As musing slow the sea-beat shore I tread,
While the deep heaves beneath the tempest's sway,
While all is dark, and on the white wave's head
The lightning pours a momentary day;
Then through the heavens, methinks, Eternal Sire!
Thy justice walks, impels the whirlwind's breath,
Swells the deep thunder, barbs the lightning's fire,
And shakes o'er guilty worlds the balanc'd death.
Then in the roarings of the blast I hear
Thy chariot wheels: O! who can hear and live?
Convicted Nature dreads the vengeance near,
And Guilt uplifts her hands and cries, Forgive!
But when more tranquil scenes my steps invite,
Where through a fleecy veil the moonshine smiles,
Where rapid Derwent gleams with snowy light,
Or Lomond sleeps amid her wooded isies;
O, then my ravish'd soul thy mercy sees
Inspiring all beneath, around, above;
A small still voice in every dying breeze,
A voice divine proclaims, that Thou art Love!
Then stormy shores, and surging waves adieu!
And welcome brook, and vale, and peaceful grove. But whence this thought? Shall Reason's eagle view In none but tranquil scenes trace heavenly love?
No: place me where, on Zembla's widow'd coast,
Dark Winter heaps eternal snows on high,
And bids his towering battlements of frost
Float on mid seas, and pillar half the sky :
Or place me on Bahouda's thirsty sand,
Where the parch'd pilgrim longs for dewy night,
Where whirling pyramids of fiery sand
Oe'rwhelm the panting Arab in his flight:
Still heav'nly mercy o'er the sullen hours
Shall breathe a charm which all those hours shall cheer, Bid storms be still, and amaranthine flowers
Spring from the ashes of a polar year.
New worlds, new seasons, at her beck shall rise,
Soft branching groves the sun-burnt desert shroud,
A sudden fragrance flow through tropic skies,
A sudden rainbow blush on every cloud.
EPITAPH *,
BY THE LATE MR. DAY,
Author of Sandford and Merton, &c. &c.
BEYOND the reach of time or fortune's power,
Remain, cold stone, remain! and mark the hour
When all the noblest gifts which heaven e'er gave
Were cent'red in a dark untimely grave.
Oh! taught on Reason's boldest wings to rise,
And catch each glimmering of the opening skies;
Oh gentle bosom; oh unsullied mind!
Oh friend to truth, to virtue, to mankind!
Thy dear remains we trust to this sad shrine,
Secure to feel no second loss like thine.
* Written for the monument of Dr. Small, but inscribed on the Author's tomb by his widow.
To the Memory of Robert Burns.
PORTENTOUS sigh'd the hollow blast,
Which, sorrow-freighted, southward pass'd;
I heard the sound, and stood aghast
In solemn dread:
The mournful truth is told at last,
And BURNS is dead!
Ah! sweetest minstrel, nature's child,
Could not thy "native wood-notes wild,"
Thy manly sense, thy manners mild,
And sprightly glee,
The ghastly tyrant have beguil'd
To set thee free?
Unfriended, desolate and young,
Misfortune o'er thy cradle hung;
And penury had check'd thy song,
But check'd in vain;
Till Death, resistless in his wrong,
Has clos'd the strain!
Thus, 'midst the cold of winter's snows, The unprotected snow-drop blows; Awhile in native beauty glows,
And charms the eyes;
Till past some ruthless spoiler goes,
And crops the prize!
But not for thee, O bard, the lot,
In cold oblivion's shade to rot;
Like those, unhonour'd, and forgot,
Th' unfeeling great,
Who knew thy worth, but hasten'd not
To sooth thy fate.
Whilst love to beauty pours the sigh,
Whilst genius shall with nature vie,
Whilst pity from the melting eye
Shall claim regard;
Thy honour'd name shall never die,
Immortal bard!
But oft, as winter o'er the plain
Shall pour at eve the beating rain,
The hind shall call his little train
Around the fire,
To listen to some thrilling strain
Of thy lov'd lyre.
Whether to Heav'n's eternal King
Thou strike the deep-resounding string,
Whilst, rising on devotion's wing,
Hope soars above,
To happier realms of endless spring,
And boundless love;
Or whether lighter themes beguile
The moments of relaxing toil,
Bidding, on labour's front, the smile
Of pleasure sit;
The roof re-echoing all the while
To genuine wit;
Or if wild Fancy seize the rein,
Whilst horror thrills thro' ev'ry vein,
And sprites and elves, an awful train,
Their orgies keep;
And warlocks o'er the frighted plain
At midnight sweep:
As works the spell, the list'ning band
Aghast in mute attention stand;
Again thou wav'st thy magic wand,
Of pow'r so rare,
And all the scene, by Fancy plann'd,
Dissolves in air.
Thine too the charm of social hearts,
Where wit its vivid light'ning darts,
And Converse keen to age imparts
The fire of youth,
Whilst, from the fierce concussion, starts
The spark of truth.
What tho' thy wild untutor'd strain
The Critic's pedant laws disdain,
Not all the wire-cag'd minion train
E'er pour'd a note
So sweet, as echoing o'er the plain
The woodlark's throat.
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