: . f . i. ^taifeffir. - 1*5 I THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES COMMEMORATIVE FEELINGS, OR MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. INTERSPERSED WITH SKETCHES TN PROSE SOURCES OF PENSIVE PLEASURE. LONDON: printed for the author j published by white, cochrane, and co., fleet-street; andj. carpenter, old bond-street. 1S12. PRINTED BY RICHARD TAYLOR AND CO., SHOE-LANE. Vft 5*70 PREFACE. Ii-' the writer of this humble volume had ever imagined that the feelings and incidents it commemorates would have met the Public eye, apprehension and dread would have chilled every effort of the imagination, and checked every pulse of the heart. Unlearned and wholly uninstructed in po- etic rules, she might with great truth have called these trifles native rhymes, " Or flowers that all uncultured grew," as Feeling was her tutor, and Nature her only a2 U24G76 IV PREFACE. guide ; and oftentimes a few lines of poetic ef- fusion were the sole relief to the heart, between the sigh and the tear. Many were written in early youth, which the subjects and style will sufficiently indicate; but very few dates hav- ing been preserved, they are scattered indis- criminately throughout the volume. Con- scious, however, of their inferiority, the whole would have been consigned to oblivion, had not peculiar circumstances aided the hand of too partial friendship to draw them into view. It is therefore with the blended emotions of regret and diffidence, that they arc now offered to the indulgent, the candid, and the feeling. CONTENTS. SONNETS. To the last Rose of Summer 3 O Recollection ! 4 Rose of Sappho 5 Sonetto di Serafino da PAquila 6 In answer to the preceding 7 The Complaint 8 Banks of the Thames 9 On leaving a temporary Residence 10 To a Lady 11 **** Woods 12 To the Gleaner 13 To the Memory of a beautiful Ballad .... 14 Moonlight Visions 15 Moonlight. Prose sketch 15 The Cottage Gala 19 CONTENTS. WANDERINGS. Lines on a Flower in the Prison Garden of Dover Castle 23 Cavern Scenery. Prose sketch 25 The Myrtle 31 Sighs addressed to Physicians 34 The Stranger at Stowe 36 Sympathy 38 Rose Leaves 40 Pope's Villa 42 Residences of Genius. Prose sketch 43 The Olive Wood 46 Sub Rosa 4) The Tent 63 Wanderer's Visit to Stourhead 55 The Ruined Mansion 58 Our Native Home. Prose sketch 60 ^Shakespeare 65 / On an Actor 66 / Bath Theatre 67 The Roscius 68 CONTENTS. TU Ill-assorted Unions 69 Westminster Abbey 71 Abbeys and Cathedrals. Prose sketch 72 To the Memory of a Lady of distinction. . . 80 Anticipation. ***** Abbey 83 Impromptu. Death of Nelson 85 To the Memory of Uer who is gone for ever 86 On seeing Accounts from abroad 87 On reading Mr. Cell's Troy 88 C raves of Heroes. Prose sketch 89 Impromptu. Death of Charles Fox .... 92 Epitaph 93 Ivy Leaves 94 vBurus 95 To the Memory of Lieutenant Colonel * * * 98 Memorials in Domestic Scenes. Prose sketch. 99 Thomhill 103 Thornhill 104 Sorrow's Friend 105 The Golden Violet 1G6 The Snowdrop 107 To an elegant Poet 108 To Charlotte Smith 109 To Clorvina 110 VU1 CONTENTS. Cottage of Peace Ill Time cruel and kind 112 Ruins. Prose sketch 113 The iEolian Harp 118 On returning from uninteresting Society.. 119 To a Friend 120 To a Friend 121 To a Friend 122 The Mediator 123 Hope. Sevigne 124 The Petition 125 The Enthusiast 126 The Philosopher 127 The Pilgrim 128 Sentimental Wreath 129 Inscription 1 30 Hermitages. Prose sketch 131 Pale Complexions 136 Invitation from a Tree in Kensington Gar- dens 1 37 Tomb of Tray 138 Italian Greyhounds 139 The stolen Sigh 140 Water Lilies 141 CONTENTS. IX With a Lock of Hair 142 Style imitated 143 Impromptu 145 Autumnal Storms. Prose sketch 146 Royal Interview 153 SONNETS. I; TO THE LAST HOSE OF SUMMER. Sweet relic of the slowly-waning year, Who long with gentle, lingering, fond delay, Behind thy beauteous 'sociates still dost stay, As if my senses and my heart to cheer, Thou dost remind me of the parting friend, Who softly sighing cannot say adieu, But still would every tender vow renew, Still some fond thought, some anxious care *commend. Yet ah ! like thine must come the parting hour, When memory only shall its sweets impart. Now as I press thy leaves upon my heart, Remembrance tearful, consecrates the flower To friendship's lingering sad, and soft adieu, Which each late Rose of summer shall renew. b2 II. SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY A GENTLEMAN WHO VISITED THE AUTHOR IN THE HOUSE WHICH A LADY TO WHOM HE HAD BEEN PARTIAL AHD RE- CENTLY QUITTED. O recollection ! stay thy tide awhile, Nor on my senses too impetuous pour ; Paint not the form which did my soul beguile, Since all its soft enchantments now are o'er. Ah ! were I doom'd her loss alone to mourn, Her merits then might consecrate the tear: Better to weep upon the willow'd urn, Than mourn the change which in her mind I fear; That mind I fondly thought the virtues' seat, That form an angel might have deign'd to own ; Smiles which I flew each passing hour to meet, And graces sweet, which charm'd in her alone. Alas ! too faithful Memory ! cease thy sway, Or deep in Lethe steep my cares away. III. THE ROSE OF SAPPHO. Dear Rose! dear flower, unconscious as thou art, 'Tis not the Zephyr agitates thy leaves, But the soft sigh of Love, warm from the heart, Thy form imbues, and all thy sweets receives. Yet should the jealous Zephyr steal along, And find, ah me ! the kiss implanted there, The kiss that Love had hid the leaves among, And left it folded sweet with anxious care, No more he'll fan thee in the wild or bower, But rudely breathe upon my beauteous rose, Call thee inconstant and ungrateful flower, And all the mysteries of thy fate disclose. Safe then to guard thee from a doom like this, My heart shall press thee, and secure thy bliss. IV. S0NETT0 Dl SERA FI NO DA t'AQUILA. Qu an do nascesti, Amor ? Quando la terra Si rinveste di verde e bel colore. Di che fosti creato? D'un ardore Che cio lascivo in se riachiude e serra. Chi ti produssc a farmi tanta guerra ? Calda speranza, e gelido timore. Ove prima abitasti ? In geritil core, Che sotto al mio valor presto s' atterra. Chi fu la tua nutrice ? Giovinezza, E le sue serve accolte a lei d' intorno, Leggiadria, Vanifa, Pompa, e Bellezza. Di che ti pasci ? D'un guardar adorno. Non puo contro di te morte o vecchiezza ? No : ch'io rinasco mille volte il giorno. V. IN ANSWER TO THE PRECEDING. O love ! thy story hast thou told so sweet, That if thou dwell'st within a heart sincere, I too could wish to own a home so dear, And feed thee with those smiles thou lov'st to meet. Yet much I dread thy power, and known deceit ; For should I venture thy abode too near, In safety might I not again retreat, But bathe each smile I gave thee, with a tear. For in thy beauteous tale, 10 tempting fair, No picture of thy perils dost thou give, Nor jealous torments ; no, nor anxious care, Nor how in absence may the lover live. Ah ! I do fear thee, and must still beware, For in Love's train a thousand sorrows are. vr. THE COMPLAINT OF A SOLITARY TREE PLACED IN A GLOOMY COURT IN LONDON. WINTER. From Nature and her sweet communion torn, O say what hand unpitying placed me here? Without a breeze my fading form to cheer, A pris'ner, drooping, pensive, and forlorn. Scarce can a sun-beam glance athwart the gloom, Whilst every storm drives bleakly o'er my head. Would that the earth might hide me in her bed, Since here I fade, and never more can bloom ! O Lady ! from yon window's shaded height Look with compassion on my fate beneath ; Bind not thy brow with art's ficititious wreath, But give to me that happier, envied right ; Or ah ! transplant me to thy garden fair, And Gratitude will find an Eden there. VII. BANKS OF THE THAMES. WINTER. Scenes sadly soothing to the sorrowing heart, Here let me lingering on thy borders bend ; And though nor Sun illume, nor flowers lend Their perfume lo the breeze, we would not part, E'en though chill wintry mists hang round thy shore, Or envious hide thee from the sight of day. Though Sun nor Moon bestow one beaming ray, As the loud tempests o'er thy waters roar, Yet the lorn willow still adorns the scene, As its light sprays wave graceful to the wind, Or drooping as iu sorrow, like the mind That pensive weeps, o'er seasons which have been — Slow through yon arch receding from my view, As moves each sail, I sigh a sad adieu. ID VIII. ON LEAVING A TEMPORARY RESIDENCE LENT BY A FRIEND FOR THE RECOVERY OF MY HEALTH. Oh! fare thee well, sweet Villa! whilst I breathe Such sad presaging sighs, as seem to say Adieu for ever ! on my pensive way, I drop of simplest flowers this votive wreath ; And haply Taste, who loves to wander near, May deign to stoop, and bind it on his brow. And should he question, whence it came and how ? Tell him that G ratitude has left it here. And say, that in this verdant garden's boimd Soft Peace and Health have wove a beauteous bower Deck'd with each scented shrub and blooming flower ; While sweet Content has hung her garlands round. Say, on a heart within a shrine is rear'd To ******** * ? to every Muse cndear'd. 11 IX. TO A LADY. Say, when thy pensive brow, thy tearful eye, Bends o'er the classic shades that ware beneath, Does fancy bind for heroes past the wreath, Heroes enroll'd by fame in history ? And does this sacred spot, so near thy home, Speak but of Montague's immortal page, Whose name will shine through every distant age, When fall'n each tree, and ruin'd yon proud dome ? Ah ! I do think, by that soft blush and sigh, That not of heroes past thy fancy dreams ; Though clad in armour bright as lunar beams, With shield and helmet plumed unto the sky. Haply, in other scenes thy thoughts are held, Where Glory waves her laurels o'er the Scbeld. 12 X. ON SEEING SOME LINES DESCRIPTIVE OF****** WOODS, BY A STRANGER. Ah ! who can paint like me these lovely scenes ? E'en though thy muse her sweetest gifts impart, Can witching Fancy in her wildest dreams Depict the visions of the feeling heart ? Though she may vary every tint and shade, Yet can mere foliage touch upon the mind ? Ah yes, I feel it can without her aid, With every leaf some tender thought's combined. Here Memory brings, still brings to sad review Friends ever lost, who loved these woods among To see each season's varied change renew, And pensive listen to the night-bird's song. Yet one remains this drooping heart to cheer, And from affection's cheek to chase the tear. 13 XI. TO THE GLEANER, IN RETURN FOR IIIS 'SYMPATHY* AND 'COTTAGE PICTURES,' WHICH WERE ACCOMPA- NIED BY A BEAUTIFUL COLLECTION OF TRIBUTARY LINES. Around thy lyre so rich a wreath is wove, That not a leaf, or bud, I dare entwine; Where every Muse to deck her bard has strove, And bound with never-fading flowers his shrine. Ah me ! must then my tears be thine alone? Those tears to Sympathy and Nature true! Would that to me some magic power were known, To change them instant to Castalian dew"! Then might they dwell those beauteous buds among, There swift imbibe each varied perfume sweet; Nor thou, when on thy lyre the full wreath hung, Reject the tear, as each fair flower you greet. Ah ! may thy feeling heart, in that soft hour, Confess the dew still sweeter than the flower ! 14 XII. Perhaps there is no circumstance that reminds us more tenderly of the past, than the repetition of plaintive music which we have heard in the more interesting parts of our lives. The following sonnet was written on such an occasion, on hearing softly touched on the harp, an air I had been used to hear played by a celebrated band. TO THE MEMORY OF A BEAUTIFUL BALLAD. O cease ! forbear ! that touching strain O cease ! ' Those sounds o'er every thrilling nerve have power ; They bring again that feeling, anxious hour, That press'd so nearly on my bosom's peace. O Memory ! each recorded note is thine, So softly plaintive, so enchanting sweet, It seem'd as it could tears of pity greet. Or sighs of love to harmony refine. Still, still again that melting tone I hear, So finely touch'd as though by zephyr fann'd ; Or, swept by some unseen ethereal hand, The harp of iEolus entranced mine ear. O Harmony, celestial power divine ! At once the present and the past are mine. 15 xin. MOONLIGH r VISIONS ON THE SEA SHORE. Fair lucid Moon ! whose softly chasten'd light Beams on the bosom of the sleepless wave, Ah ! never day may hope to rival night, Nor pensive minds in such fond witcheries lave, Now thy mild ray, as stealing o'er the soul, Faintly illumines every long-past scene ; And syren Fancy brighter tints the whole With days of happiness, which might have been, O dear delusions! must I bid you cease, And only dwell upon the painful past ? Must I in vain wish for the calm of peace, Nor Hope her anchor in life's voyage be cast ? Ah ! no, fond Fancy sees her moon-tipt sail, Friendship her pilot, sighs of Joy her gale. 16 MOONLIGHT SCENERY, The influence of moonlight scenery on the feelings is one of the most fascinating, and ir- resistibly attractive, that a tender heart can experience. A sort of reflective and pleasing melancholy is often produced, as if the soft ray of the Moon poured its light through the eyes upon the soul itself. It does not always carry us quite in thought to Heaven ! because, in look- ing at the Moon, we imagine it another Earth, perhaps resembling that which we inhabit, — orfancy it may be destined for a state of pro- bationary or intermediate existence. Again we look, we retrace the past, compare our fate 17 with what it has been, and with what it may be here or hereafter ; every idea is refined, and spiritualized. And the contemplation of the sea irradiated by the silver and beamy light of the Moon, unites all the ideas of the great Creator with all the suf- ferings and uncertainties incident to the element and to Humanity itself, disposing the heart to every amiable feeling, with tenderness to our fellow-creatures, and with gratitude to Heaven in giving us powers capable of adoring him in the world of beauty which surrounds us. Moonlight has therefore a power of giving to its scenes a charm the sublime Artist of the 18 world alone could bestow, to heighten the moral beauty of those who contemplate them ; and affords one of the most refined sources of pen- sive pleasure we ever experience. 19 XIV. So far from Joy had stray'd this drooping heart ; It seem'd we sever'd — to embrace no more ; And ere I pensive sought this sea-beat shore, Full oft reluctant felt from home to part, Lest it away should steal the lonely hour. Then, little did I dream each artful wile That Joy had Iearn'd, our sorrows to beguile, And playful scatter in life's path the flower. To meet me here unseen, the wanderer flew, And in a cottage hid from vulgar eyes, Like Proteus ever in some new disguise, Each soft enchantment o'er my senses threw, The dance, the banquet, magic-bower*, and song, With every charm that dwells his train among. \u apartment lined with foliage and flowers so termed. C 2 WANDERINGS. 23 LINES ON A FLOWER GROWING IN THE PRISON GARDEN OF DOVER CASTLE. On ! ye who wander this famed fortress round, Or caverns dark explore in depths profound ; Depths, where yon sun has never own'd a ray, But darkness triumphs in despite of day ; Where hosts secure within its bosom bide, Nor heed what storms assail the rock's rude side; Or now immerging into day's bright beam, Amazed and pondering on each wondrous theme, Attention wrapt in scenes or strange or new, Whilst ocean pours sublimely on the view, Alas ! thou beauteous vain and hapless flower, Canst thou e'er hope regard in such an hour? Save that some pensive moralist may bend And say "Poor flower, thou art the prisoner's friend. 24 " O ever-euvied fate ! to cheer his sight " At early dawn, at noon, or closing night, " To shed thy sweets around, and, ere they die, " Blend their soft perfume with the prisoner's sigh." Unequal contest in the feeling heart ! Still, still, will Nature win the wreath from Art. ' Tis for the prisoner now alone he feels, For him the silent tear unbidden steals ; The subterranean deep, the embattled tower, The frowning fortress, fade before the flower; Whilst those shall meet from ruthless Time their doom, By Heaven's hand planted, still shall pity bloom. 25 CAVERN SCENERY. Cavern Scenery has been so favourite a theme, and, however apparently barren, has been so very prolific a source to the writers of modern romance, that, so far from wishing to encroach on their prerogative, one would perhaps rather be inclined to turn from the subject with some- thing like distaste. Not because it is in itself uninteresting, but because those who have described such scenes have equally o'erstept the " modesty of Nature" and the labours of Art. How unequal are the miner and the engineer to keep pace with the pen of Romance, wonderful as are the effects of their skill ! 28 We often wander with a Heroine some miles in caverns underground, by lamp-light, torch, light, moon-light, twilight, or no light at all, in the most inconceivable manner possible, es- caping from some castle, and gaining some convent, by a secret communication, or di- stant cave opening into the forest ; during which hazardous adventure we have little plea- sure and much fatigue, because this kind of routine is so common, and the repetition of the same scenes so frequent, that we have anticipated every thing, and consequently are surprised at nothing. Yet, divesting the mind of these absurd and romantic fictions, there is certainly something peculiarly interesting in Cavern Scenery, par- 27 ticularly when it is the work of Nature alone ; scenes in which she often unites both simplicity and magnificence, and combines a thousand attractions to unsophisticated minds. It may be objected that they are sources of terror also, as well as of attraction, being often the abode of the reptile, of savage animals, and still more savage man ; — of lawless ban- ditti, and the assassin, who, concealed within its shadows and recesses, starts at once upon the unsuspecting traveller : — but again, may they not also have afforded an asylum to the persecuted and the unfortunate, to virtuous poverty, and the houseless wanderer " who had not where to lay his head ?" 28 They are likewise greatly interesting from having been the sacred abodes of the Druids and Bards of old. " Gray at his mossy cave is bent the aged form of Clonmal ; the eyes of the Bard had failed, he leaned forward on his staff." What scenes have ever inspired more delight- ful and sublime sensations than the entrance into those superb excavations which are found in the sides of mountains and on the sea. shore ? feelings which no traveller can forget who has once experienced them. Who that ever visited the Cave of Fingal, or the Hall of Ossian, has not felt pleasures which the drawing-rooms of the gay would 29 attempt to rival in vain, and which the en- lightened and contemplative mind would shudder even to name in comparison ? What accounts of the most splendid palaces of Eastern magnificence ever interested the fancy or left an impression on the memory so indelible, as the beautiful description of the Cave of Calypso ? I much fear that the sage precepts of Muntor himself are forgotten, when the enchanting Cave of the Goddess is distinctly remembered. Vaucluse too! the interesting Vaucluse! who has not lavished on thee more than half the tenderness its celebrated inhabitant be- stowed on his Laura? Who ever felt more 30 than Petrarch the attraction of such interesting and romantic scenes ? So great was their sedu- cing influence as to steal him from the pre- sence of her he loved, to soften his regret for her absence, to still the effervescence of the passions, and sooth the wounds of the heart. 31 THE MYRTLE OF SOUTH WALES. Though odours sweet o'er Paphian gales were flung, When mid thy shade the shrine of Venus stood, Italia's muse, more sweet, thy praise has sung, When crown'd the Empress of the enchanted wood. Yet hence, each thought profane ! nor poet's dream, Nor visionary flowers, must here be sought; Truth's simple talc is all I make my theme; My muse of sorrow — but by nature taught. In a lone Cot, o'er which the sea-breeze blew, Which oft the tempest, as in pity, spared ; When the wild wave o'er towering head-lands flew, And the lorn eagle from his aerie scared. 32 There, humble Virtue, peaceful midst the storm, Fear'd not the terrors of the angry deep ; A widow'd heart, once with affection warm, Lived but to memory there, — to sigh or weep. Shemourn'd her son ! whom had the wave intomb'd, Far happier had his mother dcem'd his state ; He by the murderer's stroke to death was doom'd, And the harsh master's hand, alas! was Fate. O Heaven! what shivering horror chill'd her heart, When to her ear the mournful tale was told! "Bring me my son," she cried, " we will not part: "Ah me! he breathes not; no, he's pale and cold." E'en on the bier already was he laid, And o'er his corse was strew'd each drooping flower, By many a sighing youth, and pitying maid, With greenest myrtle, cull'd in hapless hour. 33 One tender branch his weeping mother took From his cold hand, and press'd it to her heart, Threw o'er his pallid form an anguish'd look, And cried "Oh! never from this branch I'll part." Full many a year is now long past away, Since to her garden was the branch convey'd, And still 't is water'd by her tears each day, And oft a sigh from pitying youth and maid. Now, as though grateful for her tender care, Its leaves expanding beautify the wild, And, as its fragrance steals along the air, The mourning mother sighs, u So bloom'd my child." 34 SIGHS, ADDRESSED TO PHYSICIANS. O ye ! of our forms who have studied the laws, And found for each sense and each organ a cause, Yet ne'er with precision could justly define, Where soul and where body most truly combine; Now candidly own as you read, nor deny Thatthe union of both is complete in the sigh. The sources of sighs are so variously framed, That some may a class of diseases be named. Infectious they certainly are, you must own ; For who that the sigh of a friend has e'er known, Did not swift-gliding feel, in the heart, in the eye, A tear fill the one, and the other a sigh ? But perhaps in the air the infection we find, Since who has not heard of the sighs of the wind ? From sorrow's deep sources such feelings are cast, 'Tis the mourner's sad sighs that we hear in the blast. 35 Or haply with tones of despair they are mixt, From somebosom-wound, which remembrance has fixt. Ah ! turn then to hope and to joy once again, May their softest sighs sooth each wound and each pain ! (t Oh ! no," cries the Lover who weeps o'er the sod Where once with some Being adored he has trod, " What pleasure on earth is now equal with me, "To sigh in the breeze which is blended with thee? 11 Yet ah ! how more envied my fate it had proved, " To breathe my last sigh on the bosom beloved !" Alas ! what is this which I feel at my heart. That takes in each picture I paint, such a part ? Is danger so subtile ? — Infection in thought From soul-touching sorrows my fancy has caught. Too sure, as I write, an example I find, Thaf sighs arc the union of body and mind. » 2 36 THE STRANGER AT STOWE. For happiness form'd are not scenes such as these ? If Nature and Art taught by Genius can please, Where each breeze seems to whisper, " Hence sadness " and care, 11 And come mid Elysium soft pleasures to share." Should you ask, if the heart here a sorrow could own? Sweet Echo, repeating, would seem to say " None." Nor ever will Echo her fond error know, So silently Sorrow has wander'd at Stowe. Here each Muse, and each Grace, each Virtue may rove, And all find some shrine, or some temple, or grove ; For Cobham's sole wish was, they never should roam, But deign to consider his Stowe as their home. 37 Combined every charm that could touch every heart. Where Fancy, or Genius, or Taste have a part, Then who could believe that a tear could e'er flow, The Stranger be sad and be silent at Stowe ? Here Glory again from his triumphs may rest, Already the Temple of Victory 's drest ; And laurels more bright, who may win from renown Than those which the Temple of Victory crown ? While Venus rewards still can offer more sweet, Her myrtles may strew at the conqueror's feet. Ah ! say, in such scenes who a sorrow could know ? Yet slow stole the tear from the Stranger at Stowe. 38 SYMPATHY. Ah ! I said to my heart, " Go to sleep," While in Lethe I bathed every wound, Then set Reason her vigils to keep, And to guard it from dangers around. Long softly entranced had it lain, Or to Friendship or Love both unknown ; For their efforts I check'd, nor in vain, Lest a throb or a sigh it might own. For each oft, alas ! had it bled, Disappointment had barb'd every dart : And Peace had with Happiness fled, Ere to sleep I devoted my heart. 39 Yet again it awoke from its dream With a touch, O how gentle and bland ! It the wand of enchantment might seem, But I felt it was sympathy's hand. " Ah ! then mine be the triumph, mine own," Thus softly she sigh'd to my heart, " Can your woes be unpitied, unknown, " When I claim more than half as my part?" Then bid Reason her vigils to cease, Or to sleep she may quietly go ; For though Reason may oft guard your peace, Every joy you to sympathy owe. 40 On seeing a profusion of rose leaves, it occurred to the Author's fancy, that by filling pillows with Bowers, their influence might extend according to their different vir- tues, real or fictitious, either to the heart or imagina- tion of the person who reposed on them. The wearied warrior from the fight Retires, and oft at closing night, Reckless of her who wears the willow, Makes of his faithful shield a pillow. The sea-boy, when the storm blows loud, A shelter finds beneath the shroud, Yet haply sinks into the billow Ere he has known a softer pillow. But here Ave offer to your view Charms, through each coming night, still new; For every wearied head a pillow Where threats no sword, nor stormy billow. 41 Here Sorrow sleeps, and softly breathes, Encircled in Lethean wreaths ; Nor dreams of shades o'erhung with willow, For soothing poppies grace her pillow. Here anxious Love shall gently rest, And feeling hearts, in visions blest, Untost by Passions' stormy billow, Of thornless roses find a pillow. 42 ON A FLOWER GATHERED IN POPE'S GARDEN, AT HIS CELEBRATED VILLA AT TWICKENHAM. Forgive me, ah ! forgive mc, beauteous flower, That thus I bear thee from thy sacred home, A home where every Muse has wove her bower, And Genius loved beneath their shade to roam. Nor rude nor sacrilegious deem that hand, Which raptured takes thee from thy 'sociates round, Though trembling, blushing, all the blooming band In gentle whispers say, "'Tis hallow'd ground." "'Tis this, the charm," exclaim'd I imdismay'd, " That led my footsteps to this sacred scene ; " At eve that bids me seek this classic shade, tl And fondly wander where your Pope has been. " Yet ah ! farewell farewel each muse and bower, " Grotto and river, take my latest sigh ; <{ Like some blest relic will I keep this flower, ''And on this bosom only shall it die." 43 KESIDENCES OF GENIUS. Deeply interesting must every spot be to those who possess the slightest portion of taste, feeling, or curiosity, which has been consecrated by the residence of superior genius. And a traveller of this description will rather run the risk of being benighted in a forest, or even be robbed by banditti, than refrain from visiting the abode of the philosopher or poet. It is immaterial if a cottage or embellished home, his farm or his hermitage, a superior mind will give consequence and dignity to either. Even the longest journeys have been often 44 made for the express purpose of enjoying this gratification. Every thing is interesting ; his house, his garden, his favourite walk, his fa- vourite seat, the tree whose branches waved unconscious over his head, the rivulet that mur- mured at his feet. We drink with transport of its waters as of a sacred spring ; every thing engages the attention, and interests the imagina- tion ; and if he has ceased to exist, how tender and how touching the regret which mixes with our thoughts and feelings ! It is a source of pensive pleasure rarely equal- led j it is the meed which the heart bestows on GENIUS. If such then be the sensations which scenei 45 like these awaken, ah ! why is the residence of our immortal Pope razed even to the ground ? O England! O my country ! is our sensibility lost, annihilated? Is the abode of sublime inspi- rations no longer sacred, no longer consecrated to refined and feeling hearts, to pure and en- lightened minds for ever ? 46 THE OLIVE WOOD. OCCASIONED BY HEARING THAT A BATTLE HAD BEEN FOUGHT ON THE CONTINENT IN AND NEAR A AVOOD OF OLIVES. Along the wood, and light upon the breeze, Sweet Concord whisper'd her soft harmonies, And sung aerial hymns at evening's close, Till all was hush'd in still and calm repose. When lo ! a solemn murmur through the wood Sudden arose, and midst the foliage stood The Goddess Peace. Roused with the quick alarm, She came to guard her favourite haunt from harm ; For, as she sweetly slept amid the shade 'Neath a green canopy of olive made, A blood. stain'd banner waved around her head, And instant tinged each leaf and branch with red 47 " Ah me!" she cried, u will War nor ever cease? 11 For ever must it chase the sleep of Peace ? u Here, even here, in this my loved retreat, " Must I the horrors of the battle meet? " Must I in this my cherish'd loved domain 11 Hear but the wounded, and but view the slain ? " O all ye powers who succour human life, " Grant me to quell this war's inhuman strife !" Then from on high an ample branch she tore, And straight the quick-form'd wreaths in haste she bore B To each opposing chief ; then graceful said, As the wreathed foliage at their feet she laid, " O spare these horrors in this hallow'd wood, " Nor bathe the haunts of Peace in human blood I 48 "Take these meek offerings, bid this warfare cease, " For every leaf that moves, here whispers — Peace ! il O take these olive wreaths your brows to bind ; li These sacred boughs were rcar'd to bless mankind." Resistless was her speech, her form, her air, So merciful, so mild, so heavenly fair! The Goddess conquer'd, saw the battle cease, While every breeze that blew soft whisper'd — Peace. 49 SUB ROSA. HAVING PROMISED TO WRITE A FEW LINES OV ANY GIVEN MOTTO, THE ABOVE WAS CHOSEN. 1 know not what whim has your fancy possest, If serious you speak, or are only in jest, When this of all mottos you think is the best, Sub Rosa. In the mirror of truth, prithee say, is it shown ? Or is it but guess'd by your fancy alone, That pleasure, true pleasure, can only be known Sub Rosa ? E 50 O haste then, hasten to yon blooming bower, And carefully bring me this magical flower ; This secret to prove of such wonderful power — Sub Rosa. Young Love, listening near, heard the order I gave ; And drest as a Page, he, a sly little knave, Stole soft, for he dared not a feather to wa^e, Sub Rosa. But when to the bower of roses he came, What joy fill'd his heart ! Oh, it wanted a name ! For hetriumphsinmischief when shelter'dfrom shame Sub Rosa. He skipp'd and he revel'd the roses among, Cried ll This flower's too faded, and that bud's too young," Whilst in anger the leaves of another he flung Sub Rosa. 51 As still he went on, cull'd a leaf or a flower, And doubting what proof he should giyeof his power, Fair Venus his mother appear'd in the bower Sub Rosa. " Dear Boy," she exclaim'd, "as a proof of thy art, " Of thypowertosubduewhenmostguardedthe heart, " Instead of a thorn, place a sharp-pointed dart, " Sub Rosa." This exquisite mischief was form'd to delight : lie kiss'd her in rapture, and swift took his flight, And I scarce held the gift, ere he hid from my sight Sub Rosa. There watch'd he in ambush the proof of his art, As the beautiful flower I press'd to my heart: Yet I touch'd but the leaves, so felt not the dart Sub Rosa. e <2 52 To think by his art he had dealt me a wound, He laugh'd ; but the urchin I traced by the sound, And, to punish his tricks, the young miscreant bound Sub Rosa. Though sweet are his fetters, and silken his chain, Yet the rash little knave still dares to complain ; For his arrow he left, and can never regain, Sub Rosa. 63 LINES WOUND AROUND THE POLE OF A TENT IN MY GARDEN. Fear not, ye tenants of these peaceful shades, Nor, whispering zephyrs, tremble mid the trees ; Shrink not, ye flowers, nordroop your blushing heads, But yield your fragrance to the passing breeze. Fear not, ye shades ! though hostile be my name; Though in far other scenes V was mine to dwell : Know, I for you have quitted war and fame, And lonely come to be a hermit's cell. Come then, ye trees, and shelter me around, And o'er my head your waving foliage bend ; Let mc with ivy, moss, and flowers be crown'd, For I of Solitude am now the friend. 54 Though long enamour'd of her soothing charms, Yet not to me her smile was e'er reveal'd ; She flies affrighted from the din of arms, Nor mars could win her to yon tented field. He whom I served, alas! in battle slain, Forlorn, deserted, mournful was my doom ; I fled in sorrow from the ensanguined plain, But left a laurel for the warrior's tomb. Long, long, I journey'd, over waste and wild, O'er mountain bleak, and many a tangled dell. Whilst Solitude alone my way beguiled, With hope to woo her in the Hermit's cell. Come then, ye welcome shades, and close me round, Wide o'er my head your waving foliage bend; Let me with ivy, moss, and flowers be crown'd, For here with Solitude my days shall end. 55 THE WANDERER'S VISIT TO STOURHEAD, THE CELEBRATED GARDENS OF SIR R. C. HOARE, BART. Where'er amid these classic scenes I rove, By lake or lawn, through gloomy grot or grove ; Or, in some solemn temple's sacred bound, I muse of other times, to the soft sound Of falling waters ; still, where'er I turn, Some lofty God, or laurePd Hero's urn, To Memory's view, deeds of renown restore, And o'er the soul energic spirits pour. Yet pass we on ; for though I stray'd to greet These lovely scenes, with wandering pilgrim feet, Yet came I not with critic eye to trace The various beauties of this favour'd place, 56 Where Art and Nature gracefully combine, And with Armidian 'chantments form each line ; Where oft the Muse has thrown her soft regard, And waked these Echoes, as her sweet reward. Yet might the Genius of the garden say, " What charm has lured the Wanderer from his way? " Haply devotion has the Pilgrim led, li And to yon convent are his footsteps sped ; (t Or 'neath that modest garb, and meek attire, " There glows a spark of our own Alfred's fire. " Should my divining spirit say aright, " The latent embers sudden bring to light, " Hie onward still, great Alfred's Tower you'll find, " Associate meet for the aspiring mind !" A conscious blush the Stranger's cheek might own, But such as Alfred would himself have known. 57 Yet still conccal'd beneath the Pilgrim's dress, He came, he said, if not for happiness, At least to sooth the Wanderer's lonely hour, And breathe his sighs along the beauteous Stour. 58 THE RUINED MANSION. From the lone common's drear and rugged scene, Where nought save furze and wild. flowers deck the green, Turn we awhile to yon dark vista's shade, Where storms and time the frequent breach have made, And rudely bent each venerable tree, Which shelter'd once a parent's infancy. Dear, loved retreat ! how oft, this spot to gain, My wandering feet have sought, yet sought in vain ! For here a tender mother's youth was rear'd, Beloved when living, and when dead revered ! Here in seclusion deep her life defined What virtue was ; and with superior mind, 69 Far from the world, above that world she soar'd, And oft the paths of science sweet explored. Ah ! might her honour'd shade now wander near, Her smile would chase this sadly soothing tear, And haply bid me hope, nor long to roam, But from the Ruin point a brighter Home. 60 OUR NATITE HOME. My Native Home ! No words ever formed a union more tender and affecting than these, in all ages, all countries, and all hearts. As a source of pensite pleasure, none will ever exceed or perhaps stand in competition with them. My Native Home ! what a stream of soft recollections flow as it were sponta- neously at the very sound! What heart ever became so callous, what nerves so blunted by an intercourse with the world, as to be rendered totally insensible to its endearing influence ? But, alas ! with what various feelings and im- pressions do we hear it pronounced ! These are 61 wholly influenced by the changes which circum- stances and events may have made in our fate since we were last destined to revisit it. Yet even those, whose lot in life has been the most for- tunate, will rarely revert to it, even in thought, without blending a sigh with the remembrance. The Sailor, the Soldier, the Traveller by choice, thelonely Wanderer from necessity, even the Peasant, who imagined the untried world a paradise, all, all unite in the same sympathy ; and the Hero who has gathered his laurels in a foreign soil prizes them more dearly, because they are destined to adorn his Native Home. That love of their country, that sighing after it, and drooping for its loss, that maladie c, which is shaded by a few scattered locks silvered by the hand of Time, and which indicate that he 74 is on (he brink of relinquishing his employment for ever. The moment he enters the sacred pre- cincts he uncovers his head : this simple action, scarcely observed at any other time, affects him differently; it seems the involuntary influence of the scene; the respect and homage of the heart alone. He shuts the massive door ; and, as its echoes reverberate through the edifice, the outward world is at once excluded, and the stranger is devoted to the sensations he already begins to experience. At every step they increase and awaken ; the sound of their feet, the sound of the voice, every thing combines to affect him ; he dreads even the slightest interruption that might tend to destroy the impressions which the 75 solemnity of the scene has already produced. He considers the Divine Essence as diffused through the whole church, and which seems to say God is here. The immense height of the fretted roof ; the high arched windows, painted with the history of Saints ; the fine perspective formed by the ranges of pillars which divide the aisles ; the highly ornamented chapels, tombs, and monu- ments, " above, beneath, and all around ;" — the interesting legends handed down from ages past, which the venerable verger from time to time relates of days that are gone, may truly be said, in the words of the bard, to be " pleasant, and mournful to the soul." 76 The organ next attracts attention, — that gigan- tic, noble, and appropriate instrument, con- secrated to God, and destined to raise the soul to him who made it. The mitred pulpit hung with draperies of velvet and gold, to give out- ward dignity to him who is destined to ex- pound from thence the sublime truths of our religion ; till proceeding onward, at length they approach the altar. Here the impressions are all more concentra- ted, more sacred ; the stranger trembles, sighs, shudders ; those thoughts which had fled to heaven, are now again returned to earth. The verger alarmed, approaches, speaks ; the stranger hears him not, for he sees the spot which awakens all his sorrows, where he had 77 plighted his vows to one beloved, lamented, gone for ever! He leans against the railing which surrounds the altar; then kneels, and addresses a low-breathed prayer to Heaven. He looks up, and, as he does so, a sudden stream of light, passing through the fine Gothic window above, falls full upon an exquisite painting by one of the finest masters. He beholds our Saviour's suffering on the cross ! What a revolu- tion takes place in his feelings ! A hectic flush crosses his cheek, his spirit is chastentd, his own sorrows are forgotten, he blushes to have felt them ; his eyes are bent to the ground, he humbles himself, and again arises, if not con- soled, at least resigned. He again slowly follows his venerable guide. 78 repasses the whole length of the Cathedral ; and at the extremity of one of the aisles he is attracted by a monument, apparently of recent construction, and of peculiar elegance and simplicity. It was of virgin marble ; and the design was an urn half shaded by a veil, half by a broken lily. On a small tablet beneath was an inscription, which the stranger approached to read ; but in breathless agitation instantly exclaimed 'O Heaven, how wonderful!' — It was to the memory of Matilda, the name of her he lamented. His bosom.wound is again opened, and bleeds in thought afresh ; but almost at the 79 same moment the organ is softly touched and a fine service begun ; which swelling into a solemn but beautiful harmony, tears soon relieved his oppressed heart. It was congenial to his feel- ings, and his soul was southed. O say what hall of banquet, what temple of luxury, can produce effects like these* ? * The little incident which is wove here into the general feeling is no fiction. 80 TO THE MEMORY OF A LADY OF DISTINCTION. " O tell me ! say, who are yon pensive train " That crown'd with cypress slowly tread the plain ?" " Ah! know yon not?" the wondering strangersaid, " The Muses mourn their long-loved sister dead. " See, to yon sacred grove they bend their way, " And, heavenly sweet! chant their funereal lay, " While each the laurel, bay, or myrtle wave, " And some fond trophy bear to deck her grave." Then with distracted air, and eye of fire, Bathing in bitter tears his unstrung lyre, Lo Genius comes ! whom grief and anguish rend. For he, alas ! has lost his dearest friend. 81 Ho, too, to deck her tomb, prepares a wreath, But in the tears of Genius steeps each leaf. " Oh ! envied fate I" the enthusiast here may cry, " Who to be so lamented would not die ?" Yet deeper woes her sable bier surround. Look at yon pensive group in sorrow drown'd ! In these no visionary feelings blend ; No Poet's dreams their ' airy nothings' lend ; The grateful heart, thccherish'd orphan's prayer, The poor man's blessing, and his tears, are there ; And high-soul'd Virtue, to misfortune driven, Who in her pity found an earlier heaven. But, Oh ! domestic Sorrow ! who shall raise Thy sacred veil? Ah no ! these ruder lays, 82 Dare not profane the tender wounded mind, Where Nature's dearest sympathies are twined. Enough of grief this feeling heart has known, To judge of others' sorrows by its own. The illustrious mourners pass in silence by, Save from each eye a tear, each breast a sigh. From yonder sacred grove's recess profound, With triple plume, and looks that seek the ground, Lo! still another comes ! with noble mien, And graceful step, to close the solemn scene ; Nor heeds the Muses' melancholy train, Who as he passes touch a softer strain. He slow moves on, regardless in his grief; Nor Genius nor the Muse can yield relief. " O envied fate !" the proudest here may cry, u Who to be so lamented would not die?" 83 ANTICIPATION. ELEGIAC STANZAS FOUND AMID THE RUINS OF A CELEBRATED ABBEY*. Should e'er to view this Abbey's ruin'd pile Some fond Enthusiast come with pilgrim feet, Beneath this ivied arch Oh ! stay awhile ! Where dwelt Elfrida — still her poet meet. He first within this consecrated wall Drew inspiration from each scene around ; Sage Learning swift obey'd his ardent call, While Genius and the Muse his temples bound. * The idea suggested by hearing a gentleman express a wish of being buried under the last remaining Gothic arch of * * * Abbey. 84 It was his hope, when in yon world he stay'd, Where soft affections shared his feeling heart, Should Heaven demand the debt to Nature paid, His long-loTed Abbey might a tomb impart. Here oft does some fair form, with name unknown, By Luna's shadowy, trembling light appear ; And, bending o'er this cold and moss-clad stone, Embalm her poet's grave with love's fond tear. Here, as succeeding suns their sweets expand, And soft winds sigh these silent shades among, Fresh flowers Elfrida strews with unseen hand While choral virgins raise their sacred song. 8$ IMPROMPTU, ON HEADING THE ACCOUNT OF THE DEATH OF EORD NELSON. " Victory ! Victory ! " Oh ! hark again ! The shouts of triumph thunder o'er the main. She glorious comes ; yet ah ! upon her breast Behold the hero godlike Nelson rest : " Let me," full oft he said, with soul of fire, " Oh ! let me on her bosom sweet expire ! " Glory applauded as the wish was given, And swift, by seraphs' tears, was register'd in heaven. 86 TO THE MEMORY OF HER WHO IS GONE FOR ETER. Denied upon thy sacred urn to mourn, To breathe the sigh, or pour affection's tear, Alas ! from earthly ties thy spirit's torn, Nor Sorrow soothes her griefs upon thy bier. Yet Fancy ever haunts each distant scene, Treads the lone aisle, and bends upon thy grave ; While pitying angels weep thy fate unseen, And flowers immortal all around it wave. The virtues which thy living form enshrined, That breathed so sweet, with such unfading bloom, By heaven exchanged, shall with thy name be twined, And shed their hallowed odours o'er thy tomb. 87 WRITTEN OX HEADING THE LATE ACCOUNTS FROM THE CONTINENT INCLUDING THE DEATH OF GALLANT GENER\L MOORE. SONNET. Again around Britannia's pensive brow Bright Glory binds the fresh though blood-stain'd wreath, And thickly weaves it, as to hide beneath The tears for many a Hero fallen that flow. Chill sorrow pales her cheek, not fear, Oh no ! Britannia ne'er knew fear ; no, not e'en death Could mingle fear, though with her latest breath. Her moore she mourns, now in her cause l vidlow ; For poor Iberia too she heaves a sigh. Oh! who could bear to see such spirits brave, Oppress'd by power, and wrong, and tyranny, And not hold out the friendly hand to save A Nation, where are souls too great! too high ! For Liberty to find an early grave. 88 IMPROMPTU. OX BEADING MR. GELl/s TROY. Those ardent feelings in thy bosom bred, Which bade the Pilgrim trace the Hero dead ; Taught him to mourn the once proud city's doom, And breathe a sigh upon the Warrior's tomb; Show that true glory, to no age confined, Is still the noblest passion of the mind. Then let the Poet point where Heroes fell, While Fame her fairest wreaths shall bind for Gell. 89 THE GRAVES OF HEROES. 11 BEHor.ii that field, O Carthen ! Many a green " hill rises there, with mossy stones and rust- " ling grass." Ossian. What words can speak, what hand delineate, the feelings which fill the hearts of those who bend over the graves of heroes ! It is eleva- tion ! tenderness ! regret ! a combination of all that is pleasing, affecting, beautiful and sublime. It is a circumstance that occassions that ele- vation of mind, which raises us beyond the level of common life, and makes us proud of 90 our humanity! Wc forget our own inferiority, in the swell of the soul which it produces ; and while memory rapidly runs back, and traces almost with instantaneous thought the glories of the past, all seems summed up in the bursting ebullition, when we exclaim, " This was indeed a Hero!" A pause succeeds ; again we reflect, we sigh ; the instability of all human affairs presents itself to our minds; we compare the present with the past; we bend in silence over the sod, and kiss with reverence the sacred earth, now blended with the dust of him " whose laurels are ga- " thercd in heaven." We linger over the spot ; and if a wild-flower springs up among the grass, the hand of sensibility will seize, and, while 91 pressing it to its bosom, deem that it possesses a treasure beyond all price ; since, What gem that ever shed its radiance from the regalia of kings can affect the soul, like the solitary flower that blooms on the grave of the Hero ! 92 IMPROMPTU. on' reading the account of the death of CHAttLES FOX. O liberty ! who now shall dry thy tear ? Ah ! who shall heal thy bosom's bleeding wound ? Lo ! England weeps upon her Patriot's bier, Nor finds his equal in her Empire's bound. 93 EPITAPH INSCRIBED ON A PLAIN TABLET OF WHITE MARBLE. What though no Hero here with lofty name, No trophied tablet give his deeds to fame, O Stranger, pass not on regardless by, But on this simple record breathe a sigh O'er one to Science and his Country dear; And all " the charities of life " are here. 94 OCCASIONED BY SOME IVY LEAVES BEING WORN IV THE BOSOM OF A FRIEND J AND MEANT AS AN ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL AIR OF DOCTOR HAR- RINGTON'S. " Wind, gentle evergreen !" and though around No Poet's tomb your beauteous leaves are bound, Yet shall their foliage still more envied prove When twined around the heart of her I love ; And the famed Poet*, could he breathe anew, His laurels gladly would resign for you. Sophocles. 9b BURNS, THE SCOTTISH BAUD, HAVING OBTAINED PEIW MISSION TO PLACE A HEAD-STONE AT THE NEGI.ECTED- GRAVE OF FERGUSON, HE ADDED THE FOLLOWING INSCRIPTION". '* No sculptured marble here, or pompous lay, " No storied urn or animated bust, — " This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way " To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust." 96 AFTER SCOTLAND BEGAN TO MOURN OVER HER LA- MENTED BIRNS, THE FOLLOWING STANZAS "WERE WRITTEN ON THE SAME STONE WITH A TENCIL. ADDRESSED TO SCOTLAND. This humble record Sympathy has rear'd To kindred Genius by the Muse endear'd, Well may (he tribute of thv sorrows claim : But while thy Poet's name shall live, The hand that placid it here will give * This stone to Fame. * The traveller shall lay him by thy side, Thy whistling moss shall sound in his dreams, The days that are past shall return. Otsian When the darkened moon i- rolled over his head, 'our shadowy forms may come. 97 Yet ah ! pale Scotia ! now indeed forlorn, Who now shall bind with flowers so fair thy thorn ? Who point the path where thy loved Poet lies ? Since he who taught thy steps to meet This lowly grave, is fled to greet His native skies. Ves ! he is gone, the Bard so loved, admired, By Heaven's Promethean spark alone inspired ! Proud of her children, Scotia call'd him one, But Genius ne'er will yield his claim ; Nursed in thy upland chill domain, Burns was his son. 98 TO THE MEMORY OF LIEUTENANT-COLONEL *****, A BRAVE, BELOTED, AND LAMENTED BROTHER. While Britain's valiant chiefs exulting bore The spoils of conquest to their native shore ; Ah ! gallant youth ! nor native shore, nor friend, Shall e'er to thee their welcome sight extend. Far on a hostile coast thy body lies, Wash'd by rude waves, or scorch'd by sultry skies . 99 MEMORIALS IN DOMESTIC SCENES. That m pleasure is of pensive kind," nothing can be a stronger or more impressive proof, than the number of monuments which are raised to the memory of individuals in private gardens, parks, and domains. Scarcely one will be found of any extent or beauty, which has not its pillar, temple, or cenotaph, dedicated to some public character, or private friend ; as if it were the pleasure of the owner to eternise his grati- tude, admiration, or regret, by giving them some pleasing object to feed upon ; and which will ever form, to the feeling' "Heart, the most interesting part of the scene. h 2 ICO But this pensive source of pleasure comes with all its luxury of tender recollections, when the memorial, (perhaps merely an urn,) on which the hand of Genius has inscribed a few expres- sive lines, is so situated that it can be visited unperceived by others ; surrounded by deep shades, ami remote from all intrusion. But many succeeding moons must have shed their soft beams over the scene, and suns have performed their wonted revolutions, ere the wounded bosom of the friend can visit it with- out pain. The moss must already have begun to cover the stone, and the foliage to hide it from common eyes, ere this period will haw arrived. 101 All the bitterness of grief must be past, and only that tender sorrow which affection loves to cherish in its bosom left; — like as the mark impressed in the sand remains, which the rolling wave has softened, but has not yet effaced. But local circumstances, and those combina- tions of thought, which the changes of the varying seasons occasion, will very much affect, and influence our feelings ; and in autumn, and at the approach of winter, blend much of sad- ness with the scene. The falling of the rustling leaves, blown and scattered by the winds around, always speak too plainly of past happiness; and when we mourn over the youthful and the brave, wheu we can say in the words of the bard, ' ; Death has come like the blast of the 102 " Desert, and laid thy green head low ; when the " spring returns, but no leaves of thine appear :" alas ! when thoughts like these press upon the heart, the low sighing of the wind sounds like the voice of sympathy, and imagination almost embodies the very air which surrounds us, with the spirit of the Friend we mourn. 103 WRITTEN IN THE DESERTED MANSION OF SIR JAMES THORNHILL, THE CELEBRATED PAINTER. Taste, Science, Genius, are ye ever fled From these lone halls, and with your votary dead ? Must I in vain my pensive search extend, In vain my footsteps through yon gallery bend ? Must on these walls alone my fancy trace The Hero, Statesman, beauty, wit, or grace ? Those attic hours Time on his bright wings bore, Ah! not her sweet illusions can restore. Science, nor Taste, nor Genius here are found, Sad Desolation spreads her ruin round. Might they my call attend, their reign resume, What change would instant fill each lonely room ! Gay Elegance should here unfettcr'd roam, And Thornhill's shade smile on his once-loved home. 104 WRITTEN AT THE SAME PLACE SOME TEARS AFTER, ON LEARNING THAT THE PRECEDING LINES HAD IN- DUCED A PERSON OF FEELING AND TASTE TO TAKE A JOURNEY ON PURPOSE TO VISIT IT. Yes ! I again revisit these lone halls, Where once my pencil pensive sketches drew, As the eye mused along these mould'ring walls, And contrast deepen'd ev'ry shade and hue. Nor has Time held his desolating hand, But mark'd his progress every passing year ; And yet again these halls a sigh demand, For Sympathy has silent wander'd here. Yes ! these faint traces on the inquiring mind Raised a soft wish those sadden'd scenes to view ; And Thornhill's shade, low murmuring in the wind, Again has whisper'd, Child of Taste ! adieu ! 105 sorrow's friend. Patience, pale maid ! that near my beating heart Dost drooping sit, and oft with gentle hand Wilt, softly stealing o'er my breast, impart Thy healing balms, with tender soothing bland ! Yet the warm tear still trembles on my cheek, Deep swells the sigh that will not be supprest : Ah! nor thy plaintive look, nor accents meek, Can still the anguish of the feeling breast. Yet, silent mourner, I entreat thy stay ; Still to my soul thy gentle soothing lend ; Nor let misfortune ever know that day When Patience ceases to be Sorrow's friend. 105 THE VIOLET'S COMPLAINT TO NATURE. Occasioned by a Lady having presented a Gentleman, in return for a poem, with a golden violet. In imitation of the ancient Provencals. Ah ! me! poor simple flower ! I fondly thought, A Poet's soul could ne'er by gold be bought ! Oh ! I could die ! to find his heart untrue, Though all I suffer, Nature, is for you. You saw me first in spring's soft bosom rest, Then smiling clothed me in a beauteous vest ; Did each rich fold in sweetest perfume lave, And still a lovelier, dearer charm you gave; Bade Truth and Faith by me be ever known, And Constancy's true colour was my own. Alas ! your lover Nature now no more!' The Poet dotes on dross, and sordid ore; My perfume's gone, my colour now is old, E'en your poor Violet must be drest in gold. 107 TO A SNOWDROP, WHICH HAD BEEN THE SUBJECT OF A FEW ELEGANT LINES. Alas ! pale drooping beauty ! e'en on thee His Muse essays insidious flattery ! Thy virgin coldness feigning to adore, He'll steal the softest drop e'er pity wore, In silent sorrow droop and bend like thee, Dissolved in drops of weeping sympathy ; The impassion'd tear deride which late he shed, Vow to be near thee, would make earth his bed. Yet ah ! the traitor trust not, though he swear The Lily coarse, and thou alone art fair! For ere tomorrow's sun its rays disclose, He breathes a passion to the blushing Rose. Then mayst thou form a wreath from Fancy's loom, Or with'ring die upon some Vestal's tomb ! 108 LINES ADDRESSED TO *****, ON HEARING SOME OF HIS POEMS IN AN EVENING. Late as I pass'd, methought upon the air Soft music floated, such as softens care ! Awhile it seem 'd of Philomela's strain, And yet more sweet, as some fond charm for pain. If minds untaught her warblings wild will feel, Deep through the soul's recesses these will steal ; For u seutiment and thought" inform the song; To nature, feeling, taste, the notes belong. Sweet Bard of mournful melodies! 'tis thine To pour upon the soul a strain divine. Thy powers alone infuse into the heart New sympathies, new energies impart, Bid Genius waken from its dream supine, And by collision catch a spark from thine. 109 TO CHARLOTTE SMITH. A FRAGMENT. ********** In-fated Charlotte, whose cnlighten'd mind Exalted Genius by true taste refined; For whom the Loves that hail'dlhy natal morn Wove wreaths of roses, and conccaPd each thorn ! But ah ! the Fates their labours discompose, And leave the thorns, unguarded by the rose. Yet still, to soften what they cannot change, The Muses call thee " Sister," with thee range, Wait on thy walks, attend thy evening hours, Haunt all thy steps, and in thy path strew flowers ! And, since no more is left them to bestow, Sigh o'er the sorrows, thou art doom'd to know. 110 FRAGMENT OF A GAltLAND INTENDED FOR MISS OWENSON. If for Glorvina you would bind a wreath, Go cull each wild flower that on earth may grow, In the deep vale, or hid the wood beneath, Up the steep cliff, or on the mountain's brow ! E'en in yon ivied Ruin's sacred fane Haply some solitary sweet may dwell. O bring it hither ! nor will she disdain The moss that softens the lone Hermit's cell. ********** Ill HATING A COTTAGE TO LET IN A BEAUTIFUL BUT RE- TIRED SITUATION, THE FOLLOWING LINES WERE FIXED TO THE DOOR BY WAY OF ADVERTISEMENT. O ! you, who have toil'd in yon world's busy scene, And harass'd with cares and with follies have been, Ah ! wander no more, here your sorrows shall cease, For this, pensive Stranger, 's the cottage of peace. Since our youth to the wars have been destined to roam, Sweet Peace has been scared from her long-cherish'd home. Like the dove she is fled the fresh olive to find, To form into wreaths, with these laurels to bind. This humble straw roof to my care she has given, And yon fountain and wood, are as sacred as Heaven. 'Tis here then, dearStranger, yoursorrows shall cease. And Happiness dwell in the Cottage of Peace, 119 TIME CRUEL AND KIND. O Tjme! 'tis thou whom we despoiler call, And only thou whom man could ne'er enthral ; Whose flight we trace not, and who waits for none, Yet with the happy speed'st thy way alone ; Who deck'st thy wings with Beauty's softest bloom, Then sayst to Vanity, " Behold thy doom !" Whosee'st proud cities form a mouldering heap, And prouder princes in their ruin sweep : While some lone watch-tower oft is pitying found. As its bleak head thine ivy mantles round. If then some pity dwell within thy heart, Haply from Care, it makes thee loth to part ; And, as her sighs are borne upon the gale, Stoop on thy wing to listen to her tale. Yet lingering long, the mourner bids thee 'go,' As if thy presence but increased her woe. Nor knows the ingrate thou dost still delay, Unseen to fly, and steal her tears away. 113 RUINS. Among the class of pensive pleasures, which, like mournful music, soothe our feelings while they awaken our sensibility, there is none more interesting than the contemplation of Ruins. Yet it is infinitely more easy to experience this sensation than to define its origin. Nor is it always for our happiness to look for causes when we are satisfied with the effects. But this is a subject that peculiarly awakens our curi- osity and inquiry, as it is in apparent opposi- tion to every rule by which we are in general influenced. For, if perfection be in every in- stance the source of admiration, whether in i 114 Nature or Art, it is here that imperfection, nay even desolation, charms ; and perhaps it is much more easy to say what it is not, than to define what it is. Decrepid age, feeble, bending, tottering, in danger of falling with the least gust of wind at every step ; — or some mutilated wretch deprived of a leg or an arm ; — a house half pulled down, half standing forlorn, or ravaged and black with fire ; — a garden whose fences are broken, and whose walks and wonted beauties are all choked and overrun with brambles and every reptile weed ;— these all are Ruins ! Yet in what different forms must they appear, before they can produce any thing like pleasure to the be- holder? pleasure of that pensive kind so con- 115 genial to a tender heart. It is, however, of no rustic origin : the vulgar cannot experience it : the peasant, scared and overcome with supersti- tious fears, passes with hasty steps the spot, where the pilgrim feet of taste and feeling will linger with untired delay. To one of this cast, a fine Gothic moss-clad ivied Ruin, whether it be abbey or baronial castle, is an object beyond measure interesting. It is a beautiful record of ages past; a page of history illuminated by the pleasures of ima- gination ; a theatre which the changing seasons and revolving years have decorated, softening every tint to harmony, and which the spectator can people with actors at his bidding. It is no i 2 116 regretted friend he mourns ; no individual sorrow blends with the scene : it is a " tale of other ' " times," united with the sympathies of our na- ture for the fate of the human race " now to '* the earth gone down." It is Desolation clothed in the garb of beauty by the hand of Time, that fascinates his atten- tion, and steals him from himself. Hours uncounted pass away ; the sun has set, and the rising moon still finds him on the battle- ment. All personal regard absorbed, danger un- felt, unthought of, every faculty is enchained by the new beauties that surround him, which the moon begins to illuminate with still more enchanting effect. 117 The whole Ruin soon becomes a superb, a sublime transparency ; and each broken pillar and Gothic arch appears hung with drooping plants and ivy, waving and sighing in the even- ing breeze. And could Time roll his ages back, and give the scene its original perfection, the soul of taste and feeling would arrest his hand, and stay his reverted step ; since to its slow and gradual progression he owes that soft, contem- plative, and pensive pleasure produced alone by the beauty of desolation. !18 WRITTEN UNDER EXTREME DEPRESSION OF SPIRITS AT A WINDOW IN WHICH WAS AN AEOLIAN HARP. The Muse would softly wake some plaintive strain, To soothe the sorrows of the aching breast, To lull awhile the sense of mental pain, And bid fair Fancy lull each care to rest. Yet ah ! in vain. Fancy with Joy is fled, I see her tresses waving in the wind : No more a fragrance shall those tresses shed, From wreaths I wont around her head to bind. The Muse desponding turns : denied her aid, To touch the lyre she pensive tries in vain. tl But hark," she cries " soft sounds each sense in- vade ; tl 'Tis mournful music of vEolian strain." Along the lyre the air with gentle sweep May with sweet Harmony some joy impart: Yet ah ! such tones the Muse herself must weep, Form'd by the sighs that speak the bleeding heart. 119 ON RETURNING FROM UNINTERESTING SOCIETY, WHEN THE HEART IS OPPRESSED WITH SECRET SORROW. Alas ! then, is this wounded mind Become unfeeling and unkind ? Can sorrow, disappointment, grief, Find but in solitude relief? Can each gay scene, where oft a part I bore, now but oppress my heart ? Oft from the crowd's inquiring eye I turn to hide a tear, or sigh, Wear in my cheek a faithless smile, And innocent my friends beguile; Who fondly think that nothing less Is hid beneath, than happiness. Oh! sweet delusion ! come, impart. Extend thy power, and reach, Oh ! reach my heart ! 120 TO A FRIEND. To whom, alas ! to whom shall this full heart Its bursting anguish or its joys impart ? To whom, but to the soul of sympathy, The friend whom bounteous Heaven has form'd for me ? Say, does the Earth within her richest vein A gem so precious and so rare contain ? Not either India, could they their treasures blend, Can yield a treasure like that gem — a Friend. Come, of the mourner's heart thou solace blest, And find a casket in my faithful breast; There will I wear thee long as life is given, And only yield thee to thy native Heaven. 1