Ask not for the beams which the summer adorn, The soft sighs of eve, or the smiles of the morn.
Look, Emily, look, thro' creation's wide range, All is life and extinction, succession and change; Advancing-retiring-our pleasures we see, They are flecting, my love, and as fleeting are we ; The reasoner may sigh, and the beauty repine, Tis the law of our being, enjoy and resign.
Yet come, ye cold glooms, and ye clouds gather round, My bosom a refuge, a shelter has found,
Thee, Emily, thee; swiftly rolls on the year,
But it finds thee more honoured, and leaves thee more dear : To thee my heart turns in all changes unmoved, And when dying shall bless thee-as living it loved.
HE towering thought, the living lyre, The soul that wings the song with fire, The listening world, the deathless name, Are these fond youth, thy daring claim? Then take thy wreath-yet calm survey The perils of the muse's sway; And while for thee I twine the bays, Oh! hear the warning voice I raise.
Ne'er shall the temperate virtues find A welcome in thy thoughtless mind; Those virtues that maturely rise
To shield the good, and grace the wise: Each feverish hope-each fretful woe, Each passion wild, thy heart shall know; Nor feel the self-controlling power, That counsels for the distant hour.
Thy soaring spirit shall despise Each humble bliss, that life supplies; To thee the world shall withered seem, When dragged from fancy's finer dream ; Yet must thy heart be doomed to share The ills thy fellow mortals bear; And vain thy sickly wish to fly From tasteless cold reality.
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,
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.
THE HONOURABLE WILLIAM HERBERT.
F manners mild with mirth combined,
If 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
EAR lost companion of my earliest joys!
If lingering yet thy spirit haunt the fields,
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 luscions 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,
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
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