POSTHUMOUS AND FUGITIVE

POEMS

ON DEATH

I.

CAN death be sleep, when life is but a dream,
And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?
The transient pleasures as a vision seem,
And yet we think the greatest pain 's to die.

II.

How strange it is that man on earth should roam,
And lead a life of woe, but not forsake
His rugged path; nor dare he view alone
His future doom which is but to awake.

WOMEN, WINE, AND SNUFF

GIVE me women, wine and snuff
Until I cry out "hold, enough

You may do so sans objection

Till the day of resurrection;

For bless my beard they aye shall be

My beloved Trinity.

FILL FOR ME A BRIMMING BOWL

FILL for me a brimming bowl
And let me in it drown my soul:
But put therein some drug, designed
To Banish Women from my mind:
For I want not the stream inspiring
That fills the mind with-fond desiring,
But I want as deep a draught
As e'er from Lethe's wave was quaff'd ;
From my despairing heart to charm

8 ere de Selincourt.

The Image of the fairest form
That e'er my reveling eyes beheld,
That e'er my wandering fancy spell'd.
In vain! away I cannot chace
The melting softness of that face,
The beaminess of those bright eyes,
That breast-earth's only Paradise.
My sight will never more be blest;
For all I see has lost its zest:
Nor with delight can I explore
The Classic page, or Muse's lore.

Had she but known how beat my heart,
And with one smile reliev'd its smart
I should have felt a sweet relief,
I should have felt "the joy of grief."
Yet as the Tuscan mid the snow
Of Lapland thinks on sweet Arno,
Even so for ever shall she be

The Halo of my Memory.

Aug. 1814.

SONNET

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ON PEACE

O PEACE! and dost thou with thy presence bless The dwellings of this war-surrounded Isle; Soothing with placid brow our late distress, Making the triple kingdom brightly smile? Joyful I hail thy presence; and I hail

The sweet companions that await on thee; Complete my joy-let not my first wish fail,

Let the sweet mountain nymph thy favourite be, With England's happiness proclaim Europa's Liberty. O Europe! let not sceptred tyrants see

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That thou must shelter in thy former state; Keep thy chains burst, and boldly say thou art free; Give thy kings law-leave not uncurbed the great; So with the horrors past thou'lt win thy happier fate!

14 horrors] honors Notes and Queries: honours Poems de Selincourt. No doubt horrors is right.

SONNET

TO BYRON

BYRON! how sweetly sad thy melody!
Attuning still the soul to tenderness,
As if soft Pity, with unusual stress,

Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, being by,
Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die.
O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less
Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress

With a bright halo, shining beamily,

As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil,
Its sides are ting'd with a resplendent glow,
Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail,
And like fair veins in sable marble flow;
Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale,
The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.

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SONNET

TO CHATTERTON

O CHATTERTON! how very sad thy fate!
Dear child of sorrow-son of misery!

How soon the film of death obscur'd that eye, Whence Genius mildly flash'd, and high debate. How soon that voice, majestic and elate,

Melted in dying numbers! Oh! how nigh Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die A half-blown flow'ret which cold blasts amate. But this is past thou art among the stars

Of highest Heaven: to the rolling spheres Thou sweetly singest: naught thy hymning mars, Above the ingrate world and human fears. On earth the good man base detraction bars From thy fair name, and waters it with tears.

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SONNET

TO SPENSER

SPENSER! a jealous honourer of thine,

A forester deep in thy midmost trees, Did last eve ask my promise to refine

Some English that might strive thine ear to please. But Elfin Poet 'tis impossible

For an inhabitant of wintry earth

To rise like Phoebus with a golden quell

Fire-wing'd and make a morning in his mirth.

It is impossible to escape from toil

O' the sudden and receive thy spiriting:
The flower must drink the nature of the soil
Before it can put forth its blossoming:
Be with me in the summer days and I
Will for thine honour and his pleasure try.

ODE TO APOLLO

I.

IN thy western halls of gold
When thou sittest in thy state,
Bards, that erst sublimely told

Heroic deeds, and sang of fate,

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With fervour seize their adamantine lyres, Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires.

II.

Here Homer with his nervous arms
Strikes the twanging harp of war,
And even the western splendour warms,
While the trumpets sound afar:

But, what creates the most intense surprise,
His soul looks out through renovated eyes.

III.

Then, through thy Temple wide, melodious swells The sweet majestic tone of Maro's lyre: The soul delighted on each accent dwells,Enraptur'd dwells,-not daring to respire, The while he tells of grief around a funeral pyre.

IV.

"Tis awful silence then again;

Expectant stand the spheres ;
Breathless the laurell'd peers,

Nor move, till ends the lofty strain,

Nor move till Milton's tuneful thunders cease, And leave once more the ravish'd heavens in peace.

V.

Thou biddest Shakspeare wave his hand,
And quickly forward spring

The Passions-a terrific band-
And each vibrates the string

That with its tyrant temper best accords, While from their Master's lips pour forth the inspiring words.

VI.

A silver trumpet Spenser blows,

And, as its martial notes to silence flee,

From a virgin chorus flows

A hymn in praise of spotless Chastity.

'Tis still! Wild warblings from the Æolian lyre Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire.

VII.

Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers
Float along the pleased air,

Calling youth from idle slumbers,

Rousing them from Pleasure's lair :-
Then o'er the strings his fingers gently move,
And melt the soul to pity and to love.

VIII.

But when Thou joinest with the Nine,
And all the powers of song combine,
We listen here on earth:

The dying tones that fill the air,

And charm the ear of evening fair,

From thee, great God of Bards, receive their heavenly

birth.