Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

Thou canst not tread, ('twere sorrow vain)
The tedious path of lowly gain;

Yet proudly shall thy jealous mind;
Repel the aid of bounty kind;
Friendship in vain shall o'er thee bend,
Nor know to counsel or defend ;
E'en they, who love the muse's lyre,
Shall from thy helpless woes retire.

Wayward and lone, the nectar'd bowl
Gives thee the trance of soft control,
The pause from care, the rest from pain,
Which hapless thought no more can gain:
-But on thy waking eyes shall glare
Disease, and anguish, and despair,
And poverty with squalid mein
And feeble cry, shall close the scene.

Who then shall for thy genius feel,
Thy virtues rouse, thy spirit heal?
Dulness shall see thy vessel torn,
And safe on shore shall smile in scorn;
The world, that loved to hear thy woe
Melodious in thy numbers flow,
Shall careless from thy misery turn,
Nor further seek thy griefs to learn.

In vain by thee this world unkind
It charmed, instructed, and refined;
It leaves thee by thy worth alone
To build an happiness thine own;
And sunk in ruins shall expire

The mind that winged the song with fire,
Tho' still the song may live to fame,
And guard the hapless poet's name.

Why draining deep the poison'd bowl,
With flashing eye, and bursting soul,
Ah! why did Chatterton expire,
-He struck the muse's fatal lyre-
What heart but felt his powerful sway,
Who mourned o'er Auburn swept away!
But what the meed which genius gave?
A life enslaved-an early grave.

And he whose voice of Jaffier sung,
And he, whose harp the passions strung,
353

And

And dying Burns-our praise, our sighs,
In incense vain, too late arise!

-But thou, fond youth, go, wiser thou,
To prudence bear thy timely vow;
The poet's fame, the lyre divine,
But not the poet's fate be thine.

ON THE DEATH OF

AFTER A SHORT ILLNESS.

FROM POEMS BY

THE HONOURABLE WILLIAM HERBERT.

IF manners mild with mirth combined,

If truth adorns a female mind,

And fond domestic love,

Sweet maid, adieu ! the farewell tear,
Which friendship pays thine early bier,
Shall every saint approve.

For not the brightest fairest rays,
Which beauty's slippery form displays,
So reason can enthrall,

As the chaste heart, devoid of pride,
The smile to gentle joys allied,
When harmless pleasures call.

Thy name amidst the circle gay,
Who in life's idle sunshine play,
Shall soon be heard no more;
But those, who loved thy gentle form,
Whose hearts can prize each social charm,
Will long thy loss deplore.

Friendship, when many a winter's blast
Shall o'er thy mouldering tomb have pass'd
Will still thine image view;

Still will the mind, which draws to light
Each fleeting scene of past delight,
The tender thought renew.

Sweet maid, farewell! thy smiling face The mournful friend no more shall trace Amidst the moving crowd;

But oft the bitter hour recall,
Which saw thee in life's springtime fall
And wrapp'd thy fatal shroud.

TO THE MEMORY OF MY FRIEND

THOMAS BRIGSTOCK.

FROM THE SAME.

EAR lost companion of my earliest joys!

Where blithesome once we strayed, and young in care,
Thou see'st me still unchanged; this mindful heart
From all the pomp and turmoil of the world

Still faithful turns to thee; and oft retires
In the dark covert of some aged grove,

To muse with solitude and sad regret:
What time the nightingale in shady brake,
Where the low hazel or the tangled thorn
Veils her from vulgar eye, with querulous note
Warbles, as mindful of a gentle friend.
And soothing is her lay, to one, who grieves
In placid sorrow, at the fall of eve
Marking the ruddy light that fades away,
And the still moonbeam steal upon the leaves.
How oft retiring from the giddy crowd
At sober evening, when the setting sun
Skirted the western clouds with varied light,
We mused unseen upon the goodly forms
Of smiling nature! Sometimes, when the year
Put forth its budding charms, we lov'd to mark
The pale anemone, that softly rear'd
Its modest head beneath the leafless brake,
Delightful herald of returning spring.
Then as we saw the year roll slowly on,
Breathing new sweets, and opening fresh delight
Of shade and pasture, bloom and luscious fruit,
Led by delusive rapture oft we stretch'd

Our anxious thoughts into the viewless maze

Of that wide world, through which our journey lay
Doubtful and distant; now with sorrow dark,
Now gilded with bright hopes and fancy gay.
But ever as I mark'd the secret hand

Of baneful sickness, slow and unrestrained,

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small]

Prey on thine alter'd form, (which late had glow'd
With beauty and with strength above thy peers)
A bodeful tear would rush into mine eyes;
And a wild thought would beat against my heart
That life's eventful journey must be trod
Without that loved companion, whom my soul
Had chosen in the guileless hour of youth;
Who should with me have stretch'd the towering wing
E'en to ambition's height; and should (if ere
Propitious fortune smiled) have shared the meed
Of that fair fame, we panted to deserve.

Thy lamp soon wasted; it had burnt too bright,
And sunder'd the frail tenement of life,

That shrowded its pure beams. O! thou art gone;
Thy grave has long been strewn ; and those, who erst
Sported with thee in youth or turn'd the page
Of infant learning, have well nigh forgot
That once thou wert, and did'st in all excell.
But never from this breast, this mindful soul,
Shall pass thine image, which is graven there
With friendship's first impression; nor the thou
Of those delightful days, when life was new,
And we together cull'd its budding sweets
Careless of coming woe. But ne'er for thee
Pale sorrow spread her melancholy board;
Thou ne'er didst taste of grief. The tender down
Of manhood scarce had tinged thy blooming cheek,
When the cold hand of all-consuming death
Nipp'd thy fair promise. Thou didst never learn
The treachery of joy, the loss of friends,
The pangs of hapless love: thy glowing heart
Imagin'd days of rapture, fondly dream'd
Of more than mortal charms; nor ever waked
To wipe fell sorrow's tear :-for few are they,
Whose earliest fancy crowns their days with joy;
But oft through woe, and anguish, and despair,
Man wanders t'wards the port of tranquil bliss.
Thou didst not hear the deadly cry of France,
Which, like the crash of an upbreaking world,
Appall'd all Europe, from the utmost bound
Of Finisterre to Moscow's forests hoar,
And shook old ocean's reign; thou didst not see
The impious fiend of democratic war

Let loose its havoc, tearing from their base
The monuments of power, the massive seats
Of ancient empire and religious sway ;

Thou didst not mark from every mangled realm
The pang of horror vibrate to the heart

Of

Of thy dear country; else the piteous groan
Of sullied freedom and dismember'd states

Had rung e'en to thy soul. For thou wast kind
In nature, and thy breast would throb to hear
Of high achievements, and the valor old
Of chiefs recorded in historic page,

Who by fair deeds and honourable strife
Upheld our England's fame. Therefore I deem,
Though torn untimely from our fond embrace,
Thee blest above thy peers; whose sleep of death
(Ere fate had dealt one night of restless woe)
Stole unperceiv'd on thy delighted youth.

Account

« AnteriorContinuar »