over to conceal 
 
 Horror, she almost ceased to feel ;.
 
 21 
 
 Sinking with too great agony oppress'd, 
 
 Scarce felt her starving infant at her breast. 
 
 At sight of Poverty she raised her head, 
 
 " Ah ! this is you," in hollow tone she said ; 
 
 " Your sway is o'er, your power I now deride" 
 
 She moved the sheet- "Last night my Husband died!" 
 
 Screaming, I cried, "This scene I cannot bear," 
 
 And shivering felt the touch of cold despair. 
 
 Across the sky-light a bright sun-beam played, 
 
 A lovely figure all in white arrayed : 
 
 With airy elegance she crossed the room, 
 
 (A glow-worm in the depth of midnight gloom.) 
 
 " Hope," I exclaimed, " my old companion dear, 
 
 How didst thou ever find an entrance here?" 
 
 The Goddess smiled. No place too bad for me ; 
 
 I'm sent by Heaven to succour Misery." 
 
 " Talk not of Heaven," I answer'd, " 'tis absurd, 
 
 The delegates from thence would keep their word : 
 
 And Oh ! thou lovely, smiling, flattering jade, 
 
 Scores of false promises to me thou'st made." 
 
 " Shake hands with me," she cried, " for I relieve, 
 
 I've found you always ready to believe, 
 
 Hard is that mortal's fate who shuns my power ; 
 
 For who, alas ! can trust the present hour V*
 
 . 22 
 
 " Cease thy delusive strain," the mourner cried, 
 
 " See what a fate thy votaries betide ! 
 
 You made me marry ; told me I should find 
 
 Lawyers were honest, Creditors were kind. 
 
 And falsehoods great as those, that troops of friends 
 
 Would cure the evil Poverty attends. 
 
 But you and I for ever now must part, 
 
 You brought no cordial for his broken heart." 
 
 Hope dropt a tear. " Alas, poor thing !" she said, 
 
 " Thy woes indeed I fear are past my aid. 
 
 But tho' from earth thy joy and comfort's driven, 
 
 Remember there's a better Hope in Heaven !" 
 
 Led on by Hope, we travell'd like the wind, 
 Scarcely remember'd Poverty behind. 
 'Twas Fashion's noon, and nearly dark, 
 Again our way led through the Park. 
 There was a scene so grand, so gay, 
 Like Russia's Emperor, one might say, 
 'Where do the poor folks live, I -pray?' 
 Ah, Luxury ! thou cans't not tell ; 
 They're huddled in a noisome cell 
 One-tenth in Pride and Folly spent, 
 Would make them cheerful and content. 
 
 Ye sons of pleasure, turn awhile your view, 
 From that vain phantom ye so fond pursue ;
 
 23 
 
 Turn, to the wretch who has, perchance, no home, 
 
 No joy jg, at present, nor no hope to come. 
 
 List to the tale the widow's lips repeat, 
 
 Your home is splendid her's is but the street ; 
 
 Unless you aid to give her children bread, 
 
 And spare a pittance for an humble shed. 
 
 Yon haughty Peer, whose very steps keep time, 
 
 Whose folly sure's exotic to our clime ; 
 
 All smiles to those whose rank exceeds his own, 
 
 And all submission to the gilded throne. 
 
 Him the poor wretch in voice subdued implores, 
 
 For one small pittance from his boundless stores. 
 
 Tis asked in vain he lost last night the dice 
 
 Fell wrong for him; the rest was spent in vice. 
 
 Not so the Prince, who from a frozen strand, 
 Had sought the beauties of fair Albion's land. 
 See Russia's Duke from scenes of luxury fly, 
 To seek the wretched, and their wants supply ; 
 Quits the gay Court, the prisoner's lot to cheer 
 Ev'n now their shout of grateful joy I hear ; 
 " Long live thou Prince ! from every sorrow free, 
 " With Heaven's best blessing, Nicholas, on thee !" 
 
 Yet let the Muse one small just tribute pay, 
 To the great goodness which adorns the day.
 
 24 
 
 Nor pass unheeded those bright virtues o'er, 
 Which bud and blossom on our native shore. 
 It were unjust to drop the subject here, 
 Unjust to those benevolence makes dear ; 
 Those friends of wretchedness whose ready hand, 
 Bestows that good with which their hearts expand. 
 Still may bright Virtue be our constant guide, 
 And England's Charities be England's pride !
 
 25 
 
 THE 
 
 WOUNDED DEER. 
 
 The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans, 
 That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat 
 Almost to bursting : and the big round tears 
 Cours'd one another down his innocent nose 
 In piteous case. 
 
 Shaxspear*. As You tJkeJli 
 
 Detested sport, 
 That owes its pleasure to another's pain: 
 That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks 
 Of harmless nature. 
 
 Cowper. 
 
 'Twas when the Sun in crimson vest 
 Was sinking in the western sky ; 
 
 And warbling songsters to their rest 
 With anxious wing began to hie ; 
 
 I wander'd down a shady grove, 
 
 Thick studded with huge ancient trees ; 
 The joys of meek-eyed eve to prove, 
 
 And taste the cool refreshing breeze. 
 
 A wounded Deer in plaintive strain, 
 (The subject of my present tale.) 
 
 Keclin'd upon the dewy plain, 
 
 Pour'd forth his sorrows to the gale.
 
 2d 
 
 From his swoln eyes gush'd many a tear,* 
 Forc'd by the anguish of his wound ; 
 
 And thus his accents met mine ear, 
 
 Where they a ready welcome found. 
 
 " Think not, ye oaks, whose branches proudly wave, 
 That mad Ambition brought me to mine end ; 
 
 By man I'm sent to an untimely grave, 
 
 My eyes must close without a pitying friend. 
 
 " Alas ! what comforts have I now to boast, 
 Ill-fated victim of the Hunter's arm ; 
 
 Not one remains of all the dappled host, 
 
 To ease my sufferings or my woe to calm. 
 
 " From Misery's haunt with trembling speed they run, 
 Propelled by terror to the distant lawn ; 
 
 Unkindly now their wounded brother shun, 
 To die by all forsaken and forlorn. 
 
 " With thy last rays, thou brilliant orb of day, 
 My eyes will close for ever to the light ; 
 
 The Morn beheld me joyous, sprightly, gay, 
 
 And cold and breathless I am found by night. 
 
 u The big round tears run down bis dappled face.'' 
 
 Thomson's Autumn.
 
 27 
 
 " Ah ! what can urge man to these cruel deeds, 
 At which humanity is drown'd in tears ? 
 
 Ah! why pursue us thus with dogs and steeds, 
 Who are too humble to excite their fears ! 
 
 " Were I the Wolf, the terror of our race, 
 
 Then strictly just would be the death I die ; 
 
 I bear no Wolfs detested savage face, 
 
 But meek and timid from mankind I fly. 
 
 " No murder'd lambs on me for justice call, 
 
 Crying aloud, ' Give us the vengeance due ;' 
 
 No such sad sounds my dying ears appal, 
 
 No starting ghosts stand in my fading view. 
 
 " Farewell, ye verdant velvet-mantled hills, 
 
 Whose summits oft my nimble feet have paced ; 
 
 Ye valleys cool, ye gently murmuring rills, 
 
 By nature's hand with every beauty graced. 
 
 " Death's chill cold hand will soon my eye-lids close, 
 Faint beats my heart, and many a heaving sigh, 
 
 Tells to the wind the bitterest of my woes, 
 Hard is my fate without a friend to die."
 
 28 
 
 With one convulsive sob life's lingering fire 
 
 Escapes, and struggling on the grassy plain, 
 
 Wet with the dews of eve, I saw expire, 
 
 The hapless victim of man's tyrant reign. 
 
 Awhile I gazed ere able to return, 
 
 And cried while burst the heart-rending sigh ; 
 Full many a moral might the sportsman learn, 
 
 Had he but seen this harmless creature die. 
 
 The unthinking youth whom the loud horn invites, 
 To chase the stag at early morning's rise ; 
 
 Might learn from this to seek more mild delights, 
 
 Than the pack's yelping, and the Huntsman's pryse* 
 
 He might have learnt from such a scene of woe, 
 The ills of life with juster view to scan ; 
 
 That ev'n the meanest, humblest insects know, 
 Pangs equal to the agonies of man.* 
 
 Borne on the breeze soft accents met mine ear, 
 It was a Dryad of the grove that spoke, 
 
 With easy grace the gentle nymph drew near, 
 
 And in soft murmurs thus her accents broke : 
 
 " The poor beetle that we tread upon, 
 
 In corporeal sufferance, feels a pang as great 
 A i when a giant dies." 
 
 SaUCSPEARB.
 
 29 
 
 " All are not cruel to the gentle Deer, 
 
 Where Bentley's ivied walls* the prospect grace, 
 No Huntsman's horn e'er strikes the herd with fear, 
 
 Or yelping hound annoys the bounding race. 
 
 * 'Tis there refinement holds her seat supreme, 
 
 There social converse joins in Pleasure's train ; 
 
 Devoid of Folly's visionary dream, 
 
 All feel that pleasure which they could not feign. 
 
 " Were all like him, the deep-mouthed call would cease, 
 Such cruel sport be banished from the land ; 
 
 The inoffensive herd would feed in peace, 
 
 Nor thus be tortured by the unfeeling band. 
 
 " In future years the triumph shall be thine, 
 
 Humanity ; the sons of Albion's isle, 
 Distinguished for thy attributes, shall shine 
 
 The pride, the honour of their native soil. 
 
 Beutley Priory, the Seat of the Most Noble the late Marquis of Abercom.
 
 30 
 
 TO 
 
 A LILY, 
 
 ON SEErNG ONE BROKEN FROM ITS STEM AND CAST OUT 
 WITH SOME RUBBISH. 
 
 What ruthless hand has laid thy beauty low, 
 
 Thou unassuming flow'ret of the vale, 
 Whose vest unspotted, vies with new-fall'n snow, 
 
 And whose sweet fragrance scents- the passing gale ? 
 Did others' envy hurl thee from thy bed, 
 
 Not deck'd with trophies, and the spoils of war,. 
 But with the azure veil of Heaven o'erspread, 
 
 And warm'd by Sol in his effulgent car ? 
 
 Alas ! what kindness does the blushing Rose, 
 
 And the gay Tulip from our hands require ! 
 But thou, whose dress no attractive colour shews, 
 
 Must now unheeded and forlorn expire ! 
 So ever fares it with the meek and low, 
 
 Oppress'd by Poverty, and worn with Care ! 
 The high-born shun them, fly from scenes of woe, 
 
 To prospects brighter, and to skies more fair.
 
 31 
 
 EDRIC AND MYRA, 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 Op war and battle now no more, 
 
 Chained Chiefs and fettered Kings, 
 Whose glories with the day are o'er, 
 
 The Muse's votary sings. 
 Of Caesar's or Augustus' reign, 
 Or all-victorious Charlemagne 
 Nor the Swedish Hero's fate, 
 Doth a milder verse relate ; 
 Nor the Continental stir, 
 
 And its vanquished Conqueror ; \Q 
 
 Nor her, who in Vespasian's reign, 
 So loved and soothed her Husband's pain, 
 When forced to quit each softer tie, 
 And shun his friends' society ; 
 And faithful to her vows she died 
 Still virtuous, by her husband's side. 
 Verse attuned to softer measure, 
 
 Milder strains my pen employ, 
 
 The lyre is strung to sing of joy, 
 And Love's ecstatic pleasure. 20
 
 32 
 
 On a mountain's grassy side, 
 
 Washed by the Tiber's flowing tide, 
 
 Whose praises oft the Bards rehearse, 
 
 Immortalize in classic verse ; 
 
 Edric's lordly villa stood, 
 
 Surrounded by a tufted wood, 
 
 That rose majestic from the flood, 
 
 The gilded dome the lofty tower, 
 
 Proclaimed the owner's wealth and power ; 
 
 A Baron of no mean degree, 30 
 
 Nor no ephemeral Lord was he. 
 
 His ancestors their vows had made, 
 
 And joined the mighty cavalcade, 
 
 To penance at the sacred shrine, 
 
 In th' holy land of Palestine ; 
 
 And at Loretto too had paid 
 
 Their reverence, and their offerings made ; - 
 
 Renowned in War at home revered, 
 
 Courted their smile, their anger feared. 
 
 Saint Laurence, lofty, gloomy pile, 40 
 
 Where prayers the cares of life Beguile, 
 
 Closed the long vista to the eye, 
 
 And seemed to reach the distant sky. 
 
 There Myra dwelt, the Convent's pride, 
 
 (Since fate all other bliss denied,) 
 
 Nor fairer could enthusiasts paint 
 
 The beauty of their patron Saint.
 
 33 
 
 Edric had heard her sweet strains fall, 
 
 Upon the Virgin's festival, 
 
 When joining in the sacred show, 50 
 
 The vestal nymphs entwined go : 
 
 And heard with pain the fair was doomed, 
 
 Within a cell to be entombed 
 
 An orphan she the martial fire 
 
 Sent from the foe destroyed her Sire, 
 
 When fighting on th' embattled plain 
 
 He fell amid the thousands slain ; 
 
 Edric had closed his eyes in death, 
 
 And seen him give his parting breath ; 
 
 Had eased the last expiring pain. 60 
 
 For in his arms the Chief had given 
 
 His corse to Earth, his soul to Heaven ! 
 
 His last deep sigh was given for Myra's weal, 
 
 The living image of his sainted love ; 
 He wept the sorrows that his child would feel, 
 
 The cares, distresses that he feared she'd prove. 
 Each breeze that moan'd when eve was still, 
 Each echo from the distant rill, 
 Each deep'ning shade from blue-tinged hill, 
 To Edric's eye, to Edric's ear, 70 
 
 Brought the fair Myra ever near. 
 His slumbering visions oft pourtrayed 
 In all her charms the lovely maid ; 
 
 D
 
 34< 
 
 His mind was present in those walls, 
 
 Where sanctity's sweet cadence falls ; 
 
 He heard her voice when singing high 
 
 The vespers' soothing melody ; 
 
 When the pale Moon with glance serene, 
 
 Shaded the silvery clouds between, 
 
 And stars, bright-twinkling on high, 80 
 
 Commix'd their trembling rays, and shone amidst the sky. 
 
 He knew not then to break his rest, 
 
 His love, fair Myra, was professed. 
 
 Tis morn the rising orb of day, 
 
 Now tints the clouds with milder grey, 
 
 The roses now their sweets unfold, 
 
 And shine the sun-flowers' leaves of gold % 
 
 Now glistens dew on shrub and tree, 
 
 And wakes the aerial melody. 
 
 Hark to those murmurs from the distant crowd, 90 
 
 That press impetuous to the Convent gate I 
 The lordly Senator the Chieftain proud ! 
 What means their eagerness those voices loud ? 
 
 They go to witness gentle Myra's fate. 
 To day the Priest the sacred vow receives, 
 
 The gazing throng applauding stand around ; 
 To day the pensive Myra too believes 
 
 She breathes new happiness in every sound.
 
 And as she views the curling incense rise, 
 
 Kneels to the priest a willing sacrifice. 100 
 
 The tapers blazing cast their light below, 
 And altars dazzled with the splendid shew ; 
 High and impressive swelled the music's strain; 
 
 The choral voices in the distance die ; 
 
 They bid a long farewell to scenes of joy 
 She will remember but not see again , 
 
 Firm and majestic through the admiring throng, 
 
 The willing victim passed the aisle along ; 
 
 A pensive sweetness On her face appears ij 
 
 'Twas not in sorrow that her head was bowed-^- 
 But as in summer's skies a fleeting cloud 110 
 
 Hovers and drops some cool refreshing tears. 
 
 If from her eyes the trembling tear-drop fell 
 
 'Twas memory called back him she loved so well. 
 
 The Priests begin to fix her destined fate/ 
 The vestal habit now they consecrate ; 
 The holy vow impressively read o'er 
 One hand a cross, and one a taper bore. 
 Her beauteous locks the unfeeling scissors par r^ 
 And worldly pleasures are forbid her heart ; 
 
 D 2
 
 36 
 
 O'er her fine features is the veil unfurl'd, 1^0 
 
 It drops and shuts for ever from the world. 
 Did Edric hear did Edric live to see 
 
 His Myra parted from his aching eyes ? 
 As when a raging tempest shakes the sea, 
 
 Or earthquakes rock or dread volcanos rise. 
 Arose the tumults of his throbbing breast : 
 
 He wept not spake not for his agonies^ 
 Were infinite, nor could be lulled to rest. 
 
 He stood he gazed on vacancy, 
 
 Wild was the glance of his keen eye ; KJO 
 
 The past a midnight vision seems 
 
 The fleeting shade of feverish dreams : 
 
 And as he left the still Chapelle, 
 
 Fast from his eyes the tear-drops fell. 
 
 For when realities no more delight 
 
 Their shadows may -fascinate still 
 As the moon-beams reflected at night 
 
 On the face of the murmuring rill. 
 But senseless by the shock he'd met 
 Pallid the woe-fraught P]dric sat, 1 10 
 
 And sometimes fanned a hopeless flame, 
 And sometimes raved on Myra's name.
 
 37 
 
 Years have rolled on, and Edric still, 
 Calls on her name in vale, on hill ; 
 Bemoans her loss with sad lament, 
 His anguished heart with sorrow rent. 
 An humble cell with moss o'ergrown, 
 
 Is his beside the Convent gate, 
 'Tis more to him than regal throne, 
 
 More pleasure than the pomp of state. 1 50 
 
 And still is seen, engraved by him, 
 
 This tribute to his Myra's name ; 
 Tho' time has struck his weary limb, 
 
 The mouldering stone still tells his fame. 
 Yet that, e'en that, must fall in turn, 
 Nor point the Lover's tomb the Hero's urn. 
 
 While earth retains her spacious seat, 
 
 And roll the waters at her feet ; 
 
 While the bright orbs illume the sky, 
 
 And rule o'er mortals destiny ; 1 00 
 
 To Myra's name my vows I'll pay, 
 
 And weep her loss each rising day ; 
 
 Still in my heart her image reigns, 
 
 My grief my joy my pleasures pains 
 
 And still my heart with woe is rent, 
 
 Still, still my Myra I lament.
 
 38 
 
 TO PITY. 
 
 Paughtee of Love ! soft Pity, hail ! 
 
 Meek virgin from Affliction's vale, 
 
 Who shun'st the noisy haunts of Mirth, 
 
 To wipe the pearly tear from eyes of modest worth ; 
 
 Come, gentle nymph, with eye serene, 
 
 Dishevelled hair, majestic mien, 
 
 And breast soft-throbbing at the woes, 
 
 Which, like the tide, or ebbs or flows, 
 
 O ! make my breast thy constant seat, 
 That when tumultuous passions beat, 
 In torrents wild or murmurs low, 
 Mine be the joy to soften woe : 
 Inspired by thy celestial ray, 
 Glad will my bosom own thy sway, 
 To others' ills relief impart, 
 As thou hast eas'd my anguish'd heart. 
 
 When, sullen as the surges roll, 
 Despair usurps the woe-fraught soul 
 With visage wan, and aspect sad, 
 In colours of the midnight clad ;
 
 39 
 
 When Anger, scorning Reason's bounds, 
 Loud as the rolling thunder sounds, 
 Nor heeds the strong, nor spares the weak, 
 Nor yields to tears on beauty's cheek :-* 
 
 When Envy, with malignant glare, 
 Corrodes the mind oppress'd by care, 
 Or darts at Fame, or aims at Power, 
 Or visits where Misfortunes low'r ; 
 When at the spotless, artless heart, 
 Detraction shoots th' envenom'd dart, 
 To kill the hopes, to taint the name, 
 Of guileless maid, and blast her fame : 
 
 When Poverty, with downcast eyes, 
 Her former gay companions flies, 
 Be mine the bliss to offer balm, 
 To banish grief, and woe disarm. 
 O ! be thou, nymph, my constant guest, 
 So shall I be supremely blest ; 
 For ever leave gay Mirth behind, 
 To whisper Peace, and calm the mind.
 
 40 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 I wasted time, and now doth time waste me." 
 
 Shaks pha re's, King Richard II* 
 
 Methought 'twas noon ; a Winter's day, 
 And leafless seem'd each bending spray, 
 When sauntering with Eliza down, 
 Perhaps some half a mile from town, 
 In converse deep, of slight import, 
 Now of the weather, now the Court, 
 Straight in our destin'd path we see 
 A wretched child of Misery ? 
 
 With suppliant voice, and outstretched arms, 
 For love of Heaven she asked our alms ; 
 Her bleeding feet and tatter'd dress, 
 Shew'd not affected was distress ; 
 Her fragile form, her pallid look, 
 Extreme of Poverty bespoke ; 
 And careless whether Critics rail, 
 I now relate the sufferer's tale : 
 'Twas thus, in trembling voice and low, 
 She utter'd forth her tale of woe.
 
 41 
 
 " My Sire, whom Heaven in mercy claim'd, 
 
 Ere I his honoured name had sham'd, 
 
 Had oft his Monarch's councils led, 
 
 And fighting for his country bled. 
 
 Had I been to his virtues heir, 
 
 Or fostered his advice with care, 
 
 I should not now with anguish sigh, 
 
 Nor beg of travellers passing by. 
 
 When I first drew my vital breath, 
 
 My Mother sunk resign'd to death ; 
 
 And left without a Mother's aid, 
 
 My every wish a will was made. 
 
 Yet oft my Father sad would say, 
 
 * Now Clara is thy brightest day, 
 
 * For should the Power Omniscient call 
 
 * My soul from this terrestrial ball, 
 
 * Without a worthy friend to guide, 
 
 ' How wilt thou stem Misfortune's tide V 
 
 " I heeded not what Wisdom told, 
 
 And thought that none but fools were old ; 
 
 Then hasting from him quick, again 
 
 I bow'd in Dissipation's train ; 
 
 The flattering coxcomb pleased my ear, 
 
 I gave him hope, and scorn'd to fear,
 
 42 
 
 " But ah! such Pleasure, Pain can bring, 
 And bees have honey, but they sting. 
 My virtue lost 'twas all excess 
 And now in riot, now in dress ; 
 Cards, dice, the faithless Faro brought, 
 The momentary ease I sought ; 
 Reflection spurn'd far from my mind, 
 Each species vile of vice I joined ; 
 The true Coquette, I sought to raise 
 Detraction on another's praise ; 
 But soon my borrowed plumage fell, 
 And deep I drank the pangs of hell ; 
 The box was shook the dice were thrown*- 
 The last I had below was gone, 
 
 " I sought my lover he was fled ; 
 
 My friends were all from home 'twas said ; 
 
 I ask'd the rival gamblers there, 
 
 'Twas true they'd won, but could not spare- 
 
 My dearest friends had quite forgot, 
 
 And when they met me knew me not ; 
 
 All blamed, few pitied, some despis'd, 
 
 And others my reform surmized. 
 
 " Now here forlorn I wander sad, 
 Of every scanty pittance glad ;
 
 43 
 
 And when the gloom of Night appears, 
 The straw I moisten with my tears ; 
 And fervently I pray to Heaven 
 My many sins may be forgiven ; 
 Which sheds a ray of comfort round, 
 On beds of down I never found." 
 
 " Pleasure !" I cried, " and can it be, 
 That such dire evils spring from thee ? 
 Can then thy short ephemeral reign 
 Cause lingering years of future pain ? 
 The dice's throw, the sumptuous feast, 
 Bring Poverty, unwelcome guest !" 
 
 My bosom throbbed, and fast I wept, 
 The vision vanished while I slept ; 
 I woke no vestige I could find, 
 Save what remembrance left behind.
 
 44 
 
 REFLECTIONS IN WINTER. 
 
 Now every hill is clothed in robes of snow, 
 
 Shall I to calm Reflection tune the lyre, 
 Ancltho' the whistling winds incessant blow, 
 
 Implore the Muse her votary to inspire? 
 No longer now the warbling birds rejoice, 
 
 Bask in th' sun or to the shade repair, 
 And with the music of a tuneful voice, 
 
 Breathe gratitude and fill with joy the air. 
 Happy is he whose days unclouded flow, 
 
 In one unceasing stream of calm content, 
 Unknown to him the pangs of mental woe, 
 
 Felt by the wretch whose life in vice is spent. 
 To him unknown the varied ills of life, 
 
 His bosom with no wild contention rent, 
 The mind's distress from sad domestic strife, 
 
 Mean Avarice, and Pride, and Discontent. 
 More joys to him afford the dewy morn, 
 
 The new-blown flowret, and the budding spray, 
 The chequered greens, and fields of sprouting corn, 
 
 Than the priz'd pleasures of the thoughtless gay.
 
 45 
 
 'Tis thus the man of Philosophic mind, 
 
 O'er Nature's charms with transport still can rove, 
 The Lamb's soft bleating, and the murmuring wind, 
 
 Bearing the echo of the Turtle's love. 
 Toss'd on the troubled billows of the world, 
 
 Few joys to warm the desolated heart, 
 Oft in a moment from those comforts hurPd, 
 
 And from the dearest friends compell'd to part. 
 How many a canker-worm that never sleeps, 
 
 Preys on the deep recesses of the mind, 
 There Sorrow her unceasing vigils keeps, 
 
 And Anguish lies in Solitude reclined. 
 Like to the sun-beams on the gliding wave, 
 
 Vanish our aerial dreams of earthly joy, 
 Sink to the gloomy regions of the grave, 
 
 Presaging we, like them, must surely die. 
 But ah ! how little for that awful home, 
 
 And for our Judge immortal we prepare, 
 Tho' from the dark concealment of the tomb, 
 
 To meet his face we rise in ambient air.
 
 40 
 
 THE 
 
 VINTAGE FEAST* 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 Robed in her garb of varied hue, 
 
 Which all the tints of Summer drew, 
 
 Fair Autumn came, and leaf and flower. 
 
 Submissive owned her sovereign power. 
 
 The lofty forest's waving head) 
 
 To her its fading branches spread ; 
 
 While Music's voice, with magic spell, 
 
 Calls to the Vintage Festival : 
 
 And gaysome on the village green* 
 
 Many a happy group are seen, 10 
 
 To the soft lute and viol's sound, 
 
 Tripping in many a mazy round i 
 
 With eyes expressive of delight, 
 
 In all the charms of beauty dight ; 
 
 The evening smiled so calm, serene, 
 
 It seem'd as Heaven did bless the scene i 
 
 The moon's mild radiance clothed the hill, 
 
 No noisome winds nor vapours chill.
 
 47 
 
 Those whom ill health or lengthen'd days, 
 
 Forbade to join the circling maze, 20 
 
 On the light bench beside the door reclin'd, 
 
 Enjoy'd the milder converse of the mind. 
 
 Soul of the feast, old Conrad's son, 
 
 (Who in his youthful days had won 
 
 Himself the prize when Archers go 
 
 To whirl the arrow from the bow,) 
 
 Was now upon the new-mowed green, 
 
 Elate with love and pleasure seen ; 
 
 Or bending 'neaththe shady trees, 
 
 Striking the Harp-strings to the breeze, 30 
 
 With echo gay, or cadence slow, 
 
 In raptures high, or plaining wee, 
 
 The thrilling notes in concert flow. 
 
 In such an hour, on such an eve, 
 
 Ah ! who would fear impending dangers ? 
 'Tvvere more than folly then to grieve ; 
 For who would scruple to believe, 
 
 That grief and joy were strangers ? 
 Too few, alas ! when pleasure smiles, 
 Mistrust the Syren's treacherous wiles ; 40 
 
 Few look beyond the present hour, 
 At fell misfortune's baneful power ; 
 Nor think that pleasures fade away 
 Like dew before the morning ray, 
 Or sun-beams in a winter's day.
 
 4-8 
 
 O learn, ye thoughtless sons of pleasure, 
 
 Though every flow'ret strew your way, 
 And happiness with softest measure, 
 
 Gilds the night and glads the day ; 
 Learn to prize a ray so fleeting, 50 
 
 Like the Swallow in the skies, 
 Now advancing, now retreating, 
 
 Swiftly from your glance she flies, 
 Beyond the reach of mortal ken, 
 Far distant from the sons of men. 
 
 Loud from the hill which girt the vale, 
 
 The trumpet's voice their ears assail ; 
 
 With many a shrill resounding bray, 
 
 It quick dispels their joy away. 
 
 The sun of pleasure now is set 00 
 
 And hush'd the i.iaiden's chansonnette ; 
 
 Each gentle heart oppress'd by fear, 
 
 In fancy dreads some danger near, 
 
 While trembling stood the fair Colette, 
 
 In her blue eye a tear. 
 
 Who loved Amantz so true as her ? 
 
 She fear'd the havoc blast of war, 
 
 Spare him, she cried, thou power divine, 
 
 Spare him for Conrad's sake and mine ! 
 
 What means that peal ? aged Conrad cried, 70 
 
 His children gather'd by his side ;
 
 49 
 
 And as his silvery locks he parted, 
 
 His eye with keen enquiry darted, 
 
 On all around, above, below, 
 
 The undiscover'd cause to know. 
 
 What means that peal ? Alas ! I fear 
 
 Some unsuspected evil near : 
 
 That echoing peal, that lengthen'd sound, 
 
 Which shook the valley's utmost bound, 
 
 Some ill forebodes ; or at this hour, 80 
 
 Why breaks the martial note of power ? 
 
 Swift Amantz started, for his soul 
 
 111 brook'd or terror, or controul ; 
 
 Brave, generous, kind, with bended bow, 
 
 And hasty steps, he turned to go : 
 
 But 'twas Colette's heart-bursting sigh, 
 
 Called all the lover's feeling forth 
 
 The tear fast flowing from her eye, 
 
 Her love for him, her charms, her worth, 
 
 All that he prized, or hoped on earth 90 
 
 He turned his steps in fond embrace 
 
 They stood ; and she her pallid face 
 
 On his fond breast reclined : 
 " Fear not, my loved, my dear Colette, 
 " Amantz will never thee forget ; 
 
 " No, thou art never from his mind, 
 E
 
 50 
 
 *' Wert thou not there for ever set, 
 * 'Twere happier far to die." 
 
 He wiped the tear-drop from her cheek, 
 
 He kissed those eyes, whose radiance meek, 100 
 
 Gave those fond raptures to his heart, 
 
 Which other eyes could not impart. 
 
 All, all were silent 'twas a scene 
 
 Where grief and joy so intervene, 
 
 That now a smile beams in the eye, 
 
 And now the heart expels a sigh ; 
 
 Now urged by hopes, and now by fears, 
 
 By love's delights, or sorrow's tears ; 
 
 It baffles every art to tell, 
 
 Those passions inexpressible. 110 
 
 At dawn of day how oft we view, 
 
 The flow'ret's cup surcharged with dew ; 
 
 So stood Colette, the tear impending, 
 
 As on the violet's fading leaf, 
 Or down her pensive cheek descending, 
 
 Tho' check'd by love, yet urged by grief. 
 Perchance delusive Hope befriending, 
 Blissful scenes with sorrow blending, 
 In aerial whispers seems to say 
 The morrow dawns a fairer day. 120
 
 51 
 
 The warriors' steeds, all bathed in foam, 
 Now near approach their peaceful home ; 
 The bright cuirass for dread affray, 
 Glistening reflects the moon's pale ray ; 
 The vivid glimmering of each spear 
 Now fades, and now appears more near ; 
 The Standard waves, and nods the plume 
 Each Warrior wears amid the gloom. 
 Such were the dreaded martial band, 
 
 Whose numbers they more near descry, 130 
 
 Urged by the unrelenting hand, 
 
 Of fierce, unsparing anarchy. 
 With brandished swords they raise the ciy, 
 The cry of " France and Liberty !" 
 Amaz'd the village peasants stand, 
 
 With listening ear and gazing eye, 
 To hear repeated from the band, 
 
 The shout of " France and Liberty !" 
 Clasped within Amantz' arms, Colette 
 Reclines, her heart quick beating yet, 140 
 
 And scarcely dares to gasp for breath, 
 Lest she might hear the sound of death. 
 The Pastor of their spired Chapelle, 
 Had joined the flock he loved so well, 
 To shield them from those insults rude, 
 Unknown in their sweet solitude ; 
 
 E 2
 
 52 
 
 There the loud horn and echoing drum 
 
 In martial notes had seldom come : 
 
 The Shepherd by the Garonnelle, 
 
 With rustic music's gentle spell, 150 
 
 Could charm the ear, and softly please 
 
 Those hearts which were within at ease, 
 
 Content, they wished no more. 
 On feasts, when bells the matin ring, 
 In chorus soft and sweet they sing, 
 Blythe as the morning lark in Spring, 
 
 The joyous " Vive le Roi!" 
 
 At Conrad's porch, where Eglantine 
 
 Entwined with the greener Vine, 
 
 The Chief dismounted from his Steed ; 160 
 
 " Vive la Republique /" echoed round, 
 
 The vale reverberates the sound, 
 
 And every hill, and every tree, 
 
 Rings with the sound of " France and Liberty !" 
 
 Old Conrad shook his time-thinned locks, 
 
 His soul their boasting promise mocks ; 
 
 No courtly grace was his to hide 
 
 The daring of ambitious pride. 
 
 A plain old villager, he stood 
 
 Beloved, admired by all the good ; 170
 
 53 
 
 Not great, nor rich yet still he shared 
 
 His wealth with those to whom 'twas spared. 
 
 His manners simple, and his heart 
 
 Had never known a traitor's part : 
 
 And now, with just disdain, he viewed 
 
 Rude Anarchy's fell new-fledg'd brood. 
 
 The Pastor raised the Cross on high, 
 
 A tear was trembling in his eye 
 
 Fools mock Religion ! They had none 
 
 Crown, Church, and State were all undone. ISO 
 
 They bear resemblance of a different clime, 
 
 Not mark'd by age, but furrow'd deep with crime ; 
 
 Rebellion sits enthron'd on each dark brow, 
 
 Each tongue proclaims her in a midnight vow ; 
 
 Not the lone orisons of pious souls, 
 
 But in the riot of o'erplenish'd bowls. 
 
 Who follows Virtue seeks the only truth, 
 
 Lustre of age, and ornament of youth ; 
 
 The source unfailing of the purest joy, 
 
 Spring of true bliss, and sweets that never cloy. 190 
 
 'Tis Virtue in the hour of pain endues 
 
 To smile with fortitude at earthly woes ; 
 
 The heart that owns her pure celestial sway, 
 
 She points enraptured to a brighter day.
 
 54 
 
 Colette ! Amantz ! where's now your bliss, 
 
 Your fairy dream of happiness ? 
 
 An evanescent spark that flies 
 
 Like the bright flash in Summer skies ; 
 
 She, meteor-like, avoids the mid-day light, 
 
 Fades with the eve, and vanishes with night ; 200 
 
 A morning phantom we so fond pursue 
 
 Go trace her steps they're hidden by the dew. 
 
 In Conrad's porch the Captain told, 
 
 The prowess of his warriors bold, 
 
 Under whose lenient hand the Gaul, 
 
 Beneath his vine, released from thrall 
 
 In peace should sit, nor own a Lord, 
 
 And into plough- shares beat his sword. 
 
 " 'Twas now," he said, " the promised time, 
 
 And to neglect that hour were crime, 210 
 
 When equal all, the Slave, the Peer, 
 
 Uncheck'd by pow'r, unknown to fear, 
 
 Should own a brotherhood on earth, 
 
 And hail of Liberty the birth." 
 
 " Deceiver, cease !" with rising ire 
 Amantz exclaimed, and clasp'd his Sire. 
 " True to the precepts I've been taught, 
 I live or die but as I ought
 
 55 
 
 Ye friends of Liberty ! your boast is vain, 
 
 You'll find the Goddess wears an iron chain. 220 
 
 Though no embattled portal gate, 
 
 Speaks this a town of regal state ; 
 
 Yet are our hearts as true, and we 
 
 Friends to our King, but foes to thee." 
 
 Impatience mark'd the Captain's brow, 
 
 He frowns but does he hear him now ? 
 
 Enraged, his sword is half display'd, 
 
 The light is glimmering on its blade : 
 
 Dark is his frown, that glance I ween 
 
 Bespeaks a soul which may have been, 230 
 
 Nay, at this moment is his breath, 
 
 Panting for deeds of crime and death. 
 
 The night's o'erclouded all is still, 
 
 To Conrad now he speaks his will. 
 
 His will disputed Peace that mind, 
 
 Must keep its secrets from the wind ; 
 
 Fierce as Vesuvius' towering flame, 
 
 He dreads the echo of his name : 
 
 'Tis thus the guilty live, they know, 
 
 Each waits a time to prove a foe. 210 
 
 " Conrad, to thee, whose silvery hairs 
 Bespeak thy age, thy numerous cares,
 
 56 
 
 I speak for you, perchance, have pow'r 
 T' avert the evil of the hour. 
 All France is free, will you then wear, 
 Fetters a slave disdains to bear ? 
 
 " Command, persuade yon haughty youth, 
 To serve the state or, by my truth, 
 Force shall compel him straight to yield, 
 
 The cuirass and the spear to wield, 250 
 
 Be Liberty our word for aye, 
 Vive la Republique ! till we die." 
 
 " Captain," old Conrad said, " my son 
 
 Hath w T ell his youthful life begun ; 
 
 Two have already fall'n they died, 
 
 Their Father's boast, their country's pride ; 
 
 True to our King, we'll e'er remain, 
 
 Untainted with rebellion's stain.'* 
 
 No more he said the rebel chief, 
 
 Unknown to pity, love, or grief, 260 
 
 Struck to the earth the good old man. 
 
 He groans he falls From whence that cry ? 
 
 In air the whistling bullets fly, 
 
 Clashes the swords, and from the bow, 
 
 Quivering the feathered arrows go. 
 
 The peaceful vale no longer smiles, 
 
 No longer joy their toil beguiles,
 
 57 
 
 The Mother to her breaking heart, 
 
 Clasps her dear child afraid to part. 
 
 Colette ! what were thy feelings now ! 270 
 
 What depth of anguish marks thy brow ! 
 
 Who can depict thy soul's distress 
 
 To see the aged Conrad die ? 
 
 His latest and his faintest sigh, 
 
 Was Amantz and thyself to bless. 
 
 By force was she and Amantz parted ; 
 
 Like Vultures on their fluttering prey, 
 At them the rebel Harpies darted, 
 Defenceless, hopeless, broken-hearted, 
 
 They bear him from her arms away. 280 
 
 Whose breast is that, whence thick'ning blood 
 
 Gushes impetuous as the flood? 
 
 Mark how low droop his arms, his head ! 
 
 Alas ! life's trembling pulse has fled. 
 
 No longer now he guides his steed, 
 
 At once from life and crime he's freed. 
 
 The men approach their Captain's side, 
 
 But where, the while, did Amantz ride ? 
 
 He's gone ! But where ? Who mark'd his flight? 
 
 'Twas hid by the quick dark'ning night : 290 
 
 He's gone he's fled, like clouds at morn, 
 
 Before the day-springs bright'ning dawn.
 
 58 
 
 Through the thick copse and down the dell, 
 
 Skirting the rippling Garonnelle, 
 
 He hastened to the well-known scene, 
 
 Where late he joy and grief had seen. 
 
 The door was open sounds of woe, 
 
 Upon his ear incessant flow, 
 
 He lists a moment starts with fear, 
 
 That some more awful danger's near. 300 
 
 Then rushes on Oh God ! Colette ! 
 
 Say, are her pulses beating yet, 
 
 'Tis past Oh ! peace, for she is dead, 
 
 The fairest rose is withered. 
 
 Hold stop his arm that fatal blow, 
 Will lay the frantic sufferer low ; 
 His heart is riven he bleeds he dies- 
 Hold the blest Cross before his eyes. 
 He sees it not, he feels no pain, 
 
 That pulse will never throb again. 310 
 
 Quickly the rebels came they eye, 
 The dreadful scene with apathy ; 
 Inured to scenes of death and blood, 
 They know no other brotherhood. 
 
 Hark ! slowly tolls the Convent bell, 
 The loud and awful funeral knell ;
 
 59 
 
 With reverence meet, in order due, 
 
 The mourning friends appear in view ; 
 
 The Priests chaunt loud the holy strain, 
 
 Responsive sighs from all the train 320 
 
 Resound nor are those sighs supprest 
 
 'Twas the true feeling of the breast. 
 
 All wept their fate. But hush no more 
 They may not speak as heretofore, 
 For Liberty had lock'd each tongue 
 From speaking of deceit and wrong : 
 The Vintage feast, the flowery wreath, 
 Had set in blood, and sunk in death.
 
 60 
 
 TO FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Hard is indeed the Poet's task, 
 Too poor to give, too proud to ask ; 
 Condemned the Critic's frown to fear, 
 And please a Patron's nice-tuned ear. 
 But half this dreadful task is mine, 
 I offer but at Friendship's shrine, 
 Nor flatter in my self-taught lays 
 Those I must censure, did I praise. 
 
 To Friendship, name by all revered, 
 To every feeling breast endeared, 
 Grateful I pour the rapturous strain, 
 And flattery's servile aid disdain : 
 Were I inspired as Bards of old, 
 
 With all the Muses' mighty fire, 
 No praise but thine my pen had told, 
 
 For none but thee I'd struck the Lyre 
 Save in those soften'd moments, when 
 A higher Power inspired my pen, 
 And to Celestial Realms would guide 
 Thy votary with thee by her side.
 
 61 
 
 But holdmethinks I hear you say, 
 No more of thisno more I pray ; 
 Tis like the Doctor's nauseous pill, 
 Sent, not to cure, but make you ill. 
 
 The world I know, 'tis past a doubt, 
 Have almost driven Friendship out, 
 But still she's seen at every dinner, 
 At prayer of Saint, and rout of Sinner ; 
 And every high-born Lord and Dame, 
 Knows the fair fugitive by name. 
 And where, you cry, is her retreat, 
 Where can we ever Friendship meet I 
 I've sought the Convent's lonely cell, 
 But seldom there does Friendship dwell ; 
 I've Churchmen ask'd they oft had heard 
 She promis'd fair, ne'er kept her word ; 
 In fact, they thought that pique had driv'n 
 The exiled wanderer to Heaven. 
 Unknown to those who guide the State 
 They long had left her to her fate. 
 
 Peace, Censor Friendship still remains 
 To cheer these dull terrestrial plains ; 
 I know her well, devoid of art, 
 She warms the Poet's raptured heart :
 
 62 
 
 She smiles serene when * * * * 's nigh, 
 And dewy brilliants grace her eye ; 
 Of every virtue she's possess'd, 
 Who in her converse but is bless'd !
 
 63 
 
 ODE TO ENGLAND. 
 
 In many a note of pride and joy, 
 Sound the golden trumpet high ; 
 Let every grove the notes resound, 
 From rock and cave the echoes bound ; 
 Loudly the distant valleys ring 
 Tis Albion's praise I sing! 
 
 Albion ! thou Queen of Isles ! to thee 
 
 I wake my simple minstrelsy ; 
 
 Friend to the wretch who wants a home, 
 
 To thee e'en exiled Monarchs come ; 
 
 They ask, nor do they ask in vain, 
 
 A refuge from insult and pain. 
 
 Girt with a wall of briny wave, 
 
 Thy sons all generous, powerful, brave, 
 
 Victors alike on land or main, 
 
 Thou hast a peace to Nations given, 
 
 Who honour thee, the instrument of Heaven ! 
 
 Hail, clime endear'd by every tie, 
 
 Of friendship, love, society ; 
 
 Which gave to gallant Sidney birth. 
 
 Where Hampden's blood bedy'd the earth ;
 
 61 
 
 Hail, land of wealth, of arts, of fame, 
 Of Liberty's immortal name ! 
 Whose annals laud the Hero's doom, 
 And pay a tribute at their tomb. 
 Let Greece be vain of classic ground, 
 In Rome the wreck of arts be found ; 
 Their day has closed, their sun has set, 
 Like friends who part as soon as met. 
 
 Land of my Sires ! my native soil, 
 How sweet in thee, is joy or toil, 
 Whether at morning's dawn I rise, 
 
 To seek my daily bread, 
 Or when the setting sun the skies, 
 
 Tints with a gleam of deep'ning red. 
 Elate with joy or hope I go, 
 Where social pleasures ever flow ; 
 Or pensive by my own fire side, 
 Those gayer scenes by fate denied. 
 I read the sacred Sages o'er, 
 Or ponder on unhallowed lore ; 
 Still thou art dear how dear to me, 
 Parent of life and liberty ! 
 And be my fate or good, or ill, 
 Land of my Sires, I love thee still.
 
 65 
 
 Land of my Sires! my native soil, 
 Thou mighty and thou envied Isle, 
 Whose thunder, like the bolt of Jove, 
 Thy ships from clime to clime doth move. 
 By thee oppressed Spain was free, 
 And France regained her liberty ; 
 E'en Afric felt thy pow'r and bowed, 
 The lowest of a suppliant crowd, 
 And trembled at an Exmouth's name, 
 His balls of fire and words of flame ; 
 Fit arguments for those who know 
 No faith no honour own no law. 
 Fierce as the "Wolves their forests yield, 
 Like them at crime and death they aim, 
 In social life the State the field. 
 Land of my Sires ! my native soil, 
 Thou art indeed a happy Isle. 
 Others may boast more genial climes, 
 "WTiere Sol in fervid splendour shines, 
 The orange grove, the gay parterre, 
 Bedeck' d with flowrets sweet and fair. 
 Let them still boast I envy not, 
 Their sky serene ; my humbler cot, 
 Gives those true joys to them unknown, 
 Or but in Fancy's mirror shown. 
 
 F
 
 66 
 
 Land of my birth ! where freedom smiles, 
 And all the ills of life beguiles ; 
 I love thee more than words can tell, 
 Oh ! did the world but love as well ; 
 As true as me ; then wars would cease, 
 And happiness repose with Peace. 
 Land of my Sires ! where'er I be, 
 Still shall I turn with joy to thee ; 
 Still shall my lyre be tuned to raise, 
 The song in happy Albion's praise.
 
 67 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 ON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL INFANT, DESERTED BY ITS FATHER 
 SLUMBERING IN THE ARMS OF A BENEVOLENT LADY. 
 
 Sleep on, sweet Innocent ! as yet thy woes 
 
 Rack not thy bosom or torment thy heart ; 
 Full soon the bud of Sorrow will unclose 
 
 Its op'ning petals ; rankling thorns impart. 
 Sleep on ; thy Mother slumbers in the tomb, 
 
 Her parted spirit joins the happy blest ; 
 And Ah ! thy Father quits his native home, 
 
 Nor heeds he how his infant is distress'd. 
 
 But still the Power Supreme's all-seeing eye, 
 
 Shall watch o'er thee, deserted child of shame, 
 Shall ease thy little heart's tumultuous sigh, 
 
 Tho* nameless here, thou hast in Heaven a name. 
 And thou, foul stain upon a noble race, 
 
 Who leav'st thy Infant to a stranger's care ; 
 Ere long wilt meet some sudden sad disgrace, 
 
 And end thy days in bitterest despair. 
 F2
 
 6$ 
 
 SONNET TO SOLITUDE 
 
 Hail ! blest companion of the woe-fraught soul ! 
 
 I love thy glens retir'd, where murm'ring waters roll, 
 
 And Echo's voice from rock and cave resounds, 
 
 More than the world's delights or happy pleasure's sounds. 
 
 Thus while I wander at decline of day, 
 
 To mark the progress of the rising wave ; 
 And catch from Sol the last faint ling'ring ray, 
 
 Or view the silvery fishes sportive lave. 
 Alone I walk upon the sea-beat strand, 
 
 Pensive I sigh and my hard fate bewail ; 
 As the poor Mariner, who far from land, 
 Pours forth his prayer, invokes some influence bland, 
 
 To waft him onward with a fav'ring gale, 
 To pitying Heaven, I utter all my woe, 
 The life, the source, whence joy and comfort flow.
 
 69 
 
 THE TWO VICARS. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 Hail, Devon ! the scene of my tale, 
 The scene of my earliest days ; 
 
 On thy beauties let memory regale. 
 For a moment indulge in thy praise. 
 
 Let fancy restore the thatched cot, 
 
 With the blossoming myrtle o'ergrown, 
 
 And the plenty which blesses the lot 
 Of the peasant, who calls it his own. 
 
 Where the hedges in Nature's best dres\s, 
 The liveliest tint of her green, 
 
 The strawberry just peeping will press, 
 Like a modern Coquette, to be ssen. 
 
 'Tis there the salubrious breeze 
 
 Can the sweet bloom cf beauty restore, 
 
 And there the braced nerve will find ease, 
 Although shattered by anguish before.
 
 70 
 
 Those troubled with scanty supplies 
 
 Find their wants may be cured by thy stream ; 
 And to thee the rich Epicure flies, 
 
 To feast on thy fruit and thy cream. 
 
 To Devonshire all may repair 
 For comfort, for plenty, for health ; 
 
 Sweet solace for penury and care, 
 A cure for the languor of wealth. 
 
 But my pen will run wild in thy praise, 
 
 And I own in my Coimty I glory, 
 Yet I must not forget that these lays 
 
 Are doomed to relate a long story. 
 
 Perchance you would fain know the tale 
 Of which so long a preface I'm giving 
 
 I will tell you now rather than fail, 
 'Tis two Vicars to only one Living. 
 
 When changes took place in the state, 
 
 (By the bye, such things now are quite rare,) 
 
 And Eldon, submissive to fate, 
 
 Resigned to Lord Erskine his chair ; 
 
 Or rather, the diction to mend, 
 Tho' not quite in poetical measure,
 
 71 
 
 The woolsack tied up at each end, 
 
 With much trouble attached, and no leisure. 
 
 Some mischievous "Wag, who'd a mind 
 
 To a hoax on a sensible head, 
 Sent the news to the Peer swift as wind, 
 
 That Abbotsham's Vicar was dead. 
 
 Who would envy a Chancellor, pray, 
 When about to take leave of his place ? 
 
 Unwilling to quit, and unable to stay, 
 Old promises fly in his face. 
 
 His mansion a rookery appears, 
 
 Beset by the Parsons all round, 
 Each expressing his hope, and betraying his fears, 
 
 For where could the Livings be found ? 
 
 " I wish I could serve you," he said ; 
 
 " There is but one plan to pursue, 
 Go and knock a few Priests on the head, 
 
 And a benefice opens for you. 
 
 " The late Pastor of Abbotsiiam, sure 
 I trust Heaven has rendered divine ; 
 
 No more evils has he to endure, 
 
 And he's clearly relieved one of mine.
 
 72 
 
 " There is C long placed on my list, 
 
 Him to this preferment I'll name, 
 His friends on his merits and claims will insist, 
 
 Nor their zeal can I honestly blame." 
 
 With joy he beheld the Great Seal, 
 
 His right and his title to prove, 
 Little short of a Dean 'gan to feel, 
 
 Saw a Mitre suspended above. 
 
 To the Chancellor he humbly expressed 
 
 The gratitude felt in his heart, 
 And scarcely could take food or rest 
 
 So eager was he to depart. 
 
 His long journey was finished at last, 
 
 In fancy arrived at his home, 
 He took at the Inn but a hasty repast, 
 
 And walked to the Pars'nage alone. 
 
 To the Widow he thought he'd be kind, 
 As a Son to her age he would prove, 
 
 And the sorrow he feared and expected to find 
 He'd exert all his power to remove. 
 
 But those ideal visions soon pass'd, 
 As the Iris is hid by the night,
 
 73 
 
 When by clouds the palebeams of the moon are o'ercast, 
 And no star sheds its silvery light. 
 
 Joy, Sages of old have declared, 
 
 Is no more than a feverish dream, 
 When the coolness of Reason's impaired 
 
 A mere shadow pourtrayed on the stream. 
 
 He knocked at the door, when a voice from within 
 Bade him enter he followed the sound, 
 
 And courteously smiling he let himself in, 
 But alas ! in the parlour he found 
 
 A Divine who received him with kindness and grace. 
 And thus^soon their converse begun ; 
 
 I am happy to see you, Sir, pray take your place, 
 I believe you're the friend of my son !" 
 
 " I trust that I shall be t " the other replied, 
 " Though I own I'm at present unknown, 
 
 I presume you're the Cure of the Vicar who died 
 The Living is now, Sir, my own !" 
 
 The aged Vicar enraged, cried " For your sake no 
 more 
 To appearance I ever will trust,
 
 74 
 
 For who'dhavesupposedfrom the semblanceyou wore 
 An impostor the charge, Sir, is just." 
 
 The rich glow of health which till now overspread 
 T'other's cheek, flushed all over his face, 
 
 As he caught the last words the aged Vicar had said, 
 And starting amazed from his place. 
 
 " Behold," he exclaimed, " here the ponderous seal, 
 Which will make my pretensions quite clear ; 
 
 'Tis your age and your cloth which protects you I feel, 
 But I beg you'll no longer stay here." 
 
 " Mon Dieu!" he returned, and 'twas surely enough 
 
 To make even a Clergyman s\^ear, 
 " Am I turned from my house by a boy in a huff! 
 
 Who are you, Sir, and why came you here ? 
 
 " What's those papers to me ?" But with wonder 
 he read 
 
 That the heads of the Gospel and Law, 
 Without licence or leave had imagined him dead 
 
 His successor before him he saw. 
 
 He viewed them again, all was done in due form, 
 The Diocesan's writing he knew :
 
 75 
 
 His passion was cooled, he no longer could storm, 
 And he pitiously asked, " Is this true V* 
 
 He paused, and his wife stood all trembling with fear, 
 At length, " with submission," he cried, 
 
 " Pray inform me, good Sir, whilst I have power 
 to hear, 
 The time and the place where I died. 
 
 M The Living's been mine, Sir, for many a year, 
 
 Priests are not so easily killed, 
 Return then to town to the C r bear 
 
 The news that it still is well filled. 
 
 " I am sorry for you, but with youth on your side, 
 You may trust that the chances will mend, 
 
 A Living much better I hope they'll provide, 
 May success all your efforts attend." 
 
 How dreary the way, and how altered the scene, 
 
 Now hope could no longer bewray, 
 The young Vicar knew not but the whole was a dream 
 
 As he pensively retraced his way. 
 
 To his Lordship he went with a sorrowful face 
 " Alas !" cried he, " what can I do ?
 
 76 
 
 For I am myself at this time out of place, 
 Therefore can do nothing for you." 
 
 lie paused for a moment, his countenance cheered, 
 
 " Advice is now all I can give, 
 My successor is one who distress never heard 
 
 But he anxiously wished to relieve." 
 
 No more could be said out of office he stood ; 
 
 Let this tale then record here his glory, 
 He mended the matter as soon as he could, 
 
 And had many a laugh at the story.
 
 77 
 
 THE PARISH CLERK AND THE HONEY- 
 SUCKLE, 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 Whoe'er has seen near Town the mansion fine, 
 The splendid Pars'nage of the rich divine ; 
 Where spacious rooms, and cultivated grounds, 
 Bespeak th' abundance that within abounds ; 
 May travel onward, and the thought may strike, 
 That all church livings are not quite alike. 
 Keep Kensington and Clapham in your view, 
 I'll draw a picture of a pars'nage too. 
 
 An humble cot in a neat church-yard stood, 
 The roof was thatched the walls were only wood ; 
 One window opened to the matted floor, 
 No gay viranda arched that window o'er ; 
 Nought but lone ivy all the house o'erspead, 
 Save where one Suckling reared its scented head ; 
 And when the wind disturbed its peaceful ease, 
 It gave its fragrance to the envious breeze : 
 This would not for a modern Vicar do ; 
 Yet he was poor enough, that's entre nous ;
 
 78 
 
 One hundred pounds a year the Living brought, 
 
 No one could say he's better fed than taught ; 
 
 The rustics heard with reverence profound, 
 
 His pious language from the pulpit sound ; 
 
 And often gravely to each other said, 
 
 " What shame 'tis master is not better paid !" 
 
 His Parish Clerk, the hero of my tale, 
 
 Had reached his ninetieth year, was strong and hale 
 
 In honest industry, and mild content, 
 
 His very lengthened date of life he'd spent ; 
 
 He loved the Vicar as a favorite boy, 
 
 His words gave comfort, and his presence joy ; 
 
 Senior full fifty years, he knew 'twas true 
 
 That those who had not, wanted power to do ; 
 
 And when he found his master's will constrained, 
 
 Of the great Bishops loudly he complained, 
 
 Who thousands gave to some, as oft he'd heard, 
 
 And passed o'er merit which should be preferred : 
 
 This on a Sunday he would often rue, 
 
 On other days he'd something else to do. 
 
 To him the Pars'nage had been long consigned, 
 
 And with it thirty roods of ground behind ; 
 
 With his own hands he tilled this little spot, 
 
 And never envied great ones or their lot : 
 
 His was an humbler sphere, from greatness hurled, 
 
 His book the Scriptures, and his cot the world.
 
 79 
 
 He was unruffled by the cares of life, 
 For good old Thomas never had a wife ; 
 Yet he was not without those social ties, 
 In which the bliss of human nature lies. 
 
 Beneath his roof an ancient friend abode, 
 
 Travelling, like him, apace life's downward road ; 
 
 An aged sister filled the mistress' chair, 
 
 Both were her friends, and both alike her care. 
 
 At eventide oft they saw the Vicar there, 
 
 There too his wife or sister would repair : 
 
 'Twas sweet, 'twas pleasant, to the cot to walk, 
 
 To pass the moments in some cheerful talk. 
 
 Thus passed o'er hours Ah ! hours how happy spent, 
 
 Received with gratitude by kindness lent. 
 
 Poor Tom's old friend was something like himself, 
 But he had much more of the worldling's pelf ; 
 Full six and thirty pounds a year he still 
 Possessed, yet had not power to make a will : 
 This little sum, snatched from the wreck of trade, 
 (Though something less by income-tax was made,) 
 Was yet enough to pay the worthy pair 
 For all the trouble he might give them there : 
 In temper mild a pleasant, friendly man, 
 In pains and aches a perfect gentleman :
 
 80 
 
 It has been said, and when the world I view, 
 
 I'm half inclin'd to own the maxim true, 
 
 The strongest contrasts form the strongest ties 
 
 In love or friendship who the truth denies ? 
 
 Poor Thomas loved the friend he tried to cheer, 
 
 Infirm and weak, to him he grew more dear : 
 
 But, Ah ! there is a stroke howe'er delayed, 
 
 Which all allow must happiness invade. 
 
 The cheerful cot was now by gloom o'erspread, 
 
 Old Thomas wept his ancient friend was dead ; 
 
 The Vicar sought the poor old man to cheer, 
 
 With falt'ring voice and sympathizing tear ; 
 
 For he was one who others' anguish felt, 
 
 
 
 And at a tale of woe his heart would melt. 
 But lenient time can sorrow only cure, 
 And time will heal if we can but endure. 
 Again the aged Clerk would early rise, 
 And by hard labour Nature's wants suffice ; 
 He knew his cares on earth must shortly end, 
 And breathed a pious prayer to join his friend. 
 
 How oft when struggling with affliction's blow, 
 Does hard unkindness ope each source of woe ! 
 A neighbouring widow, a most clever dame, 
 Whose counterpart Crabbe handed down to fame.
 
 81 
 
 Entered the Church-yard, and with hustling haste 
 Loudly enquired why so much grass should waste ! 
 " I'll to the Parson straight," she eager cried. 
 " Ah ! do not, Madam," said old Tom, and sighed. 
 " And pray why not ? What ! is the man a fool ? 
 I'll send my horses come, old friend, be cool 
 (For like most females she loved much to rule.) 
 " I'll pay you well, and they shall have their feed, 
 A trifle sure will help you in your need !" 
 
 " Oh ! send them not," said Tom, " I humbly pray- 
 
 I ask no favour I require no pay." 
 
 The Vicar passing on his usual walk, 
 
 Was soon attracted by their earnest talk ; 
 
 He learned the story from the angry dame, 
 
 And mildly said, " he thought the Clerk to blame." 
 
 " Look, master," said the venerable sage, 
 " You'll not be angry, that I dare engage ; 
 Look at this tree all of my friend that's left, 
 If its destroyed, of comfort I'm bereft : 
 We reared the plant alas ! he's now no more 
 'Tis dearer to me than 'twas e'er before : 
 Not for the world should Madam's cattle come 
 To tear my fav'rite from its peaceful home." 
 
 G
 
 82 
 
 The Vicar, tho' Ins voice was scarcely clear, 
 Desired old Thomas to dismiss his fear. 
 
 His hand he press'd " God bless you, Sir," he cried, 
 " I care not now what other ills betide." 
 The dame indignant turned herself away, 
 Muttering " and who's the greatest fool, I pray?" 
 But to the feeling heart this tale will tell, 
 Refined affection with the poor can dwell.
 
 S3 
 
 A 
 
 TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OP 
 
 THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE-AUGUSTA OF WALES. 
 
 O'er Albion's Isle a sable veil is thrown, 
 Lowers o'er the Cottage, and o'erwhelms the Throne ; 
 Envelopes all, surcharged with baleful dew 
 A Nation's tears, to feeling's dictates true ! 
 'Tis not that sorrow merely known 
 By sable garb and solemn tone, 
 That public grief, which meets the eye, 
 But hides the bosom's apathy ; 
 'Tis not the tear forgot as soon 
 As transient showers at summer's noon ; 
 'Tis from the heart, subdued by grief, we mourn 
 With painful forecast o'er our Charlotte's urn ; 
 The fleeting meteor, life, so quickly past, 
 The bud and blossom withered by the blast. 
 Disastrous stroke ! severe the fatal blow, 
 Blasting each budding germ of bliss below, 
 Joy's cheering prospectsLove's enraptured hour, 
 Torn from thy heart by Death's unfeeling power ! 
 
 G 2
 
 84^ 
 
 Sudden and terrible the cloud appeared, 
 Crushed the fair fabric Hope had rear'd, 
 While blest with health, and high in beauty's bloom. 
 Gay, and unconscious of thy early doom, 
 Long ere thy day had reached meridian height, 
 Pleasure's rich store just opening to thy sight, 
 The charming prospects closed in unexpected night. 
 Deceitful Fancy, with her smiling snare, 
 Promised thee joys which all around would share : 
 In that fond moment when the hope was given 
 All would be granted you could ask of Heaven. 
 Delusive expectation ! who can scan 
 The ways of God, or read the fate of man I 
 Sad moral lesson this yet taught to show 
 Nought can insure our happiness below. 
 
 A gleam of sunshine, an ethereal beam, 
 Fleeting, unreal as a midnight dream, 
 A shadowy substance which we grasp in vaiir. 
 What none possess, tho' all aspire to gain. 
 A few short months thou had'st a partner dear. 
 Now left to mourn thy loss in grief severe. 
 Thy fondly cherish'd hope, thy infant boy, 
 Conducts his Mother to the realms of joy ; 
 Silent the Cherub came, but to Heav'n's throne 
 Presents a soul as spotless as his own.
 
 85 
 
 Oh ! that a Nation's sympathy could heal 
 The bitter anguish that thy Prince must feel. 
 Unhappy Youth ! tho' formed to grace a Throne, 
 Whose joy and sorrow e'er surpass'd thine own ? 
 Cast in an hour from Love's extremest height, 
 In one short evening one eventful night ; 
 While yet to Heaven you poured the thankful prayer 
 That she you loved was cherished by His care, 
 The summons came, the awful hour was nigh 
 That closed her eyes you heard her latest sigh. 
 That happy union, that congenial mind, 
 That sweet affection, and that bliss refined, 
 All vanished quick thy joy was lost in woe, 
 And Memory became the deadliest foe. 
 Ah ! can thy grief indeed admit alloy ? 
 " Good lost weighs more in ill than gained in joy."* 
 Tho' from thy fond embrace she's snatched away, 
 Yet he who claimed her can her loss repay. 
 
 Thou weep'st a Consort whom thou fondly loved, 
 We mourn a Princess whom our hearts approved 
 We blend our griefs our honest tears shall show 
 'Tis not mere wailing it is heart-felt woe. 
 Say, can our tears be wrong, our judgment err ? 
 We cannot hope another like to her. 
 
 Young.
 
 86 
 
 The lofty sense of a superior mind 
 
 Whispered her station was to serve mankind : 
 
 A bright example to her sex she shone, 
 
 In duty firm, nor dazzled by a throne. 
 
 Sad is the task thou left us to perform ; 
 
 Like seamen shipwreck'd in the furious storm, 
 
 We know not v where to cast our aching eyes, 
 
 In hopeful search where consolation lies. 
 
 'Twas but as yesterday wc hailed thy choice 
 With real pleasure, with one general voice ; 
 We saw thee, smile gay by thy Husband's side, 
 A Wife enraptured, and a Kingdom's pride ; 
 No vice disgraced, no follies e'er were seen, 
 We fondly hailed thee as our future Queen. 
 
 'Tis past the vision fades that bliss is o'er ; 
 
 Our hope-^-our joy-^-our Princess is no more. 
 
 The eye suffused with tears, the general gloom, 
 
 Speak more than volumes could lament thy doom. 
 
 'Tis not for us to dictate to our God ; 
 
 \Ve feel the pressure, and we kiss the rod : 
 
 The hand of Him who guarded Israel's throne 
 
 Shall still protect us, tfio' our Hope is gone. 
 
 Though we beheld thy lovely form inurned, 
 
 (t By Briton's followed, and by Britons mourned,"* 
 
 Pope.
 
 87 
 
 The last sad dues Affection could bestow, 
 And at thy tomb felt all the pangs of woe, 
 Still shall thy memory, in our hearts enshrined, 
 A living cenotaph for ever find. 
 All-gracious Heaven ! how just thy mighty will 
 (Though long we've mourned it as our greatest ill), 
 To spare our Monarch, whom thy hands enthrall 
 From this sad woe to see his prospects fall ! 
 From sorrow's source what deep reflections spring ! 
 We weep a Princess, and lament a King ! 
 Round him oblivion's shade has long been spread, 
 Yet in his subjects' hearts he is not dead. 
 
 To him th' envenom'd dart has lost its sting, 
 For ah ! what grief would recollection bring ! 
 Point to the hour recall the fond caress, 
 The lovely Child that he was wont to bless ; 
 More justly dear the longer she was known, 
 Her virtues truly copied from his own. 
 To see that blooming Hope so soon laid low 
 Can we lament he does not feel the blow ? 
 A blow like this his aged heart had riven 
 To follow thee, and seek repose in Heaven. 
 How art thou fallen, vain, expecting land, 
 Before the judgment of th' Almighty's hand ! 
 The fairest rose that Sharon's vale could boast, 
 To thee to Europe is for ever lost.
 
 88 
 
 High and erect it stood, the Master's pride, 
 A little scion peeping by its side ; 
 The Sun's bright radiance round its features threw 
 The richest tint of Nature's loveliest hue, 
 Secure we thought from every ruder breeze, 
 We viewed our treasure, felt our hearts at ease. 
 Oh ! sad reverse ! Oh ! fatal blow to joy, 
 A little moment can our bliss destroy ; 
 Like the fell blast which scours the Eastern plain, 
 Death nips the blossom, and our prayers are vain. 
 That hallowed pile which holds thy sacred form, 
 (All that is spared us by the fatal storm,) 
 With awe profound shall all beholders see, 
 And pour to Heaven a parting prayer for thee. 
 
 Words are but vain, thy worth all breasts can feel, 
 Yet the heart's dictates may the pen reveal ; 
 A parting tribute spared (we hoped) till age 
 Had (like thy Grandsire, venerable sage !) 
 Blanched thy fine locks, and virtuous children's tears, 
 With Britain's sorrows, closed thy latter years. 
 To him who mourns thee with unceasing grief, 
 Let thy bright virtues give a kind relief ; 
 His love for thee, express 2d in pangs severe, 
 To British hearts will make him ever dear. 
 If there be ought can give our woes relief, 
 Tis the proud tribute of all Europe's grief:
 
 80 
 
 All had admired the rising orb which shone 
 The brightest jewel round the British Crown ! 
 
 They mark'd the wisdom that adorn'd her mind, 
 Her wit unstudied, and her manners kind ; 
 Form'd to attract the young and charm the sage, 
 She gave a pattern to the rising age ; 
 Virtue in her beheld its guardian saint, 
 And vice discouraged, felt its just restraint. 
 Oh, when our annals at some future age 
 Shall the research of Britain's sons engage, 
 Will they not pause to see a name so dear, 
 And to thy memory shed a feeling tear ! 
 Yes, they shall pause ; the Historian's pen shall tell 
 No one like thee was mourned, or loved so well : 
 Yes, future ages shall thy name revere, 
 Lost in the zenith of thy bright career. 
 Till Pity's self shall in the ruin fall 
 Of Nature's greatness, this terrestrial ball. 
 The last great day of God's immortal state, 
 While trembling Nations for their sentence wait ; 
 Till woe and pleasure cease to move the mind, 
 In Memory's tablet shalt thou be enshrined. 
 Fond Memory turns, still turns to weep for thee, 
 The loveliest semblance of a Royal Tree ; 
 Still we must mourn thee, now sublim'd to share 
 A joy more lasting, and a crown more fair.
 
 90 
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 Her high birth, and her graces sweet, 
 Quickly found a lover meet ; 
 The virgin quire for her request, 
 The god that sits at marriage feast ; 
 He at their invoking came, 
 But with a scarce well-lighted flame ; 
 And in his garland as he stood, 
 Ye might discern a cypress bnd." 
 
 Milton. 
 
 The fond joys of my bosom are fled, 
 
 Like the vapour which flies at the morn, 
 Since her who inspired them is dead, 
 
 And her offspring, alas ! ere 'twas born. 
 With the morning my sorrows awake, 
 
 But I cannot those sorrows forego ; 
 And the pleasures which others partake, 
 
 My heart is forbidden to know. 
 
 Bereft of my Hope and my Pride, 
 What avail all the joys of the world, 
 
 Since e'en Comfort to me is denied, 
 And with Joy is fell Misery unfurl'd :
 
 91 
 
 No more her loved voice shall invite 
 My steps to inhale the soft breeze ; 
 
 No more shall her accents delight, 
 Nor give to this bosom its ease. 
 
 Every spot her dear memory recalls ; 
 
 She is present, for aye, to my eyes, 
 Till sad recollection appalls, 
 
 And again in my fancy she dies. 
 She dies can I bear with my woe ? 
 
 Can I live now my love has expired ? 
 My sorrows incessantly flow, 
 
 Yet Religion has comfort inspired. 
 
 She lives with the Angels on high ! 
 
 Methinks at this moment I see 
 Her form 'mid the Saints in the sky, 
 
 And her eyes fondly bent upon me. 
 She beckons, she beckons me on, 
 
 With her to partake of pure joy ! 
 Yet the vision so blissful is gone ! 
 
 I am left here to weep and to sigh. 
 
 How short were my visions of bliss, 
 How transient my happiness here ! 
 
 More stable my bosom's distress ! 
 What is life without her I held dear !
 
 92 
 
 Her soul was too pure for the earth, 
 , Ambition ne'er dwelt in her mind, 
 
 Religion Benevolence Worth, 
 Were joined with a virtue refined. 
 
 She is gone and the world is a void, 
 
 A pleasureless void to my soul. 
 What are dreams of ambition and pride, 
 
 What is pow'r, or the love of control ? 
 Nought to me There is nothing to cheer 
 
 The black cloud which hangs over my fate ; 
 All, all is unhappy and drear ! 
 
 To be happy is not to be great. 
 
 Yet happy, too happy for man, 
 
 I have been with her I adored. 
 How fondly fresh joys would she plan, 
 
 How sweet would she smile on her lord ! 
 Dissipation would start back appalled, 
 
 Vice shrunk from her eye with affright ; 
 Pleasure ne'er had her bosom enthralled, 
 
 She sought not mere transient delight. 
 
 To succour Distress was her pride ; 
 
 The wants of the Poor to befriend ; 
 Sad Misery's Pleaders to guide 
 
 To the path where their troubles might end :
 
 93 
 
 Soft affection possessed her heart ; 
 
 Her love was unfeigned and sincere ; 
 Nor could stern command e'er impart 
 
 To her bosom the impulse of fear. 
 
 Like the land she was destined to sway, 
 
 She was firm, where she knew she was right ; 
 And with anguish we mark the sad day 
 
 When to Heaven her soul took its flight. 
 The shadow of joy is no more, 
 
 It is gone like a dream of the morn ; 
 The brightest of prospects are o'er, 
 
 And we feel but of Misery the thorn. 
 
 The tear which o'erflows from the heart, 
 
 Speaks more than the pen can depict ; 
 Acutely we feel the keen smart, 
 
 Which Heaven thought fit to inflict. 
 When the scion is cut from the tree 
 
 It survives, still is lovely and gay ; 
 But, alas ! what availed for thee 
 
 When Providence called thee away ? 
 
 Thou art happy (he hymns of the blessed, 
 The harps of the seraphs, with joy 
 
 All hail thy accession to rest, 
 
 To pleasures which never can cloy.
 
 94 
 
 Thou art happy thy filial love 
 Must endless felfeity share ; 
 
 Let thy conjugal happiness prove 
 That virtue was ever thy care. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 # 
 
 G. Sidny, Printer, 
 Northumberland Street, Strand.
 
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