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WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL.
WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION IN
The summer sun that dew shall dry,
The owl and the raven are mute for dread, Ere yet the day be past its morrow;
And the time is meet to awake the dead! Nor longer in my false love's eye, Remain'd the tear of parting sorrow.
“ Souls of the mighty, wake and say,
To what high strain your harps were strurg.
When Lochlin plough'd her billowy way, TO A LADY,
And on your shores her Norsemen flung?
Her Norsemen train'd to spoil and blood, Take these flowers, which, purple waving,
Skill'd to prepare the raven's food, On the ruin'd rampart grew,
All by your harpings door'd to die
On bloody Largs and Loncarty.
“ Mute are ye all? No inurmurs strange Warriors from the breach of danger
Upon the midnight breeze sail by; Pluck no longer laurels there:
Nor through the pines with whistling change They but yield the passing stranger
Mimic the harp's wild harmony!
Mute are ye now?-Ye ne'er were mute,
And Rapine with his iron hand,
Were hovering near yon mountain strand.
“ O yet awake the strain to tell, THE AUTUMN OP 1804.
By every deed in song enroll'd,
By every chief who fought or fell
Through the deep ranks of Roman war,
Who victor died on Aboukir.
“ By all their swords, by all their scars,
By all their names, a mighty spell! There is a voice among the trees
By all their wounds, by all their wars, That mingles with the groaning oak
Arise, the mighty strain to tell! That mingles with the stormy breeze,
For fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain, And the lake-waves dashing against the rock ;- More impious than the heathen Dane, There is a voice within the wood,
More grasping than all-grasping Rome,
Gaul's ravening legions hither come!"
The wind is hush'd, and still the lake
Strange murmurs fill my tingling ears, “ Wake ye from your sleep of death,
Bristles my hair, my sinews quake, Minstrels and Bards of other days!
At the dread voice of other years, For the midnight wind is on the heath,
" When targets clash'd, and bugles rung, And the midnight meteors dimly blaze!
And blades round warriors' heads were flung, The spectre with his bloody hand
The foremost of the band were we, Is wandering through the wild woodland;
And hymn'd the joys of liberty!"
A month or more hath she been dead,
And her together.
That Aush'd her spirit.
She did inherit.
A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO. May the Babylonish curse Strait confound my stammering verse, If I can a passage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind, (Still the phrase is wide or scant) To take leave of thee, great plant! Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate: For I hate, yet love, thee so, That, whichever thing I shew, The plain truth will seem to be A constrain'd hyperbole, And the passion to proceed More for a mistress than a weed.
Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus' black servant, negro fine; Sorcerer, that mak’st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimed lovers take 'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath Faster than kisses or than death.
THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. I have had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I loved a love once, fairest among women! Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
Thou in such a cloud dost bind us,
Thou through such a mist dost shew us, That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowed features,
Call her Cockatrice and Siren,
Or, as men, constrain d to part
Due to reasonable creatures,
Bacchus we know, and we allow
Brother of Bacchus, later born,
Scent to match thy rich perfume
Stinking'st of the stinking kind,
For I must (nor let it griere thee
, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, Tobacco, I Would do any thing but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she, who once hath been A king's consort, is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any tittle of her state, Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys; Where though I, by sour physician, Am debarr'd the full fruition Of thy favours, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odours, that give life Like glances from a neighbour's wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy borders take delight, An unconquer'd Canaanite.
TO T. L. H. Model of thy parent dear, Serious infant worth a fear: In thy unfaultering visage well Picturing forth the son of Tell, When on his forehead, firm and good, Motionless mark, the apple stood; Guileless traitor, rebel mild, Convict unconscious, culprit-child! Gates that close with iron roar Have been to thee thy nursery door;
Chains that chink in cheerless cells
This saintly lady Abbess hath made me justly fear, Have been thy rattles and thy bells;
It nothing will avail me that I were worshipp'd Walls contrived for giant sin
here." Have hemmed thy faultless weakness in; Near thy sinless bed black guilt
LINES Her discordant house hath built,
ON THE SAME PICTURE BEING REMOVED TO MAKE And filled it with her monstrous brood
PLACE FOR A PORTRAIT OF A LADY BY TITIAN, Sights, by thee not understood
Who art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place Sights of fear, and of distress,
Of Blanch, the lady of the matchless grace?
Come fair and pretty, tell to me,
Who, in thy life-time, thou might'st be.
Thou pretty art and fair,
But with the lady Blanch thou never must compare.
No need for Blanch her history to tell; That yields thee up to Nature's power.
Whoever saw her face, they there did read it well. Nature, that so late doth greet thee,
But when I look on thee, I only know
There lived a pretty maid some hundred years ago.
ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY LIONARDO DA Of health and pastime. Birds shall sing
VINCI, CALLED THE VIRGIN OF TAE ROCKS. For thy delight each May morning. 'Mid new-yean'd lambkins thou shalt play,
While young John runs to greet Hardly less a lamb than they.
The greater infant's feet, Then thy prison's lengthened bound
The mother standing by, with trembling passion
Of devout admiration, Shall be the horizon skirting round.
[ration; And, while thou fillest thy lap with flowers,
Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty adoTo make amends for wintery hours,
Nor knows as yet the full event The breeze, the sunshine, and the place,
Of those so low beginnings, Shall from thy tender brow efface
From whence we date our winnings, Each vestige of untimely care,
But wonders at the intent (worship meant. That sour restraint had graven there;
Of those new rites, and what that strange childAnd on thy every look impress
But at her side A more excelling childishness.
An angel doth abide,
With such a perfect joy
As no dim doubts alloy,
Of blind humanity,
As if he surely knew
Or he had lately left the upper sphere, [dles there.
And had read all the sovran schemes and divine ridTo the Urs’line convent hastens, and long the abbess hears.
SONNETS. “O Blanch, my child, repent ye of the courtly life Blanch looked on a rose-bud and little seem'd to
TO MISS KELLY. heed.
[thought She looked on the rose-bud, she looked round, and You are not, Kelly, of the common strain, On all her heart had whisper'd, and all the Nun That stoop their pride and female honor down had taught.
[my fame, To please that many-headed beast the town, “ I am worshipped by lovers, and brightly shines And vend their lavish smiles and tricks for gain; All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch's By fortune thrown amid the actors' train,
(the tree, You keep your native dignity of thought; Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud from The plaudits that attend you come unsought, My queen-like graces shining when my beauty's As tributes due unto your natural vein. gone from me.
[head, Your tears have passion in them, and a grace But when the sculptur'd marble is raised o’er my Of genuine freshness, which our hearts avow; And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among the Your smiles are winds whose ways we cannot trace,
That yanish and return we know not how
BUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF TWO FEMALES BY
LIONARDO DA VINCI.
And please the better from a pensive face,
A timid grace sits trembling in her eye, A thoughtful eye, and a reflecting brow.
As loth to meet the rudeness of men's sigbt,
Yet shedding a delicious lunar light, ON THE SIGHT OP SWANS IN KENSINGTON GARDEN. That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy Queen-bird that sittest on thy shining nest,
The care-crazed mind, like some still melody: And thy young cygnets without sorrow hatchest, Speaking most plain the thoughts which de passes And thou, thou other royal bird, that watchest Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness, Lest the white mother wandering feet molest:
And innocent loves, and maiden purity: Shrined are your offspring in a chrystal cradle,
A look whereof might heal the cruel smart Brighter than Helen's ere she yet had burst
Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind; 1 Her shelly prison. They shall be born at first
Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart Strong, active, graceful, perfect, swan-like, able
Of him who hates his brethren of mankind. To tread the land or waters with security.
Turned are those lights from me, who foodly yet Unlike poor human births, conceived in sin,
Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret. In grief brought forth, both outwardly and in Confessing weakness, error, and impurity.
If from my lips some angry accents fell, Did heavenly creatures own succession's line,
Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof onkind, The births of heaven like to your's would shine.
'Twas but the error of a sickly mind
And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well, Was it some sweet device of faery
And waters clear, of reason; and for me That mocked my steps with many a lonely glade, Let this my verse the poor atonement ben And fancied wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid? My verse, which thou to praise wert erer incided Have these things been? or what rare witchery, Too highly, and with a partial eye to see Impregning with delights the charmed air,
No blemish. Thou to me didst ever shew
Kindest affection; and would oft-times lend
Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.
THE FAMILY NAYE,
What reason first imposed thee, gentle name,
Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire, Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclin'd Without reproach? we trace our stream no hiçber; Beneath the vast out-stretching branches high
And I, a childless man, may end the same. Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie,
Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains, Nor of the busier scenes we left behind
In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks, Aught envying. And, O Anna! mild-eyed maid!
Received thee first amid the merry mocks Beloved! I were well content to play
And arch allusions of his fellow swains.
Perchance from Salem's holier fields returned,
Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord
Took his meek title, in whose zeal he burn'd. A tale of true love, or of friend forgot ;
Whate'er the fount whence thy beginnings cane, And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail
No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name. In gentle sort, on those who practise not Or love or pity, though of woman born.
TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ. OF THE SOUTH-SEA-Horst When last I roved these winding wood-walks green,
John, you were figuring in the gay career Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet,
Of blooming manhood with a young man's jos, Oft times would Anna seek the silent scene,
When I was yet a little peerish boyShrouding her beauties in the lone retreat.
Though time has made the difference disappiu No more I hear her footsteps in the shade:
Betwixt our ages, which then seemed so grestHer image only in these pleasant ways
And still by rightful custom you retain
O! you do well in this. 'T'is man's worst deed
Old buried forms, and faces long ago,