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If, yet, thy gentle spirit hover nigh
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie,
WHEN, to their airy hall, my Fathers' voice
If that with honour fail to crown my clay,
O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros Dacentium ortus ex animo: quater Felix in imo qui scatentem Pectora te, pia Nympha, sensit.
The lips may beguile,
With a dimple or smile,
But the test of affection 's a Tear.
Too oft is a smile
But the hypocrite's wile,
To mask detestation or fear;
Is dimm'd, for a time, with a Tear.
WHEN Friendship or Love
When Truth in a glance should appear;
The man doom'd to sail, With the blast of the gale, Through billows Atlantic to steer;
Mild Charity's glow,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is diffused in a Tear.
As he bends o'er the wave,
And bathes every wound with a Tear.
Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear,
When embracing the maid
From her eyelid he kisses the Tear.
Seat of Friendship and Truth,
For a last look I turn'd,
But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear.
Though my vows I can pour, To my Mary no more,
My Mary, to Love once so dear;
In the shade of her bower,
I remember the hour,
She rewarded those vows with a Tear.
By another possest,
May she live ever blest,
Her name still my heart must revere; With a sigh I resign,
What I once thought was mine,
And forgive her deceit with a Tear.
Ye friends of my heart,
Ere from you I depart,
This hope to my breast is most near,
If again we shall meet,
In this rural retreat,
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.
When my soul wings her flight,
And my corse shall recline on its bier,
Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.
May no marble bestow The splendour of woe, Which the children of vanity rear;
No fiction of fame
Shail blazon my name,
All I ask, all I wish, is a Tear.
AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE.
Delivered previous to the performance of « The Wheel of Fortune,» at a private theatre.
SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age
Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek,
But all our Dramatis Persona wait,
la food suspense, this crisis of their fate.
ON THE DEATH OF MR FOX.
The following illiberal Impromptu appeared in a Morning Paper.
Ova nation's foes lament on Fox's death,
Eat bless the hour when PITT resign'd his breath; These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue, We give the palm where Justice points it due.
To which the Author of these Pieces sent the following Reply.
On! factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth
These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue, To give the palm where Justice points it due;>>
Yet let not canker'd calumny assail,
Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.
STANZAS TO A LADY. With the Poems of Camoens. THIS Votive pledge of fond esteem, Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou'lt prize; It sings of Love's enchanting dream,
A theme we never can despise. Who blames it but the envious fool, The old and disappointed maid? Or pupil of the prudish school,
In single sorrow doom'd to fade.
Then read, dear girl, with feeling read,
He was, in sooth, a genuine bard;
His was no faint fictitious flame; Like his, may love be thy reward, But not thy hapless fate the same.
QH! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright but mild affection shine; Though they might kindle less desire,
Love more than mortal would be thine. For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, We must admire, but still despair,
That fatal glance forbids esteem.
When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,
The skies might claim thee for their own. Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize, She bade a secret lightning lurk
Within those once celestial eyes. These might the boldest sylph appal,
When gleaming with meridian blaze; Thy beauty must enrapture all,
But who can dare thine ardent gaze!
'T is said, that Berenice's hair
In stars adorn the vault of heaven; But they would ne'er permit thee there, Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven.
For, did those eyes as planets roll,
Thy sister lights would scarce appear; Een suns, which systems now control, Would twinkle dimly through their sphere. 1806.
WOMAN! experience might have told me,
Oh Memory! thou choicest blessing,
« Woman! thy vows are traced in sand.»
Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear,
And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear,
Need I say, my sweet Mary, 't was centred in you? Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name; What passion can dwell in the heart of a child? But, still, I perceive an emotion the same
As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild: Que image alone on my bosom impress'd,
I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new ; And few were my wants, for my wishes were blest, And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you. I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide, From mountain to mountain I bounded along, I breasted' the billows of Dee's rushing tide,
And heard at a distance the Highlander's song: At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose,
No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view, And warm to the skies my devotions arose,
For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.
I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone,
And delight but in days I have witness'd before.
More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew; Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not forgot, Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you. When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky, I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen; 3 When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye,
I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene; When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold,
That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold,
The locks that were sacred to beauty and you.
Full oft have we wandered through Ida together,
The wonted delights of our childhood retrace;
I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection,
That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive.
You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence,
You knew,—but away with the vain retrospection!
For the present we part,-I will hope not for ever,
For time and regret will restore you at last;
To forget our dissension we both should endeavour;
I ask no atonement, but days like the past.
On receiving her picture.
Tars faint resemblance of thy charms,
Revives my hopes, and bids me live.
Which round thy snowy forehead wave; The cheeks, which sprung from Beauty's mould, The lips, which made me Beauty's slave. Here, I can trace-▬▬▬ah no! that eye, Whose azure floats in liquid fire, Must all the painter's art defy,
And bid him from the task retire.
Here I behold its beauteous hue,
But where's the beam so sweetly straying? Which gave a lustre to its blue,
Like Luna o'er the ocean playing.
Sweet copy! far more dear to me,
Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, Than all the living forms could be,
Save her who placed thee next my heart.
She placed it, sad, with needless fear,
Lest time might shake my wavering soul, Unconscious, that her image, there,
Held every sense in fast controul.
Thro' hours, thro' years, thro' time, 't will cheer;
And meet my fond expiring gaze.
IN law an infant,' and in years a boy,
Old in the world, tho' scarcely broke from school:
MARION! why that pensive brow?
Is that such lips, of looks endearing,
In law, every person is an infant who has not attained the age of twenty-one.
How sweetly shines, through azure skies, The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore, Where Alva's hoary turrets rise,
And hear the din of arms no more. But often has yon rolling moon
On Alva's casques of silver play'd, And view'd, at midnight's silent noon, Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd. And on the crimson'd rocks beneath,
Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow, Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death,
She saw the gasping warrior low. While many an eye, which ne'er again
Could mark the rising orb of day, Turn'd feebly from the gory plain, Beheld in death her fading ray. Once, to those eyes the lamp of Love,
They blest her dear propitious light: But now, she glimmer'd from above,
A sad funereal torch of night.
Faded is Alva's noble race,
And grey her towers are seen afar; No more her heroes urge the chase,
Or roll the crimson tide of war. But who was last of Alva's clan?
Why grows the moss on Alva's stone? Her towers resound no steps of man, They echo to the gale alone.
And, when that gale is fierce and high,
And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs,
It shakes the shield of Oscar brave; But there no more his banners rise,
No more his plumes of sable wave.
Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth,
When Angus hail'd his eldest born; The vassals round their chieftain's hearth, Crowd to applaud the happy morn.
The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of Jeronymo and Lorenzo, in the first volume of The Armenian, or Ghost-Seer. It also bears some resemblance to a scene in the third act of Macbeth..
They feast upon the mountain deer,
The Pibroch raised its piercing note; To gladden more their Highland cheer, The strains in martial numbers float. And they who heard the war-notes wild, Hoped that, one day, the Pibroch's strain Should play before the Hero's child, While he should lead the Tartan train. Another year is quickly past, And Angus hails another son;
His natal day is like the last,
Nor soon the jocund feast was done. Taught by their sire to bend the bow, On Alva's dusky hills of wind,
The boys in childhood chased the roe, And left their hounds in speed behind.
But, ere their years of youth are o'er,
Wildly it stream'd along the gale;
And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale. But Oscar own'd a hero's soul,
His dark eye shone through beams of truth; Allan had early learn'd controul,
And smooth his words had been from youth.
Both, both were brave; the Saxon spear,
Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel; And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear,
But Oscar's bosom knew to feel. While Allan's soul belied his form,
Unworthy with such charms to dwell; Keen as the lightning of the storm,
On foes his deadly vengeance fell.
From high Southannon's distant tower
And still the choral peal prolong.
See how the heroes' blood-red plumes,
It is not war their aid demands,
Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame? While thronging guests and ladies wait, Nor Oscar nor his brother came.