Chapter II: Part 2

For much the maiden he reprov’d
For having spread her veil of snow
Upon the mind he form’d and lov’d,
Till she was seen to mourn it too.

O Health! when thou art fled, how vain
The witchery of earth and skies,
Love’s look, or music’s sweetest strain,
Or Ocean’s softest lullabies!

Oh! ever hover near his bow’r,
There let thy fav’rite sylphs repair;
Fence it with ev’ry sweet-lipp’d flow’r,
That Sickness find no entrance there.

So shall his lyre, untouch’d so long,
The tone with which it charm’d regain;
Sweet spirit! thou shall teach his song,
With mine, to breathe the grateful strain.

AN IRISH SONG

Poor Molly O’Flannagan (Lord rest her soul!) Drank so deeply of whiskey, ’twas thought she would die; Her fond lover, Pat, from her _nate_ cabin stole, And stepp’d into Dublin to buy her a pie. Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan!

Tho’ chin-deep in sorrow, yet fun he lov’d well; A pie-man pass’d near, crying “Pies” at his _aise_; “Here are pies of all sorts.”—“Oh! if all sorts you sell, Then a _twopenny magpie_ for me, if you _plaise_!” Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan!

THE SONG OF GRIEF

By the walk of the willows I pour’d out my theme, The breath of the evening scarce dimpled the stream; By the waters I stood, like an image of Woe, And my tears, like the tide, seem’d to tremble and flow.

Ye green scatter’d reeds, that half lean to the wave, In your plaintive, your musical, sighs, could ye save But one note of my charmer, to soften my doom, I would stay till these willows should arch me a tomb!

For ye know, when I pour’d out my soul on the lute, How she hung down her head, so expressively mute! From my hand she would take it, still breathing my pain; She would touch it—return it—and smile at the strain.

Ye wild blooming flow’rs, that enamel this brink, Like me could ye feel, and like me could ye think, How sadly would droop ev’ry beautiful leaf! How soon would your sweetness be wasted with grief!

She is gone, in a cloud, like the star of the night! She has left me, heart-broken, to mourn at her flight,— To think of the hours she endear’d by her love. To sigh till again I shall join her above!

LINES

UPON HEARING MISS —— SING AT AN EVENING PARTY.

THE NIGHTINGALE’S COMPLAINT.

The Moon had bespangled the murmuring wave, The dew-drop had moisten’d the moss of the cave, The summer night-breeze, like a sigh, was just heard, When thus flow’d the strains of the dark-warbling bird:

“I hear a strange melody breathe thro’ the grove, Now swelling with joy, and now melting with love; Tho’ sweet is the sound, yet it should not invade, Unbidden, my lonely dominion of shade.

“As long as the stars that now twinkle shall shine, This willow’s my throne, and all nature is mine: Perchance ’tis the breeze on your desolate lute; Its strings are now sighing, so long that were mute.

“Ah! no, silly bird that I am! shall I grieve? Shall Envy alarm, and shall Folly deceive? ’Tis the voice of Eliza! I hear it again, Enraptur’d I hear it, nor envy the strain.” Then Philomel flutter’d with tremulous wing To Eliza—more happy to listen than sing!

LOVE AND THE SPRING-FLOWER.

’Tis pity, ev’ry maiden knows, Just as she cools, Love warmer grows; But, if the chill be too severe, Trust me, he’ll wither in a tear.

Thus will the spring-flow’r bud and blow, Wrapp’d round in many a fold of snow; But, if an ice-wind pierce the sky, ’Twill drop upon its bed, and die!

LINES

UPON THE REV. MR. C——’S IMPROMPTU COMPOSITIONS OF SOME OF BOWLES’S SONNETS.

No sweeter verse did e’er inspire A kindred Muse with all its fire; Nor sweeter strains could Music lend, To sooth the sorrows of her friend.

Associate Genius bids them flow With sounds that give a charm to woe; We weep as tho’ it were our own, As if our hearts were play’d upon.

SONNET.

The leaves are flutter’d by no tell-tale gales,
Clear melts the azure in the rosy west,
Scarce heard, the river winds along the vales,
And Eve has lull’d the vocal grove to rest.

To yon thick elms, my Delia! let us rove,
As slow the glories of the day retire;
There to thy lute breathe dulcet notes of love,
While thro’ the vale they linger and expire.

Those honey’d tones, that melt upon the tongue,—
Thy looks, serener than the scenes I sing,—
Thy chaste desires, which angels might have sung,
Alone can quiet in this bosom bring,
Which burns for thee, and, kindled by thine eyes,
Bears a pure flame—the flame that never dies!

LINES

WRITTEN AT KILKENNY, ON THE THEATRICALS OF THAT CITY.

Amid the ruins of monastic gloom,
Where Nore’s meand’ring waters wind along,
Genius and Wealth have rais’d the tasteful dome,
Yet not alone for Fashion’s brilliant throng;—

In Virtue’s cause they take a noble aim;
’Tis theirs in sweetest harmony to blend
Wit with Compassion, Sympathy with Fame,
Pleasure the means, Beneficence the end[10].

There, if on Beauty’s cheek the tear appears
(Form’d by the mournful Muse’s mimic sigh),
Fast as it falls, a kindred drop it bears,
More sadly shed from genuine Misery.

Nor, if the laughter-loving Nymph delight,
Does the reviving transport perish there;
Still, still, with Pity’s radiance doubly bright,
Its smiles shed sunshine on the cheek of Care.

So, if Pomona’s golden fruit descend,
Shook by some breeze, into the lake below,
Quick will the dimple, which it forms, extend,
Till all around the joyous circles flow.

Bless’d be the liberal mind, th’ undaunted zeal,
That bade loud Folly from the Stage retire;
That teach us how to think, and how to feel,
And once again our godlike Bard admire!

Thus aided, see his rescued genius spring;
Again he pours the phrenzy of his song;
With EV’RY FEATHER[11] in his eagle wing,
Once more in majesty he soars along.

Oft, deck’d with smiles, his spirit shall explore,
Erin! thy beauteous vales and classic ground;
And ev’ry ripple of thy winding Nore
To him shall sweetly as his Avon’s sound.

22_d Oct._ 1805.

[10] The theatricals of Kilkenny are supported by gentlemen of rank and fashion in Ireland, and the profits are applied to charitable purposes.

[11] Alluding to several fine passages of Shakspeare, which have been long omitted in representation, but restored at the theatricals of Kilkenny.

EPIGRAM,

UPON SEEING THE DILAPIDATED STATE OF _BETHLEM HOSPITAL_.

Well with the _purpose_ does the _place_ agree; For e’en the very house is _crack’d_, you see.

EPIGRAM

ON THE GRAVE OF ROBESPIERRE.

_ORIGINAL_.

Passant, ne pleure point son sort; Car, s’il vivait, tu serais mort.

_TRANSLATION_.

Nay, passenger, don’t mourn his lot; If he had liv’d, why you had not.

AN INDIAN MASSACRE-SONG.

See, the waves clasp the Sun, as he sinks from our sight, And Despair sullen rides on the wings of the night; Lo! he comes, and reproaches our arms with delay,— Then arise, let us go where Revenge points the way!

In the deed should we fall, (since who’ll e’er breathe a slave?) Our free souls shall repose in the realms of the brave; In the song we shall live, and fresh heroes inspire, While the son shall exult in the fate of his sire.

Then know, ye white race! ye too long shake the rod; By this arm ye shall soon be dismiss’d to your God! Then demand, if he bade ye torment, why he gave All the soul of a man to the breast of a slave?

Then prepare; know our hatchets atone for our wrong, And our hearts, like our hatchets, are stubborn and strong: Sleep your last! ye no more shall the morning survey, Nor shall sorrow arise with the break of the day.

Yes, remember the lashes that pierc’d thro’ our flesh! See the wounds of our fathers; they open afresh! In the winds, hark! blue Avrin attends to our call; I, your chief, will be first in your glories, or fall!

LINES

WRITTEN ON DELIA, LISTENING TO HER CANARY-BIRD.

When thoughtless Delia unconcern’d surveys
Her plumy captive, as he leans to sing,
Lo! while she smiles, the fascination stays
The little heaven of its airy wing.

Ah! so she tastes the sorrows I impart,
Smiles at the sound, but never feels my pain;
And many a glance deludes my captive heart
To sigh in numbers, tho’ I sigh in vain!

THE HECTIC.

Upon the breezy cliff’s impending brow,
With trembling step, the Hectic paus’d awhile;
As round his wasted form the sea-breeze blew,
His flush’d cheek brighten’d with a transient smile:

Refresh’d and cherish’d by its balmy breath,
He dreamt of future bliss, of years to come;
Whilst, with a look of woe, the spectre, Death,
Oft shook his head, and pointed to his tomb.

Such sounds as these escap’d his lab’ring breast:— “Sweet Health! thou wilt revisit this sad frame; Slumber shall bid these aching eyelids rest, And I shall live for love, perchance for fame.” Ah! poor enthusiast!—in the day’s decline A mournful knell was heard, and it was thine!

VERSES TO MISS M. G——,

ACCOMPANIED WITH A DRIED HELIOTROPE,

_Which she had presented to the Author a Year before_.

Time, since thou gav’st this flow’r to me,
Has often turn’d his glass of sand;
Perchance ’tis now unknown to thee
That once its breath perfum’d thy hand.

Oh, lovely maid! that thou may’st see
How much thy gifts my care engage,
I’ve sent the cherish’d flow’r to thee
Without a blemish, but from age.

Kiss but its leaves;—one kiss from thee,
And all its sweetness ’twill regain;
And, if I live in memory
Thus honour’d, send it back again!

LINES

TO MRS. B——, AT BRISTOL HOT WELLS

Tho’ nought, amid these darkened groves,
But various groups of death appear,
Scar’d at the sight, tho’ fly the Loves,
And Sickness saddens all the year,

Yet, Clara, where you deign to stay,
Your sense and manners charm us so,
E’en sick’ning Sorrow’s self looks gay,
And smiles amid the wreck of woe.

LINES

TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH, UPON THE PRINTS

_From her beautiful Drawings of the Birth and Triumph of Cupid_.

Once, for a palace, Painting left her grove,
And taught her royal fav’rite’s hand to trace
A beauteous maiden’s tale of little Love,
His silken wings, soft limbs, and laughing face!

Then Nature wept o’er each expressive line,
To think the sweet creation so confin’d,
That such a boy, so fair, and so divine,
Was but the playful prattler of her mind;

And had he near the royal easel flown,
And seen the features of this mimic brother,
He would have known the portrait for his own,
And claim’d the beauteous painter for his mother.

EPITAPH

TO THE MEMORY OF A WORTHY MAN, _THE REV. MR. SLEEP_, CURATE OF KINGSWEAR CHURCH, DEVON,

_Whose devotional Elocution was remarkably impregnated with soporific Qualities_.

Reader! since Parson Sleep is gone, And lies beneath yon humble stone, Whene’er to Kingswear Church we go, Holy the sabbath-day to keep (Indeed ’tis right it should be so), We never more shall go to _sleep_.

LINES,

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A FEMALE FRIEND,

_Upon an Infant recommended to her Care by its dying Mother_.

Bless’d be thy slumbers, little love!
Unconscious of the ills so near;
May no rude noise thy dreams remote,
Or prompt the artless early tear;—

For she who gave thee life is gone,
Whose trust it was thy life to rear,
Now in the cold and mould’ring stone
Calls for that artless early tear.

Sleep on, thou little dreamer! sleep;
For, long as I shall tarry here,
I’ll soothe thee; thou shalt never weep,
Tho’ flows for thee the tend’rest tear.

Then be thy gentle visions blest,
Nor e’er thy bosom know that fear,
Which thro’ the night disturbs my rest,
And prompts Affection’s trembling tear.

LINES

ON THE CALEDONIAN HARP BEING SUCCEEDED BY THE HIGHLAND BAGPIPES.

In days that long have glided by, Beneath keen Scotia’s weeping sky, On many a hill of purple heath, In many a gloomy glen beneath, The wand’ring Lyrist once was known To pour his harp’s entrancing tone. Then, when the castle’s rocky form Rose ’mid the dark surrounding storm, The Harper had a sacred seat, Whence he might breathe his wild notes sweet. Oh! then, when many a twinkling star Shone in the azure vault afar, And mute was ev’ry mountain-bird, Soft music from the harp was heard; And when the morning’s blushes shed On hill, or tow’r, their varying red, Oh! then the harp was heard to cheer, With earliest sound, th’ enraptur’d ear; Then many a lady fair was known, With snowy hand, to wake its tone; And infant fingers press’d the string, And back recoil’d, to hear it sing. Sweet instrument! such was thy pow’r, ’Twas thine to gladden ev’ry hour; The young and old then honour’d thee, And smil’d to hear thy melody.

Alas! as Time has turn’d to dust The temple fair, the beauteous bust, Thou too hast mark’d his frowning brow; No Highland echo knows thee now: A savage has usurp’d thy place, Once fill’d by thee with ev’ry grace; Th’ inflated Pipe, with swinish drone, Calls forth applauses once thine own.

A SONG.

When stormy show’rs from Heav’n descend, And with their weight the lily bend, The Sun will soon his aid bestow, And drink the drops that laid it low.

Oh! thus, when sorrow wrings the heart, A sigh may rise, a tear may start; Pity shall soon the face impress With all its looks of happiness.

VERSES

ON AN AUTUMNAL LEAF.

Think not, thou pride of Summer’s softest strain!
Sweet dress of Nature, in her virgin bloom!
That thou hast flutter’d to the breeze in vain,
Or unlamented found thy native tomb.

The Muse, who sought thee in the whisp’ring shade,
When scarce one roving breeze was on the wing,
With tones of genuine grief beholds thee fade,
And asks thy quick return in earliest Spring.

I mark’d the victim of the wintry hour,
I heard the winds breathe sad a fun’ral sigh,
When the lone warbler, from his fav’rite bow’r,
Pour’d forth his pensive song to see thee die;—

When, in his little temple, colder grown,
He saw its sides of green to yellow grow,
And mourn’d his little roof, around him blown,
Or toss’d in beauteous ruin on the snow;

And vow’d, throughout the dreary day to come,
(More sad by far than summer’s gloomiest night),
That not one note should charm the leafless gloom,
But silent Sorrow should attend thy flight.

SONG.

THE WORDS ADAPTED TO “THE COSSAKA,”

_One of the most ancient of the Russ Airs_.

Has Time a changeling made of thee? Oh! no; and thou art all to me: He bares the forest, but his pow’rs Impair not love like ours.

Tho’ sever’d from each other’s sight, When once we meet we shall unite, As dew-drops down the lily run, And, touching, blend in one.

For thee this bosom learnt to grieve, Another never made it heave; When present, oh! it was thy throne, And, absent, thine alone.

Then may my trembling pilgrim feet In safety find thy lov’d retreat! And, if I’m doom’d to drop with care, Still let me perish there!

TO MISS ATKINSON,

ON THE EXTREME DIFFIDENCE WHICH SHE DISPLAYS TO STRANGERS.

Just as a fawn, in forest shade,
Trembling to meet th’ admiring eye,
I’ve seen thee try to hide, sweet maid!
Thy charms behind thy modesty.

Thus too I’ve seen at midnight steal
A fleecy cloud before the wind,
And veil, tho’ it could not conceal,
The brilliant light that shone behind.

LINES

Upon reading the Journal of a Friend’s Tour into Scotland, in which the picturesque Scenery and the Character of the People are fairly and liberally stated.

Much injur’d, Scotia! was thy genuine worth, When late the[12] surly Rambler wandered forth In brown[13] surtout, with ragged staff, Enough to make a savage laugh! And sent the faithless legend from his hand, That Want and Famine scour’d thy bladeless land,

That with thee Nature wore a wrinkled face, That not a leaf e’er shed its sylvan grace, But, harden’d by their northern wind, Rude, deceitful, and unkind, Thy half-cloth’d sons their oaten cake denied, Victims at once of penury and pride.

Happy for thee! a lib’ral Briton here, Gentle yet shrewd, tho’ learned not severe. Fairly thy merit dares impart, Asserts thy hospitable heart, Proves that luxuriance smiles upon thy plains, And wit and valour grace thy hardy swains.

[12] Dr. Johnson, author of the Rambler.

[13] Alluding to his dress, as described by Mr. Boswell.

LINES

WRITTEN UPON A HILL,

_On leaving the Country_.

Ah! sweet romantic spot, adieu! Ere your green fields again I view, These looks may change their youthful hue.

Dependence sternly bids me part From all that ye, lov’d scenes! impart, Far from my treasure and my heart.

Tho’ winter shall your bloom invade, Fancy may visit ev’ry shade, Each bow’r shall kiss the wand’ring maid.

To busier scenes of life I fly, Where many smile, where many sigh, As Chance, not Worth, turns up the die.

BANKRUPTCY RENDERED EASY.

The Cit, relying on his trade, Which, like all other things, may fade, Longs for a curricle and villa: This Hatchet splendidly supplies, The other Cock’ril builds, or buys, To charm himself and Miss Hautilla.

Then swift, O London! he retires, To be, from all thy smoke and spires, From Saturday till Sunday, merry: On Sunday crowds of friends attend; His house and garden some commend, And all admire his port and sherry.

His mistress urg’d him now to play, And cut to wealth a shorter way, Now as a bride she heads his table; But still our Cit observ’d his time. Returning at St. Cripple’s chime, At least as near as he was able.

But soon _she_ could not bear the sight Of town; for walls with bow’rs unite, As well as smoke with country breezes; Without the keenest grief and pride _He_ could not quit his _mares_, and _bride_: We yield as soon as passion seizes.

The clock no more his herald prov’d; Tuesday, nay Wednesday, morn have mov’d, Ere trembling shopmen saw their master: Observing neighbours whisper’d round, That ease might do, with plenty crown’d; If not, that ruin came the faster.

His cash grew scarce, his business still, At variance were his books and till (For wolves devour when shepherds slumber); His creditors around him pour, Seize all his horses, household store, And only give him up the lumber!

LINES

_Written at the Sea-Side in Devonshire_,

IN THE MONTH OF NOVEMBER, WHEN THE SHIPS FROM NEWFOUNDLAND RETURN.

Still Summer lingers on these peaceful shores,
Nor yet she quits her rose-erected bow’r;
Tho’ oft in many a dew-drop she explores
Her beauties fading in each passing hour!

Tho’ Winter’s boist’rous child, November, strays
Amid those scenes that wak’d the poet’s lyre,
Shakes his green canopy, and loves to raise,
Of sapless leaves, an altar for his sire.

Soon shall his wild and stormy sway be o’er;
These lovely scenes shall feel his shortest reign;
And thou, sweet Summer! charming as before,
Shall but retire to dress thyself again.

Yet Heaven guides, full provident and kind,
With sweet economy, the source of joy,
From grief extracts some comfort for the mind,
And fresh hopes flatter ere the lost annoy.

See where Connubial Love yon rock ascends,
To hail each sail, while fav’ring breezes blow;
There many an hour she o’er the margin bends,
Her bosom trembling like the floods below.

Nearer the ocean’s graceful burden glides;
Cleav’d by its prow, the lines of water yield:
While adverse mountains, with protective sides,
The Heav’n-directed wand’ring seaman shield.

The anchor dropp’d, he springs upon the shore,
His wife and children press to meet his kiss;
Half-told, a thousand things they prattle o’er,
And, safe at home, renew their former bliss.

EPIGRAM,

ON WINNING A YOUNG LADY’S MONEY AT CARDS.

How fairly Fortune all her gifts imparts; We win your money, Ann, and you our hearts.

LINES

WRITTEN IN A FINE WINTER’S DAY,

_At the Shooting-Box of my Friend, W. Cope, Esq_.

NEAR ORPINGTON, KENT.

Tho’ leafless are the woods, tho’ flow’rs no more, In beauty blushing, spread their fragrant store, Yet still ’tis sweet to quit the crowded scene, And rove with Nature, tho’ no longer green; For Winter bids her winds so softly blow, That, cold and famine scorning, even now The feather’d warblers still delight the ear, And all of Summer, but her leaves, is here. Here, on this winding garden’s sloping bound, ’Tis sweet to listen to each rustic sound, The distant dog-bark, and the rippling rill, Or catch the sparkling of the water-mill. The tranquil scene each tender feeling moves; As the eye rests on Holwood’s naked groves, A tear bedims the sight for Chatham’s son, For him whose god-like eloquence could stun, Like some vast cat’ract, Faction’s clam’rous tongue, Or by its sweetness charm, like Virgil’s song, For him, whose mighty spirit rous’d afar Europe’s plum’d legions to the hallow’d war; But who, ah! hapless tale! could not inspire Their recreant chiefs with his heroic fire; Who, as _they_ pass’d the tyrant Conqu’ror’s yoke, Felt, as the bolt of Heav’n, the ruthless stroke; And having long, in vain, the tempest brav’d, Could breathe no longer in a world enslav’d.

LINES ON A LITTLE BIRD

_Singing at the Window of the Author_,

SOON AFTER THE DEATH OF A BELOVED SISTER.

Go, little flutt’rer! seek thy feather’d loves,
And leave a wretched mourner to his woe;
Seek out the bow’rs of bliss, seek happier groves,
Nor here unheeded let thy music flow.

Yet think me not ungrateful for thy song,
If meant to cheer me in my lone retreat;
Ah! not to thee, my little friend! belong
The pow’rs to soothe the pangs of adverse fate.

Fly, then! the window of the wretched, fly!
And be thy harmless life for ever blest;
I only can reward thee with a sigh,
And wish that joys may crown thy peaceful nest.

EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.

By painful sickness long severely prest, Here sinks, on Nature’s sacred lap of rest, A friend, who, in a life too short, display’d A mind in virtue bright, without one shade. Hence with unusual grief is Fondness mov’d, Hence more than Pity’s sighs for one belov’d; Unshaken Honour sheds a manly tear, And weeping Virtue stops, a mourner here.

LINES

TO THE MEMORY OF AN AMIABLE YOUTH, OF GREAT PROMISE,

Whose afflicted Parents received the Intelligence of his having been drowned, at the very time when his Arrival was expected from abroad.

Dire were the horrors of that ruthless storm,
That for young Lycid form’d a wat’ry grave;
Oh! many wept to see his fainting form
Unaided sink beneath th’ o’erwhelming wave.

Ah! hapless youth! yet, tho’ the billowy waste
Has thus, with ruthless fury, snatch’d away
Thy various charms, thy genius, wit, and taste,
From those who fondly watch’d their rich display,—

Their cherish’d, lov’d, impression still shall last;
Mem’ry shall ride triumphant o’er the storm,
Shall shield thy gen’rous virtues from the blast,
And Fancy animate again thy form.

Yes, gentle youth! to her, tho’ little known,
Save by the rich effusions of thy lyre,
Th’ admiring Muse shall breathe a mournful tone,
And sounds of grief shall o’er the floods expire.

But, far more grateful to thy pensive shade,
Parental Fondness mourns her Lycid gone,
Lycid! who to her bosom oft convey’d
The liveliest joys to tend’rest feelings known.

For her the lustre of the dawning day,
With all its charms, no longer yields delight;
And silent sorrow marks its parting ray,
And saddens ev’ry vision of the night.

Oh! what ecstatic joys inspir’d her breast,
When, fast advancing to thy native shore,
She thought she saw thee in the bay at rest,
And now in fancy heard th’ approaching oar.

Oh! sad reverse! The dire delusive wind,
Which promis’d fair to bring thee to her breast,
Thy youthful honours to the wave consign’d,
And bore thy spirit to the realms of rest

Ah! had the song of ancient Bard been true,
Had Genius still the pow’r to soothe the storm,
Harmless had been each blast that round thee blew,
And safe and sacred, ’midst its rage, thy form.

What tho’ no marble urn thy relics hold,
Where grief at midnight hour may sit and sigh,
Like gem in amber, Fancy shall enfold
Thy relics in each wave that murmurs by.

Still shall she listen to thy glowing song,
And dwell with rapture on each vivid line,
Shall round thy lyre, neglected and unstrung,
Of sweetest flow’rs a fun’ral wreath entwine.

Ah! since thy tuneful song no more shall flow,
Nor here again thy op’ning virtues shine,
May those who, Lycid! lov’d thee living, know
To bear the sorrows of a loss like thine!

And, while they linger yet another hour
On life’s extended, tempest-beaten, strand,
Waiting the gale that shall convey them o’er,
To hail their Lycid in a happier land,

Oh! may religion lull each sigh to rest,
Teach them a God, in mercy rob’d, to praise,
To know that ev’ry act of his is best,
And, tho’ mysterious, still to prize his ways!

EPIGRAM

ON THE AUTHOR AND ELIZA FREQUENTLY DIFFERING IN OPINION.

To such extremes were I and Bet
Perpetually driven,
We quarrell’d every time we met,
To kiss, and be forgiven.

LINES

TO MY MOTHER,

_On her attaining her 70th Year_.

Oh! with what genuine pleasure do I trace Each line of that long-lov’d, accustom’d, face, Where Time, as if enchanted, and imprest With all the virtues of thy peaceful breast, Tho’ sev’nty varied years have roll’d away, Still loves to linger, and, with soft decay, Permits thy cheek to wear a healthy bloom, In all the grace of age, without its gloom.

So on some sacred temple’s mossy walls, With feath’ry force, the snow of winter falls! Yes, venerable parent! may I long Thus happy hail thee with an annual song. Till, having clos’d thine eyes in such soft rest As infants feel when to the bosom prest, Angels shall bear thy spotless soul away To realms of pure delight and endless day!

LINES TO SELINA

’Twas when the leaves were yellow turn’d,
Selina, with the gentlest sigh,
Exclaim’d, “For you I long have burn’d,
For you alone, my love! I’ll die.”

Unthinking youth! I thought her true,
And, when the trees grew white with snow,
The wint’ry wind with music blew,
So did her love upon me grow.

The Spring had scarce unlock’d her store,
When lo! in much ungentle strain,
She bade me think of her no more,
She bade me never love again.

Then did my heart at once reply,
“If you are false, who can be true?
There’s nothing here deserves a sigh,
Take this, the last, ’tis heav’d for you.”

Ah! fickle fair! amid the scene
That giddy pleasure may prepare,
A pensive thought shall intervene,
And touch your wand’ring heart with care.

And when, alone, at eve you rove,
Where arm in arm we oft have mov’d,
Each Zephyr in the well-known grove
Shall whisper that we once have lov’d.

LINES

WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE, AT DRONNINGAARD, NEAR COPENHAGEN.

Delicious gloom! asylum of repose!
Within your verdant shades, your tranquil bound,
A wretched fugitive[14], oppress’d by woes,
The balm of peace, that long had left him, found.

Ne’er does the trump of war disturb this grove;
Throughout its deep recess the warbling bird
Discourses sweetly of its happy lore,
Or distant sounds of rural joy are heard.

Life’s checquer’d scene is softly pictur’d here;
Here the proud moss-rose spreads its transient pride;
Close by, the willow drops a dewy tear,
And gaudy flow’rs the modest lily hide.

Alas! poor Hermit! happy had it been
For thee, if in these shades thy days had past,
If, well contented with the happy scene,
Thou ne’er again had fac’d life’s stormy blast!

And Pity oft shall shed the gen’rous tear
O’er the sad moral which thy days disclose;
There view how restless is our nature here,
How strangely hostile to its own repose.

[14] Dronningaard is the first private residence in Denmark: it belongs to the wealthy family of the De Conincks. The grounds, which are very extensive, and tastefully laid out, slope down to a noble lake, twelve English miles in circumference, which is skirted with fine woods and romantic country-houses. At the end of a beautiful walk is an elegant marble column, with a tablet, on which is inscribed by Mr. D.C. “This monument is erected in gratitude to a mild and beneficent Government, under whose auspices I enjoy the blessings that surround me.” In another part of the grounds, in a spot of deep seclusion, are the ruins of a Hermitage; and a little further, in a nook, an open grave and tombstone. The story connected with this retired spot deserves to be mentioned:—Time has shed many snows upon the romantic beauties of Dronningaard, since one, who, weary of the pomp of courts and the tumult of camps, in the prime of life, covered with honours and with fortune, sought from its hospitable owner permission to raise a sequestered cell, in which he might pass the remainder of his days in all the austerities and privations of an Anchorite. This singular man had, long previously to the revolution in Holland, distinguished himself at the head of his regiment, when, in an unhappy moment, the love of aggrandizement took possession of his heart, and, marrying under its influence, misery soon followed; and here, in a little wood of tall firs, he raised this simple fabric: moss warmed it within, and the bark of the birch defended it without; a stream of rock-water once flowed in a bed of pebbles before the door, in which the young willow dipped its leaves; and, at a little distance from a bed of wild roses, the labernum gracefully rose, and suspended her yellow flowers; and adjoining was a spot which the Recluse had selected for his grave, of which, like the monks of La Trappe, he dug a small portion every day until he had finished it. He composed his Epitaph in French, and had it inscribed on a stone. If the reader is as much interested as I was in the history of the poor Hermit, he will be pleased with the translation of it, which follows, from the pen of my respected and distinguished friend, William Hayley, Esq. In this solitude he passed several years, when the plan of his life became suddenly reversed by a letter of recall, which he received from his Prince, containing the most flattering expressions of regard. He obeyed the summons, returned to Holland, and at the head of his regiment most gallantly fought and fell.

THE HERMIT’S EPITAPH.

Here may he rest, who, shunning scenes of strife, Enjoy’d at Dronningaard a Hermit’s life: The faithless splendour of a court he knew, And all the ardour of the tented field, Soft Passion’s idler charm, not less untrue, And all that listless Luxury can yield. He tasted, tender Love! thy chatter sweet; Thy promis’d happiness prov’d mere deceit. To Hymen’s hallow’d fane by Reason led, He deem’d the path he trod the path of bliss; Oh! ever-mourn’d mistake! from int’rest bred, Its dupe was plung’d in misery’s abyss: But Friendship offer’d him, benignant pow’r! Her cheering hand, in trouble’s darkest hour: Beside this shaded stream, her soothing voice Bade the disconsolate again rejoice: Peace in his heart revives, serenely sweet; The calm content, so sought for as his choice, Quits him no more in this belov’d retreat.

LINES TO MISS E. ATKINSON,

ON HER PRESENTING THE AUTHOR WITH AN IRISH PEBBLE.

Oft does the lucid pebble shine,
Just cover’d by the murm’ring sea;
Thus precious, thus conceal’d, it shews,
Fair maid! thy mind and modesty.

If searching eyes the stone discern,
Quick will the hand of Art remove
Each ruder part, till, brilliant grown,
It seals the fond record of love.

And here the sweet connexion ends,

Eliza! ’twixt the gem and thee;
For thou wast polish’d from the first,
By Nature’s hand, more happily!

THE WATER-NYMPH OF THE ROCK.

[The French is by Bosquillon, which I translated as under, in a beautiful Swedish island in the Baltic, as I sat by the side of a fine clear stream of rock-water.]

_ORIGINAL_.

La nymphe qui donne de cette eau Au plus creux de rocher se cache, Suivez un example si beau: Donnez sans vouloir qu’on le sache.

_TRANSLATION_.

The nymph, to whom this stream you owe,
Conceals herself in caves of stone:
Like her your benefits bestow;
Give, without wishing to be known.

LINES

UPON MADEMOISELLE DELPHINE SAULOT

_Singing some equisite Airs_

IN THE GARDENS OF MOUSSEAU, NEAR PARIS.

In Mousseau’s sweet Arcadian dale
Fair Delphine pours the plaintive strain;
She charms the list’ning nightingale,
And seems th’ enchantress of the plain.

Bless’d be those lips, to music dear;
Sweet songstress! never may they move
But with such sounds, to soothe the ear,
And melt the yielding heart to love.

May sorrow never bid them pour
From the torn heart one suff’ring sigh;
But be thy life a fragrant flow’r,
Blooming beneath a cloudless sky!

IMPROMPTU TO MADAME C——

WRITTEN AT PARIS,

Upon her appearing equally modestly and elegantly dressed, amidst the Semi-Nakedness of the Rest of the Female Fashionables.

Whilst, in a dress that one might swear The whole was made of woven air, Pert Fashion spreads her senseless sway Over the giddy and the gay (Who think, by showing all their charms, Lovers will fly into their arms), In thee shall Wit and Virtue find A friend more genial to their mind; And Modesty shall gain in thee A surer, chaster, victory.

SONNET

UPON A SWEDISH COTTAGE,

_Written on the Road_,

WITHIN A FEW MILES OF STOCKHOLM.

Here, far from all the pomp Ambition seeks,
Much sought, but only whilst untasted prais’d,
Content and Innocence, with rosy cheeks,
Enjoy the simple shed their hands have rais’d.

On a gray rock it stands, whose fretted base
The distant cat’ract’s murm’ring waters lave,
Whilst o’er its mossy roof, with varying grace,
The slender branches of the white birch wave.

Around the forest-fir is heard to sigh, On which the pensive ear delights to dwell, Whilst, as the gazing trav’ller passes by, The gray goat, starting, sounds his tinkling bell. Oh! in my native land, ere life’s decline, May such a spot, so wild, so sweet, be mine!

LINES

TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. B——

Ah, stranger! if thy pilgrim footsteps love,
By meditation led, to wander here,
A suff’ring husband may thy pity move,
Who weeps the loss of all his soul holds dear!

Cold as this mourning marble is that heart,
Which Virtue warm’d with pure and gen’rous heat,
Which to each checquer’d scene could joy impart,
Nor ceas’d to love until it ceas’d to beat.

Yet, gentle spirit! o’er thine early grave
Shall Consolation, like a seraph, prove,
When Sickness clos’d thy faultless life, she gave
Another angel to the realms above!

STATE TRICKS

_Or a Peep into the Cabinet of the Premier Consul_,

AT ST. CLOUD,

ON THE NIGHT OF THE 26th OCT. 1803.

—“they show an outward hideousness, And speak off half a dozen dang’rous words, How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst; And this is all.”

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, Act V. Scene 4.

FIRST CONSUL.

My dear Talleyrand! I am sorry to send For you out of your bed; but you know you’re my friend: No secret I hide from your generous breast; This invasion is always _invading my rest_: My soldiers, poor devils! are ready to start, But to stay where I am is the wish of my heart; And yet I have sworn at their head to appear: I am puzzl’d to act ’twixt my threats and my fear; If I go, I am lost!—say, what shall I do?

TALLEYRAND.

Why I think I’ve a snug little project in view: I have felt for you long, and have ransack’d my brain To relieve you from so much embarrassing pain. To-morrow our principal tools shall repair To this spot, to implore you to stay where you are: Little Jancourt, you know, has a tear at command, The rest shall have muslin-wrapp’d onions in hand; An expedient which you, my good Consul, must try, For a drop never yet wag observ’d in your eye! And therefore I think ’twould be better for you The largest to pluck from the beds of St Cloud. When these fellows appear, they shall fall at your feet, Portalis shall pen a few words to repeat; He shall state ’tis the nation’s imperial will That you do not your _dangerous promise_ fulfil; But snug in this closet put all into motion, Nor hazard your life with these sons of the ocean. _You_ shall say, “I have sworn by my glory to go;” } _They_ shall all of them blubber out “No, no, no, no!} It must not, thou world’s second saviour! be so. } If you go, mighty Chieftain! and should not escape, All Gallia, the world, will be cover’d with crape[15]! Oh! stay where you are; on our knees we implore!” Then, apparently chok’d, they shall utter no more. When thrice sixty seconds have nearly expir’d (Now mind, my dear Consul, and do as desir’d), You must mimic some hero you’ve seen at the play, Of the tragical cast, when his soul melts away (And, without any compliment ’twixt you and I, You re’lly have talents and pow’rs very high, To make the most striking tragedian alive). But now to the point. You must tenderly strive To raise these sweet prostrates; then, heaving a sigh, And wiping the drops that shall stand in each eye, Like one sorely cross’d, you shall, weeping, exclaim, “Oh! why do you tear me from conquest and fame? But still, if the nation commands me, ’tis fit” (Your breast thumping hard) “that its Chief should submit.” Then you see, if the army of England should sail, And the schemes of this cursed armada should fail, In the _Moniteur’s_ faithful official page, I can humbug the people, and soften their rage; I will tell them, that, had but the nation permitted Her Chief to have gone, we had ne’er been outwitted; That merely the terrible glance of his eye Would have made all those shop-keeping islanders fly; This will quiet our friends, and, to harass our foes, A second invasion I’ll slyly propose, In which, in the van, Buonaparte shall pour His vengeance divine on that mercantile shore. Not that I, my dear Premier! conceive ’twould be right To renew with these cursed tough fellows the fight; But our people ’twill please, until some new occasion Shall call from this project the eye of the nation.

FIRST CONSUL.

It will do, it will do, my dear Tally! thy brain Has my terrors remov’d, and “a man I’m again.” I will rise with the dawn, for this scene to prepare; Denon, with his crayons, so swift shall be there; The Parisians the subject with rapture will trace In my Nosegay[16]; I’ll hang it up full in their face. I embrace thee, my dear little Tal! with delight; _Ca ira! Ca ira_! Thy hand, and good night.

[The First Consul is said to have enjoyed half an hour’s uninterrupted repose that night. What followed, the next day, all Europe knows, and all Europe laughs at.]

[15] Black crape and the bolt of Heaven are the favourite rhetorical figures of Napoleon the First.

[16] “Nosegay”—The anti-chamber of the Hall of the Arts in the Louvre, in which there are many fine paintings, is called, by the Parisians, Buonaparte’s Nosegay.

LINES

TO MISS CHINNERY, OF GILLWELL-HOUSE,

_Upon her appearing in a Dress_

WITH MAY-FLOWERS AND LEAVES TASTEFULLY DISPLAYED.

Tell me what taught thee to display
A choice so sweet, and yet so rare,
To prize the modest buds of May
Beyond the diamond’s prouder glare?

Say, was the grateful pref’rence paid
To Nature, since, with skill divine,
So many fairy charms she made,
To grace her fav’rite Caroline?

Or was it Taste that bade thee try
How soon the richest gem must yield,
In beauty and attractive die,
To this wild blossom of the field?

Whate’er the cause, in Nature’s glow
Well does the choice thyself pourtray;
Thine innocence the blossoms show,
Thy youth the green leaves well display.

SONG.

Ah! if my voice is heard in vain,
This fond, this falling, tear
May yet thy dire intent restrain,
May yet dissolve my fear.

Th’ unsparing wound that lays thee low
Will bend thy Julia too:
Could she survive the fatal blow
Who only lives in you?

LINES

TO MRS. A. CLARKE.

Within his cold and cheerless cell, I heard the sighing Censor tell That ev’ry charm of life was gone, That ev’ry noble virtue long Had ceas’d to wake the Minstrel’s song, And Vice triumphant stood alone.

“Poor gloomy reas’ner! come with me; Smooth each dark frown, and thou shall see Thy tale is but a mournful dream; I’ll show thee scenes to yield delight, I’ll show thee forms in Virtue bright, Illum’d by Heav’n’s unclouded beam.

“See Clarke, with ev’ry goodness grac’d, Her mind the seat of Wit and Taste; Tho’ Wealth invites to Pleasure’s bow’r, See her the haunts of Woe descend; Of many a friendless wretch the friend, Pleas’d she exerts sweet Pity’s pow’r.

“See her, with parent patriot care, The infant orphan-mind prepare, Assur’d, without Instruction’s aid, The proudest nation soon will show A wasted form, a hectic glow, A robb’d, diseas’d, revolting, shade.

“See her with Prince-like spirit pour On genuine worth her ample store[17]; See her, by ev’ry gentle art, Protect the plant she loves to rear, And, as she bathes it with a tear, Grateful it twines around her heart.

“And there are more, of kindred mind;”— When, with a face more bland and kind, The Sage, in soften’d tone, replied: “’Twas Error made to me the den More grateful than the haunts of men; Henceforth mankind shall be my pride.”

[17] This alludes to a munificent donation of a very handsome fortune, which this Lady presented, without any claim of consanguinity or connexion, to a young Lady of great merit.

LINES

_To the Tune of “Oh! Lady fair! where art thou going_?”

Sing, bird of grief! still eve descending, And soothe a mind with sorrow rending; Ne’er may I see the blush of morrow, But close this night the sigh of sorrow;

Then, if some wand’rer here directed Shall find my mossy grave neglected, May he replace the weed that’s growing With the nearest flow’r that’s blowing!

IMPROMPTU LINES

UPON A VERY HANDSOME WOMAN

_Keeping the Hotel de Lion Blanc, at Dantzig_.

The sign of the house should be chang’d, I’ll be sworn,
Where enchanted we find so much beauty and grace;
Then quick from the door let the _lion_ be torn,
And an _angel_ expand her white wings in his place.

LINES

UPON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL INFANT SLEEPING ON THE BOSOM OF ITS MOTHER.

Upon its native pillow dear,
The little slumb’rer finds repose;
His fragrant breath eludes the ear—
A zephyr passing o’er a rose.

Yet soon from that pure spot of rest

(Love’s little throne!) shalt thou be torn;
Time hovers o’er thy downy nest,
To crown thy baby-brow with thorn.

Ah! thoughtless! couldst thou now but see
On what a world thou soon must move,
Or taste the cup prepar’d for thee
Of grief, lost hopes, or widow’d love,

Ne’er from that breast thou’d’st raise thine head,
But thou would’st breathe to Heav’n a pray’r
To let thee, ere thy blossom fade,
In one fond sigh exhale thee there.

LINES

WRITTEN AT FREDENSBORG,

_The deserted Palace of the late Queen Dowager Juliana Maria_[18].

Bless’d are the steps of Virtue’s queen!
Where’er she moves fresh roses bloom;
And, when she droops, kind Nature pours
Her genuine tears in gentle show’rs,
That love to dew the willow green
That over-canopies her tomb.

But, ah! no willing mourner here
Attends to tell the tale of woe:
Why is yon statue prostrate thrown?
Why has the grass green’d o’er the stone?
Why, ’gainst the spider’d casement drear,
So sullen seems the wind to blow?

How mournful was the lonely bird,
Within yon dark neglected grove!
Say, was it fancy? From its throat
Issu’d a strange and cheerless note;
’Twas not so sad as grief I heard,
Nor yet so wildly sweet as love.

In the deep gloom of yonder dell
Ambition’s blood-stain’d victims sigh’d;
While Time beholds, without a tear,
Fell Desolation hov’ring near,
Whose angry blushes seem to tell.
Here Juliana shudd’ring died!

[18] This palace, called the Mansion of Peace, is in the road and near to Elsineur; it was the retreat of the ambitious and remorseless Juliana Maria, the mother-in-law of Christian VII. whose intrigues and jealousy sent Brandt and Struensee to the scaffold, and drove the unhappy Matilda, the mother of the present King of Denmark, from her throne, and the arms of her royal husband. Juliana died here. The palace and grounds, parts of which are beautiful, were, when I visited them in 1804, much neglected.

SONG

Upon the Admiration of the Valour and amiable Qualities of Lord Nelson, expressed by Junot, now Duke of Abrantes, who, by the Chances of War, was for a short Time the British Hero’s Prisoner.

A wreath from an immortal bough Should deck that gen’rous victor’s brow, Who hears his captive’s grateful praise Augment the thanks his country pays; For him the minstrel’s song shall flow, The canvass breathe, the marble glow.

LINES

UPON A LADY DYING

_Soon after she had been wrecked on the Cornish Coast_,

LEAVING A LITTLE INFANT BEHIND HER.

Sweet stranger! tho’ the merc’less storm Here sternly cast thy fainting form, What tho’ no kindred hand was near To wipe away Affliction’s tear,

Yet shall thy gentle spirit own, Amidst these sea-girt shores unknown, That Pity pour’d her balmy store, And kindred hands could do no more.

Ne’er shall that pang disturb thy rest, That moves the parted mother’s breast; The object of thy dying fear Shall want no father’s fondness here.

Oft shall his little lips proclaim, With April-tears, thy treasur’d name; His little hands, when summers bloom, Shall gather flow’rs to deck thy tomb.

JEU D’ESPRIT

UPON A VERY PRETTY WOMAN ASKING THE AUTHOR HIS OPINION OF BEAUTY.

Madam! you ask what marks for beauty pass: Require them rather from your looking-glass!

LINES

TO THE MEMORY OF ERASMUS, BY OUDAAN,

Inscribed on the Pedestal of the Statue raised in Honour of the former, in Rotterdam.

[_The Original in Dutch_.]

_ORIGINAL_.

Hier rees die groote zon, en ging te Bazel onder!
De Rykstad eer’ en vier’ dien Heilig in zyn grav;
Dit tweede leeven geevt, die’t eerste leeven gav:
Maar ’t ligt der taalen, ’t zout der zeden, ’t heerlyk wonder.

Waar met de Lievde, en Vreede, en Godgeleerdheid praald, Word met geen grav gëerd nog met zeen beeld betaald: Dies moet hier’t lugtgewele Erasmus overdekken, Nadien geen mind’re plaats zyn tempel kan verstrekken!

_TRANSLATION_.

Erasmus, here, the eloquent and wise,
That Sun of Learning! rose, and spread his beam
O’er a benighted world, thro’ low’ring skies,
And shed on Basil’s tow’rs his parting gleam.

There his great relics lie: he bless’d the place:
No proud preserver of his fame shall prove
The Parian pile, tho’ fraught with sculptur’d grace:
Reader! his mausoleum is above.

THE FOLLOWING TWO SONGS

Were written during a Period when it was confidently believed that the French would invade our Country.

SONG.

_To the Tune of “Ye Gentlemen of England_.”

No gentleman of England now sits at home at ease, But emulates on shore the heroes of the seas; A common cause unites them, to meet the daring foe, All they wish, all they ask, is a fav’ring wind to blow.

Oh! let them come along, and may no tempests low’r, But fairly may we try our valour and our pow’r, That Hist’ry may not say, should these robbers be laid low, To the storm ’tis alone the victory we owe.

Soon shall these infidels the dreadful diff’rence prove, ’Twixt slaves impell’d by fear, and freemen bound by love; Our foes shall never rise again, when once they are laid low, On the sea, on the shore, for justice strikes the blow.

SONG.

When storms on the ocean
Create high emotion,
It pleases the wish
Of the monarch of fish,
For he gambols and sports in the motion.

Should a shoal of small fry
Attempt to draw nigh,
With a flap of his tail,
Th’ imperial whale
Makes them pay for their rashness, and die.

Oh! thus, on the seas,
Just with the same ease,
Should the enemy come,
In ship, boat, or bomb,
We will knock them about as we please;

Till at last they shall cry,
“We are the small fry,
And Britannia’s the whale,
By a flap of whose tail,
If we dare to approach her we die.”

SONNET,

Occasioned by reading an Inscription on the Tombstone of Captain Christensen, of Krajore, in Norway, who died in consequence of the Bite of his Dog, when it was mad.

Ah! hapless stranger! who, without a tear,
Can this sad record of thy fate survey?
No angry tempest laid thee breathless here,
Nor hostile sword, nor Nature’s mild decay.

The fond companion of thy pilgrim feet,
Who watch’d thee in thy sleep, who moan’d if miss’d,
And sprung with such delight his Lord to greet,
Imbu’d with death the hand he oft had kiss’d.

And here, remov’d from Love’s lamenting eye, Far from thy native cat’racts’ awful sound, Far from thy dusky forests’ pensive sigh, Thy poor remains repose on alien ground; Yet Pity oft shall sit beside thy stone, And sigh as tho’ she mourn’d a brother gone.

IMPROMPTU,

IN REPLY TO A LADY,

_Who asked the Author what Childhood resembled_.

How like is childhood to the lucid tide
That calmly wanders thro’ the mossy dell,
Sweeps o’er the lily by the margin’s side,
And, as it kisses, murmurs out, Farewell!

LINES

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY IN GERMANY,

_Who, until her Sister, honoured the Author by walking with him in the Evening_.

Adieu! dear girl! if we are doom’d to part, Take with thee, take, the blessing of this heart, Due to thy gentle mind, and cultur’d sense; Perhaps ’twill please, but, sure, can’t give offence. Tho’, when we met, the solar ray was gone, And on our steps the moon-beam only shone, Yet well I mark’d thy form and native grace, And all the sweet expression of thy face; And pleas’d I listen’d as thy accents fell, Accents that spoke a feeling mind so well Lo, when the birds repose at ev’ning hour, The sweetest of them carols from her bow’r! So, when the dews the garden’s fragrance close, The night-flow’r[19] blooms, the rival of the rose!

[19] One of the creeping cereuses, usually known by the name of the night-flower, is said to be as grand and as beautiful as any in the vegetable system. It begins to open in the evening, about seven o’clock; is in perfection about eleven, perfuming the air to a considerable distance, and fades about four in the morning.

LINES TO STUDY.

O Study! while thy lovers raise Thy name with all the pow’r of praise, Frown not, thou nymph with piercing mind! If in this bosom thou should’st find That all thy deep, thy brilliant, lore, Which charm’d it once, now charms no more: Frown not, if, on thy classic line, One strange, uncall’d-for, tear should shine; Frown not, if, when a smile should start, A sigh should heave an aching heart: If Mem’ry, roving far away, Should an unmeaning homage pay, Should ask thee for thy golden fruit, And, when thou deign’st to hear her suit, Should turn her from the proffer’d food, To tread the shades of Solitude: Frown not, if, in the humble line, Ungrac’d by any thought of thine, Should but that gentle name appear, Fond cause of ev’ry joy and fear; I love, tho’ rude, I love it more, Than all thy piles of letter’d lore: Frown not if ev’ry airy word, Which Beauty breathes, or Love has heard, More rich, more eloquently, flow, To Mem’ry gives a warmer glow, Than all by thee so much approv’d, The wit of age on age improv’d. Go, then! and, since it is denied That thou shalt be my radiant guide! Leave me to sigh, to weep, to prove How little Learning is to Love.

SONG.

Wilt thou, because thy Florio loves,
Forsake the giddy glitt’ring throng,
With him to dwell in peaceful groves,
With him to hear the shepherd’s song?

Can’st thou, without a sigh, resign
The homage by thy charms inspir’d?
To one, oh! say, can’st thou confine
What oft so many have admir’d?

Sweet maid! oh! bless’d shall be our love,
Till time shall bid it cease to flow;
With thee shall ev’ry moment prove
A little heaven form’d below!

THE FURY OF DISCORD

In a chariot of fire, thro Hell’s flaming arch,
The Fury of Discord appear’d;
A myriad of demons attended her march,
And in Gallia her standard she rear’d.

Thy name, so enchanting, sweet Freedom! she took,
But in vain did she try to assume
Thy smile of content, thy enlivening look,
And thy roseate mountainous bloom.