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 VERSES, 
 
 SERIOUS AND COMIC.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED Bi' JAMES MOVES, 
 
 Caatle Street, X/eicestei Square.
 
 SUBSCRIBERS' COPY. 
 
 Cempoia ,#u6£Seciba^ 
 
 VERSES, 
 
 SERIOUS AND COMIC. 
 
 BY 
 
 H. H. KNAPP. 
 
 " Unconsidered trifles — 
 Merry and tragical, tedious and brief." — Shakspbarb. 
 
 LONDON: 
 JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET. 
 
 1835.
 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Many of the following verses have already appeared, 
 
 some under the signature of H. Melmoth, when the 
 
 Author was an under-graduate of Cambridge, and others 
 
 in various periodical publications. They are now for the 
 
 first time collected, together with some of a more recent 
 
 date. 
 
 R. C. 

 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 TO * * * * 1 
 
 TO AN INFANT ON THE DAY OF ITS BIRTH 3 
 
 THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE 5 
 
 THE LADY TO HER PHYSALOPHAGIST . 7 
 
 SERENADE 10 
 
 TO A LADY BORN ON THE SAME DAY IN THE SAME YEAR 
 
 WITH THE AUTHOR 12 
 
 SONG 14 
 
 16 
 
 FAREWELL OF MARY STUART TO FRANCE 18 
 
 LAURA 21 
 
 FRIENDSHIP 22 
 
 TO THE REDBREAST 23 
 
 TO THE NIGHTINGALES 24 
 
 MY LAST WISH 27 
 
 TWADDLE 28 
 
 SONG 30 
 
 ODE S2 
 
 ANACREONTIC 36 
 
 CAUTION 38 
 
 TO * * * * 4Q 
 
 FROM LAURA IN LONDON TO JANE IN THE COUNTKV 41 
 
 r^Q * * * yj^ jjj^j:^ WEDDING DAY 47
 
 vm CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SONG 49 
 
 .SONG 51 
 
 THE BROKEN HEART 53 
 
 STANZAS, WRITTEN AT CONWAY — 1805 55 
 
 THE exile's COMPLAINT — 1805 59 
 
 TO MEMORY 63 
 
 TO MY ARM CHAIR — 1806 68 
 
 TO * * * 71 
 
 MONSIEUR DE TROP 73 
 
 THE LOCK OF RAVEN HAIR 76 
 
 ■PQ * * * « LAMENTING THAT SHE WAS GROWING OLD 93 
 
 CHRYSOSTOM TO MARCELLA 95 
 
 AMBROSIO TO MARCELLA 100 
 
 SULTAN ACHMET 105 
 
 EXPECTATION 107 
 
 'EAEOT2 BfiMOS 109 
 
 TO * * * « 109 
 
 SONG 113 
 
 THE BELLE OF THE BALL ^ - 117 
 
 HERO AND LEANDER 122 
 
 A MODERATE WISH 1 32 
 
 THE RESTORATION OF THE MONKS TO LA GRANDE 
 
 CHARTREUSE — 1 8 1 6 1 35
 
 TEMPORA SUBSECIVA; 
 
 VERSES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 
 
 TO 
 
 # # * * 
 
 Me quoque donari jam rude tempus erat. — Ovid. 
 
 Why bid me strike the lyre again, 
 And court the minstrel's tuneful art ? 
 
 Has poesy a charm for pain, 
 A balsam for the aching heart ? 
 
 Believe not that to soothe her woes 
 The bird of eve enchants the grove ; 
 
 Oh, no ! from joy her descant flows, 
 When Nature wakes to life and love. 
 
 B
 
 POEMS. 
 
 'Tis true that Ovid's harp could sound 
 
 In exile by a stormy sea ; 
 But Hope diffused her smiles around — 
 
 Those smiles that cannot beam for me. 
 
 In vain the bard essays to sing 
 
 'Mid torturing thoughts and gloomy fears, 
 No strength has Fancy's drooping wing 
 
 Whose plumage is bedewed wuth tears.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 TO 
 
 AN INFANT ON THE DAY OF ITS BIRTH. 
 
 IMITATED FllOM THE FRENCH. 
 
 Innocuae parcant ventus et unda rati. — Ovid. 
 
 Rejoice, my friends ! with songs of glee 
 We trust this little bark to sea ; 
 While fated to return no more 
 It gaily quits the smiling shore, 
 Be ours the grateful task to guide 
 Its course o'er life's uncertain tide. 
 Rejoice, my friends — no presage dark 
 Attends thy way, beloved bark. 
 
 Already fortune breathes a gale 
 Which gently lifts the flagging sail ; 
 Alread}'^ Hope displays afar 
 In heaven her bright protecting star :
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Away, ill-omened birds, away ! 
 The Loves around this vessel play ; 
 Rejoice, my friends — no presage dark 
 Attends thy way, beloved bark. 
 
 Yes, fluttering gaily round the mast. 
 The Loves avert each ruder blast ; 
 While, lest wild waves the bark o'erwhelm, 
 Friendship presiding guides the helm. 
 The Pleasures flowery gifts dispense 
 Cropt by the hand of Innocence. 
 Then sing, my friends — no presage dark 
 Attends thy way, beloved bark. 
 
 But who, with harsh and rugged brow, 
 To greet the vessel hastens now ? 
 'Tis stern Adversity, whose frown 
 Can call the brooding tempest down ; 
 But 'mid the deepening gloom of night 
 Bids Virtue's beams shine doubly bright. 
 Then sing, my friends — no presage dark 
 Attends thy way, beloved bark.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND ABOUT TO LEAVE HIS 
 COUNTRY. 
 
 IMITATEU FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 Birds, by nature taught to fly 
 Dreary winter's weeping sky, 
 Now to realms of brighter day 
 Bear their songs and loves away ; 
 But no charm shall long detain 
 
 From our coast their constant wing. 
 We shall hear their notes again 
 
 Heralding the birth of spring. 
 
 More than they must we lament 
 This their annual banishment : 
 Lowly cot and palace gay 
 Echoed to their jocund lay.
 
 6 POEMS. 
 
 Though some sunny vale beneath 
 They their lays for others sing, 
 
 They shall come when Zephyr's breath 
 Whispering wakes the bashful spring. 
 
 Birds from cold who never flee 
 May their lot with envy see ; 
 For already winter shrouds 
 Heaven in dark and gloomy clouds. 
 Happy from his dreary reign, 
 
 Who can haste with agile wing ; 
 Exiles though they cross the main, 
 
 They'll return with opening spring. 
 
 They will not our pain forget, 
 Who their blithesome songs regret ; 
 But reseek one favoured spot. 
 Sheltering oak, or rustic cot. 
 Where yon hills of verdure swell 
 
 Joyous notes again shall ring. 
 Through each thicket, brake, and dell, 
 
 Heralding the birth of spring.
 
 POKMS. 
 
 THE LADY TO HER PHYSALOPHAGIST. 
 
 Imperavi egoniet rnihi 
 Omnia assentari. — Terentius. 
 
 Whom shall the muse essay to sing? 
 Whose praises wake the slumbering string ? 
 Thine — humble, acquiescent thing, 
 
 My Toady ! 
 
 Who, when I sigh, breathes forth a groan ? 
 
 Who listens to my voice alone. 
 
 Nor dares surmise her soul's her own ? 
 
 My Toady. 
 
 Who, when the cards run cross at loo, 
 By sad experience learns to rue 
 My loss of cash and temper, too ? 
 
 My Toady.
 
 8 POEMS. 
 
 Who, when as tete-a-tete we dine, 
 I claret drink, or hock divine. 
 Sips her one glass of raisin wine ? 
 
 My Toady. 
 
 Who, while I taste each dainty dish, 
 Seasoned to meet a gourmand's wish. 
 Eats legs of fowls and tails of fish ? 
 
 My Toady. 
 
 Who, when I doze, my elbow jogs ? 
 Who feeds my bullfinch, combs my dogs, 
 And carries, when I walk, my clogs? 
 
 My Toady. 
 
 Who, while obtrusive wrinkles say 
 My charms are sinking in decay, 
 Vows " I grow younger every day?" 
 
 My Toady. 
 
 Who, when my cheeks new tints assume. 
 
 Adopted in my dressing-room. 
 
 Cries, '' exercise gives such a bloom ?" 
 
 My Toady.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Who, when to music I'm inclined, 
 
 And sing, " Sweet Home," or " Love is blind," 
 
 Cries, " Pasta! Sontag ! both combined ?" 
 
 My Toady. 
 
 Who, when to raise a smile I try 
 By some trite story, dull and dry, 
 Laughs till her cracking laces fly ? 
 
 My Toady. 
 
 Who, when my life's gay scene is o'er, 
 
 Thinks she'll inherit all my store, 
 
 And cringe, and fawn, and sneak no more ? 
 
 My Toady. 
 
 Who'll find by will bequeathed her then 
 
 A vinaigrette, a silver pen, 
 
 A muff, a shawl, and three pounds ten ? 
 
 My Toady.
 
 10 POEMS. 
 
 SERENADE. 
 
 In vias 
 Sub cantu querulae despice tibiae. — Horace. 
 
 The zephyr, soft as infant's sigh, 
 Breathes o'er the dimpled lake ; 
 
 The moon is in the heavens high, — 
 My blue-eyed maid, awake. 
 
 All, all is hushed within thy bow'r, 
 Sleep seals thy mother's eyes, 
 
 Love claims his own ambrosial hour, — 
 My Mary, sweet, arise. 
 
 No owlet screams, forbodiug death. 
 No ban-dogs bay the moon ; 
 
 No witches haunt the blasted heath, 
 At night's unhallowed noon.
 
 POEMS. 11 
 
 Here every ruder sound is mute, 
 Here flowers breathe odours sweet, 
 
 And blooms such turf as well might suit 
 Titania's fairy feet. 
 
 Safe as beneath a brother's care, 
 
 To me this hour resign ; 
 I'll press thy hand, but never dare 
 
 To touch thy lip with mine. 
 
 Then, Mary, come, while yet the lark 
 
 Sleeps in the tangled brake ; 
 While glimmers yet the glow-worm's spark. 
 
 My blue-eyed maid, awake.
 
 12 POEMS. 
 
 TO A LADY 
 
 BORN ON THE SAME DAY IN THE SAME YEAR WITH 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 Utrumque nostmm incredibili modo 
 Consentit astrum. — Horace. 
 
 Why, since it pleased the Fates to blend 
 Our vital thread, beloved friend, 
 
 In life's first smiling hour, 
 Has Age, whose chilling frost I feel 
 O'er my reluctant bosom steal, 
 
 From thee witheld his power ? 
 
 'Tis long since he began to plough 
 With furrows deep my care-worn brow,
 
 POEMS. 13 
 
 And scatter hated snows ; 
 But thine is still the vernal bloom, 
 The tresses dark as raven's plume, 
 
 The cheek that shames the rose. 
 
 The Sisters sure with partial hand 
 
 Each flowery Spring, each Summer bland. 
 
 Bestowed, dear friend, on thee ; 
 While Autumn, crowned with foliage sere, 
 And Winter, tyrant of the year, 
 
 Their wrath reserved for me.
 
 14 POEMS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Three Loves who had left the Idalian court, 
 
 O'er heath and o'er meadow flew ; 
 They chased each other in frolic sport, 
 
 And bunches of roses threw : 
 But tired with their play, they sought the retreat 
 
 Of a stern and a crabbed sao-e ; 
 Ah ! little they thought, as they knocked at his gate, 
 
 T'was the dwelling of surly Age. 
 
 The first was a proud and impetuous boy, 
 
 You might guess by his eye of fire 
 That sparkled and flashed with the beam of joy 
 
 That his father was young Desire. 
 He could not e'en bear as a transient guest 
 
 With so gloomy a host to stay ; 
 So chilled by whose looks was his burning breast, 
 
 That he shivered and fled away.
 
 POEMS. 15 
 
 The second was Fancy's wayward child, 
 
 Who fluttered on restless wing, 
 O'er garden trim, and o'er desert wild, 
 
 Companion of Youth and Spring : 
 " Preserve me," he cried, "■ from that angry eye, 
 
 From the frowns on that brow that lour," 
 And, wafted away on a lover's sigh, 
 
 He fled to his mother's bow'r. 
 
 The third was a boy in whose modest mien 
 
 Shone Nature's artless grace ; 
 Round his lip of rose played a smile serene, 
 
 As he gazed on the sage's face ; 
 Who fondled the child as he clung to his knee. 
 
 Exclaiming, in gentlest mood, 
 " Here rest, for Age has no terrors for thee. 
 
 Thou offspring of Gratitude."
 
 16 POEMS. 
 
 Quis mea digne defleie potest 
 
 Mala ? quae lachrymis nostris questus 
 
 Reddet Aedon? — Seneca; Octavia. 
 
 When through the aspen's trembling shade 
 The silver moon her pale beam throws, 
 
 When sleeps the breeze, as if afraid 
 To chase the solemn sad repose ; 
 
 'Tis sweet around her tomb to hang, 
 Or fondly clasp the hallowed ground ; 
 
 To waken Memory's dormant pang, 
 And ope Affliction's closing wound. 
 
 Hence! silken Pleasure's giddy throng — 
 Hence ! hearts enwrapt in Stoic gloom ; 
 
 Far other scenes to you belong, 
 Profane not Mary's humble tomb.
 
 POEMS. 1 7 
 
 But thou, whom tender thoughts incline 
 
 To pensive Sorrow's soft control, 
 Who oft at Pity's tear-dewed shrine 
 
 Hast offered all thy melting soul, — 
 
 Where Mary sleeps, thy steps arrest, 
 What time the tints of evening^ fade 
 
 'Tis thine to feel the sadd'ning breast, 
 With them assume a deeper shade. 
 
 A charm for thee shall Fancy's power, 
 Unknown to ruder breasts, supply ; 
 
 Create a gem in every flow'r. 
 In every passing breeze, a sigh.
 
 18 POEMS. 
 
 FAREWELL 
 OF MARY STUART TO FRANCE. 
 
 IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 Forte mihi posthac non adeunda vale Mary Stuart. 
 
 Adieu, loved France, to Mary's heart 
 Endeared by every tender tie ; 
 
 Land of the brave, with thee to part, 
 Nurse of my childhood, is to die. 
 
 Receive, dear France, this last farewell. 
 
 Which scarce my faltering tongue can give, 
 And locked in Memory's inmost cell, 
 
 Still let the thought of Mary live. 
 The zephyrs breathe, we quit the shore, 
 
 While Heaven, regardless of my pain, 
 Bids not the boiling billows roar, 
 
 And bear me to thy coast again.
 
 POEMS. 19. 
 
 Adieu, loved France, to Mary's heart 
 
 Endeared by every tender tie ; 
 Land of the brave, with thee to part, 
 
 Nurse of my childhood, is to die. 
 
 While as some brilliant star I blazed, 
 
 'Mid crowds who thronged my state to grace. 
 Not on my jewelled brow they gazed. 
 
 But youth's fresh roses in my face. 
 'Mid Scotland's gloom, supreme command 
 
 Awaits my sceptered hand in vain ; 
 Unless o'er thee, dear gallant land, 
 
 Thy Mary has no wish to reign* 
 
 Adieu, loved France, to Mary's heart 
 
 Endeared by every tender tie ; 
 Land of the brave, with thee to part. 
 
 Nurse of my childhood, is to die. 
 
 Love, Glory, Genius, round me shed 
 
 Their gifts, alas ! for ever lost ; 
 Those flowers which decked my youthful head. 
 
 Bloom not in Scotland's realms of frost.
 
 20 POEMS. 
 
 What fearful visions blast my sight, 
 In Horror's grisly form arrayed ! 
 
 See ! on yon sable scaffold's height 
 
 The headsman bares the glittering blade. 
 
 Adieu, loved France, to Mary's heart 
 Endeared by every tender tie ; 
 
 Land of the brave, with thee to part, 
 Nurse of my childhood, is to die. 
 
 'Mid Faction's rage, from coward fears 
 
 Still shall the Stuart's child be free ; 
 And, as in this dark hour of tears. 
 
 Each tender thought shall turn to thee. 
 But, ah ! I feel the freshening gale 
 
 The bounding bark more swiftly bear, 
 Night's deepening shades the ocean veil. 
 
 Each well-known object melts in air. 
 
 Adieu, loved France, to Mary's heart 
 Endeared by every tender tie ; 
 
 Land of the brave, with thee to part, 
 Nurse of my childhood, is to die.
 
 roEMS. 21 
 
 Thus am I doubly armed. — Cato. 
 
 On Laura's cheek two dimples play, 
 While Cupids flutter round them ; 
 
 Nor can admiring lovers say, 
 
 Which has most power to wound them. 
 
 Fond youths, to gaze who rashly dare, 
 
 No hope of safety cherish ; 
 For should Charybdis chance to spare, 
 
 By Scylla still you perish.
 
 22 POEMS. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 The star which beams at opening clay 
 In summer's gladsome hours, 
 
 When Flora joins her Zephyr's play, 
 And wakes her world of flowers ; 
 
 When sullen winter's gloom appears, 
 When Nature's beauties fade, 
 
 Still faithful sheds its light, and cheers 
 Dull Evening's dreary shade. 
 
 Like this fair star is Friendship's light, 
 Which pours its steady ray, 
 
 As brightly clear in Age's night 
 As youth's ambrosial day. 
 
 Yes I to the good, the radiant beam 
 Can cheer the death-bed gloom, 
 
 Can gild with one last trembling gleam 
 The pathway to the tomb.
 
 POEMS. 23 
 
 TO THE RED BREAST. 
 
 Sweet are thy notes when, waked by Zephyrs glad, 
 Spring bursts to life, enshrined in opening flow'rs ; 
 
 But sweeter far, when all around is sad. 
 Save thee, sole minstrel of the wintry hours. 
 
 Then on some mossy rose, or leafless stem. 
 
 Well-pleased, sweet bird, I hear thee warbling 
 near. 
 
 As lone you sit, 'mid many a frozen gem. 
 And chant a requiem to the closing year. 
 
 Teach me thy patience ; ceasing to repine, 
 Teach me to bear the storms of fate like thee ; 
 
 To sing, as erst when fortune's smiles were mine. 
 And cheer the gloom of dark adversity.
 
 24 POEMS. 
 
 TO THE NIGHTINGALES. 
 
 IMITATED FROM THE TRENCH. 
 
 Doux rossignols, chantez pour moi, &c. — Beranger. 
 
 All is hushed in repose, not a voice 
 
 Presumes the deep silence to break ; 
 That echo again may rejoice, 
 
 Awake, gentle songsters, awake. 
 I have sighed for your melody long, 
 
 Then haste to my favourite tree, 
 /, too, am a nursling of song, 
 
 Sweet nightingales, warble for me. 
 
 Oh, never to Phryne resort. 
 
 The coquette artificial and vain, 
 Who trifles with hearts for her sport. 
 
 And laughs when her victims complain. 
 From lover to lover she'll roam, 
 
 O'er roses as wanders the bee : 
 My bosom is constancy's home ; 
 
 Sweet nightingales, warble for me.
 
 POEMS. 25 
 
 Waste not on the miser your strains, 
 
 But haste from his roof to depart ; 
 Where gold as a deity reigns, 
 
 No melody softens the heart. 
 'Tis enouo;h for the sordid recluse 
 
 The wealth he has hoarded to see : 
 Here poverty dwells with the muse ; 
 
 Sweet nightingales, warble for me. 
 
 Ye sport in the bi'eeze uncontrouled, 
 
 Ye wing to new regions your way, 
 Ye are liberty's children, withhold 
 
 From slavery's patrons your lay : 
 Let them seek popularity's shrine, 
 
 Or bend to a tyrant the knee : 
 Contentment and freedom are thine ; 
 
 Sweet nightingales, warble for me. 
 
 Though bright are the blushes of morn, 
 And brighter the splendour of noon, 
 
 Sing not for the churlish, who scorn 
 The silvery beams of the moon :
 
 26 POEMS. 
 
 How tender, how soft is her light, 
 
 When the world from all tumult is free 
 
 / love the calm stillness of night ; 
 Sweet nightingales, warble for me.
 
 rOEMS. 
 
 27 
 
 MY LAST WISH. 
 
 Debita sparges lachryma favillam 
 
 amici. — Horace. 
 
 When mute the tongue which breathes the strain, 
 When life's vain dream hath past away, 
 
 With gleams of joy and clouds of pain, 
 Chequered as April's fitful day. 
 
 Prepare for me a lowly bed, 
 
 Far from the stranger's curious eye ; 
 
 Where youth's gay spring in gladness fled, 
 There let my mouldering relics lie. 
 
 Lay me beneath that sheltering yew. 
 
 Which blooms, to fond remembrance dear ; 
 
 And be the spot but known to few. 
 The few I loved and cherished here. 
 
 Saint Hill, 1828.
 
 28 roEMS. 
 
 TWADDLE. 
 
 Quantum est in rebus inane! — Peusius. 
 
 What is the patriot's speech of flame, 
 Who vows his country's foes to tame, 
 And barter life for deathless fame ? 
 
 'Tis Twaddle. 
 
 What is the commentator's lore. 
 
 Who loves o'er musty books to pore, 
 
 And A erase, and B restore? 
 
 'Tis Twaddle. 
 
 What, Laura, is thy vestal plan. 
 
 Say all, do all thy lover can. 
 
 To shun the odious monster, man ? 
 
 'Tis Twaddle. 
 
 And what is Strephon's fervent vow. 
 Who swears to love thee more than now, 
 When time hath ploughed thy marble brow ? 
 
 'Tis Twaddle.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 29 
 
 When some fair nymph is pressed to sing, 
 Or touch her harp's enchanting string, 
 Whence does each coy refusal spring ? 
 
 From Twaddle. 
 
 When some gaunt spinster, blest by fate, 
 Finds fflad success each rubber wait, 
 What is her wish for luck less great ? 
 
 'Tis Twaddle. 
 
 When round some whimsied patient stand 
 Physicians grave with fee-fed hand, 
 The words which flow in accents bland 
 
 Are Twaddle. 
 
 What are the sonnets, trim and new, 
 Which in the Album page we view, 
 Of stripling bards, or ladies blue? 
 
 They're Twaddle. 
 
 From monarchs to their meanest page, 
 From whiskered fop to buzzwigg'd sage, 
 What rules this intellectual age ? 
 
 Why, Twaddle.
 
 30 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 The storm was loud, the rain fell fast, 
 
 Her babe was sweetly sleeping. 
 Poor Mary shuddered at the blast, 
 
 And wore the night in weeping. 
 As lightnings fired the troubled air, 
 
 And hope began to fail her. 
 She cried, Great power of Mercy ! spare, 
 
 Oh spare ! my absent sailor. 
 
 Sweet babe, for thee, my only joy, 
 
 I'll strive my griefs to smother ; 
 For, ah ! perhaps, ill-fated boy, 
 
 Thou only hast a mother. 
 No tear-drop dims thine azure eye, 
 
 No raging storm thou fearest. 
 The wind but sings thy lullaby. 
 
 That wrecks thy father, dearest.
 
 POEMS. 31 
 
 Poor wretch ! of all her soul held dear 
 
 One fatal night bereft her ; 
 No groan she uttered, shed no tear, 
 
 But sense for ever left her. 
 And still, when warring winds arise, 
 
 Her fading cheek grows paler ! 
 She lifts her hands to Heaven and cries, 
 
 " Protect my absent sailor."
 
 32 POEMS. 
 
 ODE. 
 
 Ire per altum 
 Magna mente volunt, Phryxi promittitur absens 
 Vellus, et auratis Argo reditura corymbis. — Val. Flac. 
 
 Ag;»'T»sj» av^^aii ffroXoi APOLLONIUS. 
 
 The winds were hushed, the murmuring tide 
 Scarce kissed the towering Argo's side, 
 Which in her ample bosom bore 
 
 The gallant band of warriors bold, 
 Eager to bear from Colchis' shore, 
 
 The meed of toil, the fleece of gold. 
 High upon the gilded prow 
 Sat the bard with laurelled brow, 
 
 The Muse's favourite son ; 
 He sang of daring feats of arms, 
 Of all that warlike bosoms warms. 
 
 Of battles bravely won : 
 Then as a wild prophetic fire 
 
 Was kindled in his blazing eye, 
 With bolder hand he bade the lyre 
 
 Unfold the page of destiny.
 
 POEMS. 33 
 
 As stole the mystic strains the deep along-, 
 Entranced, the heroes drank the flowing stream of 
 song. 
 Flower of Greece, undaunted crew, 
 Fearless still your course pursue ; 
 Chiefs to deeds of noble daring 
 
 Nursed within your fathers' halls, 
 Go, where wreaths of conquest bearing, 
 
 Glory on her children calls. 
 Danger's giant form in vain 
 Threatens in the angry main. 
 Ere, beneath the azure deep, 
 Thrice Hyperion sinks to sleep ; 
 Ere yon crescent beaming bright 
 Thrice adorns the brow of night. 
 To rocks exposed, and warring winds no more, 
 Shall Argo proudly press the Colchian's dreai^^ shore 
 
 Hark! the love-sick virgin sighs — 
 Thee alone her thoughts behold, 
 Chieftain of the locks of gold ; 
 Pale on her restless couch she lies.
 
 34 POEMS. 
 
 Softly soothe the mourning maid, 
 
 In thy smile Medea lives ; 
 Take, oh, take the proffered aid, 
 
 Which to Valour Beauty gives. 
 Though the bulls breathe noxious flame. 
 
 They the galling yoke shall know ; 
 Thou their stubborn necks shalt tame. 
 
 Thou the serpent's teeth shalt sow. 
 By the Phasis' icy water, 
 
 Though the iiiailed brothers rise, 
 Mangled soon in mutual slaughter, 
 
 See, the earth-born phalanx dies. 
 Danger in vain with clouds obscures the day. 
 Love with uplifted torch illumes the warrior's way. 
 
 See, the tear of anguish flows. 
 
 Echo groans of deep despair. 
 Where the shouts of triumph rose. 
 Where the paeans rent the air. 
 Vengeance forbids the mother's breast to feel, 
 Wild phrenzy prompts the deed — she bares the 
 impious steel.
 
 POEMS. 35 
 
 Ghastly visions, hence depart ! 
 
 Scenes of brighter hue I see, 
 Scenes that joy the minstrel's heart, 
 
 Opening in futurity. 
 Where yon western waves are glowing, 
 
 Glory summons heroes bold, 
 Prizes richer far bestowing 
 
 Than the vaunted fleece of gold. 
 
 With swelling sails new Argos plough their way, 
 And worlds yet wrapt in night the daring course repay
 
 36 POEMS. 
 
 ANACREONTIC. 
 
 Jove heard anxious mortals sigh, 
 
 Saw the peevish race repine, 
 And to bid dull sorrow fly, 
 
 Gave the richly clustering vine ; 
 Soon the grape's delicious tears 
 
 Sparkled in the mantling bowl,— 
 Hushed their sorrows, calmed their fears, 
 
 And to rapture raised the soul. 
 
 Soon the genial power was o'er, 
 
 Nor the sting of care beguiled, 
 Angry Jove would grant no more, 
 
 But auspicious Venus smiled ; 
 Surest antidote of woes, 
 
 She bestowed a brighter bliss, 
 Dipt in nectar's juice a rose, 
 
 Forming thus the balmy kiss. 
 
 »
 
 POEMS. 37 
 
 Mortals could no more repine, 
 
 Sifflis of discontent were o'er ; 
 Blest with kisses, blest with wine, 
 
 Could they ask the gods for more ? 
 Man, no longer sorrow's slave. 
 
 Draughts of love and wine could sip ; 
 Each by turns their nectar gave — 
 
 Rosy grape, and ruby lip.
 
 38 POEMS. 
 
 CAUTION. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF DOETE DE TROIES, A POETESS OF THE 
 THIRTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 ^uka-airio (uri <n xnXairiffn- — Moscnus. 
 
 Ye maidens fair, with eager haste 
 Who spring's glad call obey, 
 
 And fly with joyous step to taste 
 The sweets of early May ; 
 
 Though Nature with her liveliest green 
 Bedecks you woodland glade, 
 
 And blue-eyed violets lurk unseen 
 Beneath the hawthorn's shade. 
 
 Seek not that spot at evening's hour, 
 Or when grey morning peeps, 
 
 For there, beneath the tempting flower, 
 A wily serpent sleeps.
 
 POEMS. 39 
 
 To tread the dangerous path forbear, 
 
 Or dread the fatal smart ; 
 For though he chance the heel to spare, 
 
 The traitor wounds the heart.
 
 40 POEMS. 
 
 TO 
 
 "7? * W ^ 
 
 I JEST as if my thoughts were gay, 
 A respite but from sorrow stealing ; 
 
 Though fancy sport in frolic play, 
 Think not my bosom void of feeling. 
 
 Where all are glad, I'm joyous seen, 
 As if no shafts of care could wound me, 
 
 My fondest wish has ever been 
 
 To win a smile from those around me. 
 
 In Etna's womb fierce lavas glow, 
 
 Though day-beams on her crest are breaking 
 So gleams of joy the features shew, 
 
 Although the heart beneath is aching. 
 
 '^
 
 POEMS. 41 
 
 FROM LAURA IN LONDON TO JANE IN 
 THE COUNTRY. 
 
 Verbosa et grandis epistola. — Juvenal. 
 
 I PROMISED, dear Jane, when I bade you adieu, 
 
 To write an account of my London dtbut. 
 
 So I take up my pen ('tis a sad old beginning), 
 
 To tell you what triumphs your friend has been 
 
 winning. 
 The journey was tedious — we're certain to go, 
 When papa pays the post-boys, most shockingly slow. 
 But, oh, how delightful at last was the glare 
 Of the gas, as it glittered in Manchester Square ! 
 And now, my dear Jane, only think of the hurry. 
 The charming confusion, the flutter and flurry ; 
 Such a concourse of tradesmen with packages bulky, 
 Mamma quite enchanted, papa rather sulky ; 
 Mr. Tightfit from Bond Street with exquisite shoes, 
 And jewellers shewing the sweetest bijoux ; 
 Such feathers and flounces, caps, trimming, and frills — 
 I'm afraid papa's face will be long as the bills ;
 
 42 POEMS. 
 
 He already grows peevish, and frets at the names 
 Of those dearest of miners, Howell and James. 
 Well, all things were ready, all bought that could lend 
 Attraction, and splendour, and grace to your friend ; 
 When mamma sadly damped every feeling of pleasure 
 By giving advice without method or measure : 
 *' Remember (she cries) to forget half the faces 
 You've curtsied and bowed to at Doncaster races ; 
 To smile upon commoners, Laura, forbear. 
 Unless they've by chance twenty thousand a-year. 
 If the heiress of Grimblethorpe shews proper pride. 
 She shortly shall shine as a nobleman's bride : 
 Your soul let the thoughts of a coronet fill, 
 Which, though worn by a wig-block, 's a coronet still. 
 Avoid younger sons with scarce coats to their backs, 
 The plague of all mothers, the pest of Almack's ; 
 Be a duchess, my darling ! Enough for the present, 
 Advice is like physic, more wholesome than pleasant." 
 A simile far from correct, I've a notion. 
 Advice is not taken so oft as a potion. 
 How high beat my bosom with pleasure elate 
 When tickets arrived for Lord Lollypop's fete !
 
 POEMS. 
 
 43 
 
 Amid visions of conquest and dreams of delight, 
 
 Impatient I sighed for the wonderful night. 
 
 At length it arrived, and in trh-grande parure 
 
 I did look uncommonly well, to be sure ; 
 
 I was dressed in pink satin, of delicate hue — 
 
 (I doat on pink satin, mamma prefers blue). 
 
 Mid a glitter of lamps and a breeze of perfume, 
 
 You might hear my heart beat as I entered the room ; 
 
 I blushed as a bevy of beaux I drew near, 
 
 And whispers, too audible, wounded my ear : 
 
 That's the heiress from Grimblethorpe— not a bad face, 
 
 Complexion too ruddy — deficient in grace — 
 
 No manner — Oh, no ! but one should feel compassion 
 
 For a rustic just launched on the ocean of fashion ; 
 
 Her acres at least must create a sensation — 
 
 Who starts for the prize ? not a bad speculation. 
 
 At two, by Lord Spindle your Laura was led 
 
 To the banquet, which dazzled her poor little head ; 
 
 Such glare and profusion, such brilliant devices ! 
 
 And Gunter out-Guntered himself in the ices. 
 
 'Twas a motley assembly — ambassadoi-s, peers, 
 
 And members of parliament, hired pamphleteers ;
 
 44 POEMS. 
 
 With drawing-room authors, who puzzle their brain 
 And barter their puns for a glass of Champagne ; 
 Mammas, Argus-eyed, making due observation 
 That their charge was engaged in a proper flirtation ; 
 With dowagers pillaging youths at ecarte. 
 Served to fill up his lordship's anomalous party. 
 But now for my lovers : oh, Jane, such a crew ! 
 Ere my paper is filled, I'll describe you a few. 
 The first who is anxious affection to kindle 
 Is that pink of perfection, his lordship of Spindle, 
 Who proudly relies on his ancestors' worth, 
 And is poor, for his play is as high as his birth ; 
 But he thinks his descent for all errors atones, 
 And by hlood would repair all his losses by hones. 
 Then Sir Larry Kildarling would make me his lady, 
 Who has buried three wives — horrid Blue-beard ! — 
 
 already ; 
 Who boasts of his castle, his deer-park, and stud. 
 In that terra incognita, Kilballymud : 
 But I leave to some nymph of more taste such 
 
 promotion, 
 Nor will grace with my presence the gem of the ocean. 
 
 
 "\
 
 POEMS. 45 
 
 Next comes a keen fox-liunter, blithesome Sir Harry, 
 Who scarce thinks it right that a sportsman shoukl 
 
 marry ; 
 But would venture with me in that state to embark, 
 Since the coverts are good about Grimblethorpe park : 
 But he holds me less precious by far than his horse. 
 And, instead of my charms, talks of Ranksborough 
 
 gorse. 
 There are others beside — all adorers of money, 
 Who buzz round an heiress like flies about honey. 
 In Blossomville chapel we've just got a seat ; 
 Dr. Flimsey's the preacher — an absolute treat! 
 I'm sure you would hear the dear man with delight, 
 His eyes are so brilliant — his teeth are so white ; 
 With an air quite enchanting he flashes his ring, 
 And his handkerchief breathes all the odours of 
 
 spring. 
 His sermons, too, charming ! not crabbed and prosy, 
 Like the gentle narcotics of dull Dr. Dosey ; 
 But sweet little essays, just such as you've seen 
 In the Ladies Museum or Court Magazine ;
 
 46 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Where, in language which Washington Irving might 
 
 own, 
 He calls virtue ''quite lovely" and vice " mauvais ton.'' 
 But I'm summoned — the carriage was ordered at two, 
 And I hear mamma call : for the present adieu. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 I had almost forgotten there is a fond youth 
 In my list of admirers, a model of truth — 
 Whole volumes of love I can read in his eye, 
 While he speaks by a look and implores by a sigh ; 
 But, alas ! my sweet friend, I've a grievous suspicion 
 That his riches consist in his heart and commission. 
 
 SECOND POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 Oh, Jane, such a damper ! ray aunt, Lady Lynx, 
 Who in riddles is second alone to the Sphynx, 
 Has arrived in a vulgar hired carriage and pair, 
 With her budget of nonsense, in Manchester Square. 
 She's the deepest of blues — an ineffable bore, 
 Who doats on old Hannah and hates Tommy Moore. 
 Your fete's quite enchanting, cried gay Lady B, 
 But to make the thing classical, do give us three.
 
 POEMS. 47 
 
 fJQ * # # 
 
 ON HER WEDDING DAY. 
 
 Adveniet fausto cum sidere conjux. — Catullus. 
 
 While others costly presents bring, 
 To grace this bright auspicious day, 
 
 I can but task the muse to sing, 
 And send a weak but heartfelt lay. 
 
 May Hymen's chains — if chains they be 
 Which make two faithful bosoms blest- 
 
 Be light, be soft as down to thee. 
 That lines the brooding halcyon's nest. 
 
 Fancy will paint, when far away, 
 Thy beaming face, thy speaking eye ; 
 
 'Tis selfish, sure, to wish thy stay, 
 But yet the feeling heart must sigh.
 
 48 POEMS. 
 
 Oh ! may for tliee the plighted vow 
 Add bliss to each succeeding hour, 
 
 And he that loves the rose-bud now, 
 More fondly prize the perfect flower.
 
 POEMS. 49 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Vive memor nostri. 
 
 Must congenial bosoms sever? 
 
 Wilt thou far from England fly ? 
 Ere we part, perhaps for ever, 
 
 Hear, nor this last pray'r deny : 
 When the envious winds have borne thee 
 
 Far across yon trackless sea, 
 Once again to England turn thee ; 
 
 Think, oh Fanny, think on me ! 
 
 When thine eyes' expressive languish 
 
 Sighing slaves around thee draws ; 
 When the suppliants breathe their anguish. 
 
 Pleading love's impassioned cause ; 
 Should some wealthy suitor tender 
 
 Titles, pomp, and power to thee. 
 Wilt thou spurn the proffered splendour ; 
 
 Wilt thou, Fanny, think on me ? 
 
 E
 
 50 POEMS, 
 
 While soft vows of adoration 
 
 Rouse thy bosom's conscious pride, 
 Should'st thou hear the sad relation 
 
 How I drooped, and how I died ; 
 Wilt thou, from gay circles stealing, 
 
 To some lone seclusion flee ? 
 Will the unbidden gush of feeling 
 
 Say, that Fanny thinks on me ?
 
 POEMS. 51 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Illius dona sepulchro 
 
 - - - Et madefacta meis serta feram lachrymis. — Propertius. 
 
 Each flower that expands in the spring's rude gale, 
 
 Each earliest bud I'll seek, 
 The snowdrop pure, and the primrose pale, 
 
 J*ale as my true love's cheek. 
 
 Oh long, ye frail blossoms, unfading bloom, 
 
 Though the tempest around ye roar ; 
 For I must soon sleep in the silent tomb. 
 
 Nor ever shall scatter more. 
 
 I'll clasp the grey stones which her ashes infold. 
 
 Till my tear-drops forget to flow ; 
 I'll press the green turf, till my bosom is cold 
 
 As her's who is laid below.
 
 52 POEMS. 
 
 Then, oh ! gentle spirit of her whom I mourn 
 
 Still hover a while for me ; 
 Ere fade the fair flowers that encircle thine urn^ 
 
 Thy lover shall rest with thee.
 
 roEMS. 53 
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 Mors mihi est securitas. — Senec^e Agamemnon. 
 
 There is a slow, consuming grief, 
 Which feeds on sighs, and mocks relief 
 
 From gentlest art. 
 'Tis his, who steeps his bread in tears, 
 Who in his bleeding bosom bears 
 
 A broken heart. 
 
 Useless is friendship's proffered aid ; 
 He seeks, beneath some silent shade, 
 
 To pine unknown. 
 As hastes from lawns the stricken deer, 
 And, some secluded fountain near. 
 
 Would die alone.
 
 54 POEMS. 
 
 Is there no hallowed home of rest, 
 Where the poor sufferer may be blest ? 
 
 No calm retreat ? 
 Yes, in the grave — there sorrow's dart 
 Assails notp when the broken heart 
 
 Hath ceased to beat.
 
 POEMS. 55 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 WRITTEN AT CONWAY — 1805. 
 Evocat antiquis proavos atavosque sepulchris. — Ovid. 
 
 Now all is hushed, save where the dashing oar, 
 With measured stroke, divides the rippling stream ; 
 
 Or flits the sea-bird round the craggy shore. 
 And wakes its echoes with unwearied scream. 
 
 On yon tall tower, that trembles in the blast, 
 Sits pale romance, and cons her mystic lore ; 
 
 Wild to the winds her raven locks are cast, 
 She weeps for days that shall return no more. 
 
 Crouched at her feet, the shadowy form of Fear 
 Owns, as he shudders, her despotic sway ; 
 
 Lists, the wild murmurs of her harp to hear. 
 And drinks the wonders of her magic lay.
 
 56 POEMS. 
 
 " Illustrious shades (the wild enthusiast cries) 
 Burst in bright vision on my raptured view ; 
 
 From yawning tombs departed heroes rise, 
 And tottering Conway's feudal state renew. 
 
 Joyous, I see the glittering throng advance, 
 
 And iron panoply of war resume : 
 Gleams in each warrior's hand the quiv'ring lance. 
 
 Clangs the broad shield, and nods the shadowy 
 plume. 
 
 The youths again the gallant tourney calls. 
 
 Who, fir'd with conquest, wield the thundering 
 glaive ; 
 
 Waves the bright banner in the trophied halls, 
 Which long has mouldered o'er the warrior's grave. 
 
 As toils the hero for the wreath of fame. 
 
 O'er beauty's cheek the fearful flushes rove, 
 
 Till kneels the conqueror at her feet, to claim 
 The meed of valour from the hands of love.
 
 POEMS. 57 
 
 Hark ! from yon hall what warlike strain ascends, 
 Where crowded guests the mantling goblet warms ; 
 
 High o'er his harp the hoary minstrel bends, 
 And strikes the chords that rouse the soul to arms. 
 
 Pleased, to the bard each guest attentive turns, 
 Each listening ear the martial strains pervade ; 
 
 With new-born fires each kindling hero burns, 
 Starts from his seat, and clasps his glittering blade. 
 
 The ardent chieftain, flushed with proud delight. 
 Hears of the battles which his fathers won. 
 
 Pants to eclipse them in the doubtful fight, 
 And scorns to shame them by a dastard son. 
 
 Anon of love the varying minstrel tells, 
 In softer strains the melting notes expire ; 
 
 With heaving sighs each snowy bosom swells, 
 And side-long looks betray the secret fire.
 
 58 POEMS. 
 
 Each warrior's breast a gentler passion moves, 
 Quenched are the lightnings of his sparkling eye ; 
 
 Wistful, he gazes on the maid he loves. 
 Or marks her absence by a tender sigh. 
 
 But hush, my harp ! nor more the strain prolong : 
 Bright in the east the kindling blushes glovv^ ; 
 
 Morn's fresh'ning breezes chide the lengthened song : 
 To waste the hours in dungeon glooms I go. 
 
 How swift in air the melting vision fades ! 
 
 The fleeting pageant mocks my anxious view : 
 My reign is o'er : adieu, illustrious shades ! 
 
 Till night enshrouds these crumbling towerS; adieu !"
 
 POEMS. 59 
 
 THE EXILE'S COMPLAINT, — 1805. 
 
 a' 6UX, Itfriv v^iphv 
 
 'H yas "Tar^tas ffn^Ktiai. — EuRiP. Medea. 
 
 Swift through the waves the parting vessel flies, 
 To bear ifflP hence the envious breezes swell ; 
 
 The mist of sorrow dims my streaming eyes ; 
 Land of my fathers ! happy isle, farewell ! 
 
 Each fading object claims a tender sigh, 
 
 Homeward my looks in wistful fondness bend ; 
 
 I feel each moment tear some tender tie, 
 And lose in every less'ning rock a friend. 
 
 The careless shipboy sings his artless strain, 
 No keen regret his happier bosom proves ; 
 
 For he shall view his native shores again. 
 Endeared by absence to the friends he loves.
 
 60 POEMS. 
 
 Domestic joy ! which senseless souls resign ; 
 
 Possessed of thee, can thankless bosoms mourn ? 
 For distant climes and varied pleasures pine, 
 
 And roam to perish in a foreign bourne ? 
 
 Oh ! happiest he, whom humble home delights, 
 Who beaming bright the star of friendship sees, 
 
 Whose ray can gild the live-long winter's nights, 
 And bid the dreary coasts of Orkney please. 
 
 Though all around the gloom of horror wears, 
 No wish has he 'mid gentler climes to roam ; 
 
 Love's tender tie the sterile tract endears : 
 
 Though poor his cot, that cot is still his home. 
 
 With busy care officious fancy turns 
 To social joys I never more must taste ; 
 
 No ray of hope in my drear prospect burns. 
 Nor gleams to brighten sorrow's endless waste.
 
 POEMS. Gl 
 
 I must not rove with freedom's careless feet, 
 Nor opening morning's balmy breeze inhale, 
 
 Where, humble virtue's undisturbed retreat, 
 In woods embosomed spreads my native vale. 
 
 Alas ! I must not to its groves repair, 
 
 With sport or toil the fleeting hours beguile, 
 
 Nor e'er return at dewy eve to share 
 
 A mother's kiss, a sister's kindling smile. 
 
 To error due the bitter draught I taste, 
 
 Contrition deep shall mark my future years ; 
 
 While reft of all that sweetens life, I waste 
 The day in labour and the night in tears. 
 
 And when, at length, life's sinking powers decay, 
 When o'er mine eyes death's gathering shadows fall, 
 
 No friend will cheer my drooping soul, and say, 
 Thy firm repentance hath atoned for all.
 
 62 POEMS. 
 
 As cold I lie beneath the lonely tomb, 
 Pity for me no tender heart will shew, 
 
 Bid the green sod with fresher verdure bloom, 
 And lightly press the wretch that sleeps below.
 
 POEMS. 63 
 
 TO MEMORY. 
 
 Quo desiderio veteres revocamus amores, 
 
 Atque olim amissas fleraus araicitias. — Catullus. 
 
 Foe to the wretched, o'er life's changeful day 
 Recalling clouds of sorrow pass'd away, 
 Forbear, dread power ! to wound a tortured breast 
 With heaviest weight of present grief oppress'd ; 
 Paint not such scenes, as dress'd in dazzling hue 
 Impassioned youth in brilliant colours drew, — 
 The hopes which beamed in rising manhood's pride, 
 The dreams that cheated, and the flowers that died ! 
 As some poor bird, who mourns thebarb'rous theft 
 Of all a mother's cherished care bereft. 
 Where once she soothed her chirping brood to rest. 
 Still fondly flutters round her ruined nest ! 
 Thus, where hath howled the cutting blast of wo. 
 And rudely laid joy's tender blossoms low. 
 Sad Memory ponders o'er their faded state, 
 And broods in anguish o'er the wrecks of fate.
 
 64 POEMS. 
 
 From cloistered glooms what murmured plaints arise ! 
 Where yon pale nun in lone seclusion sighs, 
 The pealing organ pours its sacred strain, 
 And chaunted requiems meet her ear in vain ; 
 No beads she tells, she breathes no fervent pray'r ; 
 Ah, no ! devotion dwells not with despair. 
 In lonely cell she loves to sigh forlorn, 
 And proffered friendship still repels with scorn ; 
 At night's dread noon griefs silent vigil keeps, 
 Thinks on the world she once enjoyed, and weeps. 
 Yes — to her breast adhesive Memory clings, 
 Who dark around the gloom of horror flings. 
 And, ere her lip the cup of peace hath quaflTd, 
 Distils her venom in th' infected draught : 
 Still to her mind in sad succession rise 
 Her father's fi'owns, her mother's stifled sighs, 
 The love-fraught look of him, the favoured youth, 
 Who whisper'd words which fancy stamp'd with truth — 
 Who bade soft dreams her raptured soul employ — 
 Whose voice was music, and whose presence joy. 
 
 Hard is his fate whom raving winds have thrown / 
 On some wild shore, unfriended and alone ; j
 
 POEMS. 65 
 
 Far as his eyes the desert tracts can scan ,/ 
 He views no vestige of the works of man ; / 
 No sound he hears, save that of ocean's flood, 
 Or the loud horrors of the howling wood : ^ 
 Yet joy might here his pensive bosom warm, 
 And lonely wilds dispense a soothing charm ; 
 The ductile sti'eam, which not unbidden laves 
 His leafy hut with its pellucid waves ; 
 The shrubs his hand hath twined in fragrant bowers ; 
 The clustering fruit, and banks that blush with flowers ; 
 The beetling rock, where oft, with earnest gaze, 
 Silent he marks the day's expiring blaze : 
 Time might to these his hallowing charm impart. 
 Hush all his sighs, and heal his wounded heart ; 
 But Memory dwells within his tortured brain, / 
 And lavish nature spreads her charms in vain ;/ 
 The tender ties which social life improve, 
 The balm of friendship and the smile of love, 
 Joys tasted once, in feverish dreams arise. 
 And dove-eyed peace on fluttering pinion flies. 
 What bids the tear with stream unceasing run 
 
 Down the dark cheek of Afric's sable son ? 
 
 i
 
 66 POEMS. 
 
 What power forbids his wearied eyes to close, 
 And from oblivion snatch a short repose ^ j 
 Why loathes he food ? why wanders sad and slow, 
 'Whelmed in the sullen apathy of wo ? 
 Nor toilsome days, nor limbs that ache with pain. 
 Nor sounding lash, nor ignominious chain, 
 Nor slavery's self denies the balm of rest ; 
 'Tis Memory rankling in his wounded breast. 
 Wistful, she bids him still on ocean pore. 
 Whose billows lash a far, far distant shore ! 
 Where once he joyed in manhood's prime to roam, 1 
 And love's soft light illumed his sylvan home ; 
 Where foremost once amid the swarthy race 
 Through pathless wilds he urged the devious chase, 
 From vanquished tigers plucked the brindled spoil, 
 And Samba's smile repaid the manly toil. 
 
 Relentless power, where'er mine eyes survey 
 Life's thorny path, I still deplore thy sway ; 
 Where'er the drops of heartfelt anguish flow, 
 1 find thee still man's direst, deadliest foe : 
 Ah ! sure no care within his breast could dwell, 
 Whose polished numbers sang thy charms so well ;
 
 POEMS. 67 
 
 Bright as his genius all around him smiled, 
 And Fortune nursed the Muse's favoured child. 
 
 When faintl}^ gleams the spark of vital flame, 
 Still Memory dwells within the sinking frame : 
 'Tis thou, when throbs convulsive check the breath. 
 That givest new terrors to the bed of death ; 
 Thine is the tear that fills the sufferer's eye, 
 And thine Mortality's expiring sigh. 
 
 Oh ! blest is he, who in that awful hour 
 Can court reflection, and defy thy power ; 
 Hope bends o'er him, in robes of light array 'd. 
 And points to wreaths of bliss that never fade ; 
 She bids his spirit seek that peaceful shore, 
 Where billows cease to beat, and Memory wounds 
 no more.
 
 68 POEMS. 
 
 TO MY ARM CHAIR.— 1806. 
 
 Strata positus longaque cathedra. — Juvenal. 
 
 Thou loved conipauion of my lonely hours, 
 
 When Fortune frowned, and friends were far away 
 
 Oft have I blest thee for thy soothing powers, 
 And fondly courted thy narcotic sway. 
 
 Lulled in thine arms, I taste a pleasing calm. 
 
 With eyelids closed, but thoughts that ever wake, 
 
 O'er my wrapt senses steals an opiate balm, 
 And my rack'd head almost forgets to ache. 
 
 To brighter scenes excursive fancy flies ; 
 
 The future smiles in gayer garb array'd : 
 Visions of sweet domestic joys arise. 
 
 As peeps the parsonage from the sheltering shade.
 
 POEMS. 69 
 
 The jest, the laugh, the fleeting hours beguile, 
 
 While heavenly music's softening charms combine 
 
 With friends who bring good humour's ready smile, 
 And hearts that beat in unison with mine. 
 
 Not with one wish imagination burns 
 
 O'er proud ambition's slipp'ry paths to roam ; 
 
 True as the needle to one point she turns, 
 The point comprising all I cherish — Home. 
 
 No drowsy dulness o'er the powers of mind 
 
 Thy soothing charms, my honoured chair, diffuse ; 
 
 Oft in thy bosom, by my fire reclin'd, 
 
 I weave the verse, and woo the playful muse. 
 
 Borne on her vving, 'mid fairy climes I go, 
 Tho' sad around me moans the wintry gale ; - 
 
 Crop fancy's roses 'mid December's snow, 
 And balmy Spring's ambrosial breeze inhale.
 
 70 POEMS. 
 
 If such the calm which blest with thee I share, 
 If such the joys thy gentle influence showers, 
 
 Can the proud despot's tottering throne compare 
 With thee, companion of my lonely hours ? 
 
 No — o'er his head though Parian columns rise. 
 And lends the cot its humble roof to me ; 
 
 He on his throne 'mid heartfelt anguish sighs, 
 / smile serene, and dream of bliss in thee.
 
 I'OKMS. 71 
 
 TO 
 
 # # * 
 
 Oh Dei ! clie dolce incanto 
 
 E d'un bel ciglio il pianto. — Metastasio, 
 
 Weep, fair maid, I will not chide thee, 
 Check not then the balm of woes, 
 
 Silent will I sit beside thee, 
 
 Counting every drop that flows. 
 
 Charms thy tear-dewed cheek discloses, 
 Which emerging Venus wore. 
 
 When upon her cheek's twin roses 
 Ocean's pearly dews she bore. 
 
 Think not that the mists of sorrow 
 Can thy beauty's power destroy ; 
 
 You from grief a softness borrow, 
 Dearer than the blaze of joy.
 
 72 POEMS. 
 
 Smiles diffusing transient splendour, 
 Bid the wondering eyes approve ; 
 
 Tears possess a charm more tender, 
 Bid us weep, and weeping love.
 
 POEMS. 73 
 
 MONSIEUR DE TROP. 
 
 Diis ille adversis genitus, fatoque sinistro. — Juvenal. 
 
 Alas ! through life's uncertain scene 
 My hapless fate has ever been 
 
 Annoying cares to know ; 
 For I'm that poor illtreated wight, 
 Whom friends and foes with equal spite 
 
 Have named Monsieur de Trop. 
 
 In earliest years no child would share 
 With me his nuts, his bonbons rare, 
 
 Or cake encased in snow ; 
 Butkicked, andthumped, andscratched, and tore, 
 Till woful marks the visage bore 
 
 Of young Monsieur de Trop.
 
 74 POEMS. 
 
 If, when at school the tasks were done, 
 I sought to share some scheme of fun. 
 
 My answer was a blow ; 
 I softly crept a plot to hear, 
 And to the door was nailed the ear 
 
 Of poor Monsieur de Trop. 
 
 I chanced to lurk behind a bower 
 
 Where Miss Mac Starch with Captain Flower 
 
 Conversed in murmurs low ; 
 The whiskered hero's choler rose, 
 With fingers rude he tweaked my nose. 
 
 And kicked Monsieur de Trop. 
 
 Whene'er I dance, some dress I tear, 
 Or separate some cooing pair, 
 
 Or crush my partner's toe ; 
 While vexed mammas, inflamed with ire 
 (If rage can ladies' breasts inspire). 
 
 Abuse Monsieur de Trop.
 
 POEMS. 75 
 
 A venal borough's votes I sought, 
 The bribing battle boldly fought 
 
 Against my richer foe ; 
 I spent my money — lost my seat; 
 My rival's triumph was complete : 
 
 Alas ! Monsieur de Trop. 
 
 I briskly wooed, and gained a wife, 
 
 Whose charms I thought would sweeten life, 
 
 And soothe my path below ; 
 But scarce three little months had run. 
 When to my arms she gave a son ! 
 
 A new Monsieur de Trop ! 
 
 Where'er I turn my steps, pursued 
 By luck perverse, I still intrude ; 
 
 And, when death deals the blow, 
 I umiy some stranger's grave invade, 
 And though beneath the earth I'm laid, 
 
 Be still Monsieur de Trop.
 
 76 POEMS. 
 
 THE LOCK OF RAVEN HAIR. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 'E^urahmv iiX't^l*- — EURIP. ANDROMEDA. 
 
 Opus et mihi crine. — Ovid. 
 
 '* Nine cheerless days in sighs have flown, 
 Nine sleepless nights in grief have sped, 
 Unseen I weep, unpitied moan, 
 And hopeless press my lonely bed. 
 
 " In vain I view yon azure lake 
 
 Through blinding tears imperfect gleam ; 
 No oars the night's dull silence break, 
 And glitter in the moon's pale beam." 
 
 'Twas Morna's sigh that echoing came, 
 And fondly chid the lingering hour ; 
 
 'Twas Morna's hand that trimm'd the flame, 
 Which glimmered in Glenmorvan's tower.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 77 
 
 In vain was each fond look she gave ; 
 
 In vain each anxious sigh she drew ; 
 In vain the beacon o'er the wave 
 
 A line of trembling lustre threw. 
 
 That sound was not the rustling wind, 
 A hasty footstep press'd the stair : 
 
 " Away with doubts, he still is kind ; 
 My Malcolm comes, away despair!" 
 
 The welcome sound still nearer drew, 
 And higher rose her bosom's joy ; 
 
 But ah ! no Malcolm met her view — 
 'Twas but his page — his trusty boy. 
 
 " Oh tell me child, and quickly say, 
 
 How fares the lord from whom you came? 
 And does he mourn his lengthened stay? 
 And does he oft repeat my name ? " 
 
 " His thoughts are gay, his heart is light, 
 At Bannockburn the battle's o'er."
 
 78 POEMS. 
 
 " And who was foremost in the fight?" 
 
 *' Lord Malcohn, with his broad claymore." 
 
 " Then why, if Malcolm well hath sped, 
 Do mists of sorrow dim your eyne?" 
 
 *' O Lady, for each drop I shed, 
 
 A plenteous stream must gush from thine." 
 
 '' Can war alone his bosom move? 
 
 Do gentler thoughts before it flee ? " 
 " Lady, his heart still burns with love : 
 
 But ah, it burns no more for thee." 
 
 " He sought a rich and high-born bride, 
 Forgetful of his Morna's charms ; 
 
 And yester-morn the knot was tied, 
 Which gave him to another's arms." 
 
 " Away! nor rive my bosom more. 
 False is the artful tale you bring ! " 
 
 " To wound thine heart afflicts me sore : 
 But, Lady, mark this ruby ring."
 
 POEMS. 79 
 
 She saw the pledge of love returned ; 
 
 Her cheek the crimson tide forsook. 
 Her eyes with flames of madness burned, 
 
 Each quivering lip convulsive shook. 
 
 " And art thou false?" she wildly said ; 
 
 " And were thine honied words untrue ? 
 And is each charm of Morna fled, 
 
 Which once could Malcolm's soul subdue ? 
 
 " Full oft, you cried, in fond delight. 
 
 To me no form as thine is fair, 
 No lip so red, no eye so bright. 
 
 So glossy black no raven hair. 
 
 '' Time hath not strew'd my brow with snow. 
 These eyes not fainter flashes dart. 
 
 These lips with red as deeply glow, 
 
 Nor aught is changed but Malcolm's heai-t. 
 
 " O Margaret ! when no mother's breast 
 Pillowed my head in infant years,
 
 80 POEMS. 
 
 You soothed the orphan's cares to rest, 
 You hushed my sighs, you dried my tears. 
 
 " For one, one only boon I pray 
 
 (I ne'er shall task thy friendship more), 
 
 When life's last sand is run, convey 
 
 My breathless corse to Malcolm's door." 
 
 " Forbear," the artful nurse replied, 
 
 " With tears those blooming cheeks to stain ; 
 
 Though transient clouds his splendour hide, 
 The sun of love shall beam again. 
 
 " The bee will leave the rose, to try 
 What sweets the lily's charms disclose ; 
 
 But if the withering lilies die. 
 Re-seeks the lonq;-neolected I'ose. 
 
 " Thus from thy fading rival's arms 
 Full soon shall roving Malcolm flee. 
 
 Sigh for his blooming Morna's charms. 
 And sue in humble guise to thee.
 
 POEMS. 81 
 
 " If she whose wiles his soul euchaiu 
 Shall live, nor vengeance deep deplore, 
 
 All Margaret's potent spells are vain, 
 And fruitless all her mystic lore. 
 
 '* I check the rolling planet's course, 
 
 Fiends to my call obedient rise, 
 If still the witching notes have force. 
 
 The bride of faithless Malcolm dies ! " 
 
 " Peace, Margaret, peace, such thoughts forego, 
 Nor o'er dread arts of vengeance brood, 
 
 Through her I drain the cup of wo, 
 
 But will not stain my hands with blood." 
 
 " Let pity reign in coward hearts, 
 I'll teach thy bolder breast to prove 
 
 The joy a rival's death imparts, 
 And own revenge as sweet as love. 
 
 ■»" 
 
 " What, shall the wretch who pilfers gold 
 His forfeit life to justice give, 
 
 G
 
 82 POEMS. 
 
 And she in guilty triumph bold 
 
 Steal Malcolm's valued heart, and live?" 
 
 " I yield, I yield, by vengeance spilt, 
 The life-blood of his bride shall How ; 
 
 With Malcolm I may mourn my guilt, 
 But all without him must be woe. 
 
 " But ah, what bribe shall buy the deed ? 
 
 Nor gold have I, nor jewels rare." 
 " Nor gold nor jewels rare I need, 
 
 I ask one lock of Marion's hair. 
 
 ** To gain this lock the task is thine, 
 By silken snares of subtle guile ; 
 
 Thy soul to soothing arts resign, 
 And teach the traitor lip to smile. 
 
 " When Malcolm meets thine angry eyes — 
 When flush thy cheeks with proud disdain. 
 
 Forbid the threat'ning storm to rise, 
 The rage that swells thine heart, restrain.
 
 POEMS. 83 
 
 " Around him throw thy snowy arms, 
 To love him faithless, fondly swear ; 
 
 Bid sorrow lend her softest charms, 
 With Marion sue his heart to share." 
 
 The hunters met, the morn was bright, 
 
 The horns through wood and cavern rang ; 
 
 Lord Malcolm's bounding heart was light. 
 Full gay he rode, full gay he sang. 
 
 To pass the forest's sheltered glade 
 
 He spurred his coal-black steed amain ; 
 
 When, rushing from the tangled shade, 
 A woman seized his flowing rein. 
 
 " Stay," Margaret cried, " Lord Malcolm stay, 
 
 For once the hunter's joy forego, 
 And bend, by pity moved, your way 
 
 Where Morna feeds her secret wo.
 
 84 POEMS, 
 
 " In Morna's eye no vengeance glows, 
 In Morna's breast no rancour lives ; 
 
 The tear from love, not anger, flows ; 
 She mourns, and as she mourns, forgives. 
 
 " For you her bursting sighs are heaved, 
 For you the tears bedew her cheek, 
 
 For you her gentle heart is grieved — 
 For you that gentle heart will break ! " 
 
 She paused — in Malcolm's wavering breast 
 His Morna's weeping image rose ; 
 
 " If words can hush thy cares to rest, 
 I come," he cried, " to heal thy woes." 
 
 The wave is calm, the bark is light, 
 His oars full swift the boatman plies ; 
 
 And soon to Morna's wistful sight. 
 Her Malcolm's floating plumes arise. 
 
 Fair to the wandering traveller's eyes 
 The mountain's towering summits shew,
 
 POEMS. 85 
 
 He recks not that destruction lies 
 Cradled in flames that sleep below. 
 
 Unconscious thus of lurking guile, 
 
 On Morna's face Lord Malcolm gazed. 
 
 Nor knew beneath that seraph smile 
 
 What kindling fires of vengeance blazed. 
 
 " Desert me not !" she fondly cried, 
 
 " Your friendship still let Morna prove ; 
 
 For that, a dearer tie denied, 
 
 Must heal the bleeding wounds of love. 
 
 *' The weight of wo will lighter press, 
 
 When, sooth'd by friendship, years have flown ; 
 
 Each day I'll learn to love thee less, 
 And in thy bliss will find my own. 
 
 ' But tell me, Malcolm, truly speak. 
 
 Than mine is Marion's face more fair ? 
 Do brighter roses tinge her cheek ? 
 More graceful flows her wavy hair?"
 
 86 POEMS. 
 
 " Her eye can shame the diamond's blaze, 
 Her breath Arabia's rich perfume ; 
 
 The hair that o'er her forehead plays 
 Can mock the raven's glossy plume ! " 
 
 " Hush! Malcolm, hush!" she smiling, cried, 
 " Such praise bespeaks your ardent flame ; 
 
 One charm that decks your happier bride 
 Deserted Morna still may claim, 
 
 '' Her face may be more passing fair. 
 
 Her eyes with brighter beams may shine, 
 But scarce can Scottish maiden's hair 
 In hue, in softness, rival mine. 
 
 " A boon to grant you fondly swore, 
 A boon to grant I sue thee now ; 
 I ask not heaps of shining ore — 
 I ask one lock from Marion's brow ! 
 
 " These eyes its charms compared shall view, 
 Shall mark its glossy beauties shine —
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Shall joy to see its vanquished hue, 
 Or, weeping, own it equals mine !" 
 
 # # * * * 
 
 No murmuring sounds were heard to break 
 Descending evening's calm repose ; 
 
 And slowly o'er the misty lake 
 
 The twilight's glimmering star arose. 
 
 The wave full swiftly Malcolm past, 
 For night's dun shades began to lour ; 
 
 And backward oft his eyes he cast 
 To mark the light in Morna's tower. 
 
 'Twas strange, he thought, her face so soon 
 Content's unruffled smile should wear ; 
 
 And stranger still the promised boon, 
 The lock of Marion's raven hair ! 
 
 O'er wakeful Morna's tearful eyes 
 His opiate dews no Slumber shed ; 
 
 87
 
 88 POEMS. 
 
 The wretch whom conscience stings, he flies, 
 Nor smooths the murderer's thorny bed. 
 
 The morn beheld her sorrows flow ; 
 
 She wished, yet feared the dreadful deed : 
 And Margaret, in her face of wo, 
 
 Her bosom's inward war could read. 
 
 Lord Malcolm's page was seen to land ; 
 
 He lightly climbed the turret stair, 
 And gave to Moraa's trembling hand 
 
 The promised lock of raven hair. 
 
 Some tears awhile Compassion drew, 
 Then fiercer still Resentment blazed ; 
 
 But weak was Pity's melting dew 
 
 To quench the flame by Vengeance raised. 
 
 The hour-glass, with unsteady hand. 
 
 She turned, and blamed Time's lingering stay ; 
 
 Anon she chid the waning sand, 
 And thought it fled too swift away.
 
 POEMS. 89 
 
 Twas darkness all ! -no moon appeared, 
 But, shuddering, veiled her silver light; 
 
 And groans and boding screams were heard 
 To pierce the sullen ear of night. 
 
 With tottering step she passed the stair, 
 And sought a dungeon's murky gloom, 
 
 Where Margaret bade the redd'ning glare 
 Of magic fires its depth illume. 
 
 Her eyes Distraction's glances fill, 
 
 Bare is her bosom, loose her zone, 
 And pale the faded cheek, where still 
 
 One kindly drop of Virtue shone. 
 
 Blanched is her lip, as marble cold 
 Her breast, the throne of wild despair ; 
 
 And bloodless are her hands, that hold 
 The fatal lock of raven hair ! 
 
 " Now," Margaret cried, " is vengeance thine ! 
 Now triumph in successful hate !
 
 90 POEMS. 
 
 No more in powerless anguish pine, 
 But snap the thread of Marion's fate ! 
 
 " Soon as amid this work of Hell 
 
 Yon hair shall hlaze in mystic fires, 
 She from whose head it severed fell, 
 Consumed by glowing heat, expires !" 
 
 To plunge it in the bickering flame 
 Thrice Morna raised the fatal hair, 
 
 And thrice a warning whisper came. 
 And bade her tremblino- hand forbear. 
 
 o 
 
 No tear she shed — no sigh she drew, 
 Horror each wilder'd look expressed ; 
 
 Swift in the flames the lock she threw, 
 
 And, shrieking, sunk on Margaret's breast ! 
 
 " I burn !" she cried, " the fires I feel 
 Scorching ray heart with racking pains ! 
 
 Around my maddening brain they steal, 
 And riot in my boiling veins !
 
 POEMS. 91 
 
 " Some power, intent the good to save, 
 
 Bade Malcolm's soul my guilt foresee ; 
 The hair to him my fondness gave, 
 By Heaven inspired, he sent to me ! 
 
 " True, Margaret, was thy witching spell, 
 
 Whose force could raise these mystic fires ; 
 From Mornas head the ringlet fell, 
 And she 'mid glowing flames expires ! 
 
 " No mercy! Heaven — all hope, farewell! 
 
 Oh, might these pangs for guilt atone ! " — 
 A black and hideous corse she fell. 
 Deep was her last, her dying groan. 
 
 Swift from the dungeon Margaret flew, 
 
 And still her lifeless burden bore ; 
 Around her frenzied glances threw, 
 
 And wildly cursed her magic lore. 
 
 She kissed, by warring passions torn, 
 
 Those lips where sulph'rous vapours glowed ;
 
 92 POEMS. 
 
 She climbed a rock by waters worn, 
 Whose chafing; tides beneath it flowed. 
 
 'to 
 
 " There is," she cried, " one place of rest, 
 Where both shall soon united go ! " — 
 
 Then, as the smouldering corse she pressed, 
 Plunged in the hissing tide below ! 
 
 Sad was the groan when o'er their head 
 The 'whelming waves were heard to close ; 
 
 And fearful was the lustre red 
 
 Which from the burning lake arose. 
 
 Nor e'er can this dread night return, 
 
 Though many a circling year has flown ; 
 
 But still the glowing billows burn. 
 And echoes still a dying groan I
 
 POEMS. 
 
 93 
 
 TO 
 
 # * * # 
 
 LAMENTING THAT SHE WAS GROWING OLD. 
 
 Aliquid corpore pluris habe. — Ovid. 
 
 With genius bless'd, with taste refined, 
 A heart with kindest feelings warm, — 
 
 All who admire thy polished mind, 
 
 Mid Beauty's wreck thou still must charm. 
 
 That face must fade ! Time's restless wing- 
 Will chase each fleeting grace away ; 
 
 But still to thine fond hearts will cling, 
 And deem thee dearer in decay. 
 
 When yon fair flower shall drooping lie, 
 Chilled by the cold, ungenial wind. 
 
 On careless wing the butterfly 
 
 Will speed some opening bud to find.
 
 94 POEMS. 
 
 Yet still, by faithful fondness led, 
 The bee to seek the ruin hastes ; 
 
 And, though its gaudy hues are fled, 
 The hoard of treasured sweetness tastes. 
 
 Time's rapid flight no more upbraid, 
 Nor sigh o'er Beauty's transient reign ; 
 
 The loveliest blossoms soon must fade, 
 But fruits, more precious far, remain. 
 
 *s
 
 POEMS. 95 
 
 CHRYSOSTOM TO MARCELLA.* 
 
 Avui wrix^ov l^cora, Kcti i; TiXo; avui Moipai. — TnEOC. 
 
 Read, proud Marcella, read the dying strain ! 
 This feeble hand can ne'er offend again : 
 Soon in tlie grave shall this torn heart repose ; 
 These eyes, that only oped to weep, shall close ; 
 Through my chill veins the streams forget to roll, 
 And one long sigh release my struggling soul. 
 Expect not now the fond impassioned lays 
 Which once were lavish in Marcella's praise ; 
 No thoughts that dazzle with poetic light 
 Float in gay vision o'er my mental sight : 
 The sluggish strain, with no bright fancy warm. 
 Like the last murmur of the dying storm, 
 Slow from my lips in mournful cadence steals, 
 And owns the languor which my bosom feels. 
 
 * Vide Cervantes.
 
 96 POEMS, 
 
 In Youth's gay spring what scenes young Fancy 
 drew, 
 While Hope described the gaudy cheat as true, 
 And, smiling, bade her flattering glass display 
 The bright perspective of a cloudless day ! 
 'Twas thine, relentless fair one, to destroy 
 This airy fabric of unstable joy ; 
 The flowers of pleasure from my brows to tear. 
 And leave the thorny chaplet of despair ; 
 To bid me sigh, and seek the silent shade, 
 To weep a heart by love, fond love, betrayed ; 
 Bereft of hope, unpitied and forlorn, 
 A bleeding victim at the shrine of scorn — 
 Ah, why did nature fruitless gifts impart. 
 Gifts that have failed to win Marcella's heart ? 
 This lyre, by thee despised, could oft enchain 
 The heart of sympathy with artless strain ; 
 Could notes of sorrow sadly sweet combine, 
 Nor sounded harsh to any ear but thine. 
 Oft the fond virgin who had fled to mourn 
 An aching heart by love-sick anguish torn ;
 
 POEMS. 97 
 
 When naught her hosom's smothered grief could 
 
 speak, 
 Save her eye's language, and her fading cheek, 
 Wild as she rushed, has checked her mad career, 
 And, listening, paused my melting lays to hear, 
 Hung o'er my lute, and drank its melting tone, 
 Pitied my sorrows, and forgot her own : — 
 Yet, ah ! this lyre could ne'er attuned, by me. 
 Win the lov'd tribute of applause from thee, 
 Oer thy soft lip bid dimpled smiles arise, 
 Or steal one tear from those averted eyes. 
 
 Full well the hour can faithful memory trace 
 When first I viewed the wonders of thy face ; 
 Beheld enamoured beauty's dazzling blaze. 
 And drank delicious rapture in the gaze. 
 Entranced I stood, and (ah, how fondly!) cried, 
 To that fair form as fair a soul's allied. 
 Pure as devotion's chaunted rites which rise 
 From cloistered virgins, soft as lover's sighs — 
 Vain thoughts, adieu ! pride sways thy stubborn soul, 
 Which spurns each gentler passion's mild controul ; 
 
 H
 
 98 POEMS. 
 
 No murmured plaint can that cold bosom charm, 
 
 Which pity fails to melt, and love to warm. 
 
 Yet, oh ! perhaps some youth the art may know 
 
 To find a heart amid that circling snow ; 
 
 Some minion schooled in adulation's guile 
 
 Exults triumphant in Marcella's smile ; 
 
 Hears on her lip the faltering murmur die, 
 
 And reads responsive passion in her eye. 
 
 Hence, maddening thought ! nor wild distraction give 
 
 To that brief space I still am doomed to live : 
 
 Calm as the hour when sober twilight flings 
 
 Her mantling shades, and sails on noiseless wings, 
 
 O'er my worn frame may death's chill languor creep, 
 
 And close my eyelids, soft as infant's sleep. 
 
 By pity led, should e'er Marcella stray 
 
 Where the cold earth enwraps my senseless clay ; 
 
 On the green sod should one lone flow'ret bloom, 
 
 And breathe its fragrance o'er my humble tomb ; 
 
 Bid the weak nursling of the summer go 
 
 To droop and wither on thy breast of snow. 
 
 As plucked by thee the frail memorial dies. 
 
 Gaze on its changing hue with thoughtful eyes ;
 
 POEMS. 99 
 
 Then, as my fate the fading- emblem speaks, 
 Some gracious tear-drops may bedew thy cheeks ; 
 Then, bending pensive o'er death's lowly cell, 
 Ask that cold heart if all within be well.
 
 100 roEMs. 
 
 AMBROSIO TO MARCELLA. 
 
 (vide CERVANTES). 
 Huic misero fatum dura puella fuit. — Propertius. 
 
 Exult, Marcella, in successful hate, 
 Display your trophies, and enjoy his fate! 
 The murdered Chrysostom triumphant view, 
 Nor shed one drop of pity's melting dew ; 
 Hang with gay smiles around his humble grave, 
 Think that he died while you had power to save. 
 
 Yes, on his couch as pale the mourner lay. 
 Asked but for death, and wept his strength away, — 
 When faint from weakness grew each smothered sigh, 
 And languor swam in his imploring eye ; 
 Then, hadst thou cried, from woman's weakness free, 
 " Revive, my Chrysostom, and live for me ; 
 " Rise, thou poor youth, whom grief hath stricken sore, 
 " Long hast thou mourned, but thou shalt mourn no 
 
 more."
 
 POEMS. 101 
 
 Swift to liis heart had flown the healing sounds, 
 And shed soft balm in sorrow's bleeding wounds ; 
 Quick through his veins the ruddy stream had flowed, 
 And his wan cheek with new-born crimson glowed. 
 As bursting oft on the astonished sight, 
 The lightning gilds the ebon brow of night, 
 O'er the dark clouds the flood of splendour plays, 
 Charms as it strikes, and glitters as it slays ; 
 Thus from thine eyes the beams of beauty dart 
 As bright, as fatal to the wounded heart. 
 Wither the bloom that tints the cheek of joy, 
 Fair to deceive, and lovely to destroy. 
 
 Why with the snow doth that cold bosom vie, 
 Your lips with rubies, and with heaven your eye? 
 Why round thy form hath lavish nature thrown 
 Beauties that bind each vanquished heart your own ; 
 The dulcet voice that thrills with soft alarms, 
 And all the dazzling panoply of charms ? 
 Oh! had in childhood fell disease's pow'r 
 Untimely nipt thy beauty's budding flow'r, 
 Had stol'n from thee but half thy witching grace, 
 And snatched perfection from thine angel face ;
 
 102 POEMS. 
 
 Not to the grave the pensive train had moved 
 
 Of him whom all admired, and I (how fondly !) loved. 
 
 O'er barren rocks where frowning cork-trees wave, 
 
 Sleeps the poor victim in his lonely grave ; 
 
 No breezes there a gale of fragrance throw, 
 
 No fountains murmur, and no roses blow ; 
 
 No tangled bowers invite with circling shade, 
 
 No busy steps the holy calm invade, 
 
 No goat-herds there for dewy pasture stray, 
 
 No trav'ller wildered in his weary way ; 
 
 There rests my friend, for there in youth's gay prime 
 
 When pleasure checked the fleeting wings of time, 
 
 There, while his breast with new-born rapture swell'd, 
 
 Marcella's form the hapless youth beheld : 
 
 He saw, he loved, he heaved the frequent sigh, 
 
 And anxious shunn'd each friend's inquiring eye, 
 
 Through forest glooms and lonely dells he stray 'd, 
 
 And sang Marcella to the listening shade : 
 
 But when thy scorn each trembling hope o'erthrew, 
 
 And marred each scene illusive fancy drew ; 
 When from thy lip contempt's cold dictates flowed, 
 
 And mocked the soul where love unbounded glowed ;
 
 POEMS. 103 
 
 Alone he wept, no word the mourner spoke, 
 From his full heart no angry murmurs broke ; 
 Nor love, nor friendship could his anguish share, 
 His friend was sorrow, and his bride despair : 
 As some lone tower, whose base the torrents lave, 
 Yields, slowly crumbling, to the mining wave. 
 Silent he sunk, while each succeeding day 
 Stole some weak prop of waning life away ; 
 He blest his murderess with his parting breath, 
 And smiled forgiveness in the grasp of death. 
 
 Canst thou, unmoved, the tale of suffering hear? 
 And grudge the offering of one gracious tear ? 
 Still the proud smile of guilty triumph shew, 
 And dare exult, where all are sunk in wo? 
 Thy hated form the shuddering damsels fly. 
 And cold contempt averts each scornful eye : 
 " Behold (they cry) those fatal charms, which slew 
 The gentlest, fondest youth, our humble hamlet knew," 
 
 Think not, Marcella, that thy life shall flow 
 A stream unruffled by the blast of wo ;
 
 104 
 
 POEMS, 
 
 That love shall ne'er thy torpid breast assail, 
 
 Cased in Disdain's impenetrable mail : 
 
 No ; thou shalt weep o'er passion scorned, and prove 
 
 The bitter sigh of unrequited love. 
 
 Thou to the storm that shakes thy soul shalt bend, 
 
 And fade, as faded my despairing friend ; 
 
 Thou, too, shalt mourn a breast incased in steel, 
 
 All that he felt, thy stubborn heart shall feel ; 
 
 From taunting scorn to secret shades shalt fly, 
 
 Unpitied languish, unlamented die.
 
 POEMS. 105 
 
 SULTAN ACHMET. 
 
 FROM VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 Quidlibet esse feret. — Ovijd. 
 
 To Granada's brightest maid, 
 Once the amorous Achmet said, 
 ^' I my kingdom's ample range 
 For Medina would exchange, 
 And that hallowed spot would give 
 In Juana's love to live." 
 
 " First, thy prophet's faith abjure. 
 Learn the Christian's doctrine pure ; 
 Such thy task, and such the art. 
 Which must gain my yielding heart ; 
 Then Juana, king sublime, 
 Love can grant without a crime."
 
 106 POEMS. 
 
 " By these precious pearls I swear, 
 Resting on that bosom fair, 
 If obedience win thy love, 
 I'll a ready convert prove ; 
 Grant but that this necklace be 
 Achmet's only rosary."
 
 POEMS. 107 
 
 EXPECTATION. 
 
 FROM VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 Squirrel, who from bough to bough 
 
 Springest oft in motion gay ; 
 Climb the topmost branches now, 
 
 Which like trembling rushes play ! 
 Stork, who on some turret's height, 
 
 Rocked by storms, art wont to sleep ; 
 Seek, oh seek, with rapid flight, 
 
 Lofty mosque, or donjon-keep ! 
 
 Eagle, from thy blood-stained nest. 
 
 With unwearied pinion go ; 
 Where yon mountain's towering crest 
 
 Frowns amid eternal snow ! 
 Cheerful lark, who lov'st to sins: 
 
 Th' opening blush of morning fair, 
 Haste, and with uprising wing, 
 
 Cleave the azure fields of air !
 
 108 POEiMS. 
 
 From the palm-tree's loftiest bough, 
 
 From yon turret beetling high, 
 From yon mountain's craggy brow, 
 
 From yon bright unclouded sky ; 
 See ye aught while gazing round ? — 
 
 Doth a floating plume appear ? 
 Doth a courser spurn the ground ? — 
 
 Is my love, my warrior near ?
 
 I'OEMS. 109 
 
 'EAE0T2 BUMOS. 
 
 Non thurea flamrna nee ullus 
 Accipitiir sanguis lachrymisque altaria sndant. — Statius. 
 
 C0M.E, kneel with me at Pity's shrine, 
 And breathe a warm united prayer ; 
 
 'Tis only hearts which feel like thine 
 Can duly pay their homage there. 
 
 No column proudly rears its head, 
 No temple rich in sculptured grace ; 
 
 But sweets, by earliest violets shed. 
 Will lead us to the hallowed place. 
 
 There timid hares no danger fear, 
 
 No snares the fawn's light step arrest ; 
 
 Night's plaintive songster warbles near, 
 
 And murmuring ringdoves weave their nest.
 
 110 POEMS. 
 
 Beneath a willow's weeping shade 
 Is raised the altar's verdant mound ; 
 
 No footsteps rude the calm invade, 
 Whose holy stillness sleeps around. 
 
 No costly gifts the votaries bear, 
 At Pity's shrine no victims die ; 
 
 She claims no offering but a tear, 
 No incense but a tender sigh
 
 POEMS. Ill 
 
 TO 
 
 * * * 
 
 Alas ! how every joy below 
 
 Is blended with the shades of wo, 
 
 Nor e'er unmixed appears ; 
 The gladsome smiles with radiance gay, 
 Which o'er thy kindling features play, 
 
 Must yield to rising tears. 
 
 Oft as thine angel face I view, 
 
 My soul, to mournful prescience true, 
 
 Is tinged with sorrow's gloom ; 
 For fell disease, or pining care, 
 May plant untimely wrinkles there, 
 
 And death must steal its bloom.
 
 112 POEMS. . 
 
 How bright yon clouds in ether glow ! 
 But soon the freshening breeze will blow, 
 
 And all their hues destroy : 
 'Tis thus the tints of pleasure die — 
 Thus fleet before the rising sigh 
 
 The airy dreams of joy.
 
 POEMS. 113 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Quas oriens habuit prselata puellis. — Ovid, 
 Loquax neque grata. — Horace. 
 
 A DAMSEL fair was Biddy Blane, 
 
 For beauty known afar, 
 The Cynosure of Leather Lane, 
 
 The pride of Holborn Bar. 
 Her ruddy cheek, her native grace, 
 
 Attracted old and young; 
 Some praised her shape, and some her face. 
 
 But none admired her tongue. 
 
 For her e'en sturdy* waggoners 
 
 Began soft pains to feel, 
 And oft forgot, like ministers, 
 
 To guard the public wheel. 
 
 * Geo vertiUir in sj. — As in presenti, 
 I
 
 114 POEMS, 
 
 The hour the watchman scarce could give, 
 But yawning, heaved a sigh ; 
 
 And hapless dyers scarce could live, 
 Because they could not dye, 
 
 A suitor* next, a shoemaker, 
 
 His passion dared to tell, 
 And Mr. Pumps so suited her, 
 
 He bore away the Belle. 
 But Biddy's tongue oft plagued her dear, 
 
 And frequent quarrels bred, 
 Like quicksilver (said he) I fear, 
 
 'T will move unless it's dead. 
 
 Her voice was heard from morn till noon. 
 From noon till night did fall, 
 
 And even gave the honeymoon 
 A little taste of gall ; 
 
 And soon the wordy war compels 
 Unhappy Pumps to feel 
 
 * Sutor bonus. — Hor.
 
 POEMS. 115 
 
 His darling Belle, like other bells, 
 Could ring a rattling peal. 
 
 One Sunday, as to Highgate Hill * 
 
 His one-horse chaise he drove, 
 He cried — " But let your tongue lie still, 
 
 We'll not fall out, my love." 
 The frovrn which lowered on Biddy's brow 
 
 Foretold a sudden squall ; 
 " To match the brute," thought she, " I now 
 
 Will speak no word at all." 
 
 In vain, he said, the hill was steep. 
 
 The weather wondrous hot; 
 Resolving silence still to keep. 
 
 She, pouting, answered not. 
 " What means this freak ? why art thou mum. 
 
 As one in doleful dumps? 
 I'd rather have you loud than dumb, — 
 
 So speak, sweet Mistress Pumps.
 
 116 POEMS. 
 
 Turn over a new leaf, T feel, 
 
 With you I shortly must " — 
 Just then a pig beneath the wheel 
 
 O'erthrew them in the dust. 
 She soon her feet and voice regained, 
 
 And thus her sjjouse addressed, — 
 Who wiped his coat, so torn and stained. 
 
 His bluest and his best. 
 
 <' To please my dear, no word have I 
 
 Presumed this morn to say ; 
 And yet, my love, you can't deny 
 
 We \e fallen out to-day. 
 When next you drive, with caution meet, 
 
 Avoid all sleeping pigs ; 
 Turn over a new leaf, my sweet, 
 
 But don'tturn over gips.
 
 POEMS. 117 
 
 THE BELLE OF THE BALL. 
 
 Arbiter es formee. — Ovid. 
 
 *' Only think on my desolate state, 
 
 On an illness so mal-a-propos ! 
 Mrs. Grampus has given a fete, 
 
 And / was unable to go : 
 Dear Charlotte to ease my despair, 
 
 Tell me all about Mugglesham Hall, 
 Say who were the favourites there, 
 
 Who shone as the Belle of the Ball ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Grampus in finery blazed, 
 
 To eclipse every beauty she strove ; 
 The old colonel exclaimed, as he gazed, 
 ' A prodigious fine woman, by Jove!' 
 But, oh Heavens ! what an arm, what a fist. 
 
 Her bulk all the loves would appal ; 
 With her face like the sun in a mist. 
 She was not the Belle of the Ball.
 
 118 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 *' Lady Elinor moved like a queen, 
 
 A model of dignified grace ; 
 Sure never more beauties were seen, 
 
 Than illumine her elegant face ; 
 The ringlets which float round her head, 
 
 Her friends a warm auburn miscall ; 
 But Sir Harry pronounced they were red. 
 
 So she was not the Belle of the Ball. 
 
 " It was pretty Miss Malkins' dtbut, 
 
 With her manners so gentle and mild ; 
 And her eye of ethereal blue, 
 
 She looked like Simplicity's child : 
 But she danced not — perhaps she was shy ; 
 
 But wherefore sit wrapp'd in a shawl ? 
 Some thought her a little awry, 
 
 So she was not the Belle of the Ball. 
 
 ** Lavinia was playful and gay, 
 
 And tripped like some lass on the green ; 
 ' She's a nymph, she's a sylph, she's a fay ! ' 
 Cried that stupid old Major Macqueen ;
 
 POEMS. 1J9 
 
 But mute she should ever remain, 
 When she speaks, 'tis a horrible squall ; 
 
 With a voice like a peacock in pain, 
 She was not the Belle of the Ball. 
 
 " Round the rich pretty widow from Leeds 
 
 All the officers throng'd as a prize ; 
 In flirting she always succeeds, 
 
 Though there's something quite odd in her eyes ; 
 Miss Muddlethorp ventured to hint, 
 
 That on objects obliquely they fall ; 
 ' T would be cruel to call it a squint, 
 
 But she was not the Belle of the Ball. 
 
 " Lady Lucy bore triumphs away, 
 
 Her charms might an anchoret warm ; 
 The mazurka was made to display 
 
 All the grace of her delicate form ; 
 On her cheek the fresh bud of the rose 
 
 Seemed destined each heart to inthral ; 
 But, alas ! it encroached on her nose, 
 
 And she was not the Belle of the Ball.
 
 120 POEMS. 
 
 " All applauded Miss Lancaster's taste, 
 
 She was dressed wdth such exquisite skill ; 
 Every ringlet with science was placed, 
 
 Every look had its mission to kill. 
 Her complexion is fair as the snow, 
 
 But perhaps she's a little too tall ; 
 I should think ahout ten years ago 
 
 That she shone as the Belle of the Ball. 
 
 " Then the petticoat pedant, Miss Pope, 
 
 Tried to mingle deep learning with love ;. 
 Not aware that 'tis useless to hope 
 
 That the owl can combine with the dove ; 
 While she danced, in imperious tone 
 
 She descanted on Spurzheim and Gall ; 
 She might be as blue as the Rhone, 
 
 But she was not the Belle of the Ball. 
 
 " Never was so enchanting a night, 
 
 Each partner soft nothings could say ; 
 The hours fled on wings of delight, 
 And I sigh'd at the dawning of day :
 
 POEMS. 121 
 
 You remember Augustus Dalmaine, 
 Whose taste is acknowledged by all? 
 
 Well, he said — but you'll think me so vain — 
 He said /was the Belle of the Ball."
 
 122 POEMS. 
 
 HERO AND LEANDER. 
 
 I SING a lay of luckless love, 
 Youno; men and maidens listen: 
 
 Perhaps a sigh or smile 'twill move, 
 And teach your eyes to glisten. 
 
 Leander was a comely youth 
 
 As ever threw the discus : 
 With locks of fire, and heart of truth, 
 
 And most extensive whiskers. 
 
 In feats of manly exercise 
 
 None beat the young Leander ; 
 
 In Pyrrhic dance he bore the prize, 
 And swam like any gander.
 
 POEMS. 123 
 
 He wooed a maiden frank and free, 
 
 Who lived across the channel ; 
 In her as close wrapt up was he 
 
 As gouty foot in flannel. 
 
 In Hero's face were beauty's rays 
 
 Concenter'd in a focus ; 
 Her eyes outshone the diamond's blaze, 
 
 Her hair eclipsed the crocus. 
 
 There lurking loves spread many a wile, 
 
 The cause of mortal dolour : 
 She wore it in a turn-up style. 
 
 And reddish was its colour. 
 
 Love's self, when first he met her view, 
 Taught their fond hearts to mingle : 
 
 Her eyes grew dim, — like Sappho's, too. 
 Her ears began to tingle. 
 
 The whizzing dart she saw him throw, 
 With skill and vigour mighty.
 
 124 POEMS. 
 
 And whispering, sighed, " On me bestow 
 That youth, fair Aphrodite ! " 
 
 The goddess heard, and smiled in scorn, 
 
 Presagino; future trouble : 
 From foam since Venus' self is born, 
 
 No wonder Love's a bubble. 
 
 Sly Cupid, too, with pointed dart. 
 
 To aid her prepossession. 
 Engraved his form upon her heart — 
 
 A lasting proof impression. 
 
 No more Leander bore his part 
 
 In exercise athletic : 
 But, wandering like a stricken hart. 
 
 Indulged in the pathetic. 
 
 " O Hellespont," full oft he cried, 
 " I hate thy foaming water ; 
 
 Thy waves alone this heart divide 
 From beauty's blooming daughter.
 
 POEMS. 125 
 
 " Here, pained I sigh by anxious love, 
 While Sestus' shores allure me : 
 Could I but take some bark, 'twould prove 
 The surest way to cure me. 
 
 " O Daedalus ! had I thine art, 
 I long ere this had tried it, 
 From cursed Abydos to depart — 
 I hate — I can't abide it. 
 
 " O Hellespont ! restrain thy swells, 
 Nor roll thy waves between us ; 
 At Sestus while my Hero dwells, 
 The cestus 'tis of Venus. 
 
 " So warm the flame whose ardent slow 
 Within my bosom's cherished, 
 On Helle's fleece I'd gladly go, 
 
 Though she, poor maiden, perished. 
 
 " She trusted to the faithless deep, 
 Seated on ram renowned ;
 
 126 POEMS. 
 
 It was not a fine wether sheep, 
 So she, poor thing, was drowned. 
 
 " To waft me to my love's abode, 
 A raft would be of great nse ; 
 For ah ! the Hellespont is broad — 
 Old Homer calls it wXaru^, 
 
 " Not danger's giant form I dread, 
 Since love resistless urges ; 
 I've got a swimming in ray head — 
 •'?._ Alone I'll breast the surges." 
 
 He spoke — and plunged into the sea. 
 Whose bosom lightly bore him — 
 
 He heard the sea-nymphs' melody, 
 While Tritons danced before him. 
 
 Cupid his torch above him bore — 
 He swam as never man did ; 
 
 And soon upon the Sestian shore 
 Leander safely landed.
 
 POEMS. 127 
 
 *' Awake ! " he cried ; " thy true love calls ; 
 O, let these arms infold thee ! 
 Awake ! nor bid those envious walls 
 From love's fond gaze withhold thee. 
 
 *' Awake, my love ! no tell-tale star 
 Bespangles night's dun curtain ; 
 The moon in Latmian vales afar 
 With young Endymion's flirting. 
 
 '* Awake, my sweet ! cast off delays, 
 
 Sleep from your eyelids chasing ; .v' 
 
 This is no time for making stays — ..-- 
 Yours only, love ! want lacing.'* 
 
 She heard — and soon before him stood, 
 With feet unsandalled tripping ; 
 
 She was in Love's own melting mood — 
 And he, poor youth ! was dripping. 
 
 She, blusaing, clasped the faithful boy. 
 Soft vows with kisses sealins:.
 
 128 POEMS. 
 
 O earth ! hast thou another joy 
 Like this fond gush of feeling ? 
 
 They smiled, and wept, and prattled still, 
 Nor heard the lark's shrill warninsj : 
 
 And sighed, as o'er the eastern hill 
 They marked the blush of morning. 
 
 He sought the waves — she lingering staid 
 
 To watch her daring lover, 
 And longed (blame not the trembling maid) 
 
 To see him half seas over. 
 
 Each night the youth adventurous came. 
 
 Of danger little dreaming ; 
 While still from Hero's tower a flame — 
 
 Love's pilot star — was beaming. 
 
 Here watched the maid, and wistful gazed. 
 
 To view her love returning — 
 And trimmed her lamp w bile high it blazed^ 
 
 Her taper fingers burning.
 
 POEMS. 129 
 
 'Tis thus, mid brakes and thickets damp, 
 
 When garish day is over. 
 The glow-worm lights her diamond lamp, 
 
 To lure her wand'ring lover. 
 
 O ! could my Muse, in frolic play. 
 
 Still sing of vows and kisses ! 
 Death's horrors ill befit a lay, 
 
 So gaily light as this is. 
 
 He braved the winter's angry sea. 
 No danger checked his wooing — 
 
 The love that went on swimmingly, 
 One swim sufficed to ruin. 
 
 While tempests howled above his head, 
 
 The billows o'er him beating, 
 He thus, in dying accents, said, 
 
 While strength and life were fleeting : — 
 
 " Waft not my corse to Sestus' shore, 
 
 Ye winds — the sight would shock her !
 
 130 POEMS. 
 
 Live ! Hero, live!" — he could no more- 
 But sunk to Davy's locker, 
 
 IVight fled with visage dark and glum ; 
 
 While Morn, for gods and mortals, 
 With fingers red as capsicum, 
 
 Unbarred the eastern portals. 
 
 Low moans the storm subsiding gave, 
 Like drum at distance muffled ; 
 
 While, like a dandy's shii't, the wave 
 Was wond'rous white and ruffled. 
 
 Poor Hero started from her bed, 
 Her heart with anguish throbbing, 
 
 And shrieking saw Leander dead. 
 Amidst the billows bobbing. 
 
 " I see," she cried, " his corse afar — 
 I see the wild waves stir it!" 
 Then, rapid as a falling star, 
 
 Dashed headlong from the turret.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 131 
 
 In Ocean's bed their limbs were laid, 
 
 The food of hungry fishes — 
 Huge conger eels devoured the maid, 
 
 Unused to such made-dishes. 
 
 Their bones still rest beneath the shore, 
 Where chance at first conveyed 'em ; 
 
 For all the wrongs in life they bore, 
 No funeral rites repaid 'em. 
 
 Instead of tears of friends beloved. 
 They had the foaming breaker ; 
 
 The wave which took them under, proved 
 Their only undertaker !
 
 132 roEMs. 
 
 A MODERATE WISH. 
 
 " Vivimus ambitios^ paupertate." — Juveval. 
 
 They tell me 'tis good to be poor, 
 
 That riches too often are snares, 
 That a rent-roll's an absolute bore, 
 
 An establishment fruitful in cares ; 
 Wealth is trouble, philosophers cry. 
 
 Such truth may to wise ones be clear ; 
 But I own I would venture to try 
 
 The plague of five thousand a-year. 
 
 Sally Snape all my ways understands, 
 
 And my cot's quite a picture to see ; 
 But she need have Briarean hands, 
 
 For she's butler, cook, valet to me. 
 When my donkey-chaise crawls to the dooi-, 
 
 No grooms to attend it appear ; 
 How I'd tear in a britska and four, 
 
 If I had but five thousand a-year !
 
 POEMS. 133 
 
 Mutton-chops may serve life to sustain, 
 
 Eggs and bacon drive hunger avj^ay — 
 But I long for rich soup a-la-reine, 
 
 And sigh for an omelette soiifflee. 
 She-cooks on the sight will obtrude 
 
 Fat sirloins and old-fashioned cheer ; 
 But I'd have a rival of Ude, 
 
 If I had but five thousand a-year ! 
 
 There are few can excel Sally Snape 
 
 In her currant and gooseberry wine ; 
 But give me the juice of the grape 
 
 That impurples the banks of the Rhine. 
 'Tis good each wild wish to restrain, 
 
 Content with spring-water or beer. 
 But I'd venture on hock and champagne. 
 
 If I had but five thousand a-year ! 
 
 If a neatly turned speech I essay, 
 As I hand a fair nymph to the door. 
 
 Mamma bristles up in dismay, 
 And whispers, '^ He's shockingly poor!"
 
 134 POEMS. 
 
 There's Fanny, the sweetest of girls, 
 So witty — so gay — so sincere ! 
 
 But she dotes so on diamonds and pearls 
 I wish I'd five thousand a-year !
 
 POEMS. 135 
 
 THE RESTORATION OF THE MONKS TO 
 LA GRANDE CHARTREUSE.— 1816. 
 
 Verum ubi cesserunt venti, et lux reddita caelo est - - - 
 Sicut aves nidos expetiere suos. — Henry Hallam. 
 
 Five lustres fled, and still arose no sound 
 Of ehaunted rites in sainted Bruno's fane ; 
 
 Oppression's hand had scattered ruin round, 
 And scared devotion from her dread domain. 
 
 Deep stillness reigned save when the eagle's scream 
 Was heard afar in ether's azure field ; 
 
 Or howled the wolf mid night's unfaithful gleam, 
 Through woods coeval with the tow'rs they shield.* 
 
 Driv'n from her nest, if chance the bird of night 
 Wanders when day's brightbeams the heaven illume, 
 
 She turns abhorrent from the blaze of light. 
 
 And seeks some mouldering fane's congenial gloom. 
 
 * La Grande Chartreuse was founded in 1084 ; but several times 
 was destroyed by fire.
 
 1 36 POEMS. 
 
 Thus from their cells, the holy band expelled, 
 Shrank from the world, and all its gaudy hues ; 
 
 Life's busy scene with wearied eye beheld, 
 
 And mourned the desert* of their lone Chartreuse. 
 
 Though all were sad, none sighed in ceaseless pain 
 Like him whose mild control the brethren swayed ; 
 
 Fervent he prayed to see them kneel again 
 Within the precincts of the sacred shade. 
 
 Heaven heard his prayer, o'er France, no more 
 enthralled, 
 
 The star of Bourbon shed a ray benign ; 
 The hoary priest his wandering flock recalled. 
 
 And hailed their entrance to the hallowed shrine. 
 
 On all he smiled, nor, mid the white-robed train, 
 One aged face, by time endeared, forgot; 
 
 But, if he sought some well-known forms in vain. 
 He asked not wherefore, — they, he felt, were not. 
 
 * Spatiosam eremum concessimus. — Original grant.
 
 POEMS. 137 
 
 All was accomplished, not one boon withheld 
 Which by celestial bounty could be given ; 
 
 His grateful soul with new-born rapture swell'd, 
 Burst through the mortal coil, and soar'd to heaven.* 
 
 * Dom Moisonnier ; he survived his restoration only eleven days.
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Page 25, line 15, /or " thine " read " mine." 
 
 38, 5tli line from the bottom, instead of a period after " shade," 
 
 read a comma. 
 102, line 12, for " checked " read " mocked."
 
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