ON THE DEATH OF DERMODY, THE POET.
CHILD of Misfortune! Offspring of the Muse! Mark like the meteor's gleam his mad career; With hollow cheeks and haggard eye, Behold he shrieking passes by:
I see, I see him near:
That hollow scream, that deepening groan;
It rings upon mine ear.
Oh come, ye thoughtless, ye deluded youth,
Who clasp the siren pleasure to your breast,
Behold the wreck of genius here,
And drop, oh drop the silent tear
For Dermody at rest:
His fate is yours, then from your loins
Tear quick the silken vest.
Saw'st thou his dying bed! Saw'st thou his eye,
Once flashing fire, despair's dim tear distil;
How ghastly did it seem;
And then his dying scream:
Oh God! I hear it still:
It sounds upon my fainting sense,
It strikes with deathly chill.
Say, didst thou mark the brilliant poet's death;
Saw'st thou an anxious father by his bed,
Or pitying friends around him stand:
Or didst thou see a mother's hand
Support his languid head?
Oh none of these no friend o'er him
The balm of pity shed.
Now come around, ye flippant sons of wealth,
Sarcastic smile on genius fallen low;
Now come around who pant for fame,
And learn from hence, a poet's name
Is purchased but by woe:
And when ambition prompts to rise,
Oh think of him below.
For me, poor moralizer, I will run,
Dejected, to some solitary state:
The muse has set her seal on me,
She set her seal on Dermody,
It is the seal of fate:
In some lone spot my bones may lie,
Secure from human hate.
Yet ere I go I'll drop one silent tear,
Where lies unwept the poet's fallen head:
May peace her banners o'er him wave;
For me in my deserted grave
No friend a tear shall shed:
Yet may the lily and the rose
Bloom on my grassy bed.
SONNET TO THE RIVER TRENT.
WRITTEN ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.
ONCE more, O Trent! along thy pebbly marge
A pensive invalid, reduced and pale,
From the close sick-room newly set at large,
Woos to his wan worn cheek the pleasant gale.
O! to his ear how musical the tale
Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat! And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail, How wildly novel on his senses float!
It was on this that many a sleepless night,
As lone he watched the taper's sickly gleam,
And at his casement heard, with wild affright,
The owl's dull wing, and melancholy scream,
On this he thought, this, this, his sole desire,
Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir.
GIVE me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,
Where far from cities I may spend my days;
And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled,
May pity man's pursuits and shun his ways.
While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,
List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise,
Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,
I shall not want the world's delusive joys;
But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,
Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more;
And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire,
I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore,
And lay me down to rest where the wild wave
Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.
SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN ADDRESSED BY A FEMALE
LUNATIC TO A LADY.
LADY, thou weepest for the Maniac's woe,
And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young; Oh! may thy bosom never, never know
The pangs with which
I had a mother once
my wretched heart is wrung.
(Beneath yon yew my father rests his head :) I had a lover once, and kind and true,
But mother, brother, lover, all are fled!
Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely eye?
Oh! gentle lady not for me thus weep,
The green sod soon upon my breast will lie,
And soft and sound will be my peaceful sleep.
Go thou, and pluck the roses while they bloom
My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb.
*This Quatorzain had its rise from an elegant Sonnet, sioned by seeing a young female Lunatic," written by Mrs. Lofft, and published in the Monthly Mirror.
Supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody in a
Storm, while on board a ship in his Majesty's service.
Lo! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds
Successive fly, and the loud piping wind
Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds,
While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclined,
Lists to the changeful storm: and as he plies
His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him, sad,
Of wife, and little home, and chubby lad,
And the half strangled tear bedews his eyes;
I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn,
View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep,
Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep,
For not for me shall wife or children mourn,
And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell,
Sweetly as solemn peal of pious passing-bell.
SONNET. THE WINTER TRAVELLER.
GOD help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far;
The wind is bitter keen, the snow o'erlays
The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow ways,
And darkness will involve thee. No kind star
To-night will guide thee, Traveller, and the war
Of winds and elements on thy head will break,
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