TO THE MOST NOBLE,

The Dowager Marchioness of Bute,

AT NAPLES.

I.

O Thou still nobler than thy Titled Name, And more exalted by a gen'rous soul, That deems affliction of that higher claim, O'er which oblivion neither steals, nor stole; Tho' regions rise between, and oceans roll, Thy breast at Naples has not less been wrung, With sorrow's pleasing yet severe controul : To Thee, whose anguish is as deep and strong, As that which harrows me, I DEDICATE MY SONG.

II.

Accept these numbers, tho' it sorely vex,
To rouse those recollections, which yet smart,
For One the boast and honour of her sex.
Oh! may'st Thou take a more than common part
In my descriptions, which, devoid of art,
Spring from the soft indulgence of my woe,
When in the fulness of the bursting heart,

I find at ev'ry verse the subject grow,

Nor can restrain my thoughts in their spontaneous flow.

III.

Perchance, responsive to my pious strains,
The bosom of some gentle maiden heaves,
Who, yielding to the overwhelming pains
Of fondest friendship, now intensely grieves.
What is so sweet as Beauty, that relieves
Her melancholy with the frequent sigh?
What pleases more, than when her face receives
That mild attraction from the streaming eye,

That interests us with its melting sympathy?

IV.

Another, struggling with himself, conceals
The pang that agonises him, and thinks
There is no suff'ring like the wound he feels.
His languid mind from all exertion shrinks,
Benumb'd with grief, dejection deeply sinks
On his pale looks, desponding is his tone,
His recollections form but broken links,

His hands support his head, and ev'ry groan,
And thought, is unconsol'd, o'er which he broods alone.

V.

When time, hereafter, shall with lenient pow'r,

And resignation dry the falling tear;

May'st Thou still think on Gilbert's social hour,
Her winning graces, and her eyes so fair!
Then let the picture that I draw be near ;
And while Thou view'st the image it displays,
May'st Thou her virtues with my lines c mpare,
Till sighs renew'd shall echo to her praise,

And tears approve the truth of my lamenting lays.

VI.

When often glancing at the azure deep,

While the bright evening throws its shadowy forms, Where curling eddies on the surface sweep, And the light breeze of sportive Zephyr charms, While meditation reigns and rapture warms: May'st Thou, fair Albion's Daughter, Noble Bute, Be like those scenes, and free from inward storms, That blunt the mind, when grief is most acute, Dwell on these strains, that with thy pensive sadness suit.

VII.

The cloudless sky is of the deepest blue,

And the sun brightens with those Southern beams,
Such as the sons of Britain never knew,
Where dart so faintly his obliquer gleams.
Hence how enchanting Naples' prospect seems,
To those who know her not! yet she deserves
No admiration for her wide extremes

From cowardice to fellest rage, which nerves

The Bandit fierce, who from his purpose never swerves.

VIII.

How smiles Vesuvius on its cultur'd slopes,
Ere roll the thunders in its quaking ground!
But how its caverns the eruption opes,

And scatters streams of fiery ruin round!

There myrtles bloom, and citron groves abound,
While clust'ring vines their rip'ning grapes display,
And ev'ry fruit of warmer climes is found.

These were the scenes of Tasso's earliest lay,
And Sannazaro thence o'erlook'd that glassy Bay.

IX.

Compar❜d to these, how dreary are the swamps, When one first journeys o'er a Cornish Moor, Where all is bleak, and Desolation stamps Her savage features on a land so poor! Yet Cornwall has its favour'd spots in store, Where groves as green as those of Eden smile; Mount Edgcumbe, rising from the naval shore, Restormel, Glynn, Boconnoc, Roseland's soil, And Michael's holy Mount that crowns its rocky Isle.