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,
"In helm and hauberk's twisted mail.'

STANZAS UPON A CASTLE.

"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,

189

190

STANZAS UPON A CASTLE.

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.

WHILE your fine form and native grace,

Outshine a fair tho' vacant face;

Surpass for dignity of mien,

The loveliest on the village green.

192

SONNET ADDRESSED

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.