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STANZAS

UPON A

PROSPECT OF * * *

CASTLE.

“ The owners liv'd, for manly worth renown'd,
“ At White's or Arthur's never staked a pound ;
“To no pert minion bent a suppliant knee,
“ Their oaks still flourish'd, and their lands were free.”

Coll. of old Poetry.

“Why floats yon banner o'er the keep,

“ Or distant watch-fires banish sleep?

“ While ancient Knights the view assail,

666 In helm and hauberk's twisted mail.'

STANZAS UPON A CASTLE.

189

“Whose waving plumes appear to lower,
“ On peaceful cot, and green-wood bower;"
'Tis Fancy's necromantic spell,
With warlike pomp arrays the dell.

When rival Princes thro' the land,

With vengeance fir'd each hostile brand;

And well her magic pen can trace,

The Troubadour's romantic race.

The lofty tower with trophies hung,
The solemn dirge at midnight sung ;
The Seneschal in spacious hall,

The martial tournament and ball.

Far diff'rent now the prospect view,

Adorn’d by Cultivation's hue;
As milder Laws with soften'd grace,

The stern Baronial code replace.

Art, wealth, and learning now combine,

To make the vernal landscape shine;

While yon proud mansion's ivied dome,

Where social pleasure finds a home,

Intestine broils no more affright,

But views its owner with delight;

And ever may

his honour'd line,

In Britain's senate foremost shine.

With manly tone each duty blend,

The Nation-Law, and Monarch's friend. SONNET

ADDRESSED TO A LADY, LAMENTING

SHE COULD NOT

WRITE VERSES.

“ Jo vorrei poi drizzar questa mia penna ;
“ E dopo morte, rimaner in vita.”

Guarini.

WHILE your fine form and native grace,

Outshine a fair tho’ vacant face ;

Surpass for dignity of mien,
The loveliest on the village green.

While you can roam by Cynthia’s light,
And trace the starry orbs of night;
In Byron's muse each beauty mark,

And charm the Ball, or crowded Park,

Or when attending Sorrow's bed,

You soothe and calm the aching head ;

With converse-playful, light and gay, Chase grief and black despair away.

Oh! why the Poet's life desire,
His hurried pulse, and hectic fire;

Why barter your ingenuous heart,

For all his wild and thankless art ?

You little know the boon you ask,

His dang'rous, and delusive task;

His fever'd brain, and aching head,

By ev'ry dream of folly led.

You little know his secret rage,

When fuming o'er the blotted page; The labour'd thought and limping line, 'Ere the coy Muse will deign to shine.

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