THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA.
HOW long will ye round me be swelling, O ye blue-tumbling waves of the sea?
Not always in caves was my dwelling,
Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree. Through the high-sounding halls of Cathloma In the steps of my beauty I stray'd; The warriors beheld Ninathoma,
And they blessed the white-bosom'd Maid!
A Ghost! by my cavern it darted!
In moon-beams the Spirit was drest-
For lovely appear the departed
When they visit the dreams of my rest!
But disturb'd by the tempest's commotion
Fleet the shadowy forms of delight-
Ah cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean!
To howl through my cavern by night.
WHEN WE SHALL MEET AGAIN.
(Composed during Illness, and in Absence.)*
DIM Hour! that sleep'st on pillowing clouds
O rise and yoke the Turtles to thy car!
Bend o'er the traces, blame each lingering Dove,
And give me to the bosom of my Love!
My gentle Love, caressing and carest,
With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest!
Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes,
Lull with fond woe, and medicine me with sighs!
While finely-flushing float her kisses meek,
Like melted rubies, o'er my pallid cheek.
Chill'd by the night, the drooping Rose of May
Mourns the long absence of the lovely Day;
Young Day returning at her promised hour
Weeps o'er the sorrows of her favourite Flower;
Weeps the soft dew, the balmy gale she sighs,
And darts a trembling lustre from her eyes.
New life and joy th' expanding floweret feels :
His pitying Mistress mourns, and mourning heals!
* Printed in The Watchman, March 17, 1796, and in the second and third editions of the Early Poems (1797, 1803).
THO' much averse, dear Jack, to flicker, To find a likeness for friend V—ker, I've made thro' Earth, and Air, and Sea, A Voyage of Discovery !
And let me add (to ward off strife)
For V-ker and for V-ker's Wife—
She large and round beyond belief,
A superfluity of beef!
Her mind and body of a piece,
And both composed of kitchen-grease.
In short, Dame Truth might safely dub her Vulgarity enshrined in blubber!
He, meagre bit of littleness,
All snuff, and musk, and politesse ;
So thin, that strip him of his clothing,
He'd totter on the edge of Nothing!
In case of foe, he well might hide
Snug in the collops of her side.
Ah then what simile will suit ?
Spindle-leg in great jack-boot?
Pismire crawling in a rut?
Or a spigot in a butt?
Thus I humm'd and ha'd awhile,
When Madam Memory with a smile
Thus twitch'd my ear-" Why sure, I ween,
In London streets thou oft hast seen
The very image of this pair:
A little Ape with huge She-Bear
Link'd by hapless chain together:
An unlick'd mass the one-the other
An antic huge with nimble crupper -
But stop, my Muse ! for here comes supper.
PUBLISHED ANONYMOUSLY AT BRISTOL,
In September, 1795.*
UNBOASTFUL BARD! whose verse † concise
Tunes to smooth melody unconquer'd sense,
May your fame fadeless live, as never-sere"
The Ivy wreathes yon Oak, whose broad defence
Embowers me from Noon's sultry influence !
For, like that nameless Rivulet stealing by,
Your modest verse to musing Quiet dear
Is rich with tints heaven-borrow'd: the charm'd eye
Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the soften❜d sky.
Circling the base of the Poetic mount
A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow
My honour'd Friend! whose verse, &c.-1797.
Its coal-black waters from Oblivion's fount :
The vapour-poison'd Birds, that fly too low,
Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go.
Escaped that heavy stream on pinion fleet
Beneath the Mountain's lofty-frowning brow,
Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet,
A mead of mildest charm delays th' unlabouring feet.
Not there the cloud-climb'd rock, sublime and vast,
That like some giant king, o'er-glooms the hill;
Nor there the Pine-grove to the midnight blast
Makes solemn music! But th' unceasing rill
To the soft Wren or Lark's descending trill
Murmurs sweet undersong 'mid jasmine bowers.
In this same pleasant meadow, at your will
I ween, you wander'd-there collecting flowers
Of sober tint, and herbs of medicinable powers!
There for the monarch-murder'd Soldier's tomb
You wove th' unfinish'd* wreath of saddest hues;
And to that holier† chaplet added bloom
Besprinkling it with Jordan's cleansing dews.
But lo your Henderson awakes the Muse-
His Spirit beckon'd from the mountain's height !
You left the plain and soar'd mid richer views!
So Nature mourn'd when sunk the First Day's light,
With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of
night!
↑ John the Baptist, a poem. Monody on John Henderson.
|