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Say, didst thou mark the brilliant poet's death ;
Or pitying friends around him stand:
Support his languid head :
The balm of pity shed.
Now come around, ye flippant sons of wealth,
Now come around who pant for fame,
Is purchased but by woe :
Oh think of him below.
For me, poor moralizer, I will run,
The muse has set her seal on me,
It is the seal of fate:
Secure from human hate.
Yet ere I go I'll drop one silent tear,
May peace her banners o'er him wave;
No friend a tear shall shed :
Bloom on my grassy bed.
SONNET TO THE RIVER TRENT.
Once more, O Trent! along thy pebbly marge
A pensive invalid, reduced and pale,
Wooes 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 !
As lone he watch'd 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
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 my wretched heart is wrung. I had a mother once-a brother too
(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, “occasioned 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, And in thy agonizing ear the shriek Of spirits howling on their stormy car Will often ring appalling—I portend
A dismal night--and on my wakeful bed
Thoughts, Traveller, of thee will fill my head, And him who rides where wind and waves contend,
And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide.
BY CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ.
This Sonnet was addressed to the Author of this volume, and
was occasioned by several little Quatorzains, misnomered Sonnets, which he published in the Monthly Mirror. He begs leave to return his thanks to the much respected writer, for the permission so politely granted to insert it here, and for the good opinion he has been pleased to express of his productions.
Ye whose aspirings court the muse of lays,
“ Severest of those orders which belong,
Distinct and separate, to Delphic song, Why shun the sonnet's undulating maze ? And why its name, boast of Petrarchian days, Assume, its rules disown’d? whom from the
throng The muse selects, their ear the charm obeys
Of its full harmony :—they fear to wrong