At those lov'd shores where Yare with ceaseless sweep
Joins the dark bosom of the fearful deep,
Full many a truant wish and wayward look
Has absence cast and musing Fancy took,
Where Friendship vacant finds an elbow chair,
Looks round with joy and longs to linger there;
Where frank Good-humour ev'ry care beguiles,
With all the social family of smiles;
Charm'd at the thought, I picture Juliet near
Her sprightly glance I feel, her voice I hear,
Attentive sit, and meet, with tacit sigh
The softer cast of pensive Myra's eye;
Dwell long enamour'd on each blooming grace,
That lends its 'luring influence to her face;
With fluttering breast I view her nicest skill,
Teach the keen darts of Venus how to kill,
And touch with busy hand each lighter dress,
That guards the dimpled cheek and silken tress;
The filmy gauze, the ribband's dazzling dye,
(A mystic spell to catch the rustic eye),
The waving sash, the feather's nodding plume,
With all the powers of cambric and perfume ;
Through such let meaner beauties of the day
Spread wide o'er vanquish'd hearts the female sway,
At ev'ry look and random glance lay low
A dangling coxcomb, or a flimsy beau ;
To souls like mine no influence they impart,
Who bribe the eye to captivate the heart.
Slaves to the laws of taste, let some admire
Paulo's bold stroke, or vivid Titian's fire;
With critic skill, and just precision trace,
Poussin's learn'd air, or soft Corregio's grace.
* Juliet, the sister of the lady to whom these verses were addressed.
In mute amaze let others trembling stand,
And feel the dark sublime of Rosa's hand;
Be mine the task their varied styles to view,
And mark their blended beauties met in you.
When the lone wretch by age and sickness led,
Bides the chill storm, and begs for bitter bread,
Taught by thy moving hand my tears shall flow
The hasty followers of his helpless woe,
Oft as I strive to chase those griefs away,
That cloud the sunless evening of his day.
Meanwhile Affection fondly fix'd on you—
(The lovely source from whence its pity grew),
Viewing thy beggar form with joy shall boast,
That she who excites it best, must feel it most.
ON A FRAGMENT OF SOME VERSES
WRITTEN BY A LADY IN PRAISE OF SOLITUDE.
MYRA! dear maid, full many a weary hour
In joyless speed has pass'd, since first mine eye
Met the faint outline of your early hopes,
Moist with the purest dew of Castaly :
And who, ah! who, can willingly resign
The distant shadows of ideal joys,
In youth's fair morn by treacherous Fancy form'd,
That, like the floating rack on yonder sky,
Pass into nought as they had never been?
The time was once, when oft the long day through,
Far, far too busy for my present peace,
O'er these the pensive fablings of your Muse
I hung enamour'd, whilst with anxious glance
The kindred feelings of my youthful years,
In visionary view full glad I found,
And blissful dreams, familiar to my heart,
O'er which sweet Hope her gilding pale had flung:
Such, O! such scenes with Myra to have shared
Was all my fruitless prayers e'er ask'd of Fate.
(Filling each space imperfect you had left);
Oft would my partial hand the pencil take,
And bid the sketch unreal hues assume,
Bright beams of light and colours not its own:
Mischance stood by and watch'd, and at an hour
When least I thought her near, with hasty hand
All my fair pictured hopes at once defac'd.—
The traveller thus, when louring skies impend,
In sorrowing silence leaning on his staff,
From some ascent his weary steps have gain'd,
Breathless looks back, and pausing, ponders well
The lengthen'd landscape past; now hid he finds
Mid far-off mists, and thick surrounding showers,
Each city, wandering stream, and wildering wood,
Where late in joy secure he journied blythe,
Nor met the phantom of a single fear,
Where every cloud illumin'd by the sun,
Hung lovely, and each zephyr fragrance breath'd.
ADDRESS TO THE RIVER ISIS,
SWEET
WEET Isis thy stream as despairing I lie,
Thy muse-haunted marge with wild flowrets intwin'd,
Make me grieve when I think that the moment draws nigh, When for ever, I fear, I must leave thee behind.
May thy bosom with tremulous shadows impress'd,
From the waving green willow that hangs on thy shore,
With regret miss the step of a death striken guest,
And Echo list oft for the sound of his oar.
Though her lover be fallen-thy copses among
When Philomel warbles at close of the day,
May a friend ne'er be wanting to catch her lorn song,
And welcome the loveliest herald of May.
May the suns that I've seen, and the cloudless blue skies, The soft verdant meads, and rich woodlands around, Still, still feed with rapture a thousand fond eyes, Though I be far distant,-or cold in the ground.
Why dwell on the thought then? sad fancy depart,
And charm me no more with thy treacherous spell;
The first of past joys I dismiss from my heart,
When to thee, belov'd Isis! I once bid farewell.
SICKNESS! I yield to thy subduing sway,
A livid paleness o'er each feature steals; Widely irregular my pulses play,
And all my frame a listless languor feels.
How chang'd, how alter'd from my former plight,
When youthful vigour every sinew strung,
When fancy wing'd a bold excursive flight,
And notes of rapture warbled on my tongue.
The dreams of pleasure which I then pursued,
No more shall lure me with their splendid guise;
Nor shall my love of fame be hence renew'd,
For sickness yields not to the great or wise.
The frowns of censure and the smiles of praise,
And all that fortune and that fate decree,
The same indifference in my bosom raise,
For all, alas! is vanity to me.
E'en the sweet converse of the nymph I love,
Of late so pleasing, now disgusts mine ear;
And should an angel whisper from above,
His fine-ton'd accents I could scarcely bear.
* This poem was inserted in the Public Advertiser, Nov. 3, 1790; and ascribed to the pen of Mr. Headley, a very short time before his decease.
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