Ill>] 1 J THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES ., >^ POETICAL BUDS: SONGS AND OTHER POEMS. BY JOHN TAYLER. ' To carve your loves, to paint your mutual flames " See polish'd fair the beech's friendly riod ; " To sing soft carols to your lovely dames " See vocal grots and echoing vales assign'd." SHENSTONE. BATH: P=^INTED BY S. BENNETT; AND SOLD BY THE AUTHOR, CORSHAM. MDCCCXXVIII. PREFACE. It iy necessary that a preface should be prefixed to this work, and such will be expected by a great many of my readers, from which, with other particular reasons, I will write; and, at the same time, endeavour to avoid the dull introductory remarks, which very frequently :\re only an incnmhrance to a book. First of all, I would humbly solicit the cAan^y ofthecniic, and I hope the imperfections with whicli my Poems may abound will be for-jiven as soon as they shall have been discovered, for this reason — I am a self-taught author (if I may assume the title J, nor was it till since the year 1824,* ihat an idea of learning dawned upon my mind. When a volume of poetry makes is first appearance, it is generally observed, and has been repeatedly remarked, that it gives employment to a fjreater number of critics than any ♦ I sincerely hope tliis remark will suffice to screen me I'lom censure, ss I must be brief at present. — This volntne wastiiiisheil before thecoinplstion of my 2lst year, July 27, 1827; but since that time I liave aiWed about six pieces to it. 865329 IV. PREFACE. Other kind of writing; this ought to awaken the cautu-u of the versifier, and stimulate him to attend to liis exercise.'- with careful diligence; for experience has enabled rae h assure him, that he is exposed to many disadvantages, especi- ally if he be of an open turn of mind. 1 must just observe that I shall not be offended should any imperfection be pointed out to me, if, as a conscientious critic, the person will but take off the sharpness of reproof with which it is too fre- quently accompanied, but I sliould rather consider ii a fa- vour. If 1 think aright, there are many whom envy has stirred up to look over particular writings with an fye U censure the author ; such as these I cannot pass over before I charge them with pedantry ; they are too proud to \k taught ; too envious to admire ; too ignorant to have s liveK conception of ideas in general, and possess too little < f lite- rature to lose any; they tioist from some good author till they can weave something like argument to support then cause, and to defend (with the spirit of bigotry) is to fxpos< themselves; but it is very well known that — " Dogs delight to b.ii'k and bite, " And bears and lions •jrowl and figlit, " For 'tis their nalurc ."' There are several breaches of grammar, I am cen-'in. n. this book; sometimes I have confounded the neut.<'.l verb PREFACE. V. lie, with the active verb to lay, et cetera, which in most places are distinguished with itaUcs; but as this happens only in some of mine earliest productions, I have not presumed to alter the MS. as it would occupy more time than present circumstances allow me to dispose of; an alteration would probably have affected the feet, rhymes, or sentiment, if executed without the greatest care, consequently, as the deviation from the rules of grammar is but trifling, it will be better in its present state. Our grammarians have generously allowed the writers of poetry to ramble a little from the path which is set out for the writers of prose, so that an adjective may substitute an adverb, except where the syllables in both are equal, as miserable : a. and miserably : ad. *, and a few more parti- cular instances ; neither is the verb always governed by num- ber when the latter increases or diminishes the quantity, as, '• Fortune will always shower " Her blessings where she please."'— Page 143. Which, accordino; to the standing rules of our language should have been "where she pleases;" but then the re- ' The distinction is almost too obvious for any mistake to arise here, never- theless, we often hear miserable poor in common conversation, but only by uu- scrib:c scholars of ipv sort. VI. PREFACE. gard to syntax would have been of less consequence than a strict attention to prosody, and were the verb suited for the singular (which number it is in) instead of the plural number, it would have been foster-sister to the Darhyoni- anism contanied in " Gospel Poems." J\'ouiis, which are naturally neuter, may be converted into mascxdine or feminine, by which the personification is marked with more force and distinction, as — " Heaven his wonted face reiiew'd." — MlLTOM. If we put it and its, instead of his and her, we confound the images, and reduce what was highly poetical to mere prose, and common discourse; ihe personal possessive whose may also be applied to inanimate things, and they may he considered as bearing a perscrta^ character. All authors have their share of fallibility and f have mine, but I hope my next publication will be found more correct than this — for practice improves the pen. I must state, that the blank verse " Hopelessness," (page 86) was written by request, as were many more of the pieces ; and the " Her- mitage," (page 72) was written (or rather composed) within sight of it. The Hermitage is about a lialf a mile from Badminton, Gloucestershire; generally called "The Cell," by the villagers : it is a delighful place, and stands on a spot. PREFACE. Vll. which is pleasingly solitary, in the Duke of Beautort's park ; it cannot be seen before you are near it, in consequence of the surrounding trees : it is stated by many that it was occu- pied by a hermit a century (or thereabout) ago, but I have received information, sufficientbj authenticated, to authorize me to contradict the statement. Westbury, in Wiltshire, is a place, in which, (I think) poetry and music are as well received as in most towns, proportionate in extent; it was not far from here that Tucker lived,* the celebrated musician, whose ''Sacred Melodies,'* (though he is no more, J will bear his name to future years. The hills of Westburyf seem to be the very nestling place of Poetry, when the breast is inspired with ideas which struggle to be expanded to melanchohj themes, and here, I think, is displayed a landscape more rich in variety than in any other p:;rt of this county. I will now say something of my native place, but in a preface I can but apruplly imitate the historian, as such un- connected remarks, in this situation, require brevity next to accuracy. • Several MS. Tunes have lately been found by .Mr. Tuckei, jun and it is to bt iioped tiiey will s-ooo be published. t Here are to be seen the entrenchments, made iu king Alfred's reig^n, against the iuviders. Ycu may here hold a flute, and by moving the fingers, the breeze will distinguish the notes from D to B or C. Vlii. PREFACE. Corsham stands on one of the most level, and pleasant situations in the county of Wiltshire, about nine miles from Bath : it is a little toxon of great fame, but within the last seven years it has been enlarged ; and since 1815 so consider- ably improved that a person who has not been there from that time would scarcely know it. The mount, at tlie southern end of the main street, on which stood three of the largest elm trees in the parish, has been removed, and the buildings hard by, (now theMethuen Arms,) have been so completely fitted up, that it seems to be the " resort of fashion :" here is an Harmonic Society, and the musical amateurs meet once a month, (the Tuesday nearest the full moon,) of which Mr. Loder, the justly cele- brated musician of Bath, and many others, whose vocal and instrumental abilities arc well known, are members : here is also the seat of P. Methuen, Esq. M. P. once the palace of the Saxon kings ; the southern front is which has a vener- able appearance from its gothic cast; but its eastern and northern fronts have within the last thirty or forty years, been finished after the most costly taste of modern architec- ture ; the paintings in this house are considered the best in the west of England, and the picture gallery, erected by the » Corshim is become quite a " little Oxford," in consequence of its Academies. PREFACE, IX. laie P. C. Methuen, Esq. is very extensive ; the most respect- ■ible families for many miles round come to see them ; there are also many acres of water in the park, which is moderate- ly large, and as to pheasants, (Col. Berkeley excepted,) but lew have a better show ; " the walks are numerous, and the air salubrious."* Corsham is often called the seat of health, and we have people here whose ages average 96 or 98 ; in tact, many people come from a distant country for the enjoy- ment of "Corsham air," as they call it, or " the benefit of iheir health." The "English Traveller'" speaks oi 10 morris dancers in the same town, whose united ages, at the time they were thus engaged, exceeded a thousand years ! and there is a grave-stone in the churchyard, on which is the age of 107: the stone, I am told, was placed there, by voluntary subscription, to Sarah Jervis, on which it is stated that she had " fresh sets of teeth and nails. "f It is but se^en years since auld Mallie Etherds, f alias Mary Edwards,) the noted fortune-teller died, whose fame for her skill in the art, has rung in every county in England. "To whom the fates of men " And pretty maids were known ; " She read them o'er and o'er again, ■' But could not read her own."$ * Bath Gazette, t She left about 130 children and grand children. From a MS Elegy on her death, with notes, &c. which will soon be published. X. PREFACE. She lived not a mile from hence ; and now let rae tell a tale respecting her, which many in Corsham may not know, and it is more likely to be true, than some of the idle tales in circulation, viz. that she could command the spirit of the storm ; make little imps dance on her table ; and be reveno-- ed, from her knowledge of the magic art. A certain butcher of Corsham, who is now dead, was about 20 years- ago, overtaken by a farmer, between Bathford and Box, who asked him " How far to Corsham ?" 'Five miles,' was the answer, 'I am '::v■\^^ thith.er.' Farmer. Then we will go together. Butcher. With all my heart, sir. Farmer. Is not there a cunning woman near that town, by the name of Edwards. Butcher. Yes, sir, I know her well : are you ^oins: to her, make so bold ? Farmer. Yes, sir, I am ; I have walked almost from Bristol to-day, for some person has stolen a horse cf mine worth £20, and I am told she can tell me who had it. Butcher. Yes, that she can ; do von suspect any person ? Farmer. The gipsies, who have been in our neighbour- hood. Butcher. Never mind, sir ; she will tell who had it, I Ml venture to say, for auld Mallie's prettv deep.. PREFACE. XI. So they walked and talked till they came to the Roe Buck, about a mile from Corshani, and near the cunning woman's house. •' Now,' said the butcher, who wanted a joke, ' Go and take a glass '.vhile I do a little business, and then I will go with you to auld Mallie's.' " With all my heart," said the fanner; but while he was drinking the contents of his glass, the butcher made it his little btisiness to go and tell auld M.illie all about the farmer and his horse, and added he " Dang me, if thee doesn't stick a good story into him, and charge him a crown, just for the fun o' the thing, I'll never help thee to another job ! !" ' Be off an' vetch un,' says Mallie, ' and I'll do't as thees tell me!' The little business being finished, the butcher went to call the farmer, and both went to the house together : as soon as they opened the door, the old woman cried out, " Ah zur ! then you be come a-foot now your 'orse is gone, ben't ye ?" The poor farmer was astonished ; however he proceeded with his questions, and her answers were highly satisfactory. She told him some gipsies had taken it away, and in a few days he would find it upon them ; so she had the croivn, and the butcher a treat for his trouble, but whether the farmer found his horse does not appear, nor does it much XU. PREFACE. signify, for he walked about with a light heart afterwards, hoping to find the horse upo7i the Gipsies, instead of tiie gipsies upon the horse ! 1 — Now, generous reader, be pleased to forgive any ipripropriety that may be seen in this book, and I hope my next publication will be better. J. TAYI.ER. Corsham, Wilts, May 5, 1828.* * The Preface for this work was first written July 2, 1827. Erratum. — Page 136, " And freely give me, &c." read " And freely give thy, &c." POETICAL BUDS, PART I. POETICAL BUDS THE LAMP. When on the glimmering lamp I gaze, And watch the feeble, quiv'ring blaze, I think upon my life, and I Am well aware that I must die. Feeble, still feebler is the flame, — Weaker, still weaker grows my frame ; I must resign my fleeting breath. And shortly close mine eyes in death. One blast — and then the flame is gone,»- Such is the hfe of every one ; Death will arrest us all, an we Must enter on eternity. A THE MIDNIGHT THUNDEU. Oh ! may our endless spirits rise, To dwell with Christ above the skies ; May we with songs of joy ascend To heaven, where glory has no end. THE MIDNIGHT THUNDER.* W HAT direful thoughts oppress the guilty soul, And sinful pleasures past approach apace, When vivid lightnings flash, and thunders roll ; Then guilt is staring in the sinner's face. How the pale lightning breaks the midnight gloom ; See, how he starts and trembles with the fright ! He fears the thunder will pronounce his doom, As it disturbs the silence of the night ! The sound how awful, and majestic too, Yet how unwelcome to the sinner's ear ! August the scene — delightful — fair to view, fStill, still its presence fills his mind with fear ! * Written during the heavy thunder, on the night of June 25, 1826 ON THE DEATH OF A PIOUS PERSON. He fears that he his sinful race has run, And mercy has forborne on him to shine ; Eternity appears with him begun Ere he has reach'd the limits of his time. Lord, if this daunt us, where shall sinners stand In that great day, when Jesus, shall appear ? When, thundering, he shall give the great command. How will they bear their direful doom to hear ! ON THE DEATH OF A PIOUS PERSON. Blest shade ! ascend to realms of endless bliss ! Thy pleasures are not in a world like this ; Swiftly through spheres innumerable fly. For ever dwell beyond the distant sky. Blest shade ! ascend to realms of endless day. Not all the powers of hell can stop thy way ; Angels are waiting to receive thee there, The joys of saints and angels thou shalt share. Blest shade ! ascend to realms of endless joy, No power can thine eternal peace destroy ; In the delightful mansions of the blest, Free from all sorrow, thou shalt ever rest. ACROSTIC. Blest shade ! ascend unto thy Father's throne, Wear thy prepar'd, thine everlasting crown ; Blest shade, ascend, eternal joys are thine. In realms of endless glory thou shah shine. ACROSTIC. T HY groans unheeded, fast departing date, I nvite another circle to thy seat ; M isemployed hours condemn us in their flight, E xpulse our future joys — eclipse our future light. H ark ! time, in silence, does not roll away ! h ! hsten to its dictates and obey : W ake from your morbid drowsiness, lest Time S eize, while you sleeping lie, — suppress your flow'ry prime. H ear the advice that, hov'ring, murmurs round, O bserve, with care, each gentle reasoning sound : R oil, with its tide, to reach that peaceful shore T hat cannot be remov'd when "Time shall be no more." Dec. 31st, 1826. ACROSTIC. ABBEY CHURCH, BATH. ACROSTIC: WRITTEN IN CORSHAM CHURCHYARD. C OMEST thou here to converse with the dead ? H ear, then, this truth — " Prepare to follow mel" U ninterrupted, in our silent bed, R est we as patterns of what thou must be. C an blooming youth the gaping grave defy ? H ealth is but transient ; death will visit thee. Y oung as thou art, thou'rt not too young to die, A nd God alone can tell how soon 'twill be : R epent in time, thy former follies leave ; 1> eath soon will lay thee, also, in thy grave. • ON VIEWING BATH ABBEY. Delightful structure 1 boast of every tongue ! Thy sculptur'd monuments delight mine eye ; The high-arch'd roof the echoing sounds prolong, Till swelling notes the fainting tones supply. The highly-polish'd lettered marble, see. Pronounce the saints' reward, and sinners' doom,- In silent language, tells me J must be A moulderimj tenant of the dreary tomb. TO THE INFIDEL. Behold the panegyrics of the great. Encomiums of the noble, o'er their heads ; Hear memory's nurse of all their actions speak, While they, unconscious, slumber on their beds. May those, who now beneath thy shelter lie. Scorn thee, and leave thee for the joys above; Gaze on thee with disdain, then soar on high. To dwell with Christ, and sing his dying love. 1825. TO THE INFIDEL. ** Is there no God ?" Then I'm as safe as thee. For both alike must die : but if there be (As I believe there is) a mighty God, How canst thou stand beneath his vengeful rod ? Say'st thou " There's no hereafter:" yet can I More happy live, and far more peaceful die ; But, oh ! if there should an hereafter be, Poor sinner, think, what will become of thee. ON A CHURCH CONVERTED INTO A BARN. 7 WRITTEN ON SEEING AN ANCIENT CHURCH, NOW A SUBSTITUTE FOR A BARN.* My fancy, in her rounds one day, All gay pursuits to shun, Perch'd on a tender, lofty spray. And o'er the ruins sung — " 0, ancient pile ! and hallowed spot, Where are thy beauties now ? Thou art by all but Time forgot. To which all things must bow. Thy gothic pride is gone at last, Thy stately beauties laid Beneath the shroud of ages past. No more to rear their head. No monumental stone remains, The sleeper's bed to shew ; Alas ! no more the heavenly strains Beneath thine arches flow. Thine hillocks now are trodden down. No more the tolling bell, In thy decaying tower, shall sound The hour of prayer to tell. * At Biddestone. THE RUINED ABBEY TO TIME. Thy dead, with fear or great delight, Must leave their humble clay. To dwell in shades of endless night, Or realms of endless day." THE RUINED ABBEY TO TIME. O, cruel spoiler ! tell me where My beauties thou hast boine? Why didst thou rob me of my pride, And leave me thus to mourn? All the spectators pity me. Canst thou no pity show ? My stately monuments I've lost. Why didst thou rob me so? The nations boasted of me once, And saints assembled here ; Surely 'tis through thy conquering power That they no more appear. And off beneath my vaulted roof. The heavenly notes have flown ; I held the helm of ancient pride Through ages now unknown. TIME TO THE RUINED ABBEY. 9 The artist here display'd his skill, I saw my beauties fall ; Without a rival then I stood, Now I'm surpass'd by all. Where is the polish'd marble now. That ray interior grac'd ? My stately pillars, too, are gone, Alas ! where are they plac'd ? Where is the bell that welcom'd once The saint and sinner here ? No consolating speeches, now, Their drooping spirits cheer. O, cruel spoiler ! tell me where My beauties thou hast borne ? None but the bard will pity me, Nor o'er my ruins mourn. TIME TO THE RUINED ABBEY. vv HAT, must my course be stopp'd for thee, Thy beauties to secure ? Those that have gaz'd upon thy pomp, Will on it gaze no more. 10 TIME TO THE RUINED ABBEY. Why am I charg'd with robbing thee ? Those beauties were not thine : They were not made without mine aid, I therefore call them mine. It was by me that thou wert rear'd, By me thou must decay ; The beauties I at first bestow'd. At last I bore away. All those by which thou art surpass'd. Will soon become like thee ; Kings, thrones, and royal palaces. Must all submit to me. Majestic structures soon will fall. And pompous piles decay ; Ev'n I, unto Eternity, Must shortly fall a prey. Then why not cease to frown on me. Why not forbear to mourn ? Thy pride is gone, thy beauties lost. And will no more return. A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. — THE SPRING. 1 1 WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. Around this venerable pile, The village dead must lie ; They all will slumber here awhile, Until the judgment day. Then all their graves will open'd be, And mine amongst them too ; The Judge of all things I shall see, And, reader, so v^ill you. Then let us all prepare to die. And strive to leave our sin. That we may reign above the sky. With our redeeming King. WRITTEN ON THE SPRING. All nature now appears serene, The fields and trees are cloth'd with green ; Vallies and hills their silence break. And rocks thy lasting praises speak. 12 ADMONITION. The little tenants of the air. The wondrous works of God declare, While beasts, that slavish race, agree To join in social harmony. Breezes that murmur through the grove, Declare thy goodness as they move ; And every clear and gentle rill, To reason's eye presents thy skill. And shall the whole creation join, Save man, to praise thy name divine ? Keep us, Lord, from sin's control. And then we will exceed the whole. ADMONITION. Sinner, why dost thou slight the chance That is within thy grasp ? Now is the time, salvation's day. And this may be thy last. Unto the warning voice give ear. Thy former follies leave ; Thou canst not call on God for help, When thou art in the grave. ADMONITION. 13 Death comes to men of every rank, Nor will it favour thee ; Repent, or when it is too late. Thy folly thou wilt see. What ! dost thou think thou shalt escape The punishment of God ? Sinners who disobey his word. Must fall beneath his rod. Think not, Oh, man, the eye of God Does not thine actions mark ; 'Tis He, and He alone, that knows The secrets of the heart. Thy thoughts when hidden in thy breast, Are open to his view ; Thy sinful actions well he knows, And all thy speeches too. Upon the book of memory. Thy misdeeds he will write ; A self-accusing conscience, soon Will lay them in thy sight. Then sinner in the last great day, When Jesus shall appear. How canst thou stand before his face, Thy direful doom to hear. B 14 DELAY. Conscience, thy chief accuser, then Before thy glaring eyes Will stand, and thou thine evil deeds Wilt see with sad surprise. Forsake thy sinful course in time, "Flee from the wrath to come :" Then thou, with saints, wilt occupy Thine everlasting home. DELAY. 1826. In youth, remember now thy God, Ere those fair days decline ; Submit to his parental rod, And grasp the ofTer'd time. Keep not to-morrow in thine eye. But seize the present day ; Prospects that promise will pass by, If sought for with delay. Then, sinful man, thy train of sins, When life is past its bloom. Will pierce thee with ten thousand stings. And drag thee to the tomb. ELEGY. 15 Or, ere the prime of life 's attain'd. Its final close may come, And tell thee, deep with folly stain'd. Thy sinful course is run. Thy sleeping conscience then will start, And thunder in thine ear ! And Death shall bid thy soul depart Her endless doom to hear. Cursed delay, in dreadful form, Shall stand before thy sight. And full of terror and alarm. Thy soul shall take her flight. ELEGY: ON THE DEATH OF A YOUTH OF PROMISING TALENTS. The towering eagle skims the trackless air. Intent through rolling clouds to soar again, But soon the fatal dart pursues him there, And lays him lifeless on his native plain. The spotless primrose, messenger of spring. That loves to join the sportive zephyrs' play. Blooms on the banks, till Sol's bright rays begin To cheer the earth, then fades and dies away. 16 REFLECTION. The even surface of a summer's sea Entice the seamen to their native shore ; But all their prospects fade, and now they see The storm advance, and hear the tempest roar. The morning speaks a calm, and on the sky No clouds appear, its splendour to control ; But soon these hopes, like pleasing visions, die, — Huge pillars rise, and awful thunders roll. Such were the hopes we entertained of thee, Delightful boy, but " all thy promise fail," By the resistless force of Fate's decree, " Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there." How weak a father's wish and mother's tears ! How vain to pour their sorrows at thy shrine ! Death but remov'd thee in thine opening years. That thou might'st blossom in a lovelier clime. REFLECTION. Now think, my soul, upon the day When thou must leave this frame of clay. Obey the voice from yonder sod That says — « Prepare to meet thy God." « HE SHALL FEED HIS FLOCK." 17 Thy heav'n must be secur'd below — Here, we prepare for bliss or woe ; But in the endless world to come Our joys or pains are fully known. Then why should I desire to dwell Upon the brink of death and hell ? Shall mercy in my sight appear, And I refuse it, when 'tis there? Oh ! lead my spirit with thy will, Draw all my thoughts to Zion's hill, Nor let a blast of anger blow To hurl me to the depths below. " HE SHALL FEED HIS FLOCK," &c.— Isaiah. Forbear I ye greedy wolves, that try The weary to devour ; The Shepherd soon will make you fly. And crush your impious pow'r. Fed with his hands, borne in his arms, And sleeping on his breast ; Delighted with his pleasing charms. When weary and distress'd. 18 WRITTEN IN CORSHAM CHURCHYARD. How dare you enter Jesu's fold, To lead his flock astray ! Your thoughts the Shepherd will behold. And you must be his prey. In pastures green, with herbage sweet, The tender tribe shall eat. While you must stand with clogged feet To envy and to hate. A stream of" milk and honey" flows. And flow'rs the fields adorn ; Jesus beholds his lambs repose, And guards them till the morn. Beneath the shadow of his wings. With pleasure they abide. Drink from his ever-flowing springs, And travel at his side. 1826. WRITTEN IN CORSHAM CHURCHYARD. Oh ! how my thoughts are roving, while I tread Upon the silent mansions of the dead ! From tomb to tomb my restless fancy flies, And objects here and there attract mine eyes. WRITTEN IN CORSHAM CHUCHYARD. 1 9 Soon as the silent night succeeds the day, Towards the ancient pile I make my way : The full orb'd moon augustly lifts her head, And with pale lustre gilds each slumberer's bed. When warblers occupy their leafy cots, And careful shepherds have secur'd their flocks ; When swains have done their labour for the day. And to their habitations bend their way ; When silence reigns, and nature is serene. With great delight I view the pleasing scene ; And with slow progress here and there I rove. And make that scene the object of my love. While such my thoughts, I cast mine eyes on high. And view the glittering hosts that deck the sky ; Ta lend me their assistance they agree. To view those emblems of mortality. While gravely I survey these wrecks of time. My muse attempts to soar on wings sublime, A tribute to the mouldering dead to pay. By warbling there, a faint elegiac lay. Here, undisturb'd, the dreamless sleepers lie, To fall to shapeless dust, and so must I ; All noise and strife, all grief, and toil, and care. And pain, and sickness are forgotten here. 20 " THE TIME IS SHORT." The spreading yew a solemn aspect wears, And human fraihy in our faces stares ; Oh, what a pleasing, melancholy scene, And how deserving of a nobler theme. Reader, — when thou art slumbering on thy bed, I view the habitations of the dead : Slumbering with them I very soon may be. And thou, perhaps, wilt stand and gaze on me. « THE TIME IS SHORT."— St. Paul. Time on its axis ever turns, And wheels our lives away ; The past is fled, the present flies. Nor will the future stay. One moment past returns no more. But makes its follower room ; And every passing moment draws Us nearer to the tomb. Successive moments form the years Which fill our fleeting span ; How swift the days, how short the life, And weak the frame of man. LINES EXTEMPORE. 21 One generation falls away, Another takes the room : So fade the fair, the fragrant flowers Beneath a sultry noon. Go, watch the progress of the shade, See how the hours depart ; Or, trace the mansions of the dead. And learn " The time is short." But, shortly, " Time shall be no more" Th' archangel's trump will sound ; Then the succeeding wheels shall roll In one perpetual round. LINES EXTEMPORE. Ye glittering stars that shine so bright. And in your trackless courses run. Your brightness fades by morning light. And melts before the rising; sun. One sight above declares thy power — When I behold the canopy. With its bright hosts, in midnight hour, They elevate my thoughts to thee. 22 HYMN. Well the prophetic poet sung — The heavn's declare the works of God : The earth and seas, the stars and sun, Sprung in existence at his nod ! Then perfect man he forra'd of clay, And made his seat in Paradise ; But this perfection fled away, — He fell a victim to his vice. The blessings from thy bounteous hand. By ruling pride are cast away ; Man will not hear thy just command. But yon bright worlds thy word obey. No wonc'er llicy wore deified, When darkness on the noon-day roll'd, — They sing, while infidels deride, " The wonders of your God behold !" 1826. HYMN. Lord, shower thy blessings from on high. Upon a worm below, And deign to such a wretch as I, Redeeming love to show. HYMN. 23 When infant thoughts, divine, begin To glow with colour bright. Subdue the cruel power of sin , And guide their progress right. Oh, may they grow, and take their root In my deceitful heart ; Pluck out the sinful weeds that shoot. And sovereign grace impart. From thoughts accordant actions spring,- The root sustains the tree ; Oh, may the spirit dwell within, And 1 be hid in thee. Water my thoughts that please thy mind, To actions they will grow ; Though God above. Oh ! may I find Thy presence shine below. Assist me through this transient span, And answer when I call ; Thou art the stay of every man, His life, his health, his all. When stepping on the stage of death. From off the bounds of time ; — When giving up my fleeting breath, Oh, call ray spirit thine. 24 THE ECLIPSE OF THE MOON. ON SEEING THE ECLIPSE OF THE MOON. Bright queen of night, on thee I gaze With wonder and delight ; Why dost thou not reflect thy rays On rae, as yesternight ? Aerial wanderer ! art thou doom'd To travel round the globe, While thine illustrious face is gloom'd,— Without thy shining robe } The shades of evening, with delight, Approach to view the scene ; Let not these tyrants rule the night, But check them, modest queen. Thou shalt regain thy former light, — With usual splendour shine, Then through the silent shades of night, Illume this path of mine. Bright Sun of Righteousness, from thee I want a beam of li^ht : Ne'er may the world between us be, To hide thee from my sight ! " ONE DAY IN THY COURTS." 25 May thy bright beams of light divine. My darkness drive away, And may I, in thy presence shine Through an eternal day. TImrsday evening, Nov. 14, 1826. "ONE DAY IN THY COURTS," &c.— Psalmist. Lord, in thy temple I would stand. To hear thy sacred word, Rather than dwell near sinful joys, And share what they afford. Here let rae lift my heart and voice. To thee in pray'r and praise : Here let me dwell, and unto thee I'll dedicate my days. Here let me seize that peace of mind. Which sinners never found : Here let me call upon thy name. And may thy grace abound. Here let me see the ' Lamb of God,' Who shed his blood for me : Here let me leave my load of sin, And give my heart to thee. c 26 YOUTH AND AGE. Here let me, with the eye of faith, Behold thy pard'ning grace : Here let rae see a flame of love Beam from Emmanuel's face. Here let me be prepar'd to die. To live where angels shine : There may I, in the chorus join. To praise thy name divine. YOUTH AND AGE. Age. — \ OUNG man, take my advice, for soon The budding flow'rs must lose their bloom, In youth remember age, and see How time and age have crept on me. Youth. — What, must my short, my glorious prime Be gloom'd with thoughts of future time ? When all my present joys are gone, Then future days I'll think upon. Agk. — Should'st thou by Death be call'd away, On earth thou could'st no longer stay ; Before thy Maker thou must stand. And hear the just, the dread command. YOUTH AND AGE. 27 Youth. — Art thou not spar'd, old age to see ? Who knows but God will favour me ; If thou thy youth in sin had'st spent. Still, here 's a season to repent. Age. — If I had spent my life in sin, I should have felt its pangs within, And now have been, in this dread hour, Too weak to have withstood its pow'r. Youth. — Thousands to God have never cried, Till Death appear' d on every side ; Then did He disregard their tears. Nor hear their pray'rs, nor soothe their fears ? Age. — Alas ! by Death how many fall. Who, on their Maker never call ; Mercy they long refus'd to see : Perhaps it may be so with thee. Where canst thou stand in the last day. Unless thy sins are wash'd away ? In youth's bright day prepare for age, — Then youth will bless thy latest stage. 28 HEEDLESSNESS OF YOUTH. HEEDLESSNESS OF YOUTH. Lo, sin, in all its frightful forms, Is welcome to the sinner's sight ; No music gives such pleasing charms, No heavenly blessings such delight. The youth is hastening to its net. Though oft' desir'd, by heaven, to stop ; He chmbs its ladder step by step. Till landed on the fatal drop. (Here what a solemn scene appears — With chains of justice he is bound, And wretches, far advanc'd in years, Are heedless to the warning sound.) Keep us, Lord ! from this disgrace — From all the harms of sin secure ; And when we stand before thy face, Oh ! may our characters be pure. Wash off the spots that now are there. For thou alone canst make them white ; Unspotted may they all appear, When conscience holds them in thy sight. « WHAT HAVE I DONE ?" 29 Let them be stain'd with sin no more. But from its cruel power be free ; May Jesu's blood be sprinkled o'er — A token of his love to me. "WHAT HAVE I DONE ?"— Jeremiah. What have I done ? O, conscience, speak, That I these evils may forsake : No longer slumber in my breast. But stir till set by heaven at rest. What have 1 done ? O, conscience, tell How far from heav'n, how near to hell ; Dart forth thy stings, till Jesus will. In love, consent to lay thee still. What have I done ? O, conscience, say — " Thy wand'ring feet have gone astray;" What must I do ? Point out the road That leads my roving feet to God. Distressing thought ! What have I done ? I've murder'd God's eternal son : Then henceforth let me praise that King, Who freely shed his blood for sin. 30 " HE WAS DESPISED AND REJECTED. » HE WAS DESPISED AND REJECTED."— Isaiah. From heav'n, where saints in glory shine, To suffer for our loss. The Saviour came, to bear our sins, And die upon the cross. As lambs are to the slaughter brought. And sheep with shearers dumb, He bore oppression : no defence Was nourished on his tongue. With christian patience he endur'd His pitiable lot; He was rejected and despis'd. And we esteem'd him not. Surely, our sorrows he hath borne, And carried all our grief; Even to death pour'd out his soul That we might find relief, A man of sorrows, known to pain. With storms of trouble prcst ; Smitten of God, by man despis'd, Rejected, and distress'd. ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 31 To save our souls from death and hell, The great Messiah bled ; With sinners died, and in the grave Laid with ignoble dead. WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. IShall death exert its power on youth. And make Health tremble at its dart. While aged sinners slight this truth — " Prepare to die — the time is short .^" Ye young and fair, your death is sure, — Beneath you see the gaping grave : A Saviour seek, a heaven secure. For you have souls to lose or save. Ye aged sinners, too, forsake The paths in which you long have trod ; If death should close your present state. How could you meet an angry God ? The young and old, the rich and poor Must in the arms of Death repose ; Then how can mortals be secure ? Unseen events the journey close. 32 ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. God will a ray of mercy show To every soul he deigns to love : — If hard to leave a friend below How sweet to find a friend above. This world was not design'd for me : No : I abhor its glittering toys ; Sinner, how glorious must it be To leave them for eternal joys. Lord, lead us through this vale of woe, Assist us with thy powerful hand ; We are poor pilgrims here below That long to reach the " promis'd land." Grant, at our journey's end, that we May lift our hearts on high, and sing — *' O, Grave ! where is thy victory ? And, conquering Death, where is thy sting ? My flesh must slumber in the ground, But, oh ! may I in triumph rise, Soon as I hear the trumpet sound, To meet my Saviour in the skies. Sinner, embrace the present day, Nor sport upon the brink of hell : Farewell, farewell dear friends, oh ! may We meet again in heaven ! — Farewell ! CORSHAM CHURCH, 33 ON CORSHAM CHURCH. O, ANCIENT structure ! aged pile ! My thoughts shall dwell on thee awhile ; How fast thy monuments decay, And all thy beauties steal away. While on this sacred ground I tread, I learn a lesson from the dead, Here the rude English I behold, That speaks to all in accents bold. Beneath these stones, in silence, lay* Their dust, who once were young and gay ; Their titles see — they cannot save The great and noble from the grave. The rudely-sculptur'd stone appears, Mark'd by the progress of past years, And carvings that thy chancel grac'd, By ages gone, have been displac'd. Time has destroy'd thy lofty spire. That once I did so much admire ; And what departed time let stay. Approaching time will bear away. * Pres. tense. Vide preface. 34 NOVEMBER. How full my mind of thought profound, While on this consecrated ground, Where all the dead in silence lay. And where my body must decay . (Departed years on ages fade, — The dead decay on mouldered dead ; How plain the wrecks of time appear, — What generations slumber here.) O, hallowed spot ! O, ancient pile ! I leave thee now a little while : By Death I shall be borne away. And then with thee I must decay. NOVEMBER. Behold the leaves, how fast they fall. And wither on the ground ; The trees that once were green and fair. How bare they look around. Nature is stripp'd of all her pride. By Winter's cruel frost, And meadows, once with flowers adorn'd. Their beauty now have lost. NOVEMBER. 35 How similar to dying man The falling leaves appear : Where are the generations now That once were trav'ling here ? Though then in all the bloom of youth. They 've yielded up their breath ; — Lie dead and wither'd on the ground. Nipt by the frost of Death. Successive generations rise. And flourish in their room, But these, like those, will soon be nipt. And laid beneath the tomb. (The tender stalks, see how they bend,- Their bloom they cannot save ; May all the young by this be taught To seek an early grave.) Old age, like winter, will arrive. None can their courses stop ; It conquers all the power of youth, And makes the blossoms drop. (How cold and dreary are the nights, — How short our fleeting days ; We almost fear to venture out, So slippery are our ways.) 36 noah's song. We '11 labour in the spring of life, And summer of our years. Nor let the winter of our age, Be gloom'd with worldly cares. In the bright sunshine of our youth, We '11 get our business done; Then we shall never fear to see The cloudy winter come. Oh ! may we sow those virtuous seeds. That soon will spring and grow, Before the cheerless frosts appear, And chilling breezes blow. There may they flourish green and fair. Water' d with dew divine ; And when Death's frost shall nip the root, May all the fruit be thine. NOAH'S SONG. What bitter cries — what piercing shrieks I hear They chill my blood, affect my throbbing heart : O ! dismal sounds, resounding in mine ear — You from your sinful joys at last must part. NOAH'S SONG. 37 Sinners^ you cry in vain — the hour is past — Louder the raging, swelling billows roar ; Struggling with Death, you soon will breathe your last, And sink beneath the waves to rise no more. Your fellow-sinners' cries increase your grief: Oh ! what a bitter, what a hideous noise ! Alas ! you cry too late to find relief, — You must forsake your sinful, earthly joys. Why do you weep ? — your tears you shed in vain : You call for help, alas ! in vain you pray : The Lord will not command the fallins: rain To cease, until you all are wash'd away. You call on God your precious souls to save ; Though He be merciful, his ways are just : He will not save you from a watery grave, — Consider, you were made with sordid dust. Oh ! why did you resist his mighty pow'r ! I pity you in your most wretched state ; You see your folly in this awful hour. And call for help, but, oh ! you call too late ! The waves increase — the rain in torrents fall ! O, what a spacious, boundless sea appears : For Death, to ease you of your grief, you call And try to drown your sorrows with your tears. D 38 NOAH'S SONG. Your sins provok'd the Lord that gave you breath, — You fought against hira, and forsook his ways ; Now you must shortly close your eyes in death, And live in misery through endless days. Shocking reflection ! melancholy thought ! It wrings my heart, and trickles through my veins ! What desolation on yourselves you've brought — You must be bound in everlaslins; chains. In everlasting torments who can dwell ? In burning flames what sinner can remain ? O, who can bear the punishment of hell ! Who can endure that keen, that bitter pain ! In that unfathomable dark abyss. Sinners must live throughout perpetual days ; Preserve me, Lord, from punishment like this, And to thy name I will ascribe the praise. Imagination's wings will never bear Our faint ideas to a scene like this! How will their tortur'd spirits rave and tear Through endless days in that obscure abyss ! Loud roars the wind — the rain in torrents falls ! O, what a dreadful, melancholy sight ; Aloud to me for help each mortal calls. But all his tears and prayers I must slight. NOAH'S SONG. 39 Accept the grateful tribute of my tongue ! Assist me, Lord, while I attempt to sing : I'll praise thee for the wonders thou hast done,— Thou art my God, mine everlasting King. Holy thou art, and just are all thy ways ; How free thy willingness my soul to save ! Thy name, God ! my thankful heart shall praise, For thou hast saved me from a watery grave. I owe my thanks to thee, my heav'nly friend — Almighty King ! to thee I'll lift my voice : On thee, and thee alone, I can depend ! In thee, and thee alone, I will rejoice. Salvation to the Lord that reig-ns above, — I'll render homage to the sacred name Of my preserver, for his wondrous love, And to mine offspring I'll declare his fame. He hath preserv'd me from the heartless waves, — Good is my God, and merciful his ways ! My life he spares — my family he saves, — 'Tis to that King we mortals owe our praise. Thy goodness. Lord, to ages yet unborn. Will be immoveable, and never fail. Who could have built an ark in such a form, And caus'd it on the watery globe to sail ? 40 REPROOF. No one but God could have devis'd the plan So wonderful, to sail upon the waves ; So useful to preserve a sinful man, And his whole family from watery graves. Unite ray sons, my daughters, too, unite With me to laud this great eternal King : Him will we praise that dwells enthron'd in light, — A song of glory to his name we'll sing. Listen, kind angels ! listen, while we raise, With hearts sincere, our feeble notes of praise ; Applaud the King of kings with new- made songs, While we applaud him with our hearts and tongues. 1826. REPROOF. Sinner, why wilt thou leap into the grave ? Consider first thou hast a soul to save. Or else thy spirit will for ever dwell In burning flames with tortur'd souls in hell. Sinner, prepare, " prepare to meet thy God" — Go, wash thy sins in thy Redeemer's blood : "Flee from the wrath to come" — to God return, And for thy num'rous past transgressions mourn. REPROOF. 41 Sinner, why dost thou fix thy pride in sin, To grieve the great, the everlasting King ? Fall on thy knees, unto thy Maker pray. Make preparations for a judgment day. Sinner, oh ! why so sinful wilt thou be ? Why, unprepar'd, leap in eternity ? The power of God no mortal can withstand — No force, tho' strong, can stay his pow'rful hand. Sinner, take up thy cross, pursue ihe road The Saviour trod, 'twill bring thee safe to God ; Now with Him make thy peace, for cruel Death May rob thee in an instant of thy breath. Sinner, why wilt thou crucify again The Lamb that for thee sufFer'd shame and pain ; Rouse from thy sins, and let thy conscience see A Saviour now expiring on the tree^ Sinner, 0, why ! why wilt thou not forbear Those smarting wounds of his again to tear ? Behold his hands, his feet, and wounded side ! To save thy soul from misery he died. Sinner, for thee he sufFer'd all this grief, — His blood was shed to give thy soul relief; No mortal ever suffer'd pain hke his ; — Oh ! didst thou ever see such love as this ?. 42 LINES EXTEMPORE. Sinner, he is inviting thee to come To God, and he will surely find thee room ; Why wilt thou such an invitation slight — Oh ! why against thy blessed Saviour fight ? Sinner, repent before it is too late, — Before Death fix thine everlastino; state : Seek for salvation while it may be found. Thou then in realms of glory wilt be crown'd. 1826. LINES EXTEMPORE. Thy wonders, Lord, how great they are ! They shine in every glittering star : On every thing I cast mine eyes, I view thy wisdom with surprise. Thy skill is shown from pole to pole ; — • Thy mighty power has no control : The wond'rous works thine hands have wrought, Exceed the reach of human thought. The waves that roll — the winds that roar, Are emblems of thy mighty pow'r ; And when the gentle breezes blow, They speak thy skill to all below. ON THE DEATH OF MRS. METHUEN. 43 How good thou art — thy bounteous hand Hath stor'd with food our fertile land ; But, discontented mortals, we Are still at enmity with thee. Thoughtless of all thy goodness, Lord, We disobey thy sacred word ; For earthly comforts we aspire, And none but sinful joys desire. Thine holy gospel we despise. And from it turn our heedless eyes ; We disobey that heav'nly law, Which ought to fill our souls with awe. O, turn our hearts and let us live. Our former foUies, Lord, forgive : In our last moments may we sing — " 0, tell us. Death, where is thy sting ?" LINES ON THE DEATH OF MRS. METHUEN. Hark ! hear the knell '.—the deep— the heavy sound. The knell that echos on the listening ear — The knell that spreads the solemn tidings round — Alas ! can charity refuse a tear ? 44 ON A SNOWDROP. Dear friend, and art thou number'd with the dead. On earth with us to sympathize no more ? Thine unsurpass'd benevolence is fled, To calm thy passage to a peaceful shore. Gone to the grave with age and honour crown'd, Where kings and princes, bards and heroes lie ;— Brioht sun to childhood* thou hast run thy round. And set to rise in fairer worlds on high. Behold a youthful train, and aged tribe, Envelop'd now with sorrow's saddest gloom, Mourn for their faithful friend, their gracious guide, The fragrant bud that only bent to bloom. Hark ! listen to the heavy funeral knell ! — The knell that spreads the solemn tidings round : Farewell, dear teacher, dearest friend — farewell, Blest victor, with eternal glories crown'd. ON A SNOWDROP, BROKEN WITH THE WIND. Delightful blossom, lovely flower, That deck'st the fertile earth ; — * Mrs. M. was generally considered the greatest Patroness of the Charity School. ON A SNOWDROP. 45 Expos'd to every icy shower, — The cruel winds that pierce the bower Exert their unrelenting power, And have, in this untimely hour, Blasted thy fragrant birth. Thine innocence, thy snow-like bloom, No more delights the eye ; Sweet flower, I mourn thine early doom, — Dragg'd like an infant to the tomb. No more to give a sweet perfume, Nor spangling bend to hail the moon, But sentenc'd thus to die. Mortal ! thou, like this flower, tho' gay. Must shortly with' ring lie; Embrace, secure the present day. The tide of time for none will stay. But, unperceiv'd, pursue its way, And drag thee to thy parent clay, (For all, Death's summons must obey. And to the tyrant fall a prey,) The old must soon, and younger may, With all the great and noble lay. Without distinction to decay. Till death itself shall die. March, 1826. 46 LIFE. LIFE. Behold the blush of Spring — the dawn of hfe Beneath the leaves of the young buds are hid Unnumber'd bitters 'midst the morning dews. Unseen, unsought for ; there the moistening drops. That make the bud a blossom, make the bitters. The blight that rob the blossom of its sweetness, The insects that deprive it of its beauty, And the cold frosts that lay it on the ground. 'Tis in the Spring the weeds of mischief grow, Which cast their pois'nous seeds on all around. By Nature rear'd, to ornament her groves — There, shelter 'd from the blasts of morn and eve. And moistened with the glittering dews of IMay, They flourish, and unwholesome breath they cast Upon the gems around, and steal away Their blooming tint, their rosy fragrance ; all Their sweet perfume floats, with the pois'nous smells Of weeds envemon'd, on zephyric wing. The bitter sweeten'd, and the sweet made bitter, Distinguish'd with unseen distinctive marks. Is oft' embrac'd, the bitter for the sweet. Around the stem of the ambrosial flower. Injurious stalks are twining, there they bloom LIFE. 47 As if upon the fragrant flower's own stem, If reason comes not with discerning eye, Her breast of mercy, and her hand of justice, And plucks thetn otf ; ev'n then, if not uprooted, Their roots strike deeper in the ground, — their stalk Runs up apace, and blossoms as before. Behold the field, where those delightful flowers Are springing, with the gates of death enclos'd; Each moment blights them — blows them through the bars Of the delightful field to Death's dark grove ; Where, from the sunshine of the cheerful Spring, The scorching rays of Summer's hottest ray. The melody of Autumn's cooling night, And cruel frowns of Winter's gloom, they lie, High-colour'd, pale, and all in one thick shade ! The flower that overshades the humble gem Oft' falls, while yet the tender gem is spar'd To bloom, and see its rival on the ground. A few warm hours roll 'twixt the bud and bloom, A few cold nights between the bloom and blight That steals their fragrance, lays their beauties low. The cattle, grazing in the verdant mead. With the green herbage crops them, or the hand Of harmless children plucks the blossoms oft : Thus in the field of num'rous dangers, they. Some heeded, some unnotic'd, fade and die. 48 LIFE. The rose that twines the fragrant bower, admir'd By all, whose beauty and whose sweet perfume Attracts the eye, and on the gaudy wing Of gentle zephyrs flutters in our sight, And renders sweet the air, but, nipt, alas ! To ornament the bosom of the fair : Beauty how vain ! its fickle influence Attracts destruction ! Virtue how powerful 1 Her lasting influence attracts the joys With which no fickle prospects can unite: Beauty no extra favour can demand : Observe the blight that nips the humble gem — That very bhght nips, too, the fairest flower. Thus, in successive years, successive groups Of blooming nature rise, first bud, then blossom. Then wither in succession : descendants still Adorn the Spring, successive Springs fill up The space of time, upon whose lap the works Of Nature lay ; and in whose lap are rear'd All infant joys and sorrows ; from whose breast They draw their nourishment ; and in whose arms They, struggling, fade, and blight each other's bloom. Here see a portrait of the human race, Thouoh brief, impartial ; flow'rs of nature, are Made flowers of rhetoric ; but trace them through LIFE. 49 Their varied seasons, and behold a type Of Adam's family. Example's influence Keeps pace with time through life, and magnifies Itself through ages ; Vice with Virtue joins. Or Virtue keeps within her flowery bounds ; It takes ihe harmless infant by the hand. And with its palm the tender seizure stamps. Yea, stamps its good or evil on the heart : ' And shall example thus, through heedlessness Of parents, lead in by-paths, and they not Regret to think how heedless they have been ? And shall advice on them no influence have, To turn the stiff" idea that has shot Aside ? And shall not pity fire their breasts. And cause its influence to melt the heart? Shall Reason in the ear be whispering. And still the ear be clos'd ? Shall Knowledge take Them by the hand, and they still turn aside ? Shall Wisdom call, and they refuse to run ? Prudence direct them, and they shut their eyes ? Justice forbid them, and they persevere ? Think, parent, think ! of Him who thus directs : Thou must crave mercy, if thou then dost slight These blessings; how canst thou in the last day Exclaim '* O, Lord, he merciful to me?''' First print these truths upon thy mind, and then E 50 HYMN. Dictate thine offspring, for example will Have influence according to the mind : Then shall thy children's children bless the hour In which they felt a good example's power. HYMN. Cleanse thoii, O Lord, mine heart from sin, And fix thine holy truths within ; Bid every sinful thought depart, And take possession of my heart. When in the paths of sin I stray, Oh ! turn my wand'ring feet away ; And when in shades of sinful night. Give me a beam of heav'nly light. When prest with troubles and with cares, Dispel n)y doubts, and chase my fears ; And when temptations round me stand. Stretch forth with speed thy pow'rful hand. When foes oppress my fainting soul, Their actions curb, their thoughts control ; Oh ! do thou be for ever there. To chase each shadow of despair. THIS IS THE WAY. 51 Lord, let the rays of love divine, Lighten this gloomy path of mine ; These inconsistent thoughts subdue, — Grant me thy grace and glory too. And when the hour of death draws near, Oh ! that thy presence might appear ; And after death may I receive The joys which none but thou can give. THIS IS THE WAY. This is the way that leads to God, — The way drawn out by Jesus' blood, — The way the holy prophets trod ; — Sinner, pursue the heavenly road. This is the way that leads above. Walk in this way to joys on high ; In Sin's dark paths no longer rove. Lest in its thickest shades you die. This is the way the Saviour went, — The way he tells us all to go ; "Forsake your doings, and repent," " Frail are the comforts here below." 52 "THIS IS NOT YOUR REST." This is the way now in our view, — • The way that we so much despise ; That leads to life and glory too — Eternal bliss beyond the skies. This is the way we all must go. If we, salvation would secure; Our present path will lead to woe, From which we may return no more. Hear Jesus cry — " I am the way, " That leads to endless joys above ; " From this blest path no longer stray, " But stop, and taste my bounteous love." "THIS IS NOT YOUR REST."— Micah. Arise, depart, this world forsake. Ye, weary and oppress'd; March forward to the heav'nly gates. For this is not your rest. Depart from this polluted land. Which soon shall be distrest ; Here you have no abiding place, For this is not your rest. " I HEARD A VOICE." 53 Leave all your earthly joys behin<^,— Are not my blessings best ? Fix not your hearts on bliss below, For this is not your rest. Draw your affections from the world, — Seek early to be blest ; You are but pilgrims here below, — For this is not your rest. Forsake your sins, and you shall be With heavenly raiment dress'd ; Arise, depart, prepare for death, For this is not your rest. " I HEARD A VOICE," &c.— Revelations. Blest are they who die in God, Purchas'd with a Saviour's blood ; They 're releas'd from every snare, Freed from every mortal care. Jesus still his sheep defends, — All their footsteps he attends ; With him, safely they can go Through this vale of grief and woe. 54 HYMN. Blessed are they after death, Who in Jesus yield their breath ; Death to them its sting has lost, And the grave forbears to boast. Songs of endless praise they sing To their great redeeming King, He who came on earth to die, He who reigns above the sky. " The ethereal arches ring, As they strike each tuneful string ; There they tune their harps of gold Jesu's merits to unfold. HYMN. Though God your tears and prayers neglect And hide his face awhile. His heavenly love will soon return, And on you deign to sraile. Abundant mercy he bestows, And from his throne above. He sees his persecuted saints. And on them sheds his love. ON HEARING THE CLOCK AT MIDNIGHT. OO Plenteous redemption he displays, Purchas'd by death alone ; Sinners, to Jesus fly, that he May all your guilt atone. ON HEARING THE CLOCK STRIKE AT MIDNIGHT. The clock strikes Twelve: — another day Of fleeting life is flown away ; Soon will my days of grief be past, — Perhaps this hour may be my last : Lo ! Death is seated in the lap of Life, Waiting to terminate this mortal strife. Why should I be so thoughtless then ? I may not hear it strike again ; Oh ! if the last be struck for me, Where can my sinful spirit flee ? Comraission'd death is always hovering near. And waiting the appointed stroke to hear. Have I improv'd the time that 's gone. To bless the hours fast hastening on ; If not, the present let me grasp. And not defer it to the last : Thoughts of a well-spent life, near death bestow. The sweetest bliss that heaven affords below. 56 ACROSTIC. AN ACROSTIC ON GREAT BEDWIN CHAPEL. WRITTEN BY REQUEST. G REAT God, thy loving kindness still impart, — R evive the drooping mind, and cheer the heart; E nable us with boldness here to meet, A nd trample sinful joys beneath our feet ; T each us to call upon thy name aright — B earn from thy shining face a ray of light ; E 'en then shall we secure from sinners be, D efended from their cruel power by thee ; W hen foes to Jesus and his cross appear, I n mercy may we find a Saviour near, N or let us fall beneath the aiming blow, C onfine their power and lay ambition low. H ave mercy on them still for thy name's sake, A nd may they all the gospel weapons take, P ush forward boldly — wield their swords amain, E ternal victors throucrh a Saviour slain : L et disobedience fall beneath thy frown, W bile projects framed by hell are trodden down; I n thee alone remains the power divine, L et sinners call upon no name but thine, T hen in the courts of Peace shall mortals dwell, S ecure from all the raging powers of hell. ill HYMN. 57 HYMN. O LORD, thy goodness let me see,— Point out redemption's plan ; Give me to feel my need of thee And know how weak I am. Thy dictates I would fain obey, ! guide rae with thine hand. And all I hear from day to day I Ions to understand. 'O A stranger to thy works and ways No longer let me stay ; Instruct ray tongue to lisp thy praise. And teach my heart to pray. With gospel milk feed thou my soul. That I may grow and prove ; My passions rule, my sins control, And let me taste thy love. How weak and ignorant I am. An uninstructed child; May I, while in this earthly span Be humble, meek, and mild. 58 MORNING HYMN. And when I've learnt to do thy will, And felt a Saviour's love, I will adore and praise thee still With all the saints above. MORNING HYMN. The gloom of night is chas'd away, And now a song is due ; The troubles of this infant day, ! lead me safely through. I long to find thy power supreme. When doubts and fears annoy ; Thy praise shall be my constant theme. Thy work my best employ. Many have travell'd while I slept. Not knowing where to lay ; And in some place of shelter crept, Until the approach of day. To thee who watch'dst* me all the night, And bade the guards attend, To thee I '11 sing by morning light. Thy goodness has no end. * Pron. watch' d, as in Pope — " Tlioii my voice inspire, Who touch'd Isaiah's," Uc. Vide Preface. EVENING HYMN. 59 How thankful did I ought to be. Who safely sleep at home ; I will ascribe the praise to thee. From whom these blessings come. 1826. EVENING HYMN. Now, for the mercies of this day. Before I close mine eyes. My humble thanks to him I '11 pay Who rei2:ns above the skies. I '11 thank him for my daily bread, And all I have beside, — My comforts, home, and humble bed Where safely I abide. Unto my song, Lord, lend an ear, O ! guide my wandering feet ; And place a guardian angel near To watch me while I sleep. If Death should seize me in the night. May the commission'd guard Convey my spirit to the sight Of its redeeming Lord I 60 LINES EXTEMPORE. — " WHERE IS GOD?" Then in the shining courts above, With angels, I will sing The praises of the dying love Of Christ my heavenly King. 1826. LINES EXTEMPORE. How loud the chilling breezes blow, And fast descends the cheerless snow ; 'Tis Providence for us provides, To shield us from these wintry tides. Dependant on the guard we stand. Who keeps us with his powerful hand : When happy in our humble cot, Desir'd, and envied is our lot. " WHERE IS GOD, MY MAKER .>"— Job. If to the depths I should escape, Or gain a lofty height ; If to the deserts I should flee, I could not shun thy sight. "WHERE IS GOD?" 61 Where is it Gcd, my maker, reigns, Whose penetrating eye Discerns the actions of my heart, — Whose ear regards my cry ? Where is the God that made the slobe Upon its axis roll; — That bade the suns their courses keep, And still sustains the whole ? Where is the powerful God that gave The Seasons all their bounds ? The God that bade the night and day, Pursue their constant rounds ? Where is the mighty God that tells The tides to ebb and flow ? That bids the gentle zephyrs breathe. Or furious tempests blow^ ? That rules the raging of the main, — The fury of the deep ? That calls a calm, — that smooths the sea. And makes the tempest sleep ? That God who bids the liditnino: flash. And awful thunder roar ? That God whose mighty works on earth, Are known from shore to shore ? F go EXTEMPORE. Where is the pow'rful God, who soon In judgment will appear? — Will shake the ground, awake the dead, And bid the world draw near ? Enthron'd in bliss my Maker sits On his majestic throne ; There may I dwell when Ufe is past, And sing his praise alone. EXTEMPORE. How vain are man's pursuits for fame, — They only make a worthless name — So lioht that air commands the cloud, — So pale that virtuous deeds can shroud The little lamp in brighter thought; — The tapering honours Fame has wrought, Must ebb and flow in that decay Where nobler deeds increase their sway, As time wears out, and brightly shine. When Nature's latest stroke shall chime The curfew of that awful day, When its death-gasp shall melt away, And the last groan the world shall shake. And thunderin All our desires to Zion bind, Nor dwells one longing wish behind : We court not all the bliss below, Nor fear the malice of a foe ; Not all the towering clouds of spite. Can soar to Love's exalted height, Nor speech from earth's bewitching pen. Refract the rays of virtue then : No worldly joys to us belong, — The melting chords of heavenly song. Drown all to us but bliss complete. Known only in angelic state. When I from life's short dream awake. May I of this delight partake. And may the visions that annoy. Be omens of eternal joy : Heaven be my home when hfe is past. And Christ my life when nature pants her last. "TURN THOU UNTO ME."— Jeremiah. Sinners, the gospel voice attend, 'Tis Jesus speaks to you; Your footsteps to his temple bend. Where mercy is in view. ELEGY. 65 Backsliding souls to him return, Lo ! he invites you there ; For all your past transgressions mourn, For future joys prepare. Sinners behold the "Lamb of God," Nor let his anger fall ; Upon the cross he shed his blood, And bore the sins of all. Return and listen to his word, For grace and pardon pray. For you have sinn'd against the Lord, From childhood to this day. ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF MY UNCLE.* " Tale tu eris quale sum." Upon thy dictates here I love to brood, ' Bathing the sod that wraps thine honour'd head. For 'tis example's precept : — thou hast stood On this^ame spot to converse vnth the dead. * Mr. J. Thompson, — born February 6th, 1736, and died Septem- ber 11th, 1827, age.d 91 years and 7 months. He remembered the defeat of the Pretender's army, by the Duke of Cumberland, at Culloden, April 16th, 1746; and the introduction of the New Style into Great Britain, 1752. 66 ELEGY. Once youth and health and happiness were thine ; — Youth slept in manhood, — health on age's breast ; But happiness (were such a portion mine!) Convey'd ihy footseps to this humble rest. Upon the bed of death I saw thee lay, — Thy mortal lyre the hand of Time unstrung. And, as I wip'd the chilly sweats away, The hst farewell dropt from thy quiv'ring tongue. Thy glory swell' d — my breast stern Envy smote; I saw the cares of life my steps attend. When Reason from her sacred mansion spoke — Choose his example, would' st thou choose thy end. The solemn toll burst heavy on my ear, — Slowly I followed to thy peaceful cell; — Dropt on thy cofiin lid a genuine tear, — And uttered from my heart the faint farewell. Though lost to sight, my memory holds thee fast, — Thy sweet advice is on my hearing now ; May I, hke thee, be honour'd at the last. And heav'n's unfading garland deck ray brow. Farewell, farewell, dear Uncle, till that day, When death's soft slumbers weigh mine eyelids down. Then may kind angels watch our sleeping clay. Till Jesus comes to claim it as his own. POETICAL BUDS PART II. POETICAL BUDS. SWEET SLEEP ENFOLD ME IN THINE ARMS. Sweet sleep, enfold me in thine arms Now Hope no more is mine ; Since lost to Love's seraphic charms I court no smiles but thine. On the soft pillow thou hast made, Permit this frame to lie, Then would these hours of sorrow tade, On happy days gone by. And then should Life's last cords be strung, And praise employ my breath ; Farewell's should vibrate on my tongue. And melt away in death. And when my weeping parents dear Throng'd round my dying bed, Then would I chide the cruel tear Their sleeping pity shed. 70 ALAS ! HOW HARD FROM THEE TO PART. When the last drops of life bedew This cold, this painful breast, Then shall the long, last, sweet adieu Bespeak a peaceful rest. ALAS! HOW HARD FROM THEE TO PART. Alas ! how hard from thee to part — Like life-drops falling from the heart ; E'en as a soul about to fly- To boundless immortality, Striving with destiny to cast A view upon the blissful past ; Mournins that she must leave behind The choicest objects of the mind ; And begs of heav'n a longer stay In the dull frame of sordid clay. To bask in the declining rays Of Pleasure's wild romantic days. E'en thus I linger, — thus I crave Some future hour thy charms to leave, — Thus I desire a longer stay, But Fate, unfeeling, calls away. THOUGH FAIR THE PROMISE. 71 Tears are in vain, — I must begone, — My feelings language cannot tell : — With trembling tongue I'll bid a long, And, oh ! perhaps, a last farewell ! THOUGH FAIR THE PROMISE. Though fair the promise liolden out may be. Yet Time destroys our hopes, and Destiny, Stern empress, casts around an awful gloom. And shrouds our expectations in the tomb. Then when the tomb has made our hopes its prey, In that same cavern too we fain would lay — • LuU'd in Death's cradle to a peaceful sleep, Through which no dreams nor frightful visions creep. 'Tis there deluded mortals long to rest With the cold hopes that budded in their breast, When all the efforts art devis'd are vain, To shake their heavy slumbers off again. Our boasting mingles with the welcome gale. That gently blows awhile from fortune's vale ; But on a sudden furious tempests rise, Which blast our haughty hopes, and drown our cries. 72 THE HERMITAGE. THE HERMITAGE. Is there a lovelier place Where studious bards may dwell, To find from care a sweet release, Than this delightful cell ? No strife nor discord here intrude On the enchanting solitude. The sweet zephyric breeze Pours forth a tuneful lav, And warbles through surrounding trees, The requiem of the day : Here, too, the north wind's sullen surge Murmurs the year's sepulchral dirge. But though the tempests rage, As they are passing by. Yet round this lovely hermitage, They scatter melody : And thunders, as they roll along, Bear music in their awful song. When stars bestud the sky, Here fall their feeble beams, While round the rays of Luna fly With sweet and silvery streams, Till the bright lamp of day arise In glory from the eastern skies. AND AM I DOOMED. . 73 Now the delightful scene Calls the blithe lark on high, Again to chant her morning hymn, And hail the cloudless sky, — The streamlets as they flow along. Join in the chorus of the song. What pleasures meet my sight, Throughout the fleeting day ; How sweet to watch the farewell light Of evening's dying ray, When flowrets shed their sweet perfume, Before they close upon the gloom. Here the contented bard Might pass his hours away. Where nothing could his muse retard, Nor break his plaintive lay : Here, unmolested, might he dwell. And here pronounce the last farewell. AND AM I DOOMED. And am I doom'd this life to bear. Through years of sorrow, grief, and pain? And must I mourn in sad despair. For hopes that will not come again ? G 74 SONG. My sufferings rend my heart in twain, — Sorrow I draw with every breath; I ask no pleasure, shun no pain ; Desire not Hfe, nor seek for death. For though my voice the air divide, — My sighs the western breezes swell ; My tears increase the ocean's tide, Still 'twould be unavailable. Life once was sweet in happier days. But since I've sought for death in vain, And tried without success the ways Of art, to shun the tyrant Pain. Alas ! mine efforts are too weak — For sorrow in its paths must run ; I cannot turn the course of fate. Nor should my will, but heaven's be done. SONG. Love, wert thou a melodious note, And I the echo near thy side. Then on the air we both would float. With sweet accordance till we died. TO A CHILD ON ITS BIRTH DAY. 75 Oh ! that thou wert a fragrant rose, Then in my bosom thou should'st bloom ; There true affection for thee glows, And longs to court thy sweet perfume. Or, that thou wert a rippling stream. Where all the choicest flowers abide, Then thou should'st be my constant theme. And I would travel by thy side. The flow'rs may court the west wind's breath But soon their fragrance will be gone : Love, — may our hearts in life and death. Bound by affection, both be one. TO A CHILD ON ITS BIRTH DAY. "When thee, my sweet darling, I 'm fondly caressing, I think on the sorrows and joys thou must see; Accept, lovely child, my affectionate blessing, — The friendly advice that I offer to thee. When the rich drops of heaven thy paths are bedewing. Let gentleness guide thee through Life's rugged way ; When the Fates round thy circle their blessings are strewing. Oh ! ne'er from the dictates of chastity stray. 76 ALAS ! WHERE IS EACH GAY DELIGHT. When the smiles of prosperity round thee are hovering, Let modesty check the gay flush of success ; When the clouds of adversity make thee a covering, May thy spirits not droop in the depths of distress ! When the days of maturity round thee are shining Forget not my ardent affection for thee ; When the swift passing season of life is declining, Cast a glance through its medium, and infancy see. Yea, when old age round thee its mantle is throwing. Embrace christian patience, her dictates are just ; Attend, lovely child, to the way I am showing, And walk in it when I am laid in the dustt Thy play and thy prattling have won my affection, — A smile passes by when thy actions I see ; When thou art no longer beneath my protection. Then think, my sweet darling, then think upon me. ALAS! WHERE IS EACH GAY DELIGHT. Alas ! where is each gay delight That once danc'd in my cheated sight ? Are all those golden visions dead, — ■ And is the base deceiver fled ? WHEN LOVE BEGINS TO FLOW. 7? Like passing murmurs of the wind They died, but left a sting behind ; What would I give to feel once more The peace of mind I felt before. Ah, treach'rous villain ! where art thou ? Gaze on thy hopeless victim now ; Mark my despair, and from my soul Hear groans with supplications roll ! The deadly pale upon my cheek. And sunken eyes, my sorrows speak ; My pangs have made a fieiy dart, And soon will thrust it in thine heart ! Then wilt thou hear, but, ah ! too late, The solemn tale I now repeat ; I am thy victim, but to all Thy deeds, a victim thou must fall. WHEN LOVE BEGINS TO FLOW. When love begins to flow From heart to heart again , Then the sweet buds of pleasure grow, And never grow till then : Love is the object. Love must find, Ere bliss can flourish on the mind. 78 WHEN LOVE BEGINS TO FLOW. Hope may attempt to cheer Its tendrils for awhile. Nor let the cold blasts of despair, The opening buds beguile ; But soon she dies upon the bloom, — Both wither in one dreary tomb. A cruel mountain wave Rejoicing passes o'er, And all around their lowly grave. Unfeeling tempests roar : Nothing again can call them thence, But Love's enchanting eloquence. There Pity fain would stand, A constant watch to keep. And Love, but not the love that can Break through their heavy sleep. In softest accents, bids them leave Their silent mansion — dreary grave. The love that vainly sought Its object love to gain. Now shudders at the awful thought. And fills the heart with pain : Keen is the ansfuish Love must bear, Beneath the influence of despair. WHEN LOVE BEGINS TO FLOW. 79 It burns within the breast, And still the pangs increase. Nor can it find a shade of rest. But in the humble place Where love nor hatred can intrude. Upon the silent solitude. The doubting lover longs To reach that blest abode, That Justice may avenge his wrongs. And Mercy take the load, Which Fate has sentenc'd him to bear Through the sad stage of grief and care. He sees no glimpse of bliss. Nor friend to give relief; His last surviving hope is this — "Death soon will end my grief;" But even here new doubts arise. And on their waves the prospect dies. At length befriending Death Directs him to its cell ; He then bestows his latest breath Upon the sweet fareuiell: Now are his num'rous sufferings o'er. And he is gone to be no more. 80 VICTORY OF NAVARIN. VICTORY OF NAVARIN.* The banners of oppression lie Beneath the crimson wave ; And the loud shouts of victory Are pealing o'er their grave. Let sympathetic Britons sing Their love for liberty, And land and ocean loudly ring With shouts of victory ! victory ! victory ! And land and ocean loudly ring With shouts of victory ! Sons of Britannia — still display The courage you possess ; Rob bondage of its haughty sway. And tyrants that oppress, Honour will crown you in your death, And blood-bought Liberty Will warble on your dying breath. Through peals of victory ! &c. Will warble, &c. Let each man wield his glitt'ring blade Y ox freedom, not for fame ; * The Battle of Navarino was fought November, 1827. THE lover's grave. . 81 His valour then will never fade Upon his honour'd name. And when their brave exploits we sing, May this our chorus be — " Lons live creat George our noble king" — With shouts of victory ! &c. Long live, &c. THE LOVER'S GRAVE. Here, ray misfortunes I bewail, And here I tell my plaintive tale ; — On this dear spot I love to weep, When all in midnight's silence sleep, Or haste the precious moments by, Ordain'd for rest, in revelry. Ah, painful thought ! such sports were mine. But every joy I now resign ; — This is the best delight I crave — To mourn upon a Lover'' s Grave. Here, when the cold blast whistles by, And mocks the tear, and drowns the sigh ; When roaring tempests pass along. To check my melancholy song, And when the moon, to shun me, shrouds Her lustre in the rolling clouds. 82 THE lover's grave. While stars withdraw each trembling beam, To rob me of the favourite scene ; — Or, when the cold, the cruel snow From frozen climes in anger flow, — Yes, for this spot my couch I leave. To mourn upon a Lover's Grave. Though moon and stars withdraw their light. And cold and cheerless be the night; Tho' cruel tempests murmur round. And taintless snow shall hide the ground ; Tho' blackest pillars veil the sky. And threatening lightnings round me fly ; Tho' thunders roll on trackless air. To fill my spirits with despair — Still this delightful place I '11 keep, — Still on this favourite turf I '11 weep, — Yes, here in agony, I '11 heave A sigh upon a Lover's Grave. Now with a longing wish I gaze On visions of departed days ; The dimples then of childhood grac'd My cheeks, and joy my footsteps trac'd To riper age ; then Love inspir'd The breast, and every passion fir'd : Still round me did contentment shine. And solid happiness was mine : By rippling streams and fragrant bowers THE LOVER S GRAVE. 83 We pass'd away the happy hours, And plighted vows with constant breath That nothing should impair but death ; By night the dreams of promise kept The tide of pleasure while we slept, Until the fair, the airy scene Died on the morninff's orient beam. I smil'd as I perus'd my fate, Nor would I change for royal state, ^^'hen from the present I could see A cloudless, bright fiUurity ; — • And Health, to make our bliss complete. Had fix'd upon our humble seat : But, oh ! how soon these pleasures died. The lovely partner of my side Is snatch'd by cruel death away. To slumber with her native clay ! Distressing thought! thy charms are laid In the cold mansions of the dead ! And more distressing still, to mourn For charms that never will return. On these fair visions of the past A sigh, a tear, a wish I cast. But, with my strongest wishes, crave To slumb-^r by a Lover's Grave. From the dark vale of care I view With pleasure, and with envy too. The transient joys I then possest. 84 THE lover's grave. Now burning in my painful breast; — Can I forget those blissful days, Dear themes of melancholy lays, When the blest union — Love and Hope — Gave new delights unbiassed scope ? Say — shall the thought my memory leave, When first thy smiles a welcome gave ? Say — shall thy virtues be forgot, And moulder in this dreary spot ? Say — shall the long, the last adieu Perish, on recollection, too ? No : — deeply in my throbbing heart They live till death, no more to part ; And here, while I my being have, I '11 mourn upon a Lover's Grave. With tears will I bewail my fate. As the lone lark mourns for his mate ; — With solemn tone a requiem sing, Amidst the cold blast's murmuring ; Soft Pity beams a silvery ray. To chase my raging fears away ; But every offer I refuse. And tears, for my companions, choose ; How can I from the mansion part. Which now contains my aching heart? How can a constant lover leave A constant Lover's humble Grave. HOPELESSNESS. 85 Sleep on, fair maid, and may 1 soon Lie with thee in the silent tomb ! Life is a load I cannot bear, — Oh ! would the happy day appear For heaven to grant the wish I crave- To slumber by a Lover s Grave. HOPELESSNESS. How sharp the scene ! — Oh, cruel rival ! thou Enjoy'st the heavenly charms which once were mine, But must be mine no more : — thine heart has gain'd The heart I vainly fancied I possess'd. Oh ! that thine envied portion were but mine ; But kind humanity forbids the wish That thou should'st mine endure, for then thy days Would slowly drag along the weight of woe, With which my days are harass'd, and thy nights Would bring that gloomy veil of hopelessness. With which my nights are pregnant ; all thine hours, Thy minutes, yea, thy moments would present Fresh scenes of sorrow to thy wondering view : Thy thoughts would never fall upon a ray Of cheering warmth, but deeply would be set In rocks of soul-distressing agony : No joy would sparkle in thy wandering eyes, — But awful prospects would control thy vision : H 86 HOPELESSNESS. No hue of bashfulness would dye thy cheeks, — But there ^ death-Hke countenance would sit Immoveable : — no smiles thy features grace — But care would mark its furrows on thy brow : No sprightly lays would breathe one pleasing charm, - But plaintive strains thy weeping harp inspire ; And on the awful point of life and death Thy trembling soul would stand prepar'd to fly, Yet wish to stay, and view the cold remains Of faded pleasures : — relics of the past Enchantment would attract her to the scene ; But quiv'ring on the dreary spot, a view Of black futurity would raise her wings, And bid her take her flight : then might she look Towards the grave, and see a train of years Roll on her vision ; and despair stretch'd out From first to last. Ev'n in the silent grave Thou might'st behold a lonely habitation. For stern Despair holds out the hottest strife In the calm hour of peace ; and when the day Of immortality should dawn upon Thy soul, tho' painful in her present state. Yet she would linger, and another look Upon her choicest, dearest treasure cast. Judge of my miseries, and pity me. If thou hast pity, for I cannot wish My miseries to be thine ; and drop a tear On my misfortunes, if the briny fount Of feeling will permit a tear to fall ! CAN I FORGET THE HOURS OF BLISS ? 87 Inconstant maid ! upon thy victim think ! — To heav'n he makes an offering for thee : Say — canst thou not bestow at least a smile To him on whom thou oftentimes hast smil'd, — To him who sheds unnumber'd tears for thee ? If not a smile, one genuine tear bestow, That he may see, though all thy love is gone, Thou hast compassion on him ; and if this Thou wilt refuse, then turn aside thine eyes, And let him breathe his sorrows to himself; ^ Thy memory stifle — on him think no more, And close thine ears to shun his dying groan. Turn from his grave, nor there a visit pay, — Think on thyself, not him, and go thy way, There let him slumber in a lonely spot, Cover'd with native dust, and be forgot, — While Nature's tears his grassy breast shall bathe, And wild flow'rs blossom on his humble grave. Still — still for this his dying words shall be Set to express the love he bears to thee. Farewell. CAN I FORGET THE HOURS OF BLISS. Can I forget the hours of bliss That I have spent with thee ? Canst thou forget the promises Thou hast receiv'd of me ? 8S CAN I FORGET THE HOURS OF BLISS. Can I forget the summer's eve, When first I saw thy face ? And canst thou, lovely maid, forget The first, the fond embrace ? Can I forget the heav'nly smiles That on thy cheeks have play'd ? Canst thou forget with fairest flowers The garland once I made ? Can I forget the cruel hour, When love inspir'd my breast ? Canst thou forget when thy fair hand With mine was gently prest ? Can I forget the pleasing dreams That round my slumbers twin'd ? Canst thou forget that thou hast read ' The language of thy mind ? Can I forget the many vows That we together made ? Canst thou foract that mine were firm. And thine alone decay'd ? Can I forget the hour from which I saw thy love decline ? Canst thou forget, thou never yet Hast seen a change in mine > SONG. 89 Can I forget the charms that blest. Will never bless again ? Canst thou forget thy cruel frowns. Have rent mine heart in twain ? Can ever I forget thee ? — No, — On memory thou shalt dwell : Here, in mine heart, thy name is set- Farewell, dear maid, farewell ! SONG. Could I possess the heart again That love has planted in thy breast, My bosom would be peaceful then. And all my passions lie at rest. I 've tried to have it, but in vain : Love's tendrils I can ne'er untwine ; Oh ! let me have it back again. Or, in return, bestow me thine. I have a heart which cannot rest. But dare not say that heart is mine ; A heart is throbbing in my breast, A-nd that same heart throbs too in thine. 90 AND CAN IT BE TRUE. Oh ! must it keep, for ever keep In motion with thine heart of steel : Oh ! must I in thy presence weep, And thou no strange emotion feel ? Return mine heart again to me, Then I 'II forbear to rail at Fate, — Or, give me thine, — then shall I be, A mortal in seraphic state. AND CAN IT BE TRUE. And can it be true that I 've lost thine heart. Are thy affections gone ? And do the sweet smiles thou didst impart No more to me belong .'' Are they preserv'd for another, my love ? Oh ! why so fickle be. And why let the fond affections rove, Which once were bestow'd on me ? They deeply are rooted in my heart, — There let them ever stay ; Oh ! how can I live to endure the smart Of having them torn away ! SONG. 91 And if they are remov'd, my love, They raay not again take root ; Though they flourish at first, they never will prove. Nor bear such golden fruit. Then let the faint echos of mournful song, Breathe pity in thine heart, And thy heavenly smiles to me belong. New pleasures to impart. Could'st thou feel the pain thou hast caus'd, my love,; More constant thou would'st be, — Then would the pale lamp of Compassion move To shed its soft beams on me. SONG. When heart and heart are bound together, By Love's strong tendrils fair and green, How cruel 'tis such hearts to sever. And raise malicious plots between. From heart to heart the buds are blooming. And fairest blossoms circle round, With constant fragrance sweet perfuming, And costly hues that still abound. 92 SONG. From heart to heart a tide is flowing, — Both share ahke in pain and bhss ; There the young buds of love are growing, And nurtur'd by Affection's kiss. When heart and heart are separated, — Promis'd by Hope, Love's richest boon. Such lovers, how untimely fated. And sorrow seals their earthly doom. SONG. Fair maid ! let not a heedless ear Disdain a suppliant's prayer ; Thou hast the absolute command Of torrents of despair. Why bid their waves then roll on me ? Perhaps the tears I shed Are upwards borne on viewless wings, To drop upon thy head. It may be so, the cruel frowns Which thou hast thrown on me. Will gather to a huge black cloud. And spread its shades on thee. DELUSIVE HOPE. 93 Then, nor till then, canst thou conceive The burning pain of love : Now let thine heart more tender be, And thy compassion move. DELUSIVE HOPE. The hope my fancy frames beguiles, And pain for pleasure I mistake ; She counterfeits deceiving smiles, And I endure the pangs they make ; For smiles, as frowns, are murderous things. They may afford a short delight ; But when they fly on dove-like wings, Fury pursues them in their flight. They scarcely check my mournful song. And separate the tides of woe. But fury sweeps its course along. And bids the waves more rapid flow. So the bright sun in winter's day, When clouds conspire to intervene, Just sheds his rays and then away Departs with every genial beam. 94 SONG. But more than this I mourn the loss, — Grief after drowns the joys before ; The smiles Hope paints, my prospects toss Upon a feeble, faultering shore. SONG. I 'll live or die for thee, — Such is decreed by Fate ; Then cast a tender look on me. Before it be too late. This heart of mine is tost About with raging sighs, And when I think thy love is lost, Then every pleasure dies. With streams of purest tears. My numerous sorrows roll, While the black clouds of thund'ring fears. Hang heavy round my soul. But thy sweet voice can make Those rolling fears depart ; That voice refus'd, this painful state Will break mine aching heart. SONG. 95 SONG. Is there flowing in thine heart, A spring of love sincere ? Thence the stream to mine impart, And wash away my fear. I have fears, and many fears That have been bath'd in gall ; And as they provoke my tears. They smile to see them fall. Fears, lest this poor heart of mine. Its dearest object lose : Fears, lest that weak heart of thine, Another lover choose. Fears, lest thy bewitching smiles Are not preserv'd for me : Fears, lest every hope beguiles, And much resembles thee.' These oppress, but I have more, — Then speak, these fears to chide ; I have fears beyond the power Of lang-uasje to describe. 96 AH ! could' ST THOU THINK. But tho' they so numerous be, I find a short release ; All these cruel tyrants flee Before thy smiling face, When the smiles are cast on me ; — But if another way, Fears from their black coverts flee, And rule with wider sway. AH! COULD' ST THOU THINK. Ah ! could' St thou think what pangs I feel For thee ! did'st thou but know Mine acute grief, thine heart of steel Would soon dissolve, like snow, Before the princely orb of day, And all thy frowns would melt away. They would that cruelty subdue, Which caus'd this raging smart. Nor would thy frowns again sweep through The passage of my heart ; No : — the kind off'spring of thy love, Would all my suff'erings remove. WHEN LOVE MEETS WITH LOVE. 97 Are ihose angeiic smiles I see, That curl their crystal beams Upon thy rosy cheeks, for me ? How sweet their influence seems, When Hope, with melody sublime, Tells me those healing beams are mine. Yes, they are sweet — they please mine eyes, And boundless joys impart, But I desire a nobler prize — Mine object is thy heart: Smiles, frowns, and words will be forgot, When constant hearts at Time may mock. 0, were thy roving heart like mine, — My grief would take its flight ; Or, if my constant heart, like thine. Dwelt only with my sight : But Love will never thence depart, — It cannot die but with the heart. WHEN LOVE MEETS WITH LOVE. O, LISTEN, fair maid, to me. And attend to ray sorrowful tale ; I 98 THERE IS A LOVE. Let the accents of anguish draw pity from thee, And the deep tones of language prevail : When love meets vvith love with a tender embrace. Bliss glows in the bosom, and joy on the face. But, ah ! no such pleasures are mine, — Keen sorrow has wounded mine heart ; To thee I petition, the power is thine, The sweets of delight to impart : Let love meet with love vvith a tender embrace, And those clouds be dispell'd with the beams of thy face. No more give a frown for a smile, But prove that thy love is sincere, Then the thoughts of mine heart will no longer beguile. Nor inconstancy urge the sad tear : When love meets vvith love vvith a tender embrace, 1 shall find from my sorrows a happy release. THERE IS A LOVE. There is a love that wounds the heart, And leaves it then to bleed ; That plunges here and there its dart, And smiles to see the deed. THERE IS A LOVE. 99 There is a love no silvery speech. Nor golden toys can move ; Nor threats nor promises can reach. Nor force incline to rove. And oft such pure love dwells upon A false deceiving heart ; Though cruelty exclaim — "begone," It cannot thence depart. And there's a love, a blissful love, That meets with love again, — Faint emblem of the bliss above. Where love and virtue reign. If such a love as this were mine, BHss would be then begun. Would constancy's fair tendrils twine Thy heart and mine in one. But, ah ! my love is fix'd upon A false deceiving heart ; And though the cold gales pass along, It cannot thence depart ! And will not thy compassion move To hear when I complain ; How hard with constant heart to love, And not be lov'd again ! 100 WHEN THE CHILLING WIND WHISTLES. WHEN THE CHILLING WIND WHISTLES. When the chilling wind whistles, and cheerless snow falls,. I think on the needy and poor, But I have a bed where I can lay my head. And remain from cold weather secure. I peep through my window to gaze on the scene, And hear the cold breezes that blow ; The trees are all stripp'd, and the fields that were green. Are now covor'd over with snow. The aspect how gloomy, and dreary the night, — How happy I always should be ; There are those who must travel until 'tis day-light, — May such hardships ne'er come upon me. THE POET'S SONG. Is there a sweet release From mortal grief and care ? Could I but find that happy place. Unknown to sad despair ! Oh ! say, where is the home I crave — That peaceful mansion is the Grave / THE POET'S SONG, 101 And must I shed my rays And none their brightness see ? And must I end my weary days In shades of misery ? Oh, cruel Fate ! this is my best, My sweetest thought — The Grave's a rest. Here I am doom'd to heave The burden of despair ; Could I but find a peaceful grave To end my sorrows there, No plaintive lay nor pleasing strain Should start my dreamless sleep again. But all my hopes depart, I still must live to weep; (Reflection drowns mine aching heart In floods of sorrow deep,) Heav'n knows the years I have to see Before the grave expands for me. And must the life I live Be one continual scene Of sorrow ? Am I doom'd to grieve Without compassion's gleam To quell my doubts, to soothe my fears. And calm my path through rugged years ? 102 THE poet's song. Must I a victim fall To poverty severe ? Must I aloud to Pity call. And she refuse to hear ? Ah ! must I tune my mournful strain, And tune the solemn dirge in vain ? Unerring Fate, by thee My sufferings are decreed ; Fain would I know when I shall be, From this dire bondage freed : When shall I, by the deep-ton'd bell. Be summon'd to my peaceful cell ? My prospects now are fled Amongst the shades of night. And all the pleasing visions dead. That flutter'd in my sight : Present and future seem to be. One huge black cloud of misery. And through life's atmosphere, I cast a tearful eye ; The scenes are still to memory dear. Of happy days gone by : I muse upon the misspent hours, That blighted boyhood's fairest flowers. THE poet's song. 103 They cast a feeble beam On misery's raging tides, And rippling join with sorrow's stream. To dash against its sides ; Thus to and fro my bark is tost. Till in the tide of thought I 'm lost. And there new troubles rise, — The pleasures I have sought, Like visions, melt before mine eyes, And drown the sweets of thought, While the deep surveys of the past. Their shadows on the present cast. My trembling spirit faints Beneath her weight of woe ; — What is the cause of these complaints ? I then alone should know. Could I unfold the scroll of fate. And there peruse ray future state. Clouds of approaching years Are spread before mine eyes ; My thoughts are soften'd with my tears, My sorrows with my sighs ; Waves of distress around me roll, And from the present spring the whole. 104 THE POET'S SONG. The magic voice of Fame Bursts on my listening ear, But soon I lose the pleasing dream. And num'rous foes appear With fury arm'd, that I may be The victim of their cruelty. In vain, from these alarms A shelter I have sought ; The force of grief a barrier forms, And breaks the stream of thought; Nor can I find a sweet release, — Sorrow attends at every place. Through the long tedious day I'm doom'd to sit and weep, And nightly visions drive away The balmy sweets of sleep, — Thus waking, sleeping, day or night. No lasting pleasures meet my sight. Fain would I yield my breath To close this mortal strife ; I see no punishment in death. Nor happiness in life ; — No : — 'tis a load I cannot bear, — The grave's my rest — 0, were I there ! THE poet's song. 105 On yonder sacred spot, I seek a humble bed ; O ! that it were ray happy lot. To rest this weary head. Where faithful lovers, 'ere they died, Desir'd to slumber side by side. What gloomy nights and days. Of deep despair are mine. Why, ling' ring grave, why break these rays That point to future time ? Ah ! let them pierce their way through thee. And melt in wide eternity. I Why, at my sufferings mock ? My grief in pity steep : — 0, fleeting Time, this cradle rock. And lull my frame to sleep ! Nor kt it be my painful lot. To seek for death, but find it not. 0, Grave ! must I implore Relief in vain from thee ? O, were this mortal conflict o'er ! How happy should I be To lisp the long — the last farewell^ And slumber in death's narrow cell ! 106 HENRY. — O, CRUEL RIVAL. HENRY. When the moon through my window darts her rays, I sit oppressed with sorrow ; 1 think upon my former days, But, am thoughtless of the morrow. Thy pale beams, O, moon ! and sweet Philomel's song, Bring past joys afresh to my mem'ry ; May my prayers be heard, and may I before long. Be laid in the dust with my Henry. 0, CRUEL RIVAL.* O, CRUEL rival, thou To rob me of my pride ! My grief swells high when I behold My dearest at thy side : Fair maid, I 'd rather see thee lay. Distressing thought, to death a prey. * Written, with " Hopelessness," by particular request. O, CRUEL RIVAL. 107 Then could I o'er thee bend. And on thee drop a tear ; To me the awful thoughts of death Would not be more severe ; Then could I kiss thy clay-cold lips, — More sweet than nectar Venus sips. There would I love to weep, — And twine a cypress wreathe ; There, with the springs of sorrow deep, Thy golden tresses bathe. Until I heard the heavy bell, — Then follow to thy silent cell. And there I 'd sit and mourn. When other mourners sleep ; There should pure drops from sorrow's cloud My song of mourning steep ; Yes, there a pensive garland weave, And with my tears bedew thy grave. But ev'n were this thy fate, How wretched should I be. Still I might think thou wert design'd. If death had spar'd, for me : But now as I upon thee gaze. My passion kindles to a blaze. 108 THE VISION. THE VISION. The flaming lamp of day, with aspect drear, 'Midst threatening clouds peep'd o'er the western hills, A furious rustling mingled with the air, And discord murmur'd through the limpid rills. And now a silence reign'd — and then the gale Howl'd through the ancient abbey's shatter'd dome, The ghastly lightning skipp'd across the vale. And thunder roll'd upon the awful gloom. The hosts of night withdrew their twinkling beams. And their pale queen remov'd her silver throne ; Sad Philomel forgot her fairy themes. But not the owl his melancholy moan. The stately trees their fragrant blossoms shed By the rude shaking of the boisterous air. And on the ground the tender flow' rets laid Their little harmless heads to wither there. In this dread hour my fancy took her flight To far abodes where I may never be, And fled through all the fury of the night, A scene of painful pleasantness to see. WERE I ASSURED. 109 Fast by the margin of a rugged steep, A female stood, in wild, disorder'd state, Amidst the wailings of the night, to weep For her fond lover's hapless, cruel fate ! On wings of purest love he sped his way. From bright abodes, to cheer the weeping fair ; " Farewell, awhile — forbear to weep, I pray," He faintly said, and vanish'd in the air. — " And will kind heaven this only wish deny ? — O ! could my spirit flutter at his side ! My love is gone," she cried, "I too, must die!" — A tear-drop fell — she clos'd her eyes — and died ! WERE I ASSURED. Were I assur'd thy heart was mine, And I could on thy promise bear, How gladly should I hear thee say. The sparks of love were glowing there. But, ah ! fair maiden, now I stand Where rays of hope and clouds of fear Conquer by turns, and there I nurse The smile, or drop the genuine tear. K / I 110 THE EVENING RAMBLE. Could I but check the thoughts of love, Ah ! then how happy should I be ; Or, didst thou in my feelings share, I might expect a smile from thee. Love — art thou never to obtain The object of my warm desire ? Then take thy seat, my fluttering breast With me to suffer and expire. COMPOSED IN THE AUTHOR'S EVENING RAMBLE. Lov^E whispers in the listless ear. With many a heartfelt sigh. And sorrow drops the pearly tear Before the heedless eye. Beauty enchants, but Pity slee ps Within the frigid breast ; — Hope feebly smiles, while Sorrow weeps, And Love remains distrest. And in that breast lies Love controU'd By overruling Pride ; When Pity sleeps, and Love is cold, All favours are denied. WINTER PIECE. Ill Love, Hope, and Sorrow fly away On pinions of despair, To seek a lone spot, that they may Expire together there. The wilds they pass'd, soft Pity treads, Hope's feeble soul to cheer ; But, disappointed, on them sheds The sympathetic tear. And there they lie, by all forgot, — No stone their memory bears ; Pity alone marks out the spot With unremitting tears. WINTER PIECE : WRITTEN FROM AN APPROPRIATE SCENE. The night was dark and dreary, the bitter blast did blow, While all around descended the cold and drifting snow, When a poor girl forlorn, came tripping o'er the plain, Hoping to be received in her native cot again. She cried " My cruel parents have made me leave my home, Forsaken and unpitied, in sorrow I must roam ; Farewell, farewell, dear father, brother and sisters too. To all the world's vain glories I soon shall bid adieu. 112 SONG. ? Oh, mother ! cruel mother ! why did you serve me so ? Like a maniac I must wander, not knowincr where to go : 'Twas for the constant love I bore to him who once lov'd me. But now, alas ! my love on earth I ne'er again shall see. The bitter blast doth blow, and the frozen branches shake, — I will lay me down to sleep, and, oh, may I never wake ; Kind Death, come, relieve me and ease me of my grief. Thou art the only friend I have that can bestow relief." Tottering she fell upon the ground, oppression made her weak, The briny tears were frozen while stealinoc down her cheek ; " Farewell, vain world, — dear friends, farewell, — oh ! cruel, luckless day, — " Then stretch'd upon the frozen snow her lifeless body lay ! December, 1826. SONG. Pride of my pride, for such thou art, Since I have none beside ; Not even Death's unerring dart, The union could divide, — Its spirit would be gone, and then How could that pride be pride again ? SONG. 113 Life of my life ! for such art thou, The chief support of mine : Freely, and gladly would it bow To be a slave to thine, — For when the life of life was o'er This life would then be life no more. Love of my love, for such thou art. And Love on Love must feed ? If the fond nymphs were doom'd to part 'Twere cruelty indeed; — Then would its parent, Hope, retire, And Love on Love's cold breast expire. Soul of my soul, below, above, And pride of all my pride. Life of my life, and love of love. Yea, all I have beside : But should the soul escape, to me This soul no more a soul would be. One life, one look, one heart, one tongue, One sorrow, one desire For both must act, — they both are one, And thus shall they expire — One sigh, one struggle, one farewell. One stroke, one grave, one passing bell ! 114 THE GHOST OF THE GROVE. THE GHOST OF THE GROVE. Near yon ancient-built church, which the high trees sur- round, Where the footsteps of pheasants and hares print the ground. As the swain bent his way there one night on the snow, When the northern bleak-blast with its fury did blow ; Where nothing was heard but the winds that did howl, And the deep hollow moan of the sorrowful owl : Around him he gaz'd, and with terror did move, Lest the ghosts on a sudden should spring from the grove. Which surrounded the churchyard where hundreds are laid ; And he dreaded to pass by the field of ihe dead In that gloomy hour, when the mantle of night Hides the pleasures of day from the traveller's sight ; When hobgoblins play in the unwelcome gloom, And hosts of pale spirits break forth from the tomb ! A hollow breeze murmur'd, in passing this place, , And the cold drops of sweat trickled down his pale face ; Fear hung on his feet that he should not move fast, And at each step he fear'd he should step out his last. The clock had just mention'd the hour of the night, — No moon could be seen, and the stars hid their light ; THE GHOST OF THE GROVE. 115 The restless waves loudly did dash on the shore, And the winds through Feronid's poplars did roar. Light footsteps he fancied he heard drawing near From the thicket hard by, which redoubled his fear ! — In a path by this thicket the youth had to go, Through whose hollows the murmuring breezes did blow, When, to his bitter grief, by the side of the wood, A tall, headless spirit in white raiment stood !* Now the poor frighten' d fellow away quickly fled, — Surpris'd with his fancy, with fear almost dead I His velocity nearly encircled the groves. And he thought all the ghosts were pursuing in droves. Now the town was alarm'd, and the people arose,— (The fright of the swain let the reader suppose,) The people together compos'd a good host. And with bibles and prayer-books went to the ghost: The men most religious in front did appear, And liars and drunkards march'd on in the rear ; To the wood, where the ghost had been seen, thev did o-o. And desir'd, at a distance, its business to know ; They read it good prayers, and wish'd it to tell If it could be a spirit from heaven or hell. But as nothing would answer, they went up to see. And found it was nought but the "stump of a tree !" (The woodmen had been working on it that day. And taken the limbs from the body away.) * Covered with snow. 116 WRITTEN ON A WINTER'S EVENING. Thus a nocturnal uproar for nothing was made, — Their prayers in vain to the ghost they had read ; They went to their homes and appear'd melancholy ; And all that were there almost wept for their folly,* And swore, if hobgoblins were seen there in hosts, They would ne'er leave their couches to pray to such ghosts: {See what terrible things fearful Fancy can see, — She knows not a ghost from the " stump of a tree !") I have written this story, the fearful to cheer, — They should banish such fanciful sights that appear ; Let them rouse up their spirits and push through the gloom, Drive away fearful thoughts and give fresh ones their room; If of spirits undaunted, we ever can boast, We shall ne'er have the terror of seeing a ghost. WRITTEN ON A WINTER'S EVENING. W^HEN darkness creeps upon a busy world. And silence calms the tumult of the day, Then is the visionary page unfurled, And bold imagination takes her way. Through paths of gloominess, to secret's stores, And the rich treasures with delight explores. ♦ Vide Preface, which will plead an excuse for the too many repeti- tions of certain words in this piece. THE SHIPWRECK. 117 She hears the lover in the shady grove Chanting, with bhthsome heart, Fate's highest praise ; And the fond swain that sorrows for his love. And loads night's silence with his plaintive lays, — Mourning for joys escap'd upon the wing Of fleeting Time, but left their deadly sting. When on her piercing gaze the vision fails. To Death's abodes she then directs her sight. And meets pale spirits, in cathedral aisles, Pacing conspicuous through the shades of night ; Yea, their light footsteps to their mansions trace. To iearn the secrets of thai avvt'ul place ! Then wings her way to Time's remotest bound. And the deep vision fills her wond'ring eyes ; She sees a vast eternity surround The ocean of mortality — and dies — For, oh ! what thoughts, what language, though sublime, Can teach the mysteries of a power divine. THE SHIPWRECK. Poor Mary stood upon the beach one day, And watch'd the ship which bore her love away Far from his much-lov'd home and native land, Subservient to a tyrant's stern command. lis THE SHIPWRECK. No longer could she see the distant ship, Still there she stood, the place she would not quit; Night fast approach'd, she heard the tempest roar. And saw the waves dash high against the shore. " He's gone !" she cried, " and I am left behind — Fortune to me has always been unkind ; My grief how great, my happy days are o'er, And he is destin'd to return no more!" With trembling steps she homeward bent her way. And left the beach until th' approach of day ; But could not rest, with sorrow overflown. And sleep forbore to "weigh her eyelids down." Still with more fury did the tempest blow, When Mary to the beach again did go ; Wave after wave dash'd high against the shore. Which made her grief still greater than before. With tearful eyes, she saw the ship again. Tost to and fro, upon the raging main ; The roaring billows, the relentless waves Bade the whole crew prepare for watery graves. The sea ran mountains high, their art was vain, She never was to see her love again ; The tempest mock'd them, 'twas too late to cry To rhan for aid, no friendly aid was nigh ! THE SHIPWRECK. 119 At last, the vessel dash'd asjainst a rock ! — How hard their fate ! how fatal prov'd the shock ! Poor Mary gaz'd — slie heard the tempest roar, And saw the strugglers sink to rise no more. She cried " My former prospects now are fled. And my dear WilUam's number'd with the dead ; I feel with joy my Hfe is ebbing fast, — Oh ! that this day, on earth might be my last ; My blood is cold, my fluttering heart beats high, 'Tis for the sake of him I love I die ; He sleeps in peace, but I behind am left. And of the darling of mine heart bereft ! Ye cruel winds! you robb'd me of my joy, — 'Twas you that did my peace of mind destroy ; Ye dashing waves ! why did you serve me so ? Even your presence fills my mind with woe. She wrung her hands, tow'rds heaven she lift her eyes, And pierc'd the thund'ring gale with bitter cries ; " Life's nearly gone, and death is in my reach," Then lifeless Mary sunk upon the beach ! 120 TO A ROBIN. — LINES EXTEMPORE. TO A ROBIN. How cheerless are the leafless groves, And cold the winds that blow ; Now Winter has its mantle spread Thou know'st not where to go. The cruel snow has hid thy food, — How hungry and distrest; Thou 'rt welcome here to pick the crumbs, And show thy lovely breast. The cheerful Spring will soon return. When thou canst flee away ; Then for the favours thou hast found, With songs thou must repay. LINES EXTEMPORE. When Zephyrs breathe, or Boreas roar, My fancy loves to travel ; Stupendous steeps she clambers o'er, Some secret to unravel. TO A MOUSE IN THE TRAP. 121 The flowers that Nature planted there, She seeks for, but in vain ; First Fancy had the gems so fair, And mine returns again, With flowers rejected by the rest. And the few sweets she found ; Which simply I esteem the best Upon the banks around. There the sweet violet hides its head, — And primrose shows its face ; How can the heedless on them tread, Which bend with lovely grace. The cattle crop them with their food, — They suffer with the rest ; These are the flow'rs of humblest mood, The flow'rs that please me best. TO A MOUSE IN THE TRAP. Ah, little thief! what art thou caught; Thy roguish tricks are past ; No more wilt thou devour my cheese. For thou hast eat thy last. L 122 LINES EXTEMPORE. The food thou didst so often steal, Has serv'd to make thee fat, — Yea, serv'd to make a better meal To satisfy the cat. Perchance thy little ones remain Where thou thy nest hast made ; Thou never wilt return again To give them cheese nor bread. There they in silence mourn thy fate,- With hunger, too, opprest ; But now, alas ! it is too late To take thee to thy nest. LINES EXTEMPORE. In the hours of deep midnight, When solemn silence reigns. And stars emit their feeble light Upon the fallow plains. When the northern chilly breeze Is faintly fanning round, And, rustling through the leafless trees, Locks all in sleep profound. TO THE ZEPHYRS. L23 Then I sit upon the grave, Where my best treasure lays ;* There shall deep sighs my bosom heave. And there I '11 end my days. TO THE ZEPHYRS. Ye whispering breezes — fanning gales, I love to hear your countless tales; They breathe a mystery all around : What sweet, refreshing tides are you, — The lays ye chant are ever new, With melody profound. I love to see the airy tribe Bask in the gentle, magic tide That wafts their mellow notes along; And the rich tints of Nature bend, While pearly drops of dew descend, To listen to the sons. How sweet these chords of Nature sound, — How full of eloquence profound, — Till the enchanting echo dies ; Ye melting notes, what gave you birth — Can you be natives of the earth. Or wanderers from the skies ? * Lay ; verb. act. but may here be used as a verb neut. Vide Preface. 124 LINES WRITTEN IN APRIL. Chaotic warblers ! Nature's choir ; — Your whispering vespers I admire ; The music charms me as it flies : I ever love to hear the sound, — But, ah I your liquid notes are drown'd. When furious tempests rise. LINES WRITTEN IN APRIL. One evening in the lovely Spring, When in the groves the warblers sing, My mind inclin'd my feet to stray. The works of Nature to survey ; A road the traveller leaves I took To choose a lesson from her book ; The zephyrs breath'd a gentle air, And all besides were silent there. The lofty trees and mountains too. Were scarcely gone from Phoebus' view ; The air-suspended clouds were bright, — I view'd the scene with great delight. The little lambs did skip and play, Thoughtless of the declining day ; Their harmless dams together flock'd, And sweetly the green herbage cropp'd. THE NIGHT WAS COLD. 125 Heav'n's gentle showers the grass bedew'd, And with wild flowers my path was strew'd ; Creation's music cast around Her lays, with sweet enchanting sound. To see such beauties thus display'd, For the poetic muse's aid, I thirsted, (but had tasted first,) I drank, but could not quench my thirst. Oh ! what a grand— a lovely mien — No artists skill can paint a scene, To rival the delightful Spring, When in the groves the warblers sing. THE NIGHT WAS COLD. The night was cold, and gloomy too, Black clouds the skies did hide, When Mary to the churchyard flew. And there in anguish sigh'd — " By Fate's tumultuous winds I'm tost, How bitter is my grief; Now I my heart's delight have lost I cannot find relief. 126 SONG. Beneath this sod his body lies ; Oh ! had I with him died ! In death I fain would close mine eyes And slumber at his side. For thee my dearest I shall weep Until Ufe's tide is o'er ; Then may we both together meet To separate no more." SONG. * Ye gods of fortune guide my love, — Ye waters safely waft him home ; Ye cruel winds forbear to roar, — Ye restless billows cease to foam. f Ocean's jaws how wide they open, — Fain my true love they would have ; Guide him breezes ! bear him waters ! Cheat for once the yawning grave. Here I wait impatient for him, — Here unseen I deeply sigh. While the billows rock his cradle, And tempests sing his lullaby. , • Iambic. t Trochaic. THE SHEPHERDESS. 127 Azure sky, be clear, be starred, On the waves ye moon-beams play ; May the night preserve his comfort Till the approach of welcome day. Hov'ring dreams, cease to perplex him, — ■ Why would you disturb his sleep ? Somnus guard him, do not leave him Till the day begins to peep. Thus may peace and comfort crown him Till he lands upon his shore; Then may we, like faithful lovers, Meet till death, to part no more. 1825. THE SHEPHERDESS. The blooming young shepherdess often would sit On the grass, underneath a large tree ; Keep an eye on her flock — play a tune on her flute ; Who could be more happy than she. She'd pull out her crust and eat it with joy, And run to a neighbouring spring ; Then blithe as the lark in the morning of May Her songs she would merrily sing. 128 SONG. At eve, her young lover, a youth void of guile, Would constantly go there to meet her ; The minutes would over ther heads swiftly fly, While he with affection did greet her. He gain'd her consent so homewards they went, And hasten'd to church the next day ; Now together they live in peace and content : Who can be more happy than they. 1825. SONG, Thy borrowed rays, fair queen of night, My love and I have lighted ; Ah ! little did I think so soon, My prospects would be blighted : It brings past joys to memory fresh To gaze upon thy beauty ; I rove, but not as once, yet thou The same, perform'st thy duty. With every happy day appear'd Beams of increasing pleasure ; But now, a hapless girl, forlorn. My sorrow 's without measure. THE UNFORTUNATE WIDOW. 129 Pledges then made are broken now, — The flatterer did deceive me ; To anguish I am left a prey, — Death can alone relieve me. How fatal prove the tongues of men To those who 're too beheving; Love brightest shines in darkest shades, But speeches are deceiving. December, 1824. THE UNFORTUNATE WIDOW. Sol had sunk in the west, and the shadows of night O'er the eastern mountains came riding ; No glittering stars were seen, thick clouds did intervene, And a gloom over us was presiding. The chilling winds roar'd, which before gently breath'd ; The aspect how gloomy and dreary, When I saw a poor lass seated on the cold grass. Fatigued with her journey, and weary. Her heart-piercing looks her trouble bespoke, And her face retain'd traces of sorrow ; She heav'd a deep sigh, then in anguish did cry — "Oh ! how can I live till the morrow," 130 THE UNFORTUNATE WIDOW. Unnolic'd by her, I stood gazing awhile, And her infant then caught my attention ; " Thy father !" she cried, and repeatedly sigh'd : For sorrow, no more could she mention. Her baby she press'd and its sweet lips she kiss'd. While tears down her pale cheeks were flowing ; The evening was cruel, how acute her grief, And how cheerless the winds that were blowing. Kindness would not permit me to turn from the scene, And leave her expos'd to all dangers ; (What a heart has the man who '11 not offer a hand To aid fellow creatures, though strangers.) With a heart touch'd with pity I went to the place, Where this sorrowful object was seated, Desiring to know what troubled her so. When a tale full of grief she related. "Prosperity frown'd, and misfortune pursued, And my husband, my sole consolation, By Death, cruel Death, has been snatch'd from my side, Which drown'd every glad expectation. My baby and I, in sorrow are left. Through the wind and the rain I must travel ; To my parents I '11 go, who '11 receive me, I know, When my pitiful tale I unravel." INCONSTA^•CY. 131 * Trace my foot-steps,' I said, ' to yon peaceable cot, Where thou mayest abide till the morrow ; Of our food come and eat, and thy poverty forget,* Since thou hast found a friend in thy. sorrow.' Marks of weakness were visible when she arose From the ground, to the cot to be steering. She hugg'd her sweet babe, and in extacy said, "True friendship, how kind, how endearing !" INCONSTANCY. Oh ! listen, fairest of the fair. For thou alone my grief canst heal, Nor let an inattentive ear Shght the faint echos of my tale. Scarce can the rays of smiles from thee My hopes revive, my spirits cheer. But from thy frowning shades they flee, And urge the sigh, and mock the tear. Could'st thou behold my wounded heart And see thy name engraven there ; Oh ! could'st thou feel my burning smart, Oh ! didst thou in my sufferings share ; * Quantity in the Anapestic may be better regulated than in Iambic, &c. if too many syllables, or the reverse. 132 INCONSTANCY. Thine adamantine heart would melt, Thy smiles reflect their beams on me, Could'st thou but feel the pangs I've felt, And still with patience feel for thee. Long hast thou been my chief delight, — In thee is centred all my bliss ; Then why my tones of cadence_slight. Or thund'ring notes of emphasis ? My love is fix'd alone on thee. But, ah ! I fear my hope beguiles ; Life is too great a load for me, With the exception of thy smiles. And must these solemn accents peal Around, and thou refuse to hear ? Why dost thou slight my mournful tale. And disregard the falling tear. Behold the cypress wreathe I wear, And see the springs of sorrow flow ; Ah ! must I perish in despair, And sink beneath my weight of woe. Must my atfection seal my fate, And I in hopelessness complain ; — Thy smiles a perfect cure complete, But then thy frowns they wound again. LINES EXTEMPORE. 133 Maidens, were yours the wounds you make. Then would the pain compassion move ; Ah ! surely you would pity take, And listen to the voice of Love. LINES EXTEMPORE, WRITTEN IN AN EVENING RAMBLE. Mv muse would pour a plaintive breeze, A pleasing tale of love to tell ; She cannot soar to high degrees. But on a humble fondness dwell. She seeks the groves in sable robes. To warble there a mournful lay ; These are her sweet, her best abodes. And there she mourns from day to day. But, how confus'd her fluttering seat, — She cannot rest contented there ; Her prospects fade — her hopes abate. And there she faints beneath despair. But as she lays, and longs to die. To shun her sorrow, grief, and pain, A whispering pleasure passes by, And starts her pleasing hopes again. M 134 THE ORPHAN BOY. But as they gaze, too soon, they see Pleasure depart with every gleam, And find the false reality A passing vision — airy dream. Then sleep her hopes again : — thus through The flight of years she travels on ; Ye transient pleasures, why would you Her unknown sufferings prolong ? Thus wakes, and sleeps, and mourns, and sings My feeble muse, alternately, 'Till Death arrives on friendly wings, To set her from her sorrows free. December, 1826. THE ORPHAN BOY. Grim Boreas blew with his wonderful might, The day had been dreary, and cold was the night ; The industrious peasant's day's labour was past. And a shelter he found from the pitiless blast. In the corner, the farmer contentedly por'd. With a pipe in his mouth, and a jug on the board ; He heard the cold breezes, but felt not the smart, Or pity, perhaps, would have soften'd his heart. THE ORPHAN BOY. 135 A child of misfortune came travelling by, — With hunger and cold, he did bitterly cry ; Unnotic'd, his tale floated with the keen air, And a deaf ear was turn'd to the suppliant's pray'r. "0 ! give me some food, for I 'm hungry," he cried, " And a place where I may till the morrow abide ; I 've no parents on earth to whom I can go. Nor a friend that will listen to my tale of woe. My father fell nobly upon yonder plain, And ray mother expir'd when she heard he was slain ; My best earthly friends cruel Death did destroy. And now I must wander a poor orphan boy. I 'm cold and I 'm hungry, — oh ! pity my fate ; For several days I 've had nothing to eat ; My wants from the blessings of heaven supply, Or with hunger and cold I shall certainly die." He then laid himself down upon the cold ground. While the pitiless breezes were murmuring round : The farmer had listen'd unto his sad tale, But those accents of grief could in no wise prevail. He arose in the morning by break of the day, When the snow on the hills, and in vallies did lay. And on leaving his dwelling, to take a walk round. He saw the poor orphan lie dead on the ground. 136 SONNET. On the ill-fated youth he stood gazing awhile, And a sorrowful look substituted a smile, For clench'd in his hand, a letter he found, Which told 'twas his grandson that lay on the ground. January, 1826. SONNET: ON A PARTICULAR OCCASION. Discord is banish'd by sweet harmony : Dear reformation, thou art welcome here. Disperse our grief, our drooping spirits cheer, Superior prinee to bitter slavery. Oh ! that the happy union may survive The spite and malice of combining foes. Who once oppress'd us with unnumber'd woes. Before we saw our welcome guest arrive. At his approach our terrors fled away, Like midnight shades from the effulgent moon ; Now we 've a foretaste of a happy boon. Round which bright sparks of freedom join to play ; Thick shades of darkness flutter from the day Which now has dawn'd, and banish'd all the gloom. 1826. THE YOUNG ROSCIUS. — THE FAINT ADIEU. 137 LINES PRESENTED TO THE YOUNG ROSCIUS, AT CORSHAM. Grossmith — fair emblem of the art of Nature, Oh ! were a portion of thy genius mine ! Unspotted wit glows bright in every feature, Unrivaird skill in all thine actions shine. Thine infant powers enchant the very mind, Ravish the senses, and delight the eye ; To knowledge, such as thine, my thoughts are blind; My faint ideas never soar so high. Thine actions well deserve poetic thought, — My muse attempts to soar on wings sublime. To show the infant wonders thou hast wrought. But 'tis beyond this feeble power of mine. June 4tb, 1826, THE FAINT ADIEU. As I, for recreation, stray'd, one evening in the spring, When buzzing insects tell their tales, and the lovely warblers sing; The modest cowslip deck'd my path, and cooling breezes blew, When a pitiful sound assail'd mine ears — 'Twas the soft and the faint adieu. 138 SONG. I saw a youthful couple sit, and heard their tale of woe, — And must we part ? alas ! my heart, then the tears did freely flow; And will you not return again, your promise to renew ? And then on the wing of the zephyr was borne The soft and the faint adieu. I listen'd awhile, and wish'd to know the cause of this sad tale, But soon I beheld two soldiers bold, come tripping along the vale ; They reach'd the spot, and sternly said, "Young man, we come for you," His love he embrac'd, and steep'd with tears The soft and the faint adieu. 1825. SONG. Fair one, I love with thee to walk, — How sweet to hear thy pleasing talk. While the pale moon-beams round us fly. And hosts of stars bedeck the sky. 0, let not gold deceive thine eyes, Peace is a far superior prize ; Mine only object here to stray. Is to appoint our wedding day. SONG. 139 Speak with thine heart, not tongue alone, And make thine hidden secrets known ; Tell me, fair maid, that thou art mine. For, lo, mine heart— my all is thine. Thy mind at once to me impart, And freely give me thine hand and heart ; Then shall we bask in pleasure's rays. And pass in sweet content our days. 1826. SONG. Thou hast seen the tear-drop fall,- Hast smil'd, when I have wept ; Thou hast heard my misery call. But still thy pity slept. Why, unfeeling maiden, why Cast all thy frowns on me ; Must I beg in vain, and die, For one faint smile from thee ? Art thou pleas'd to see me weep ? Oh ! why so cruel be ? There are none for whom I seek. Fair maid, but Death or thee. 140 SONG. — FLORELLA. SONG. At night when the moon shines so gay, And the nightingale sings in the grove, Awake on my pillow I lay, And mourn for the loss of my love. 1 trouble, but troubling is vain, — It is folly— but still I must weep j I never shall see him again, — . In silence my true love doth sleep. Death, why didst thou cause all this griefs Why deceive me, and leave me to mourn ? 'Tis in vain to apply for relief, For my comforts will never return. 1825. FLORELLA. The aged mother dying laid. And call'd Florella to her bed. Her blessing to bestow ; "When I am dead and gone," said she, " And youths attempt to flatter thee, Florella, answer — NO !" LINES ON SACRED POESV. 141 The mother died : — and Colin came With panting bosom on a flame ; (But judge the lover's woe :) 'Oh ! let me gain the heart,' he cried, 'For which, in secret, long I 've sigh'd !' Florella answer'd— "NO." ' Oh ! do not be so cruel, love, But let thy soft compassion move ; — Regard these tears that flow : Must 1 for ever thus complain, And must I seek thy love in vain?' Florella answer'd— "NO." LINES ON SACRED POESY. ADDRESSED TO * * * Why part thy lips of blasphemy to speak, Against God's breathings ? — Monster thou must be ! That is a heart, ev'n heaven must fail to break, Which cannot feel the touch of Poesy. Its sweets an angel would not scorn to sip, — 'Twould swell the chorus of angelic song. Though soft as music from a seraph's lip, That echos all the heavenly vales along. 142 SONG. 'Tis more than human : cherubs breathe below, Sounds from the concert of their lofty theme; Nothing but what they whisper we can know, — They guide our fancy with a hand unseen. From the high courts of praise, like gentle dews, Drops every word upon the poet's tongue ; How then, unthankful wretch ! canst thou refuse To hear him sing but what the seraph's sung ? Those shining armies i)\\ poetic dreams, — Withdraw the curtains of eternal light ; Fir'd with new rapture, we describe the scenes. From their expressions, heedless of thy spite. Sweet Poesy — dear treasure of my soul, — I '11 die in glory if 1 die for thee: No foes my little Cupid shall control ; — If earth were heaven, then thou the God should'st be. SONG. And still I 'm doom'd to weep, And still I weep in vain ; And still my grief with tears I steep. And steep it still again : My sorrows with mine age increase. And Death denies a sweet release. SONG. 143 Man, in his highest bliss, May look around and see The pleasures of a life like this. Beset with misery : But truly some escape from care. While others venture to despair. Fortune will always shower Her blessings where she please; And cruel fate is near to pour Around a sad disease : Ev'n the soul sickens with the pain, And pants for ease, — but pants in vain. How many an heedless one. May every pleasure grasp, While others for those pleasures run. But find them not at last ; — So different is the fate of man : — Who can heaven's wise intentions scan ? And, oh ! it seems to me. That I was born to grieve ; I 'm doom'd unfortunate to be. And but to mourn I live : Still should my murmuring passions rest, Heaven knows what to appoint me best. 144 SONG. Could tears reverse my fate, — Could sighs assuage my pain, — Then were I in a happy state ; But all my tears are vain ; And how presumptuous must I be. To stand against heav'n's high decree. While tears mine anguish tell, They nourish my despair. And sighs mine aching bosom swell, T' admit new sorrows there : I have this one delight alone — Beneath my woe to make my moan. For, oh ! my woe is great ! My sorrows still increase ; Nor do they promise to abate. Till death affords release : And though tis sweet to make my moan. The echo dies upon a groan. A superficial view. Sees but the light of life ; But in the picture. Nature drew The awful shades of strife : When I a moment's pleasure see, Around, unseen, stands misery. tayler's farewell. 145 Then let me mourn alone, While I have life and breath ; The chorus of my smiles — a groan, — The end of sorrow — death : And, oh ! may heaven be kept in view, Until I wave the last adieu. April 26. TAYLER'S FAREWELL. Ye scenes of sweet delight, farewell f Farewell ye pleasant shady bowers ; The thoughts of parting none can tell, From whence I've passed such blissful hours. But to the scenes of childhood past I will not bid a Ions: adieu : — My doating memory holds them fast For Fancy's retrospective view. Ye flowery meadows, now farewell; In you I must no longer rove To hear the song of Philomel, The nightly goddess of the grove. N 146 LINES WRITTEN IN A SOLITARY HOUR. Farewell, ye fav'rite hills and dales Where many an hour I 've pass'd away To muse upon my plaintive tales,* And breathe a melancholy lay. Ye little modest flowers. /areweZ^; Often I weave you in my theme : Emotions strange my bosom swell On parting with the pleasing scene. Farewell, kind friends, I leave you all, For ever to ray memory dear ; Often fond recollection shall Urge the deep sigh — indulge the tear And /are thee well, * * *, too, — The dearest object of my mind; May heaven direct thy steps : — adieu ! I go but leave my heart behind. LINES WRITTEN IN A SOLITARY HOUR. From these unwelcome scenes of strife I would for ever dwell. And spend a solitary life , Far in some lonely cell. * " Alfred and Clementina," " The Rose of Woodburn," &c. LINES WRITTEN IN A SOLITARY HOUR. 147 In sweet contentment then I 'd rest, And never more repine ; There should my walks be unimprest With every foot but mine. All other bliss for this I'd leave. The vain delights of youth ; And plaintive wreathes of language weave Beneath my lowly roof. How peaceful would I there abide, — How thankful with my boon ; And sweetly should the seasons glide That draw me to the tomb. And if the welcome day were known When Death should seize my clay. In the cold grave I 'd lay me down. And sigh my soul away. Haply, by heaven directed there, Some gen' reus friend may view This frame, and as he sheds a tear. Dust on these ashes strew. Wrapt in a shroud of native clay. On that my favourite spot. Oh ! may my mouldering relics lie Unpitied and forgot. 148 SONG. SONG. ^Vhat pearly globes of sorrow flow, What sighs the aching bosom move ; And fears arise and floods of woe Burst from the swelling tide of love. No prospect to the breaking heart By Hope is kindly given ; It struggles like a foundering bark With the rude tempest driven. Though for awhile the winds should cease, — The rolling billows lie to sleep, 'Tis for their fury to increase The unfeeling passions of the deep. Heavy and cold the spirit lies Beneath her awful load. And in her secret language prays To quit the drear abode. Oh ! why should love such sorrows cause. And man beneath its influence groan ? But these are heaven's unerring laws, Made to be changed by heaven alone. How wrong to murmur; heaven, 'tis known, Has set us in this state ; But, still, for follies all our own We vainly rail at fate. "Written at Westbury, Wilts, April 29th, 1828. THE author's first PIECE. 149 THE AUTHOR'S FIRST PIECE. Upon yon bank, my love and I, In warm and pleasant weather. Would sit and pass the hours away, In harmless sports together. Of future happiness we spoke. And fix'd our wedding day ; But, cruel Death, thy fatal stroke Has torn my love away. Unto the place I often go. With many a heart-felt sigh ; It fills my heart with grief and woe. To think on days gone by. Unto her grave I will repair, And there I '11 end my days ; Upon the turf I '11 drop a tear, 'Neath which my true love lays. Lend me, kind moon, thy feeble light. That I may find my way. For on her grave I '11 sit and weep, Until my dying day. 15=0 WRITTEN ON THE DEPARTURE OF 1826. I will repeat my tale of woe To all I chance to see ; But I, alas ! upon the earth Have none to pity me. I '11 gaze upon the spreading yew, And ivy-mantled tower ; But will not quit my favourite place Until ray latest hour. The hand of Death will seize me soon, And end my grief and care ; Then may I by her side be laid, — I long to slumber there. WRITTEN ON THE DEPARTURE OF 1826. How years and ages roll away — Lo ! the present date is dying ; Time and tide for none will stay, — Round their circles they are tlying : O, circling year ! 0, dying dale ! Canst thou resist impending fate ?-. On thy months, thy weeks and days She has been suspended ; ARRIVAL OF 1827. 151 From thence upon her slippery ways Her blessinsis have descended : 0, date ! thine exit soon will be, — ■ Thus time will reach its last degree. -ft' Hear the year to mortals calling, — — " Lo ! my circle now is o'er ; Hear me — see me — I am falling From my sphere to rise no more ! My course is run — mine end appears,- I perish with forgotten years !" ARRIVAL OF 1827. ^VELCOME, welcome infant year, — Mayest thou with peace be crown'd ; With a smiling face appear, — Let pleasure rule throughout thy round : We wait to hail thee, welcome guest ; Now pour new pleasure in each breast. Soon the gloom thou broughtest in Shall be chas'd by welcome day ; Soon the fast approaching spring Shall drive this aspect far away : Then, passing shadow, shall thine hours Be deck'd with Nature's fairest flowers. 152 SONG. Sons of Bacchus, join in chorus ; Lo, Apollo bids you sing : — See the infant year before us, — Welcome now the traveller in : The helm of peace, oh ! may he bear, And a delightful aspect wear. SONG. Love, let us take an evening walk. The moon shines bright and gay ; Of pleasures yet to come we '11 talk. To pass the hours away. Falsehood I '11 from my bosom spurn, — Deceit is far from me ; My mind is fix'd, no more to turn, — 'Tis fix'd alone on thee. Thy looks have pierc'd this heart of mine. This heart for none but thee ; Believe me, dearest, I am thine, And thine alone I '11 be. Not morning dew on May's fair flowers, Tho' lovely it may be. Nor verdant, aromatic bovvers Are half so sweet to me. BRITISH TABS. 153 BRITISH TARS. Those British Tars that plough the deep, What hardships they endure, To keep us in our native land From toils of war secure. To distant, and to different climes They are compell'd to go, Where raging billows heave their heads And winds tempestuous blow. What foreign pow'rs, with all their boast, Can British tars defy ; Their presence makes the haughty foe With fear for safety fly. True-hearted sons of liberty, — ■ Undauntedly they fight. And die, with hearts of bribery void, For their own country's right. How dare we then despise them, When from their toils they come, Depriv'd of limbs or precious sight To keep us safe at home I 154 REYNARD AND ROBBERS. Let British hearts a little feel For every wounded tar, Who, to extol Britannia's name, Endur'd the toils of war. REYNARD AND ROBBERS. When Night extends her gloomy shade, Sly Reynard plies his thievish trade ; He views the hen-roost round with pleasure As hoary misers view their treasure. And then unto his hole he flies. But not without the wish'd for prize, Unless the footsteps of a foe Compel him as he came to go. Robbers, like Reynard, choose this shade Because 'tis suited to their trade ; But should a prize appear by day They fain would bear it safe away ; Yea, all that tempts their roving eyes They vainly term their lawful prize : But tho' they plunder in the night, Their actions will be brought to light. FATE. 155 FATE. Behold the pyramid of life ! Fate is suspended at the top With sparks of peace and clouds of strife ; From whence our joys and sorrows drop. She casts her eyes o'er sea and land, And skims across the adverse tide ; Her subjects wait for her command. Then none can turn their course aside. Lo ! there invisibly she rules Sole empress of the human race ; The burning rage of war she cools, — Again she blights the flower of peace. On her the life of man is hung, — 'Tis she that ope's the yawning tomb ; His thread she cuts, — alas ! he's gone, — Nipt like a flower in its bloom. Seamen, by her tumultuous winds, Are lost beneath the dashing waves ; No glimpse of comfort can they find, — Their comforters are watery graves. 156 LINES EXTEMPORE. Fate, thy promotion how subhme, Yet thou must know thy destiny ; Though I thy secrets can't divine, Yet there's a/aie reserv'd for thee ! LINES EXTEMPORE. The feather'd warblers chaunt their song, Ere Sol with scorching force, Melts the fresh gales that pass along, And fan us in their course. And yon meek lamps with modest beams, Their silvery lustre yield To orient ocean's golden streams That sweep the dewy field ; And fill the sparkling drops with hues, Not from the costly store Of Art, with colours artists use, — 'Tis Nature spreads them o'er; But Art is J^ature's offspring, from the womb Of Nature came the embryo, from her breast It still receives its food, and in one tomb Shall these fair children of creation rest. WHEN ANGUISH BACKS THE HEART. 157 WHEN ANGUISH RACKS THE HEART. When anguish racks the heart, how sweet Those pangs of grief with tears to steep ; Oh ! how I love in midnight hours To sit and weep, And quench the flame with tearful showers, — Then on my pillow sleep ; While Fancy flies to airy bowers. And plucks the visionary flowers That through the dreams of pleasure sweep, Until Aurora's blushes peep O'er lofty hills from eastern skies, Before whose face each vision flies : — And poets cease to keep Their nightly vigils still and deep. When all those hues Of sweetest orient fragrance rise ; Nor can they close their sleepless eyes To shun the pleasing scene ; But thence a heav'nly subject choose, And float it to their utmost views On Eloquence's rippling stream, And with a beam From Genius' lamp, they gild the theme Divinely bright; — divinely sweet ! — And light and shade with lustre meet. 158 WHEN ANGUISH RACKS THE HEART. [But while their streams run free and clear, Mine through the mazes of despair Is doom'd to bubble ; And fate has sentenc'd it to bear The vast, the heavy sails of care, And gales of trouble With ruthless force are blowing there, Nor will compassion share In suffering, nor my prayers appease The storms of Life's tumultuous seas. That every where Rage in my circle, to disease The nightly weeping bard : Torrents of grief are my reward For all the tedious hours I spend. And sidis that would aloft ascend Must sink beneath regard : The poet's woes with life extend, — His fate how hard. — How fragrant is the friendly breath That whispers from the vale of death With sweet perfume. And calls him to his n:itive tomb. Far from this wide, this dreary heath,]* That Fame upon his grave may bloom ; ♦ The author only alludes to himself in that part included in b-ackets, not wishing by any means to be his own " trumpeter." THE THUNDER STORM. 159 And his laborious actions shine Through every shade of time. On every shore, in every clime. His praise on every gale will float. And fain the swelling note Would pierce his ear : The warbling throat Must swell in vain, the lays he wrote He ne'er again shall hear : His name, his fame on earth will shine While he is mouldering in Death's gloomy clime. THE THUNDER STORM. The sun had descended behind a thick cloud. And broke oif the web of my song, For the thunder was pealing both awful and loud, , And lightnings were flashing along. As when vengeance meets vengeance, the thunder did roar. And I trepidly rose from my seat ; I ne'er thought the clouds had such cannons in store. The earth's massy foundation to shake. 160 THE THUNDER STORM. Scarce had the vibration expir'd on mine ear But still with more fury did roll, And at every explosion the black hand of Fear Would take faster hold of my soul. I gaz'd and I listened, and trembled with dread, — Each clap seem'd to utter my doom ; And the flashes of lightning encircling my head Did threaten a premature tomb. But soon this abated, and nature again Was gentle and calm as before ; Yet still I was sentenc'd by fate to complain, Though the loud-roaring tempest was o'er : — For I heard the sad tale which redoubled my smart. Ere the fears of my fancy were fled, That the pride of my love, and the pride of my heart, And the pride of the hamlet was dead. Nor e'er shall the thought from my bosom depart,* What horror the tempest has spread ; 'Neath yon wide spreading tree the pride of my heart. And the pride of the hamlet lies dead. * Four anapestic feet in a line: " though the quantity of syl- lables is fixed in words separately pronounced, yet it is mutable vhen ranged io sentences." ACROSTIC FOR EASTER SUNDAY. 161 ACROSTIC FOR EASTER SUNDAY. E xcusE, begone, iny rapturous tongue shall sing, A nd praise my great, mine everlasting king ; S hall I forget what he hath done for me, — T hat he expir'd upon mount Calvary ; — E xpir'd for sin (but not his own) to save R ebels immerg'd in darkness from the grave. S houts of applause, and blissful peals of praise U nto the great Redeemer's name we'll raise ; N o earthly powers could keep him in the tomb, — D eath's mighty power the Lamb hath overcome ; A nd now he lives, for sin no more to bleed, Y es, Jesus lives for us to intercede. 1826. 162 TO FRIENDSHIP. TO FRIENDSHIP. Thou welcome guest, come, fill thy place, And brightly glow on every face ; Malice shall from thy presence fly, — Grow weak and faint, and quickly die. Hail, son of love and prince of peace ! What beauty beams upon thy face, While Pity sits upon thy cheek The bands of misery to break. A needful silence with thee lives, — Soft Charity her food receives From thee : though Discontent should reign, Thou would'st controul its power again. When far atvay thy loss I mourn For fear thou wilt no more return : One glimpse of thee affords delight, — I long to keep thee in my sight. 1823. MORNING. 163 MORNING. O'er yon hills the day is peeping, — Darkness from its presence flies ; We no longer will be sleeping — To hail the morn we will arise. Lo, bright Phoebus comes to greet us, — He his cheering influence sheds ; Joys increasing daily meet us, — • Pleasure's hanging o'er our heads. Sorrow we will banish from us, — Joy and comfort shall abound ; Mirth and glee exist among us — The day with pleasure shall be crown'd. 0, inspire us great Apollo, — Bacchus thine assistance lend ; Songs, delightful songs shall follow, Thus in mirth our time we'll spend. Woe and sadness is but folly, — Who'd not have a holiday ? 'Tis vain to be melancholy — Let us drive " dull care" away. 164 SEPTEMBER. SEPTEMBER. Of all the months throughout the year September is the one Which sportsmen long to see appear, — Their joys are then begun. With dog and gun the fields and groves- They range from morn till night ; It is the sportsman's happiest time, — September's his delight. The partridge must become his prey, And pheasants too must yield ; 'Till he can bear them safe away. He will not quit the field. While sportsmen flock around the glass They ever will remember. Their happiest period in the year Begun by gay September. LEFT AT A GENTLEMAN'S HOUSE. — ACROSTIC. 165 LEFT AT A GENTLEMAN'S HOUSE, ox FINDING HE WAS IN BEO AT NINE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Jove bless the bed on which you lay, — How very hard must be ; You sleep your precious time away — Can't you your folly see. True, you 've your lady at your side, — *Tis that which makes you lay so -. But, sir, you should not there abide And sleep your time away so. ACROSTIC FOR A FLUTE. F LY through the air, ye notes of praise,- L et heaven's lofty arches ring; U p to the skies the echo raise, — T here blissful saints and angels sinj: E (crnal praises to their king. 166 A BIRTH-DAY PIECE. A BIRTH-DAY PIECE.* Accept, my little love, a poeVs lay, (If I the hindmost of the train may be ;) Who in the morning of life's changing day A shapeless, artless wreath would weave for thee. And are our luishes vain? No : but Despair Would frame such language at the cost of truth : May heaven protect thee from the worldly snare. And be the special guardian of thy youth. Our wishes blest with hope, how sweet they seem, 'Tis whispers from the place from whence they spring ; And though a tedious distance intervene Oar fond desires around the object cling. Oh ! may Religion to that little heart Which care has never shaken in thy breast, — May she the lasting influence there impart That will direct thee to eternal rest. May Virtue with thy narrow mind expand, As roses open with the dawn of day, 'Till, guided with Religion's gentle hand, It twines the bowers of everlasting day. * Presented to a favourite infant, S. A. Ta^^lor, on her second birth day, March 10, 1828. A BIRTH-DAY PIECE. 167 Such, lovely infant, is ray wish for thee,— *T[s promise bears the warm desire so high ; And when I cease to live, it still must be Lively as silent, for it cannot die. When the cold hand of Death shall seize thy clay, May a bright hope thy latest moments cheer. And as stars fade upon the light of day. Peaceful and gradual may thine end appear. Life is a thorny wilderness at best ; May present sorrow with a future view Be drawn from memory to a silent rest. And peace attend thee all the journey through. May Charity be tenant of thine heart, And sympathy sincere thy bosom warm ; Be God ihy friend, — ihzi friendship still impart. To check adversity's unfeeling storm. My heart beats measure to ray wish for thee, — My rising soul breathes too in unison ; But may'st thou soon in Faith's bright mirror see, 'Tis best the wise designs of heaven were done. Beneath a seraph" s wing, in Life's frail morn, My little darling, may thy shelter be ; And on that seraph's wing may'st thou be borne To the abodes of immortality. 168 FLORENCE WILSDEN- FLORENCE WILSDEN :* A TALE. To cities, let the gay resort, With every beauty drest ; But I a humbler place will seek,- The village suits me best. -ft' The pomp of art may give delight, Theatric scenes may please, But scatter'd cots on landscapes fair, Dehght me more than these. The pointed spire of Woodburn church, And willows round it too, With scenes a rich variety, Aftbrd a pleasing view. 'Twas in this litle village first Fair Florence drew her breath, And near the cottage of her birth She clos'd her eyes in death. * Founded on a paragraph in the Bath periodicals, 18i6. FLORENCE WILSDEN. 169 No mother had she ever known, — Death robb'd her of her friend ; With pleasure she would sit and read. And on her sire attend. She now was in the morn of life, Unknown to grief and care ; The blush of spring was on her cheek. Nor was the rose more fair. Her eyes did glitter like the dew- On morning flowers, in May, And sportive tresses round her brow With heavenly grace did play ; And in their modest frolics skip Upon her ivory neck, While Nature's fairest light and shade Her slender form did deck. Angelic features were her own, Beauty around her shone ; Her breath the sweetest fragrance gave. And music tuned her tongue. o But now, alas ! young Love beo-an To break her peaceful rest ; The fatal seeds that fancy holds Were scatter'd in her breast. 170 FLORENCE WILSDEN, Edmund, a youth, whose infant days With her had pass'd away In rambUng o'er the flowery fields, Or in some childish play, — Was now the object of her love ; And Florence, his the same ; Those sparks of beauty quickly caught Love's embers in a flame ; And all the tender buds began To open in each breast ; Nor could, when distance inter ven'd, Edmund or Florence rest. And waiting the appointed hour She sat with pensive care, In hope and fear, beneath the bovver. To meet her lover there. And when the promised hour approach'd. Should Edmund not appear. Each cheerful look and heavenly smile Was chas'd away with fear. The wheels of time then chang'd their course, And minutes lingered round ; The bower no pleasure could afford, But tears bedew'd the ground. FLORENCE WILSDEN. 171 The constant youth would soon be there, And give new pleasure birth : Well might poetic sages sing " There is delight on earth." Then would they rove across the mead, Towards the close of day; — View the surrounding landscape o'er, And watch the lambkins play. Listen with an attentive ear To Nature's chaunt sublime ; And with a philosophic eye Gaze on the wrecks of time. And all the richest flowers of spring, That rose their path to deck Were pluck'd to twine a garland fair, Around her azure neck. Not the faint shadow of a doubt, — But sweet content was there ; Well might the haughty monarch now Envy this loving pair. And when departed day was laid In evening's russet shroud. They hastened to the rosy bower And there their truth avow'd. 172 FLORENCE WILSDEN. Thus would their evenings pass away ; — ' Then with a fond embrace, And pensive gaze, and sigh sincere, Forsake their favourite place. With pleasing dreams and visions fair The night soon pass'd away, And with the sun the youth arose To hail another day. And through the meadows bent his course His labour to pursue, 'Midst the sweet hawthorn's balmy bre?.th, And drops of pearly dew. The rising sun, with golden beams,. Did lift his soul above ; " Thou art the witness to my joy. For thou hast seen our love." He, whistling, to his labour went. And songs of love he sung : Love with industry he had join'd, And long'd for eve to come. Florence, not less industrious, would Upon her sire attend, And bliss, that fate was soon to blight> Did on her head descend. FLORENCE WILSDEN. 173 Her duty plied with willing hands, And light and cheerful heart ; Ah ! little did she think so soon Her pleasures would depart. And oft her aged parent would Amidst his grief rejoice. To see the comfort of his age Had made a prudent choice. And with light footsteps often steal Along his garden walk Towards the bower, and smile to hear The constant lovers talk. " Heaven," thinks he, « smiles upon me still. And the delightful page That promise reads, abates the cares And sorrows of my age, Tho' fate has blown from adverse points, I love her present gales ; To check the sufferings they have caus'd They bring their heaHng tales. Life's fairest prospects now appear, For age a strong defence ; And promise for the griefs gone by A copious recompense. 174 FLORENCE WILSDEI