VERSES. WHEN pride and envy, and the scorn To hear the forest bee on wing; Or by the stream, or woodland spring, Now, surely, thought I, there's enow And who will miss a poet's feet, And when the Autumn's withering hand Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow. ON WHIT-MONDAY. HARK! how the merry bells ring jocund round, Full on the musing ear. Wafted in varying cadence by the shore An ancient holyday. And lo! the rural revels are begun, Resounds the voice of Mirth. Alas! regardless of the tongue of Fate Kept up the Whitsun dance; And that another hour, and they must fall Beneath the silent sod, A cold and cheerless sleep. Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare A transient visitor? Mortals! be gladsome while ye have the power, And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy; In time the bell will toll That warns ye to your graves. I to the woodland solitude will bend My lonesome way, where Mirth's obstreperous shout Shall not intrude to break The meditative hour. There will I ponder on the state of man, Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate To sad Reflection's shrine; And I will cast my fond eye far beyond This world of care, to where the steeple loud Where I shall sleep in peace. ON THE DEATH OF DERMODY, THE POET. CHILD of misfortune! offspring of the Muse! I see, I see him near: That hollow scream, that deepening groan; Oh come, ye thoughtless, ye deluded youth, Who clasp the siren Pleasure to your breast; And drop, oh drop the silent tear His fate is yours, then from your loins Saw'st thou his dying bed! Saw'st thou his eye, And then his dying scream; It sounds upon my fainting sense, Say, didst thou mark the brilliant poet's death; Oh none of these-no friend o'er him Now come around, ye flippant sons of wealth, Now come around who pant for fame, And when ambition prompts to rise, For me, poor moralizer, I will run, It is the seal of fate: In some lone spot my bones may lie, Yet ere I go I'll drop one silent tear, For me in my deserted grave THE WONDERFUL JUGGLER. A SONG. COME all ye true hearts, who, old England to save, Now shoulder the musket, or plough the rough wave, I will sing you a song of a wonderful fellow, Who has ruined Jack Pudding, and broke Punchinello. Derry down, down, high derry down. This juggler is little, and ugly, and black, But, like Atlas, he stalks with the world at his back; 'Tis certain, all fear of the devil he scorns; Some say they are cousins; we know he wears horns. Derry down. At hop, skip, and jump, who so famous as he? He tosses up kingdoms the same as a ball, Derry down. And his cup is so fashioned it catches them all ; The Pope and Grand Turk have been heard to declare His skill at the long bow has made them both stare. Derry down. |