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We force to start ainid her feign'd caress,
Vice, siren-hag! in native ugliness,
A brother's fate will haply rouse the tear,
And on we go in heaviness and fear!
But if our fond hearts call to Pleasure's bower
Some pigmy Folly in a careless hour,
The faithless guest shall stamp th' enchanted ground.
And mingled forms of Mis’ry rise around :
Heart-fretting Fear, with pallid look aghast,
That courts the future woe to hide the past;
Remorse the poison’d arrow in his side;
And loud lewd Mirth, to Anguish close allied .
Till Frenzy, fierce-eyed child of moping pain,
Darts her hot lightning flash athwart the brain.
Rest, injur'd shade! Shall Slander squatting near,
Spit her cold venom in a dead man's ear?
'Twas thine to feel the sympathetic glow
In Merit's joy, and Poverty's meek woe;
Thine all, that cheer the moment as it flies,
The zoneless Cares, and smiling Courtesies.
Nurs'd in thy heart the firmer Virtues grew,
And in thy heart they wither'd! Such chill dew
Wan Indolence on each young blossom shed ;
And Vanity her filmy net-work spread,
With eye that rollid around in asking gaze,
And tongue that traffick'd in the trade of praise,
Thy follies such ! the hard world mark'd them well-
Were they more wise, the proud who never fell ?
Rest, injur'd shade! the
On heaven-ward wing thy wounded soul shall bear.
As oft as twilight gloom thy grave I pass
And sit me down upon its recent grass,
With introverted eye I contemplate
Similitude of soul, perhaps of-Fate !
To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assign'd
Energetic Reason and a shaping mind,
The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot's part,
And Pity's sigb, that breathes the gentle heart.
Sloth-jaundic'd all ! and from my graspless hand
Drop Friendship's precious pearls, like bour-glass sand,
I weep, yet stoop not! the faint anguish flows,
A dreamy pang in Morning's fev'rish doze.
Is this pild earth our Being's passless mound ?
Tell me, cold grave! is Death with poppies crown’d?
Tir'd Centinel ! 'mid fitful starts I nod,
And fain would sleep, trough pillow'd on a clod !
WITH A POEM ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.
Much on my early youth I love to dwell,
Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell,
Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale,
I heard of guilt and wonder'd at the tale !
Yet tho' the hours flew by on careless wing,
Full heavily of sorrow would I sing.
Aye as the star of evening flung its beam
In broken radiance on the wavy stream,
My soul, amid the pensive twilight gloom,
Mourn'd with the breeze, O Lee Boo! o'er thy tomb:
Where'er I wander'd, Pity still was near,
Breath'd from the heart and glisten’d in the tear:
No knell that toll’d, but fill’d my
eye, And suff'ring Nature wept that one should die !
Thus to sad sympathies I sooth'd my breast,
Caim as the rainbow in the weeping West :
When slumb'ring Freedom rous’d by high Disdain
With giant fury burst her triple chain !
Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glow'd;
Her Banners, like a midnight Meteor, flow'd:
Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies
She came, and scatter'd battles from her eyes !
Then exultation wak'd the patriot fire
And swept with wilder hand th’ Alcæn lyre:
Red from the Tyrant's wound I shook the lance,
And strode in joy the reeking plains of France !
Fall’n is th’ oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low,
And my heart aches, tho' Mercy struck the blow.
With wearied thought once more I seek the shade,
Where peaceful Virtue weaves the Myrtle braid.
And O! if Eyes, whose holy glances roll,
Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul;
If Smiles more winning, and a gentler Mien
Than the love-wilder'd Maniac's brain hath seen
Shaping celestial forms in vacant air,
If these demand th' empassion'd Poet's care-
If Mirth, and soften’d Sense, and Wit refin'd,
The blameless features of a lovely mind;
Then haply shall my trembling hand assign
No fading wreath to Beauty's saintly shrine.
Nor Sara ! thou these early flowers refuse-
Ne'er lurk'd the snake beneath their simple hues :
No purple bloom the Child of Nature brings
From Flattry's night-shade: as he feels, he sings.
TOGETHER WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM.
Thus far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme
Elaborate and swelling : yet the heart
Not owns it. From thy spirit breathing powers
I ask not now, my friend! the aiding verse,
Tedious to thee, and from thy anxious thought
Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know)
From business wand'ring far and local cares,
Thou creepest round a dear-lov'd Sister's bed
With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look,
Soothing each pang with fond solicitude,
And tenderest tones medicinal of love.
I too a Sister had, an only Sister-
She lov'd me dearly, and I doted on her!
To her I pour'd forth all my puny sorrows,
(As a sick Patient in his Nurse's arms)
And of the heart those hidden maladies
That shrink asham'd from even Friendship's eye.
0! I have woke at midnight, and have wept,
Because she was not !-Cheerily, dear Charles !
Thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a year :
Such warm pressages feel I of high Hope.
For not uninterested the dear maid
I've view'd, her soul affectionate yet wise,
Her polish'd wit as mild as lambent glories
That play around a sainted infant's head.
He knows (the Spirit that in secret sees,
Of whose omniscient and all spreading Love
Aught to implore* were impotence of mind)
That my mute thoughts are sad before his throne,
Prepar’d, when he his healing ray vouchsafes,
To pour forth thanksgiving with lifted heart,
And praise Him Gracious with a Brother's Joy!
• I utterly recant the sentiment contained in the Lines-
Of whose omniscient and all-spreading Love
Aught to implore where impotence of mind, it being written in Scripture, “ Åsk, and it shall be given you," and my human reason being moreover convinced of the propriety of offering petitions as well as thanksgivings to Deity.
ATTEMPTED IN THE MANNER OF THE REV. W. L. BOWLR
My heart has thank'd thee, Bowles! for those soft
strains Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring Of wild-bees in the sunny showers of spring! For hence not callous to the mourner's pains Thro' Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I went: And when the darker day of life began, And I did roam, a thought bewilder'd man ! Their mild and manliest melancholy lent A mingled charm, which oft the pang consign'd To slumber, tho' the big tear it renew'd : Bidddig such strange mysterious pleasure brood Over the wavy and tumultuous mind, As made the soul enamour'd of her woe No common praise, dear Bard ! to thee I owe!
ON A DISCOVERY MADE TOO LATE.
Thou bleedest, my poor Heart! and thy distress
Reas'ning I ponder with a scornful smile
And probe thy sore wound sternly, tho' the while
Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness.
Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland ?
Or listning, why forget the healing tale,
When Jealousy with fev'rish fancies pale
Jarr'd thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand ?
Faint was that Hope, and rayless !-Yet 'twas fair