Early Attempts at Poetry.

]> Early Attempts at Poetry.Clinckett, Mary Abel.Rianna Au,creation of electronic text.Electronic edition187KbBritish Women Romantic Poets ProjectShields Library, University of California, Davis, California 956162002ClinMEarly

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series54Nancy Kushigian,General EditorCharlotte Payne,Managing EditorEarly attempts at poetry, written at different periods, from 1811, to 1816Clinckett, Mary AbelPrinted by Wm. Major, St. John's StepsBristol, 1826[This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler ID no. I:229. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler I:229mf.]

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[Title page]

EARLY ATTEMPTS AT POETRY, WRITTEN AT DIFFERENT PERIODS, From 1811, to 1816,BYMARY ABEL CLINCKETT.Bristol: PRINTED BY WM. MAJOR, ST. JOHN'S STEPS.1817.Introduction.

I entreat the candour and kindness of those friends, to whose perusal I submit the following pages, to pardon the partiality of a fond Father, who, with very humble pretensions to judgment in matters of literature, presumes to give these efforts of a beloved Daughter's muse their present form.

However fanciful and romantic some of these verses are, they yet breathe throughout a spirit of fervent piety, and a warmth of social love, which will, I hope, be their best recommendation.

The "dull realities" of domestic life‡ now claim so much of the Author's attention, that she will, probably, have few opportunities of indulging in these excursive flights of an exuberant imagination;—her visits to Castalia's fount will be less frequent; but oh! may she continue to drink at the fountain of "living waters," at the inexhaustible Spring of Everlasting Life!

†"Thou bidst them,—not to fair Castalia go,But to that Stream whence "living waters" flow.

In giving even this degree of publicity to the verses addressed to me on my birth‐days, I feel that some apology is necessary. I had determined to omit them; but some very particular and intelligent Friends of mine and my Daughter's, to whom I communicated my intention, persuaded me to insert them; and I confess, that it appeared to me, on mature consideration, that I could not, in justice to my dear and attached Child, withhold from our Friends these ardent testimonies of her affection.

Impressed with a most humbling consciousness that I am far, very far, from that standard of goodness which my Child has, in the overflowing fondness of her heart, associated with my character, I commit these pages to the press, trusting that our friends will attribute the high but undeserved encomiums contained in them to the warmth of that filial affection which constitutes one of the greatest sources of happiness to me in this chequered scene of existence.

‡ The Author was married May 25, 1816, to Mr. Alfred Bartrum, a deserving and respectable young gentleman, attached to the office of Commissariat in Barbados.† See the author's address to Mrs. Hannah More, on reading that admirable work, her Essay on St. Paul.ABEL CLINCKETT.BATH, Dec. 28, 1816.EARLY ATTEMPTS AT POETRY.TO RETIREMENT.SACRED Retirement! friend to ev'ry muse,Come, aid my pen, a flow'ry wreath to weave,Gay fancy, deck it with thy brightest hues,And let my verse thy liveliest tints receive.2.This is the time for silence and repose,In spangled lustre night resumes her throne;Lost, for a while, the sense of all his woes,The pensive sufferer forgets to moan.3.Lost in oblivion in the arms of sleep,He dreams of bliss, alas! for ever fled;But, on the morrow, painful wakes to weep,And finds, with grief, each flatt'ring hope is dead.4.Majestic Night! pale contemplation's scene,The mind is rested from the cares of day,And through the azure of the blue sereneImagination wings her airy way.5.Lightly she traverses the spangl'd sky,Midst the bright orbs attendant on the sun;Then upon earth she deigns again to fly,And peaceful rests, her wild excursion done.6.Then sweetly roving in sequester'd groves,Beside the murmuring of a gentle rill,When not a breath the lofty poplar moves,And all around is peaceful, silent, still.7.When, faintly cheering is the moon's pale beam,Which shines around with gentle modest rays,Which shews the willow nodding o'er the stream,And o'er the rill with half‐form'd shadow plays.8.Yes, sweet seclusion! undisturb'd retreat!I court thy influence, I hail thy shade,The cooling grove, the simple, rustic seat,Th' extensive view of valley, hill, and glade.9.How blest the mind which sweetly thus retires,Whose high‐born thoughts contemplative may rise,To that First Cause who every thought inspires,Who form'd the soul an inmate of the skies.Clevedale, June, 1811.TO MRS. HANNAH MORE.Written at Clevedale, 1811.FAIR Star of Genius, which with tow'ring blaze,Ascends from earth, and soars above our praise!Immortal talent and amazing fire!What laws can guide thee and what muse inspire?A Female too, the glory of the isle,Where peace and plenty, health, and commerce smile;Where liberty extends an ample reign,And foaming ocean guards the rich domain.Great as an author, as a Christian great,Thou art superior to the ills of fate.In distant times, midst annals of her fame,England shall view thy reverenc'd honour'd name.Thy grateful country loves, applauds thy worth,Old Ocean's mistress, and the queen of Earth.May Britain's sons obey thy sage advice,Nor purchase freedom at too dear a price;May they maintain religion's sacred laws,And still remain firm champions in her cause.And while proud France displays her letter'd store,Exulting England boasts her female More.THE DIFFERENT EFFECTS OF ANGERON DIFFERENT MINDS.HOW general, Anger, is thy wild controul!How dost thou reign in every human soul!Yes, wayward nymph, at thy supreme command,Man against man directs the vengeful hand,In mighty quarrels, mighty souls engage,And trifling causes little minds enrage.In different minds thy ruling power appears,And yet in each a different aspect wears.First Character.In some, behold it like the tempest rise,Dart through the frame, and lighten in the eyes,The labouring tongue a dreadful volley poursAs when the cannon in the battle roars,Through all the nerves a boiling current flows,Like liquid fire with which Vesuvius glows.Second Character.In souls more soft, but equally as proud,Thy wayward power sits awful in a cloud,O'er every sense a darken'd gloom is thrown,Scornful the eye, and dull the deepen'd tone,A heavy cloud obscures the mental light,And mournful silence awes the dreary night.Third Character.And there, behold thy stately form arise,In splendid lustre beaming from the eyes;Bold independence swells the haughty tone,And mighty self reigns absolute alone.Like the balloon, when mounting to the skies,Astonished multitudes behold it rise,No real merit—but when fill'd with gas,With pride it swells an independent mass.Fourth Character.In yonder form, tho' weak thy power is shewn,Those fading cheeks thy dark dominion own,Not in a torrent there, reproaches pour,Tho' angry words the lips of lilies roar;The weak, faint lustre of that fading eyeEmits a spark, which kindling, flames on high.Poor little self is dreadfully abused!How sadly treated! how unkindly used!All, all, are wrong, and she alone is right,Her faults were placed in far too strong a light.Anger and self usurp the darken'd soul,And reign and rule with absolute controul.Our own misdeeds are hidden from our eyes,While other's faults in full perspective rise.In Pride's dark mirrour we ourselves survey,While gracious truth withdraws her kindly ray.Clevedale, Dec. 1811.EVENING SCENERY,Written at Clevedale, in 1811.SWEET Philomela tunes her soothing strain,And lulls awhile the piercing throb of pain;The distant bells soft murmur on the breeze,Which plays delightful thro' the waving trees;The bleating lambs retire to the fold,And parting Sol illumes the sky with gold;The weary woodman, now his labour done,Returns light‐hearted to his cheerful home;Then Contemplation, with her sober train,Recalls the memory of the past again,Forms new attempts to gain the wish'd‐for prize,In which the end of all our actions lies;In graceful foliage there a wood appears,*And there the oak its form majestic rears;There, in that spot it many years has stoodIn sovereign pomp, the monarch of the wood.There, in a vale of never cloying sweets,Which seem'd to fit it for the muses' seats,In rural grace a charming cot I view,With woodbine twined, and flowers of every hue;In sweet profusion there the roses bloom,And there the jess'mine sheds her sweet perfume;The modest violet lifts her timid form,Which bends submissive to the pelting storm;Gay Flora there has scattered all her sweets,And spread profusion in these dear retreats,There, Philomela, all thy strains renew,Soon as the flowrets drink the evening dew, Tune thy soft notes throughout the twilight hour,And oh! to please, exert thy utmost power.* The seat of Mr. Cave, called Clevewood, just opposite to Clevedale, which is the dale described above. It was composed on an evening when all the harmonious sounds, and charming sights of nature conspired to lull the soul to composure, and to awaken all the pleasing emotions of the mind. The delightful fragrance of the woodbine, the rose, and Narcissa, added new charms to the romantic scene.REFLECTIONS BY MOONLIGHT,Written at Clevedale, 1811.NOW silent Evening gently smiles around,And cooling dews refresh the thirsty ground,Departing Sol adorns the west afar,With gentle lustre shines the evening star,And now the moon, fair empress of the night,From the blue vault emits her sacred light;Her silver beams illume the blue serene,And round her throne a thousand orbs are seen,Which roll for ever in their different spheres,To endless ages and unnumber'd years.Now hush'd and tranquil are the cares of dayThe feather'd songsters cease their tuneful lay;The flute's soft notes break on the passing breeze,Which softly stirs the scarcely‐moving trees;Now here and there a sable cloud is seen,Adding fresh grandeur to the glorious scene.Fair, lovely Cynthia! thy benignant rayBefriends the weary traveller on his way,Shews the brave seaman where to ply the oar,When o'er his bark the dashing billows roar,Now is reflection sweet—retirement, bliss,If aught is blissful in a world like this.Now Fancy, free, exerts her utmost powerTo cheer and animate the lonely hour;With anxious steps explores each favour'd spot,Retraces scenes, alas! too long forgot,Dwells with regret on joys for ever fled;And wanders o'er the regions of the dead.We heave the sigh and drop Affection's tearsFor lov'd companions of our happier years,Who long departed from this world of woe,View from high Heaven their mortal friends below;Now heavenly Saints within that bless'd abode,By kindred Angels led unto their God.Oh! blessed hope, to meet them there above,With faith renewed, and more exalted love!Now mild religion hushes every fear,And mingles comfort with the falling tear,Bids us to hope a better world than this,Where reigns eternal, never varied bliss;Our hearts, refined by pure celestial joys,Shall bid adieu to earth with all its toys—Pure as the azure of yon spangled sky,Rejoice for ever in the realms on high.WRITTEN ON THE THIRTY‐SIXTH BIRTH‐DAY OF MY DEAR FATHER.December 22, 1811.DESCEND, oh muse! and guide my feeble laysMy weak attempts to sing a Father's praise,And thou, my Father, dearest best of men,Receive this offering of a daughter's pen;Accept this tribute of thy Mary's love,Who dares to wander in the muse's grove,With trembling steps their secret shades explore,Cull a few sweets, and humbly ask for more,And if arriv'd at fair Parnassus' mount,She seeks for virtue at Religion's fount;Views the rich streams which from Religion flow,In gentle murmurs, peaceful, soft, and slow,Then will she cry, my Father and my Friend,Thou to this source my infant steps didst bend,Didst teach my soul the grace of heavenly love,And guide my footsteps to the realms above.Thy bright example more than precept mov'd,And all the force of thy instructions prov'd;That Virtue only was man's bliss on earth,All his possessions, true intrinsic worth.Continue still to guide my erring youthTo the bright regions of eternal truth;Turn my affections from this dark abodeTo the blest mansions of a righteous God;And when upon the bed of sickness laid,Life's brilliant prospects disappear and fade,When Heaven opens on your dying view,With scenes of bliss eternal, ever new;Then will she watch th' immortal soul retire,In rapt'rous visions of seraphic fire,Then choirs of angels on thy bed shall wait,And quick transport thee to a happier state;Oh! then by grief and filial love opprest,Thy wretched daughter seeks that land of rest,Then hopes to meet thee never more to part,And feels that hope reanimate her heart.Clevedale, Dec. 22, 1811.HYMN.WHAT glorious scenes of bliss untoldHas God reveal'd to sinful dust,What sweet rewards does Christ unfoldTo all the righteous and the just!2.Beyond this dreary vale of tears,A passage opens from the tomb,And Christ in perfect love appears,To change the sinner's awful doom.3.The blest Redeemer died to saveA helpless, guilty, fallen race,To cheer the prospect of the grave.And freely pour abundant grace.4.To Him then let our thanks be given,Who hath redeem'd us by his love,Who hath prepar'd a seat in Heav'nFor all who place their hopes above.5.Unfading joys he has reveal'dTo those who early seek their God,Such joys as ever lie conceal'dFrom them who seek not virtue's road.6.Beyond this gloomy world of woe,A state of perfect bliss appears,Where all the pure in heart shall go,And Jesus wipe away their tears.7.Ah! Who shall tell that awful day,When earth shall sink in endless night.When we shall leave this house of clay,And fly to realms of heavn'ly light.8.Seraphic strains by angels sung,Shall wake the soul to holy fire,And infants lisp, with trembling tongue,The praises of their gracious Sire.9.The soul, escap'd from pain and care,Shall bid adieu to earthly chains,Shall join the blest assembly there,With them prolong the pleasing strains.A SCENE IN ITALY AND SWITZERLAND.Suggested by a Dream.TRANSPORT me, Fancy, to those milder skies,Where "the whole year in gay confusion lies,"Where rich cascades in varied murm'rings flow,Hoar cliffs above, transparent lakes below;There, as the willow drinks the chrystal stream,And parting Sol emits a last faint gleam,Shines through the branches, gilds the taper leaves,While the pure lake the parting beam receives,Then shall Urania cheer the silent hour,And Contemplation lend her pleasing power.The Muse shall bid the Naiads of the floods,The Dryads, Orcades, sisters of the woods,With gentle touch to tune their silver lyres,And o'er my heart diffuse their kindly fires.The nymphs obey; the heav'nly sounds commence;Rapt in transporting joy is every sense—Soft, by degrees, they raise the soul on high,Which soars from earth to realms beyond the sky;The sounds melodious issue from the rills,The crescent moon appears above the hills;Th' enraptur'd ear the sweet enchantment hears,And calls to mind the music of the spheres;Aerial notes fill every dying gale,Sigh on the hill and vibrate in the vale;Around the scene each Zephyr's trembling wing,Brings spicy perfumes as the Dryads sing;Arabian odours waft their balmy sweets,And fairy forms adorn their blest retreats;Their sylphlike forms reflected in the stream,In fairy circles dance beneath the beam,Which softly shines with mild departing light;For now declines the empress of the night.Majestic sinking in the placid wave,Mild drooping Cynthia deigns her side to lave;Soon as she leaves her azure, starry throne,And night resigns her splendid silv'ry crown;As she departs the wild enchantments die;To their retreats the lovely wood‐nymphs fly;The lovely syrens of the glassy springsTo coral cells return with eager wings;The silver sounds on breezes die away,And bright Aurora leads the car of day;The heav'ns are deck'd with tints of rosy hue.And op'ning rose‐buds shine with pearly dew.And now imagination gaily flies,Where the vast Alps, in snowy horrors rise,To gay Geneva's wild, romantic scene,Wild rocks among, and flow'ry vales between;Terrific glaciers rising o'er the vales,The fertile fields, and richly wooded dales;The beauteous plants that midst the torrent live,Beneath the rocks in wild luxuriance thrive,These on the margin of the lake recline,And o'er the scene exhale perfumes divine.Cascades o'erhung with bow'rs of alpine rose,While on the mountains bright agalia glows;Mountains of ice in splendid grandeur rise,With rays reflected from the brilliant skies;Thro' the clear glass transparent colours play,And vivid light'nings flash resplendent day;The purest azure, and the clearest white,In icy torrents all their charms unite;While thund'ring cat'racts from the mountains roar,And dash tremendous on the foaming shore;Here wintry pomp and vernal beauty reign,Sublime and lovely o'er the wild domain.North of the lake, a charming village smiles,Where sweet reflection ev'ry hour beguiles;Here, Fancy, here I fix my lov'd retreat,Where ev'ry charm and ev'ry beauty meet;Here from my cot I'll view the sun retire,And tinge mount Jura with resplendent fire,Then on the morrow see it slowly rise,And cast a radience o'er the morning skies—But,—dwell not Fancy on so sweet a theme,Indulge no more this wild poetic dream;Hear Reason's voice, thy wand'ring thoughts restrain,My home is fixt beyond the western main,Where vast Atlantic roars his boist'rous tide,And swells tempestuous in all his pride.This pleasing state I cannot call my own,My view is bounded by the torrid zone;And, though my isle can boast not equal charms,As Savoy's scene, or Alpine's rude alarmsYet, still e'en there, unnumber'd virtues dwell,And genuine friendship finds a peaceful cell;Domestic peace and social kindness meet,And there the stranger meets a glad retreat;And tho' far distant this Atlantic Isle,There friends belov'd, and dear relations smile.And oh! beneath Italia's cloudless sky,Where blooming verdure charms th' enraptur'd eye,Tyrannic pow'r pervades the smiling plains,And haughty Gallia clanks her horrid chains;The proud Usurper, who assumes command,Rules o'er the Italians with a heavy hand.In that fam'd spot where stood imperial Rome,Fall'n each temple, laid in ruins each dome,And the fine monuments, of glorious toil,Now deck Parisian streets with noble spoil.*Illusive happiness; now fancied there,Floats in the wind and vanishes in air;And when in foreign climes we fondly roam,Still, still we cast a longing eye to home;And bright Italia's ever‐verdant meads,Where smiling spring the blooming hours leads,Will cease to please, divested of the charmWhich life endears, the social spirit warm.Delightful still on fancy's wing to rise,Sweep seas unknown, and soar beyond the skies;Cool reason's voice in youth is seldom heard,Or, if it be, bright fancy's is preferr'd.The aerial queen transports us o'er the main,O'er the wide universe extends her reign;And where Creation's noblest works abound,Her airy throne and magic wand are found,With her enraptured, in her flying car,Pleas'd have I rov'd to foreign realms afar;And now return'd to fair Britannia's isle,The kindly land salutes me with a smile,And blooming liberty, in all her charms,To England welcomes me with open arms.* It has since pleased Divine Providence, through the instrumentality of a Wellington and a Blucher, with their brave Associates in glory, to overturn this mighty Fabric of Despotism, to hurl the blood‐stained Tyrant from his usurped Throne, and to restore these cherished monuments of the Arts to those Temples and Palaces whence the great Napoleon had stolen them. A. C. TO FANCYHAIL, brilliant Fancy, wildly‐pleasing power,Whose forms still vary with the changing hour;To worlds unseen thou wingst thy rapid flight,Through the clear azure, in the train of night.2.As quick as lightning thro' the summer skies,Thy airy form thro' earth and ocean flies,Skims thro' the expanse of all the starry plains,And joins with angels in seraphic strains.3.In smiling spring, within thy fairy bowers,On Shakespeare's tomb thou strew'st unfading flowers,Then bidst them bloom upon thy vot'ry's grave,And deck romantic Avon's murmuring wave.4.How soft the strain when thou wilt touch the lyre,Thy light chords tremble with poetic fire;Th' enraptur'd thought, with one expansive sweep,Soars to the skies, or sinks below the deep.5.On mossy borders of melifluent streams,Where dewy rosebuds shine with morning beams;When vocal music charms the woodland scene,There dost thou wander, beauteous and serene.6.Midst wintry snows on Alpine's tow'ring height,Wild and impetuous thy rapid flight;In awful majesty enthron'd in clouds,Where the hoar mount his head in darkness shrouds.7.Thus ever changing are thy brilliant forms,Bright glows the bosom thy enchantment warms;And, when attemper'd by cool judgment's sway,In science' path the cultur'd mind may stray.Clevedale, Feb. 1812.A SONG.WHY do clouds deform the sky,Which youth's high hopes adorn,And why is early friendship's sighAs sweet as Summer's morn?2.Ah! where are fled the flowery wreaths,Which fancy loves to bind,In the still calm, retirement breathesAround the thoughtful mind?3.Is there no Rose without a thorn?No happiness below?And must the sun of youth's gay mornSink in the clouds of woe?Clevedale, Feb. 1812.TO NIGHT.COME, Night, majestic Queen, and with thee bring, The beaming forms of Fancy's wildest wing;With these I'll wander thro' the realms of AirTo Cynthia's throne and Evening's silver star.2.What peaceful calm, what undisturb'd repose!Each rolling world in solemn silence glows,Yon sable wood in melancholy gloom,Breathes the dark stillness of the awful tomb.3.The brilliant leaves in dewy lustre bright,With radiance sparkle from pale Cynthia's light,While lovely Venus on her silver throneGlows the first Gem in Night's imperial Crown.4.In Fancy's mirror fairy forms I view,In sylphlike motions gliding o'er the dew,Wave their light arms upon the floating air,Rush to the wood and instant disappear.5.The ray of light, just gleaming through the gloom,Resembles faith uprising from the tomb;But not to darkness will the Soul return,Nor, lost in shades, th' etherial spirit mourn.6.Disdaining Earth, to higher scenes it springs,And soars triumphant on it's airy wings;Pursues, exulting, yon bright starry way,And reigns eternal in unceasing day.Clevedale, Feb. 1812.DISAPPOINTMENT.COLD Disappointment! by kind Heaven design'd,To mend the heart, by softening the mind;With brow severe to temper Fancy's fire,And, by afflicting, raise the wishes higher.But oh! most needful is thy aid in youth,When the gay senses, unrestrained by truth,On bright Imagination's airy wing,Rove, unconfined where'ere the muses sing,In bowers Elysian and abodes of bliss,Ensullied pleasures in a world like this.Then dost thou come to blast the op'ning flower,And fade the bud which blossoms for an hour.Go on, dread chast'ner of the human heart,But let not Hope, at thy approach, depart;Still let her deck with flowers thy stately form,The sun‐beam sparkling in the awful storm.Clevedale, March, 1812.SPRING.LO, smiling Spring glides gently o'er the fields,Beneath her steps the snowdrop, Crocus bloom,His dreary reign now hoary Winter yields,Reviving Nature rises from the Tomb.2.Adieu! stern Sov'reign of the subject year,No more to me returns thy gloomy reign,Afar I see perpetual Spring appearIn yon fair Isle beyond the western main.3.Majestic Summer, and bright blooming Spring,Alternate smile o'er all the favor'd land;The Muse may rove in fancy's airy ring,Unchill'd, unfetter'd by cold Winter's hand.4.The tuneful warblers of the vocal throng,With sweetest melody pour forth their lays;To Heav'n they raise their wild harmonious song,The woodnotes tremble with their Maker's praise.5.The varied beauties of th' embroider'd valeDisplay the mercies of a bounteous Lord,And ev'ry leaf and flow'ret of the daleSprings into life at it's Creator's word.6.And oh! can Man, cold Man, ungrateful, viewThese lovely prospects of the op'ning year;The budding shrubs, the flow'rs of varied hue,And all the charms which Spring now deigns to wear?7.Oh! may our hearts be warm'd with holy Love,And look from Earth to realms beyond the tomb,To brighter skies, and sweeter Spring above,Where pleasure reigns and flowers for ever bloom.Clevedale, March, 1819.TWILIGHT.HOW sweet the silence of the twilight hour,When the still zephyr softly breathes around,When Contemplation, in her fav'rite bower,Sooths the torn heart still laboring with the wound!2.See the last tints of fading light decay,The few faint blushes soften into shade,In fancy's eye the magic gleams of dayForm fairy mountain, valley, hill and glade.3.At hours like these, is not seclusion sweet,In still retirement from a noisy crowd?True peace of mind may bless the calm retreat,And rustic innocence despise the proud.4.Who would exchange this sweet, this rural scene,For the vain pleasures that the world bestows,When mildly calm, and tranquilly serene,The tortur'd bosom finds, at last, repose?5.The simple pleasures of a Country life,The giddy crowd in Fashion's train despise,Lost in vain bustle and ignoble strife,Contemn the joys they know not how to prize.6.Winged on each breeze perfumes embalm the grove,The winding stream flows gently thro' the wood;How charming now the silent, sweet al cove,With calm reflection and lone solitude!7.Nature, how fine in every changing mood,In every varied form and feature fair.

* Here the muse abruptly forsook the Poet, and thus left one of her prettiest efforts in this unfinished state.

RETIREMENT.HOW blest, how happy are the favoured few,In sweet seclusion from the World retired;Without regret who bid that World adieu,By Virtue strengthen'd, and by hope inspired.2.The gilded troubles of unbounded wealthTheir gentle pity, not their envy claim,Soft vernal breezes bring them balmy health,The world they court not, nor its empty fame.3.The changing scenes, the ever varying hues,The charms which deck the new revolving year,On these with transport they delight to museAnd view each tint of vernal bloom appear.4.Ye who for happiness now vainly rove,In courtly pomp or gloomy cloister'd cell,Behold yon Cottage, yon sequester'd grove,If e'er on earth,—'tis there she deigns to dwell.5.Tranquil and calm their stream of life flows on,Serenely mild they leave this mortal vale;By death's swift current swiftly borne along,On vast Eternity's broad Ocean sail.On hearing of the death of a beloved and lamentedAunt,* Mrs. Anne Whitaker in Barbados.* A Woman of that exalted Character which language would fail to represent in such a manner as to do justice to her extraordinary Merits. Let me then, departed Saint, address thy pure spirit in that short but expressive sentence, "Many Daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all!"ON wings of Angels borne unto her God,This blessed Saint has gained the bright abode:Serene thro' life, on Heaven she fix'd her eye,Calm was her soul, she look'd beyond the sky.How oft, alas, has dark Affliction's stormBurst o'er her head, and shook her feeble form.But her meek eye survey'd, with joy, above,The bow of promise in a Saviour's Love;Serenely resting on her dearest Lord,She sought instruction in his holy word;Nor did she seek in vain; his kindly graceBreath'd a calm sweetness o'er her pallid face;From all her woes she rose superior still,Smiled thro' the storm, and own'd th' Almighty's will.Sweet, dearest shade! who now, with heavenly lyre,Sings Hallelujah's with the blissful Choir,Ordain'd thro' life a thorny path to tread,True to her God, an Angel's life she led.Mild Christianity adorn'd her mind,Soft, gentle, humble, pious, and resign'd.With what a treasure was her bosom stored,By all admired, and by her friends adored.But slow disease consum'd her wasting frame,And fatal Death now urg'd his dreaded claim.As the sweet flower, retir'd within the Vale,Droops, fades, and dies before the blasting gale,So the dear saint in meek submission bow'd,A view of Heaven just brighten'd thro' the cloud.She saw her God, she saw th' angelic train,Welcome her spirit to th' ethereal plain,Heard the soft sounds of all their silver lyres,And joyful flew to join th' Immortal Choirs.Her Soul his fled—but mournful memory stillHeaves the sad sigh, and feels the painful thrill.Afflicted Anna's agonizing breastIs torn with cares, with filial grief opprest:Such grief, Religion only can appease,And give the drooping heart its wonted ease.Methinks, by Fancy's aid, I now perceiveHer shade, soft whisp'ring, "Anna, do not grieve."And, when the Sun, with mild and placid beam,Gilds the tall Cocoas waving o'er the stream;When purple Evening casts a dusky gloom,And sheds mild radiance on her Parent's Tomb,Methinks, sweet Anna, bending o'er her grave,Seems quite involv'd in sorrow's whelming wave,When these soft sounds reverberate on her ear,Borne by mild Zephyrs thro' the evening air,'While my lov'd Anna thus my loss deplores,'And inward grief discharges all its stores,'Thy tender Mother views thee from above,'Answers thy sighs, and sees thy filial love;'When every eye but thine is closed to sleep,'When in the silence of the night you weep,'Oh! then my Anna, from the realms of bliss,'On wings of winds I waft thee many a kiss;'But cease, my child, so deeply to deplore,'We soon shall meet to separate no more:'In these blest regions of eternal Peace'Thy cares shall finish, and thy sorrows cease,'Thro' all thy woes, firm trusting in thy God,'He soon shall bring thee to this bright abode."Written at Clevedale, June, 1812.Written at Clevedale in June, 1812, when the Author was indulging in the fancy that sheshould leave England that year to return toBarbados.NOW hush'd and tranquil are the cares of day,And Evening spreads her mantle wide,Departing Sol withdraws his latest ray,And sinks majestic in old Ocean's tide.2.Keen memory now awakes the throb of pain,And bliss departed dwells upon my mind,I see around the broad expansive main,And waft a sigh upon the passing wind.3.Bear me, oh! winds, to that delightful clime,Where smoothly passed the morning of my days,Pleasures now buried in the course of time;Tho' hope elate still warms me with her rays.4.Majestic, moving in the troubled waves,The distant sails soft tremble in the air;The anchor's weighed! the ship Britannia leaves,And joyous feelings mingle with the tear.5.Now, pensive on the deck I sit and weep,And hear the billows dashing on the strand,Around me rolls th' interminable deep,Now Britain seems a distant speck of land.6.Oh! you who call this happy Isle your own,My present transports you could never feel;The sweet emotions you have uever known,Which on my mind with gentle influence steal.7.I go to meet a much‐loved Parent's form,Impell'd by duty and by filial love,My heart with smiling hope's sweet raptures warm,Exults with joy my gratitude to prove.8.Propitious breezes fill the swelling sails,And gently glides the Vessel o'er the mainGay, fav'ring fortune guides the Eastern gales,And haughty Gallia sends her ships in vain.9.At last the dangers of the voyage o'er,The distant canes are waving in the breeze,We joyful gain the happy peaceful shore,The little Island in the stormy seas.ON MISS ANN THOMPSON's SINGING.ATTEND, ye bright Inhabitants of air,Suspend awhile your soft celestial notes,Deign, from your starry heights to lend an ear,While thro' the yielding breeze the magic rapture floats.June, 1812.On a beautiful Rose which from its peculiar ele‐gance, was denominated the Nymph of Vaucluse.WHEN changing Fancy waves her airy wand,And o'er the mind extends her brilliant reign,Beauty's ideal forms, a floating band,Swim in bright circles through the magic train.2.What sweet ideas thus inspire the mind,When beauty reigns in all it's vivid hues,By Nature's hand each fairy tint defin'dAdorns the rosy nymph of fair Vaucluse.3.For sure the Goddess of the lovely Fount,Angelic Laura's sweet celestial shade,Ne'er view'd a fairer rose bloom on the mount;Ne'er pluck'd a sweeter flow'ret from the glade.4.Ah! sure the shade which haunts Vaucluse's Bower's,Which taught the rill to murmur thro' the vale,With her fair hand has cull'd this Queen of Flow'rs,And borne it here to ornament the Dale.5.And if in Arno's vale amid the gloom,An ancient Tower it's ivied head uprears,Ah! surely such a flow'ret there must bloom,There drink the modest ev'ning's pearly tears.6.But ah! transported from it's native vale,And call'd to flourish in these northern skies,Though it inhale the Zephyrs of the Dale,To fair Vauclusa lost, it droops and dies.7.But lovely Laura views her beauteous flow'r,And flies to save it, on the yielding skies;Again she bears it to her Petrarch's bow'r,And vernal breezes cheer the fading prize.8.And thus frail Man, when drooping here on earth,Sees the last moment which to life is given,Reviving Nature feels a second birth,And Angels bear him to his native Heav'n.Clevedale, June 22, 1812. REFLECTIONS BY MOONLIGHTAT MIDNIGHT.THE wide Creation now is hush'd in sleep,And undisturb'd repose pervades the deep;While yon bright Moon pursues her starry way,And gilds the scene with one unclouded ray;Now on the brink of some dark mountain hoarThe shades of Night, shriek to the wave's deep roar,And, in the gloom of some sequester'd wood,Join their hoarse murmurs to the falling flood;And now, e'en now, in some bright flow'ry vale,Angelic choirs symphonious swell the gale,Celestial voices on the ear of NightBreathe sounds ineffable of pure delight;And the smooth cadence of melodious streamsWith full perfection gilds the fairy dreams.At this still time, this awful midnight hour,Black melancholy reigns in all her power,And in some Convent's loneliest utmost boundWith sacred steps treads consecrated ground.See sad Cecilia, in her life's first bloom,Torn from the world to dwell in cloister'd gloom;And when the deep‐ton'd hollow‐sounding bellBids the sad Nun at midnight leave her Cell;As it's last echoes in the torrents fall,The holy Sisters tread the solemn Hall;The sacred hymns from their melodious tonguesAll rise to Heaven to join th' angelic songs;Then fair Cecilia to the tombs repairs,Her sighs are incense sweeten'd by her tears;Serenely low she treads midst scenes of death,While the low wind hoarse scowls along the heath,Her mourning robes float graceful on the breeze,Lost in the gloom of dark surrounding trees,Her snow‐white arms uplifted to the skies,While Heav'n's own image brightens in her eyes;While round her stalk the spirits of the dead,Unmov'd she stands, for all her fears are fled;She seems prepar'd to take her early flight,And meet with joy these phantoms of the night.But ah! behold on yon tremendous steep,Where the dark Tower o'erhangs the gloomy deep,The wretched Maniac flies with horrid screams,While her rack'd brain is filled with death‐like dreams;Yes, on this fatal, this much‐hated shore,She adds her wailings to the Ocean's roar;For, in it's cruel and relentless wave,An aged Father found a billowy grave,And the last gulph which clos'd him in it's restTore Reason's spark from Julia's anguish'd breast.Those eyes, once lighten'd by its genial beam,Glare now on all in frenzy's wildest dream;And the sweet music of that tuneful voice;Whose lays would make woods, hills, and dales rejoice,Now in loud screams is heard from rock to rock,And howling echo murmurs long the shock;See the last frenzy now has seiz'd her brain,Now seas shall toil, and winds shall storm in vain:Madd'ning she plunges from the awful height.Again she rises to the Moon's pale light,Then sinks for ever, to awake no more,And her last shriek reverb'rates on the shore.Clevedale, Sept. 1812.TO THE MUSES.YE fabled Sisters of th' Aonian Mount,Who strike the harp, and touch the golden lyre,Be present here as at Castalia's fount,And lend my humble Muse your wings of fire.2.How unfrequented are your classic Groves,Temp's sweet vale, poetic Arno's stream;No Homer tunes the lyre, no Virgil roves,Inspir'd by you, with fancy's golden dream.3.No Petrarch now in fair Vauclusa's bowers,Of Love and Laura ever fondly sings;No more for Laura smile the op'ning flowers,No more to Love are tuned the trembling strings.4.Celestial Sisters! fair Immortal Nine;Oh! deign to visit this much favoured land,Round English brows poetic laurels twine,A brave, a warlike, and a noble band.5.O leave once more your Helicon renew'd,For fair Britannia's song inspiring Plains:Harmonious Pope, with early laurels crown'd,On Thames's banks tun'd his melodious strains,6.How Milton shines on fair Parnassus' height!His daring genius blaz'd on wings of fire:Where Saints and Seraphim, enthron'd in light,Tun'd in the Courts of Heav'n the silver lyre.7.On Avon's banks sweet warbl'd Shakspeare's Song,Now smooth and flowing, now abrupt and wild;And as she wander'd Albion's woods among,View'd Nature's Charms, who own'd her fav'rite child.8.Here Thomson tun'd his soft melodious lays,As he, enraptur'd, thro' the Vallies rov'd;Here gentle Cowper sang in Virtue's praise,Admir'd the landscape, and its Author lov'd.9.In Caledonia's wild, romantic vales,On her rude clifts where howls the wintry Storm,The voice of Song oft floats upon the Gales,Tho' cold the Clime, yet Scottish hearts are warm.10.Sublimely swift upon the lightnings wing,Great Ossian's genius rifles the northern blast;Or slow and solemn strikes the hallow'd string,And brings to view the present, future, past.11.Ah! leave ye Nine, each Grecian lov'd retreat,Parnassus' mount and Hippocrene's stream;In this blest Isle, fair Freedom's native seat,The fire of genius darts a steady gleam.12.On England's cultur'd plains let laurels smile,And bloom resplendent in this Northern clime,Let Grecian Arts the warlike hours beguile,And Bards and Poets swell the Song of time.Clevedale, Dec. 1812.HOPE.CELESTIAL Hope, fair Sister of Delight,What nameless pleasures on thy course attend!Thy smile can cheer Affliction's darkest night,And ev'ry solace, ev'ry comfort lend.2.Gay, lightly roving on thy airy wings,The youthful heart is still with joy elate;High on thy pinions to the skies she springs,Above the evils of this mortal state.3.Enchanting Hope, how can thy smile adornThe deepest gloom in sad affliction's store!And like the lustre of the rising mornDisperse the darkness till it reigns no more.4.When sad misfortune with her blasting gale,O'erturns the fabric which gay fancy rears,Transporting Hope, thy fair fardistant sailIn bright perspective to the view appears.5.When fickle fortune all her gifts denies,And frowns terrific on the fainting mind,When friends forsake and e'ery comfort fliesAnd fate gives ev'ry pleasure to the wind.6.How soft thy angel form in meekness clad!Serene thro' ev'ery storm thy placid smile!When the torn heart's with drooping sorrow sad,Thy consolations e'ery woe beguile.7.When pensive beauty, in a cloister'd cell,Regrets past pleasures now for ever fled;Calling to mind the world she lov'd so well,While round her frown the mansions of the dead.8.Thy gentle words, which sweetly promise peace,Bid her look forward to a realm above,Where all her woes and all her sorrows cease,In the bright regions of Eternal Love.9.Thro' ev'ry stage of this uncertain state,Be thou, fair Hope! my constant faithful friend,Teach me to bear Afflictions heaviest weight,In my last Journey on my course attend.Clevedale, 1812.ON A SHRUB.Translated from Ariosto's Orlando Furioso.NOT far from hence a beauteous shrub is seen,It's flowers of rose shine sweetly on the green,O'er liquid glass the lovely flow'ret bends,While it's kind shade a neighb'ring Oak extends.So thick the foliage of the waving Trees,No ray of light can penetrate the gloom;The weary Traveller woos the fav'ring breeze,And seeks the shade where smiling flowers bloom.Clevedale, 1812.SONG.IN vain to me the breeze of MayWafts fragrance on it's balmy wing;In vain beneath the genial ray,The warblers of the Summer sing.2.In vain within the fairy bower,The clust'ring roses sweetly twine,Where, shelter'd from the noontide hour,Blooms sweetly wild the jessamine.3.In yon deep vale whose waters flowMidst flow'ry banks and winding groves;Where wanders sadly‐pensive woe,Where gloomy melancholy roves.4.How bright was once this woodland shadeWhen friendship breath'd her sweets around;When in this grotto, grove, and glade,Was pensive contemplation found.5.This flow'ry scene can please no more,Nor all the melodies of Spring,Nor all that ever charmed before—For peace has fled on rapid wing.Clevedale, Dec. 1812.HAPPINESS.OH! Happiness, the Muses' constant theme,The distant hope of many a golden dream;The fleeting form by all alike pursued,And yet by all as at a distance view'd.Ah! heav'nly maid, thy home is in the skies,And they that seek thee to that home must rise;Must view thee blooming in thy native Heav'n,Adorn'd with all the charms thy God has given.So fine, so pure is thy etherial form,A breath from Earth would all thy charms deform:But in Eternity's continued year,True to the soul as Phoebus to his sphere;How bright thy dwelling near the Throne of God!One way alone leads to that bright abode;A narrow road where all our wand'rings cease,"A way of pleasantness, a path of peace,"The weary Exile, when abroad he roves,In sweet remembrance views the land he loves,Finds in his heart his Country glowing there,While bright'ning hope smiles sweetly thro' despair.So the true Christian, in this world of strife,Sees "a fair distant land" of joy, of life,Sees, with the eye of faith, yon skies above;A region of delight, a land of love.To this bright world, this happy, lov'd abode,Religion's Star conducts us on the road;Gilds the deep gloom of "life's bewilder'd way,"To the eternal seats of shining day.In airy phantoms of ideal joy,We waste our time, and all our thoughts employ,'Tis true, we seek for happiness—but how?We only find disguised shapes of woe.Some vainly think the heav'nly nymph is foundIn worldly pleasures and in fashion's round:Some court her smiles in objects more refin'd,The feast of intellect, the charms of mind;Some pass the deep, new regions to explore,To seek some fairer clime, some distant shore:Some fancy in retreat they find the prize,And gaze on Nature with admiring eyes;And wand'ring pensive by meand'ring streams,Indulge romantic thoughts and golden dreams,But still the pleasing form the vision flies,Looks down on earth, far beaming in the skies.Oh! may we find the only certain roadWhich leads to Happiness, to Heaven, to God.Clevedale, Jan. 1813.ODE TO THE GREEN POND,In the garden at Clevedale, whose waters have been immortalized from a Young Lady's falling into them.In imitation of Petrarch's Ode to the Fountainof Vaucluse."THOU clear and sparkling stream""Warm'd by the sunny beam"Thro' whose transparent chrystal Sarah played,Ye banks adorn'd with flowers,Ye groves and smiling bowersWhere oft in Spring the charming maid has strayed;Your sylphs and Genii lendWhile at your shrine I bend,Assist my verse and speed my tardy lays;And while I touch the lyre,My feeble song inspire,While I attempt, fair Stream, to sing thy praise.Ye Naiads of the flood,While on the bank she stoodYour gentle strains, wild warbl'd thro' the Trees,She heard th' harmonious Song,The vernal groves among,With trembling sounds soft floating on the breeze,The wild romantic scene,The banks of glowing greenAnd the sweet Notes had form'd a fairy bower;Thus pleas'd by Fancy's dream,And tasting Lethe's stream,In sweet delusion pass'd the fatal hour.Ye weeds and rushes gayThat deck the vernal day,To Sarah fatal, and to mem'ry sad;Ye plants that, smiling, bloomIn this sequester'd gloom,Where the kind Trees afford a quivering shade,And ye, who heard her cries,Which echo'd to the skies,When first the flatt'ring bright delusion fled;Ye, who from chrystal springsArose on trembling wingsYour fairy hearts alarm'd with sudden dread;If such her hapless doomTo find a wat'ry tombAnd in yon sparkling waves to meet her death;On you, ye Nymphs, I call,Who view'd the fatal fall,Say, would you not receive her fainting breath?Ah! sure she would not grieveThis gloomy world to leaveThro' the cold gleam of thy translucent wave,Thro' thy Elysian bowers,And fair celestial flowers,With silv'ry Thetis in a sparkl'ing Cave.Hap'ly some pensive maid,To this sequester'd glade,To Sarah's tomb would take her lonely way,And weep, while mem'ry's thrillShould say, that by this rill,In thoughtful mood did Sarah often stray—'Twas here she us'd to roveWhen spring adorn'd the groveWith lively beauty and with vernal flowers;'Twas here at Summer's EveIdeal forms to weave,Light Fancy form'd her wild ethereal bowers.Ah! well‐remember'd dayImmortal in my lay,When on the verdant rushes Sarah stood;She view'd the stream belowIn lucid currents flow,And sudden plunged beneath the chrystal flood;Then from an azure cloudThe Powers celestial bowed,And view'd with tenderness the sinking maid,To save the lovely FairThe Genii all appear,In haste to lend their salutary aid;Supported on their wings,Now from the stream she springs,Once more to sense and memory restor'd;A trembling look she castAs by the bank she pass'dWhose troubl'd waters now no joy afford.Since that alarming hourThis once much favour'd bow'rIs view'd with dread and at a distance seen:It's verdant bloom is fled,And all it's flower's are dead,It's groves no more are cloth'd with living green:It's clear, meand'ring wave,Where sylphs and Naiads lave,Now rolls it's current slow and sad along;No more the Genii sleep,But here the Graces weepThat Sarah listen'd to the Syren's Song.Clevedale, Jan. 26, 1813.SONG.To the tune of "The manly Heart."BRIGHT is the sunny ray which gleaming,Gilds Summer's dewdrop on the rose,But true affection, fondly beamingIn Friendship's eye, far brighter glows:It speaks a language to the heart,Which friendship only can impart.Soft is the streamlet gently flowing,Whose murmurs to the Zephyrs die;But ah! far greater joy bestowing,And sweeter far is Friendship's sigh:It sooths afflictions heaviest cares,And banishes the mourner's fears;Forms the Soul for heav'nly loveWith th' harmonious choir above.Clevedale, Feb. 1813.SPRING.STERN Winter now has closed his dreary reign,And vernal blooms array the smiling plain;The western breeze on it's salubrious wingWafts to these realms the fragrance of the Spring.2.The modest Snowdrop from its humble bed,Now gently lifts its unassuming head;Like Virtue from the bustling croud retir'd,Conceal'd from some, but by the few admir'd.3.The smiling Primrose blooming in the vale,Sheds its soft fragrance on the morning gale;And the mild breeze of eve, serene and calm,Inhales the rich perfume, the vernal balm.4.To hail returning Spring, the warbling trainChirp their wild notes, and flutter o'er the plain;Borne on the breeze they mount with trembling wing,And hail with joyous sounds the bloom of smiling Spring.Clevedale, March, 1813.SONG.BREATHE soft, ye gentle Zephyrs round,And fan the murm'ring stream;Let sweet reflection here be found,And Fancy's golden dream.2.And while Apollo's parting rayBeams brightly in the West,The busy gales of Ev'ning playOn Ocean's tranquil breast.Clevedale, April, 1813.REFLECTIONS ON AN EVENING.WITHIN this lonely beauteous spot retir'd,Far from the world and fashion's giddy throng,My youthful muse, by Nature's charms inspir'd,Has learn'd to raise a feeble, trembling song.2.Immur'd for ever in the bustling Town,Beneath the sway of custom's dire controul,How many sounds, reflection's voice to drown,And crush the finer feelings of the Soul.3.But in seclusion's calm retreat serene,The heart with nobler feelings may expand;Exalt it's hopes beyond this mortal scene,And rest in Heav'n, it's happy native land.4.Soft Evening now assumes her peaceful reign;To gild yon darken'd wood pale Cynthia glows,And, brightly beaming in the azure plain,Worlds upon worlds (a solemn scene) repose.5.If such the beauties that adorn the Dale,If such the charms that all around combine,What scenes were those in Eden's happy vale,When first Creation own'd the Hand Divine!6.What were thy beams, fair orb, to gild the night,When first majestic sunk the God of Day,To pour on Paradise celestial light,And cheer the gloom with new‐created ray!7.The happy Pair, who smil'd beneath thy beam,Whose gentle nature knew no earthly stain,Whose souls were pure as is the chrystal stream,Drank holy pleasures unallay'd by pain.8.And, tho' this pure, this happy sinless stateCan never more beneath the skies be found,We still have hopes to ease affliction's weight,We still have views which cure each latent wound.9.Congenial hearts, in friendship's holy ties,Secluded from the world in peace may rove;Together seek that bliss above the skies,Where reigns eternal, pure unmingl'd Love.Clevedale, April 14, 1813.ITALY.HOW must the Seasons smile in Arno's vale,The milder Climate of Italian groves,Where the soft Zephyrs and the morning galeBreathe thro' the Arbours and the sweet Alcoves!2.What joy to tread on that enchanted ground,Where Petrarch warbl'd to his Laura's praise,Where every Odour wafts it's sweets around,Where Virgil tun'd his bright immortal lays!3.Oh! could I visit fair Italia's land,And rove delighted thro' her vernal flowers;Where all the Muses in Apollo's bandWeave their light garlands in their gayest bowers.4.The wish is vain—but if on England's shore,My happy days could pass in "letter'd ease,"I ne'er would quit the blissful Island more,Nor ever cross the wide Atlantic Seas.Clevedale, 1813.ON THE BLESSINGS OF CHRISTIANITY,Being diffused among the Inhabitants of Africa.As the mild lustre of the rising day,Thro' morn's grey twilight sheds a living ray,Dispels the gathering clouds of gloomy night,And thro' the space of Heav'n diffuses light;2.So the bright Sun, the brilliant Morning StarOf fair Religion, shines on realms afar;Disperses ev'ry cloud of mental gloom,Gilds Death's dark shade, and shines upon the tomb.3.Such, happy Britain, such a light is thine,In full effulgence beams the star divine;Messiah's name is known, belov'd, rever'd,His Life, his Death, his Miracles declar'd.4.And still deprived of this eternal light,Shall Afric's children mourn in error's night?Shall the poor Negro, lost in deepest gloom,Know of no happier life beyond the tomb?5.Yes, see the Day‐Star rise on Afric's shore,And all is light, where darkness reign'd before;The Negro views his native home above,And thinks, with rapture, on redeeming love.6.Peace, gentle, smiles where once destruction raged,On warring plains, where Armies once engaged:In many a dreary desert, waste and wildThe glorious Sun of Righteousness has smiled.7.O'er burning sands where torrid regions glow,The Christian seeks the Negro's hut of woe;Brings life, and peace, and freedom to the Slave,A land of liberty beyond the grave.8.And now is opened on his raptur'd viewA fairer country than his fancy drew;A happier home beyond the western main,Where heav'nly pleasure holds eternal reign.9.These brighten'd hopes the Negro's heart to give,To raise his thoughts, and teach him how to live;This is the task to Britain's Sons assign'd,The glorious work, the conquest of the mind.10.And oh! protected by Almighty Power,And led triumphant to the Afric shore,May fair Religion shed a shining light,Bright as the star which gilds the gloom of Night.SONG TO THE VIOLET.FAIR daughter of the smiling Spring,Retir'd within the Vale,Oh, let the morning Zephyr bringThy fragrance to the Dale;And may the Evening breezes wingThy gentle sweets inhale.2.'Tis thus in sweet seclusion's shadeFair Virtue lives unknown,In deep retirement's lonely gladeSequester'd and alone;With every blossom budding forthBeneath Religion's Sun.Clevedale, 1813.REFLECTIONS ON THE UNCERTAINTY OF HUMAN LIFE.WHY do we rest our anxious hopes below,And fancy bliss beyond misfortune's reach,While every "light affliction," every woeDoes some new lesson by experience teach?2.Gay fancy pictures, with her mimic skill,Scenes of felicity which hope endears;And each succeeding picture, smiling still,Dispels our doubts, our sorrows and our fears.3.All things below this constant truth proclaim,That vain and fruitless are our earthly schemes,That wealth and genius, beauty, pomp and fame,Are all vain shadows and delusive dreams.4.When the torn heart is rent with anxious care,Or the frail body sinks beneath the weight,Search the wide earth—it finds no comfort there;Look to the skies—and Hope sweet smiles again.5.When youth and health attend our giddy hours,Careless we spread our wide‐extended sails;Gay smiling pleasure shews her rosy bowers,And flatt'ring fancy lends her fav'ring gales.6.But quickly comes misfortune's dreaded blast,And Hope, wild fluttering, smiles her last adieu!Affliction's storms our brilliant days o'ercast,Too late we find our airy schemes untrue.7.How oft in Melancholy's pensive hour,Unrivalled sadness spreads her deepest gloom;The sable Goddess, with her solemn power,Diffuses round the horrors of the Tomb.8.In this lone silence, this repose of mind,How small, how trifling does the world appear,When all our thoughts, elated and refined,Soar above Earth to yon effulgent sphere.9.In yon resplendent realms of joy and light,Does happiness, unmixt, for ever bloom;There shines the day without return of night,Unfading joys beyond the dreary tomb.Clevedale, 1813.ON CLEVEDALE.WHATE'ER Arcadian scenes in fancy's dreams,Delight the eye and rise before the view,Stupendous rocks, wild woods, meand'ring streams,And lakes adorn'd with flow'rs of every hue;2.Whate'er romantic visions swarm around,Live in the thought and swell the Poet's brain,Here, all their beauties, all their charms are found,Here Science dwells, and here the Muses reign.3.This beauteous Cot, bright blooming in the Vale,Embellish'd and improv'd, by taste refined;This is the happy spot, the lovely Dale,Where Nature's beauties are with Art's combined.4.Wild, o'er the house unnumbered Roses stray,And fragrant woodbine scents the evening breeze;Soft o'er the flower the morning Zephyrs play,And woodland strains wild warble from the Trees.5.High on the hill in front a wood appears,Each morn bright glowing with the eastern ray,Where stands the oak respectable in years,Dispersing shade when glows the Summer day.6.When gentle Evening breathes a placid calm,And in the western sky the Sun retires,The softened air diffusing odorous balm,And the wood gleaming with reflected fires.7.Bright through the opening boughs a sudden ray,With richer tints adorns the livelier green,The trembling beam of slow‐departing day,Which softly sinks into the twilight scene.8.How tranquil, calm, and lovely is the Dale,When Cynthia refulgent sheds her light,When o'er the solemn wood, the midnight galeIn whispering sounds disturbs the peace of night.9.How bright on Summer's morn thy sunny smile,When Phoebus glows o'er all the flow'ry glade,When youth's high hopes the happy hours beguile,And Life's wide landscape knows no gloomy shade.10.Oft have I rov'd thy flowery scenes among,When Morn's bright beams empearl'd the glist'ning dew,When each gay songster rais'd the tuneful songAnd the dark wood was ting'd with Autumn's hue.11.The gentle gale reviving fragrance breathes,As soft it sighs upon the morning rose,While creeping clematis and woodbine wreaths,Blooming with life, their opening charms disclose.12.Yon rustic chair, beneath th' Acacia's shade,Invites the weary to a fragrant seat;There has the muse her morning visit paid,And struck her lyre in this admired retreat;13.While od'rous gales, and whisp'ring zephyrs playWildly luxurious o'er th' Arcadian scene,When glowing Summer yields to Autumns sway,Who paints with yellower tints the vernal green.14.How oft in this my favourite rustic seat,Thomson's sweet muse beguiles the morning hour,While *Sarah, in some undisturbed retreat,Conducts her youthful friends to Learning's bower.* Miss Cumberbatch.15.With them she wanders o'er the classic page,O'er the wild borders of Castalia's stream;Records the wonders of a former age,Unfolds the sage's thought, the Poet's dream.16.When Evening's hue adorns the heavenly plain,And each gay songster seeks the nightly bower,†Maria's voice, in wild and airy strains,Melodious sounds, to charm the twilight hour.† Miss Sarah Applewaite, who was commonly called Maria at Clevedale, to distinguish her from Miss Cumberbatch.17.And of ‡her voice, whose soft celestial notesEqual the music of th' Eolian lyre,In the calm breeze of evening wildly floats,When Cynthia's beams romantic thoughts inspire.‡ Miss Ann Thompson, Teacher of Music at Clevedale.18.Adieu! ye flowery vales! ye bowers of song!Romantic sweets and blooming charms adieu!Oft shall I rove in thought thy scenes among,When beaming Fancy shall these days renew.June, 1813.INSCRIPTIONFor Pope's Seat, between the Oaks and Elms in Lord Bathurst's Park.Written (on my return from London) in the Park, June, 1813.SPIRIT of Pope! descend and bless this scene,Bid every shrub appear in livelier greenAwaken all the music of the woods,And breathe thy murmurs o'er yon falling floods.In the sweet calm of this sequester'd seat,Thy attic Muse once found a lov'd retreat,Oh! breathe thy magic influence around,In twilight glooms on this poetic ground!And while in strains sublime the raptures swell,With ling'ring steps I'll take my last farewell!WRITTEN IN A BOWER,Where some young Ladies assembled to study.APPROACH, ye lovers of the classic lore,And softly tread this literary bower,For Learning here has spread her useful storeAnd pour'd instruction on the morning hour.2.Revere this spot! for Clio here resides,Majestic mistress of th' historic page,And Rome's proud genius o'er the scene presides,To teach the glories of th' Augustan age.3.Ye fabled Nine! who tune Harmonia's lyre,In happy chorus round Aonia's mount;Amid this youthful throng each breast inpire,To drink the deepest at Pieria's fount.Clevedale, July 31, 1813.TO MISS BARNES,On my leaving Clevedale for Barbados.WHEN Memory's sweet and mildly cheering lightGilds the long retrospect of distant years,Hope's lucid Star, in clear effulgence bright,Shines on the prospect of our future cares.2.When fond remembrance, with her magic power,Will each gay scene of joyous youth renew,Recall each haunt belov'd, each fav'rite bower,Dear to the heart, still glowing to the view.3.Serenely calm, thro' Time's long vista seen,Departed pleasures rise before the sight;The thoughtless joys of childhood's happier scene,Which with the lapse of years have wing'd their flight.4.Then brightly glowing to the distant view,The calm retirement of the Dale will shine,Deck'd with the tints of brilliant fancy's hue,A Paradise of sweets, a Bower divine!5.My friend, adieu! believe my faithful Muse,That grateful memory oft on you shall rest,And when affection youthful joys renews,Will paint those scenes with your instruction blest.6.When far from England on the western Main,My wand'ring thoughts return to England's shore,May I indulge the wish, perhaps 'tis vain,To meet thee in this happy Land once more?7.And if gay flattering fancy will persuade,To cherish airy thoughts and blissful dreams,Too sober reason sometimes will invade,Frown on our hopes and dissipate our schemes.8.Once more farewell! if ne'er we meet again,On Albion's shore, nor western India's clime,Oh, may we join amid th' Angelic train,In those pure realms beyond the lapse of time.Oct. 1813.TO MISS CUMBERBATCH,On my quitting Clevedale to return to Barbados.AND must the Muse collect her feeble powers,And strike the lyre in Friendship's tuneful chord,While mem'ry, resting on departed hours,Recalls each joy the Dale could e'er afford?2.Yes, dear *Laurentia, tho' it's feeble note,So †distant now may scarcely reach thy ear,Yet in the gentle Evening breeze of thoughtThy peaceful mind the few faint sounds may hear.* A fanciful Name given by the Author to her friend.† The Author strictly enjoined her friend not to open the packet containing these lines till after she had sailed from England.3.Those days are past, when oft on Summer's morn,We rov'd the Dale's sweet flowers and charms among,Saw the first rays of light the wood adorn,Inhaled the breeze, and heard the tuneful song.4.When oft we wander'd in the kindly shadeOf lofty Elms where bright Laburnums glow,How oft together sought the peaceful glade,The wild dark Vale, where many waters flow.5.Perhaps Mnemosyne may deign to breathe,Her gentle whispers on the happy past,And sportive fancy deck with many a wreath,Those gay delusions far too bright to last.6.Oh, may the Sun of hope, with circling rays,Gild the wide Landscape life presents to view,And joys bright arch surround your future daysWith some fair scenes Imagination drew.7.That they were fair can true remembrance tell,When she recalls the far‐fled joys of youth,When on the future time we used to dwell,And fancy sang without the aid of truth.8.May mild Religion breathe a heav'nly calm,To sooth the anguish of affliction's woes,Soft o'er thy mind diffuse a gentle balm,And guide thy soul to it's serene reposeOctober, 1813.ON MY DEAR FATHER'S THIRTY‐EIGHTH BIRTH‐DAY.OH! come from classic scenes, and sylvan glades,Ye sportive nymphs who tune Parnassian lyres,Attend my lays, ye bright celestial maids,Who wildly warble mid Aonian choirs.2.Your aid l claim on this auspicious day,Which fond affection must with rapture view,Which Hope, illuming with a friendly ray,Bids many a year with added joys renew.3.Oft has the Sun arose to gild this day;With many a heartfelt wish, and many a prayer,I hail'd the happy morn,—tho' far away,I join'd the dear domestic circle here.4.Oh! may kind Heaven thy valued days prolong,And guardian Angels ever hover near!Thou art the life of all our social throng,Thou art the Sun which gilds our little sphere.5.May we, the minor Stars, inhale thy beams,And fill our urns from thy resplendent light,Till at the eve of life, our setting gleams,May shine more brightly thro' the gloom of night.6.To thee, my Father, all my thanks belong,Each warm affection fondly rests on you;Your praise should ever warble in my song,All I possess must ever be thy due.7.May every blessing, every pleasure bloom,May heavenly grace make each affection blest,May christian hope the night of death illume,And angel harps attune thy soul to rest!Barbados, Dec. 22, 1813.FAREWELL TO ENGLAND.ADIEU to old England! whose well‐cultur'd valesResplendent with beauty, with plenty are crown'd,Adieu to dear England, where health's smiling galesWith Ocean's wild breezes soft flutter around.2.Adieu to the Island, where Liberty reigns,Whose white cliffs are lashed with the turbulent wave,Whose mountains re‐echo the song of her plains, That Britons are warlike, that Britons are brave.3.Farewell to the country where sciences bloom,Where the Muses retire to lead their gay band;Encircled by Fame is her Warrior's tomb,Eternal the glory her Heroes command.4.Adieu to the cold northern Blasts which invade,In Winter's dread season, Britannia's fair Isle,Adieu to the Zephyrs which breathe in the shade,When summer's gay beauties resplendently smile.5.In regions far distant I now tune the lyre,Invoking the Muses to visit me here,Midst tropical breezes my song to inspireTho' a Pope nor a Thompson's kind spirit is near.AFFECTION.SWEET is the Cottage on the hill,Sweet the wild flow'ret of the Vale,Sweet is the dear mellifluous rill,And sweeter still the Summer Gale.2.In vain the fragrant flow'rets bloom,Without Affection's gladdening ray,Whose smile can brighten every gloom,And charm the sense of grief away.3.Yes, sweet Affection! gentle power!So warm in Youth, in Age so calm,Tis thine to cheer the pensive hour,With sweetest, softest, kindest balm.4.In the lone anguish of the mind,To bid the broken heart rejoice,To waken rapture most refined,In listening to thy welcome voice.5.To touch each soul commanding string,And sooth each passion into peace,While beaming hope, with fluttering wing,And heart elate, bids Sorrow cease.6.In deep distress and silent woe,How sweet is Friendship's tearful eye!With quicker life the feelings glow,When those we love return the sigh,7.When joy surrounds our brilliant days,In public life, or calm retreat,Friendship shed her gentle rays,To make the dawn of bliss complete.8.In vain does every pleasure shine,Which Youth can wish or wealth impart,In vain do beauty's charms combine,Affection, only, glads the heart.9.The kindred bosom sooths our fears,A heart congenial quickens joy,Which fresh in Youth and bright in years,Not Death itself can e'er destroy.10.Thro' every scene Affection glows,And sacred still is Friendship's shrine,There only blooms fair pleasure's rose,More fragrant still in life's decline.11.And when the heaven‐born Soul ascends,Enraptured to its native sky,Still faithful friendship never ends,But blooms thro' Immortality.Written at Springham Cottage, Barbados Jan. 1814.TO THE EVENING STAR.SWEET gem of Evening's placid sky!A stream of radiance round me pour;For oft thy golden lamp on high,Has o'er me shone on England's shore.2.Fair Star of Evening! sweetly shine,Upon this Transatlantic Isle,And let thy soften'd rays divine,In torrid regions sweetly smile.3.What countless glories round thee stream,To light the azure rolling main!How lightly quivers every beam,Resplendent in night's gloomy reign!Barbados, Feb. 1814.RETROSPECT.TIS pleasing to think on the days that are past,And sweetly to muse on the pleasures of youth,Before the bright sunshine of joy was o'ercast,Or Fancy's fair visions destroyed by Truth.2.When gay and enchanting the World smiled around, Presenting a landscape unshaded by pain,Before we had trodden it's dangerous ground,Or had listen'd erewhile to its soft syren strain.3.Thus fondly I wander to England's blest shore,To the scenes which I loved and the friends who were dear,Till Memory's sweet powers can charm me no more, And present delights bid the past disappear.Barbados, April, 1814.TO MY *MOTHER IN HEAVEN.

* That truly estimable Woman, respected by all who knew her, fondly beloved in her family, and almost adored by her husband, quitted this vale of tears, March 27, 1803, preceded two days before by her infant Son, leaving three Children, the eldest of whom, the writer of the above affectionate tribute, was only five years three months old.

How consolatory is the remembrance that her Life though short, was spent in the exercise of every religious and moral duty, and that her last moments exhibited to her admiring friends a singularly bright example of Christian fortitude and resignation to the Divine Will!

Alas! I little thought, while writing the foregoing note, that my second wife, another pattern of Christian excellence, who was sitting near me at the moment, would also in a few days be numbered with the dead. Heaven was pleased to bless me with the society of this truly excellent woman for twelve years, and then in its infinite wisdom, removed her from this abode of pain and sorrow to "another and a better world" where I humbly trust, she will meet the reward of her sincere unaffected piety, her pure, Christian Morality. Oh! in the weary pilgrimage I may yet have to travel through this world of care, may the beatified Spirits of these exemplary Christians ever hover near me to guide my wandering steps, to point out the way to their blessed abodes, and present me, in God's appointed time, in their spotless arms at the Throne of the Redeemer!

A. C.Bath, Feb. 1817.THOU sainted Spirit! from the realms of lightLook down propitious on thy child below,Direct my thoughts, and guide my steps aright,Teach me my duty and my cares to know.2.If, in the regions of eternal Day,The things of earth may claim one thought of thine,Vouchsafe thy aid, to bless thy children's way,And emulate thy excellence divine.3.At the bright summit of the heav'nly mount,My Mother shines in glorious robes array'd,Smiling she sits, by pleasure's endless fount,Enjoying day without returning shade.4.Methinks I see her in th' Angelic throng,With golden harp amid the heavenly choir,Through Sister Spirits as she glides along,E'en seraphs pause to wonder and admire.5.Oh! say, sweet Saint, in that celestial clime,Pure as thy soul, and spotless as thy mind,Oh! art thou conscious to the things of time!Dost thou e'er cast an anxious look behind?6.Dost thou behold thy much‐lov'd husband's breast,Lull every grief, and bid each pulse be calm?Oh! dost thou sooth his every care to rest,And, as on earth, diffuse thy healing balm?7.Perhaps thy guardian Spirit hovers round, And shields him still within thy circling arms,Perhaps, unseen, thou healest many a wound,Serenely smiling in celestial charms.8.Watch o'er him still, be still his angel friend,Guard him from pain, and wipe away the tear;From thy ethereal throne, benignly bend,And point his view to Mary, blooming there.9.In gloomy Melancholy's pensive hour,Sweetly descend, and softly whisper peace,Direct his eyes to yonder happy bower,Where woe shall fade away, and sorrow cease.10.Though hundred angels bore thee hence awayTo Heaven, thy home; to Happiness, thy prize;The vale of death burst not the bands of love,They reach from earth to strengthen in the skies.11.Congenial spirits still hold converse sweet,Death does the mortal part alone destroy;In sacred solitude, and calm retreat,From earthly cares escap'd, we taste of joy.12.A ray of Heaven will sometimes brightly gleam,A moment of delight, a spark divine!The "City of the King of kings" will beamThe "New Jerusalem" in glory shine.13.In these sweet moments of refin'd delight,Wilt thou, my Mother, aid my rising thoughts,And teach my soul, with faith's unerring sight,To pierce the veil, and join your angel‐notes?14.Be still my Mother! though a Seraph now,Still let me speak to thy maternal ear;And, while before thy purity I bow,Forgive my errors, my entreaties hear.15.Through higher systems, and through worlds unknown,Thy radiant form in cloudless glory moves,To starry realms thy perfect soul is flown,To heavenly friendships and immortal loves.16.When thy last smile, which brightened earth, was fled,And the last lustre of thine eye was gone,Adoring friends around mourn'd Mary dead,While in the worlds of light she brightly shone.17.While heav'nly music lull'd her soul to rest,On cherub wings her infant soar'd on high,Then, with the spotless train, in glory drest,Welcom'd his mother to her native sky.18.May her bright virtue all our hearts inspire,And elevate our hopes, our joys above,Till we again shall meet, in blissful choir,And spend an Immortality in Love!THE ASSEMBLY.THE theme my verse unfolds, ye Bridgetown Fair,Is one which late has claimed your constant care,Tis one so dear to Woman's wayward mind,That even the Drama finds its joys resign'd;The long loved cards must now neglected wait,Till fashion gives once more the smile of fate,The bright Assembly now is Beauty's court,To which all Ages , either sex resort;Where social pleasure holds unrivall'd sway,Where all is brilliant, airy, light and gay.Ye Powers of Dance! who o'er the Ball preside,Be present here, my Muse's steps to guide!And thou, Terpsichore! my lays inspire,While with a trembling hand, I touch the lyre!With anxious hope, and heart with joy elate,The expecting fair one views the approaching fete;The long anticipated night is come,When, sick or well, the female flies from home.If, in the morn, the head was rack'd with pain,When evening smiles, the fair is well again.With joyous eyes she views the Sun descend,For then the empire of the day must end,And happy nights auspicious reign commence,To fill soft woman's heart with joy intense.Before the powers of Dress, she first must bend,Invoking Venus every charm to lend,Then, robed at length, in fashion's bright costume,She hails the splendours of the Assembly room.There, while the lights in bright profusion shine,Obsequious Beaux attend on Beauty's shrine;And, while they pay their homage to the Fair,In conscious glory, own their winning air.How mix'd and varied is the motley scene!The old and wise, the gay and young between,Fops, Beauties, Coxcombs, Men of worth and sense,Some to receive, and some to give offence.Some, who say nothing, in a laboured speech,And vainly strive some stroke of wit to reach;Some, with a long parade of tedious stuff,Who never think that they have said enough;Some, with the gallant's flatt'ring address,Extolling charms the object may possess;Alike to him, if she be fair or not,He speaks his praise, believing she is caught;While list'ning woman laughs within, to seeThe flattering Youth in self conceited glee.But here! Clarissa comes, in native grace,With charms unborrow'd, and attractive face;Bright on her Cheek the rose of Nature strays,A gay good humour on her features plays;While, in the dance with airy step she moves,All must admire, for Envy e'en approves.Tho' flattery's darts assail her youthful ear,Th' insipid stuff she hardly deigns to hear;Smiles at the nonsence of the cringing Youth,Nor vainly thinks that all he says is Truth.And, while attendant Beaux around her throng,In unaffected grace she glides along.There Julia smiles in beauty's favorite train,Doomed like Clarissa to a flattering strain.From the clear mirror of her hazel eye,A thousand magic loves and graces fly;A thousand winning charms in radiance move,Like those we fancy in the Queen of Love.And there are hearts which own their potent sway,Who court her smiles, and bask in Beauty's ray.Look round the gay Assembly's sportive sphere,And ask of some, if Julia's smile be dear.And they will say, if Beauty ever warm'dThe soul of Man, then Julia sure has charm'd.In glittering hues, amid the festive scene,The officer's gay military vest is seen,With eager eyes he seeks his favorite maid,Whispers his praise, and by her hand is paid.And, when the gay repast at midnight hourBids the light muse of Dancing cease her power,The Youths and Maidens tir'd and faint repair;To seek another joy, another care.In full attendance round a sparkling throng,Of bowing Beaux, the favorite Belles among.And when some pretty nothings, borrowed wit,Show that they hold poor women Babies yet,When all their stock of compliment is o'er,To the bright Ball‐room they repair once more.But, when the morning dawns with feeble streak,And fainter far, than Woman's heated cheek,When bright Aurora bids them quit the Dome,And slowly they prepare for quiet Home,How many murmurs fill the dusky air,How many sighs to quit a place so dear!The half‐extinguished lights in paleness burn,And the soft music dying, says "return."Then with regret, at friends and Parent's call.They bid a Month's adieu to Mason's Hall.ON HEARING S. E. G* SING AND PLAY.* Miss GaskinWHEN Beauty's hand awakes th' harmonious chord,And lifts the soul on rapture's trembling wings,Each list'ning ear will join with quick accordTo drink enchantment from Eolian strings.2.But when the dulcet Voice with magic noteAnd sweetest cadence circles in the air,Wing'd with the sound ascends our raptur'd thoughtIn sweet illusion and in visions fair.3.What conscious gladness then inspires the mind,When sweetest numbers flow from lips we love,When one vibrating chord with joy refin'd,Transports the soul to Memory's fairy grove!4.There, where the pictur'd scenes of bliss appear,Not yet quite faded from the ling'ring view,Hope, Fancy, Mem'ry, claim one silent tear,One precious tribute to affection due.Barbados, August, 1814.LINES ADDRESSED TO A BROTHER,Whose brilliancy of talent, strength of mind, and undeviating regard to Truth at the age of eight years, merit admiration and applause.IF Genius, heav'n‐descended, claim our praiseIf bright renown attend the favor'd few,Then, sure, the tribute of a Sister's lays,To Genius, Talent, and to Truth is due!2.The brightest scenes creative Fancy frames,Disperse in air before the beams of Truth;Her angel‐form just admiration claims,She awes in manhood, and she charms in Youth.3.The lightning flash of Wit, the sparkling rayDarts for a moment with resplendent gleam,But thine, fair Truth, the radiant light of day,Etherial Virtue's unextinguish'd beam!4.Oh! ever thus thy vivid splendour pour!Ennoble all his thoughts, enlarge his mind,To his young Soul lay open all thy store,And make his feelings as thyself refin'd.5.And at the fountain of Eternal Truth,May all his hopes in grateful incense rise,While the first off'rings of an early youthAre thus embalm'd by wisdom from the skies!Barbados, 1814.RETROSPECTIVE REFLECTIONS,WHEN soften'd sadness steals upon the mind,And Memory's hand has touched each finer chord,What joy so pure, what rapture so refin'd,As the lov'd voice of Friendship can afford?2.In the calm stillness of a musing hour,When, "seen afar" the past, in beauty smiles,What potent influence, what magic powerDissolves the Soul, and present woe beguiles.3.When scenes long fled, and feelings long at rest,Pervade the thought, and swim before the view;When fancy's dreams, in airy colours drest,Possess the soul with visions ever new!4.What unseen guide directs the captive heart,And sweetly charms the list'ning mind away?What bright delusions such delight impart,And waft the thought to many a distant day?5.The Enchantress, Memory, with magic skill,Can work these wonders in the mazy brain,Cause every nerve with transport wild to thrill,Elate with pleasure, or depressed with pain.6.In the soft moments of the mind's repose,What magic centers in a name, a Tune!While, in the view, the Star of memory glows,Bright, clear, and radiant as the midnight moon.7.While, to the thought, recurring visions rise,And fancy's pictur'd landscape charms once more,When absent objects flit before the eyes,In the same garb which really they wore!8.Sweet in the moments of the mind's repose,The dulcet whispers of a voice we love!When warm Imagination, highly wrought,Permits the mind in fairy scenes to rove.9.When calmly, coolly, we can view the past,With judgment more matured and reason clear,Our first delusions cannot always last,Nor first impressions always right appear.10.One gloomy retrospect may waken grief,One latent error cause the tear to flow,But sympathy will ever yield relief,And woe, when share'd, is but the name of woe.11.A sweet similitude of fate to prove,Cements the ties which youthful friendship formed,The endless wreath which flowery fancy wove,Still charms the heart which once that fancy warmed.12.Congenial minds, congenial sorrows know,Congenial pleasures and a kindred fate!The same regrets cause useless tears to flow,From the same time their pains and joys they date.13.To you, my friend, whose highly cultured mindIn sensibility's soft school was formed,To you are known the harmonies refined,Which in persuasive strains the heart have warmed.14.May every future bliss your hopes can paint,Be brightly realized! be truly known!May all regrets be fading, light, and faint,And every bud of joy be fully blown!Barbados, August 1814.TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN.LET us love now, my charming Fair!For Youth's bright days must soon depart,Swift as the dart which cleaves the Air,To pierce the flying Leopard's heart.2.The short lived beings of an hour,Like fading roses bloom and die,And e'en thy Beauty's peerless flowerCan only bloom in Youth's bright sky.3.When in the Ocean's glowing bedThe sinking orb of day retires,Again by fair Aurora led,He gilds the morn with brighter fires.4.When Winter's ruthless blast destroysThe verdant foliage of the wood,Again with Spring, returning joysWith livelier aspect are renewed.5.But Man's gay Summer, once when fled,Revives no more the drooping heart,When pleasures airy train is dead,And hopes no longer bliss impart.6.In the dark regions of the Tomb,Forgetfulness must ever reign;The voice of love ne'er cheers the gloom,Nor beauty's smile inspires the strain.7.Let us then, Laura, while we may,Wander in the flowery grove, While all is smiling, fair, and gay,Let us pluck the Rose of Love.Barbados, Nov. 1814.ON THE EYES.THERE is a charm without a name,Which words can never paint, Where all the Graces join their claim,Which makes expression faint.2.There is a power so mildly sweet,That all must feel it's force,When soft persuasion's graces meet,To urge it's gentle course.3.With matchless eloquence divine,It more than volumes tells,There wit and sense, and grace combine,And there perfection dwells.4.This little magic charm declaresIn one short moment's time,What words could scarce convey in years,Or Genius clothe in Rhyme.5.This magic charm, this nameless grace,Would you know where it lies?Would you it's varied motions trace?Go—seek it in the Eyes!Barbados, 1814.ON READING MRS. HANNAH MORE'S ESSAY ON ST. PAUL.OH! I thou! whose Genius as thy Virtue shines,Around whose brows the wreath of Fame entwines;Benign Preceptress of thy native Isle,Beneath whose guardian Care the Virtues smile;Thou boast and glory of thy Sex and age,What beams of light irradiate thy page!There, polished Science every grace bestows,And from thy pen the stream of knowledge flows.There, rich Imagination's chasten'd fireGives birth to thoughts which Seraphs might inspire,But guided still by Judgement's wiser sway,Thy fancy beams not with too bright a ray;But o'er thy page diffuses soften'd light,Mild as the shining way which gilds the vault of night.Celestial wisdom glows in every line,The writer, human—but the Theme, divine!A Theme, which Angels in their Courts above,Contemplate still with new delight and Love:A Theme, which Zion's heav'nly muse has sung,While with the Strains sublime, the mountain rung:A Theme at which the morning Stars rejoice,Which tunes the Seraph's lyre, the Angel's voice,Which "heavenly Hosts" imparted first to Man,(While thro' the Courts of Heaven, the echo ran)"Good will to man, Eternal Peace on Earth""This sacred day has given a Saviour birth."This is the Theme which all thy soul inspires,Which bids thy bosom glow with heav'nly fires;Which makes thee rise above terrestrial things,And soar to Heaven on the Seraph's wings;And, while the graces on thy page appear,And Learning's ample stores are open'd there,Truth, sacred Truth, illuminates the whole,And bright it shines, the transcript of thy Soul!Display'd by thee, our various duties shineWith life and light, and energy divine.Inspired by thee, the Sister, Daughter, Wife,Treads with more care the thorny ways of Life;And taught by thee, the Christian learns to bearWith pious strength the ills that meet him here.Where howls the Tempest, and where lowers the Storm,The Christian views a fair, etherial form;And, while the dark'ning clouds around him frown,More brightly shines his everlasting Crown.The erring steps of inexperienc'd Youth,Thou leadest gently to the source of Truth;Thou bids't them, not to faint Castalia go,But to that stream, whence "living waters" flow.Adorn'd by thee each Virtue fairer shines,Thou to each grace it's proper sphere assigns;Mak'st each alike, essential to the whole,Breathing thro' all a Principle, a Soul;The rays of goodness thus, commingling blend,And thus to God, their centre, ever tend.As, when beneath the Painter's magic hand,We see a landscape rise at his command;At the first glance a thousand charms we view,The Grove's soft bloom, the Heaven's cerulean hue,But, as we gaze we see with wondering eyes,New Graces smile, and new attractions rise,Thus has thy skilful painting well pourtray'dTh' Apostle's mind, in every charm array'd;Thus hast thou brought each Virtue into light,Bade new perfections rise before our sight;Seiz'd every modest grace that sought the shade,And brought it forth in native charms display'd.And, as we read, th' Apostle's conduct seemsGlowing with radiant and effulgent beams.A thousand Virtues, by thy hand brought forth,Now stand reveal'd in all their native worth;And Paul's own spirit dictates every line,With eloquence, and grace, and strength divine.Like his, thy words possess the happy artTo win the affections, and to teach the Heart.As years revolving beat thy strength away,And Nature owns her gradual decay,Thy mental powers superior force acquire,Thy Genius beams with more refulgent fire;And, as the earthly frame still weaker grows,Th' etherial spirit more sublimely glows;Weaker and weaker are the ties which bindTo scenes below thy Heav'n‐aspiring mind;Fainter and fainter grow the mists of sense,And brighter shines the Saints' intelligence;Clear, and more clear, the heav'nly prospect beams,Within thy reach the Crown of Glory seems;Still lighter grows the weight which bars thy flight,To the blest regions of Eternal Light,Till freed by Death thy spirit soars awayTo the bright realms of Everlasting Day.Barbados, July, 1815.ON WALTER SCOTT, ESQ.OH! sweet is the Harp of the Mountain,Whose music is borne on the gale;And sweet is the murmuring fountain,Whose waters flow wild thro' the Vale!2.Oh! sweet is the rose of the morning,When bathed in the soft dews of night,Sweet the Cowslip the meadows adorning,When gilt with the first beams of light!3.Oh! sweet is the tremulous lyre,Which pours its wild notes on the breeze,Sweet the calm which pale moon‐beams inspire,As lightly they glance on the Seas!4.But, sweet as the Harp of the mountain,Is the strain heard on Caledon's shore,And sweet as the murmuring fountain,Does Scott his wild melody pour.—5.The soft blushing rose of the Morning,Less sweet than his Ellen,* appears;The dew‐drop, the flowers adorning,Less brilliant by far, than her tears!* Lady of the Lake.6.The notes of the soft breathing lyreMust yield to her magical strain,Which the powers of Music inspire,Which the breezes waft over the plain.7.The Star of the Evening, when glowing,Less bright than the beams of her eye,The sound of the streamlet, when flowing,Less soft than the sound of her sigh.8.This fairest of Scotland's fair daughters,This bright‐beaming Star of the North,Like Venus, first shone on the waters,Like her, from the wave glided forth.9.Continue! sweet Bard of the mountain,To tune thy mellifluous lays,On the Lake, in the Grove, by the Fountain,And England shall crown thee with Bays!Barbados, July, 1815.ON M. DE CHATEAUBRIAND.THE Muses long, on airy pinions borne,From clime to clime have wing'd their devious flight,Since from their native bowers and Temples torn,The plains of Greece no more their steps invite.2.Forsaken now is Aganippe's fount,And Tempe's Vale, and cool Mænder' s stream,No Gods assemble on Olympus Mount,No Naiads now in bright Ilyssus lave.3.No more, beneath the radiant sky of Greece,Is heard the warbling of th' Ionian lute,The heavenly Concerts of the Muses cease.And sadly silent is the Doric Flute!4.The tuneful Sisters long have deign'd to dwellBeneath a Northern and more clouded sky,Have rais'd their voice in Fingal's "mossy, Cell"And bade the strain on wings of echo fly.5.O'er blissful Albion too, their reign extends,For there, their favourite Pope, immortal sung,Still, on the banks of Thames, his shade descends,For there, he left his silent lyre unstrung.6.But tho' on England's shore, in Scotland's vales,Full many a Bard the Muses shrine adorns,Yet, are their sighs oft wafted on the galesTo their dear native Grecia's distant shores.7.How oft, a long and lingering look they castTo mournful Attica's deserted plains,How oft does memory paint the happy past,When Homer breathed his fine majestic strains.8.And is there then, ye Nine! no friend to saveYour dying fame, upon the shores of Greece,And must Parnassus be indeed your grave,And must, indeed, your Attic Concert cease?9.Behold from happy Britain's verdant plains,Young Byron comes, to tread your native shores,On classic ground, he sings his wandering strains,And, at Parnassus' mount your shrine adores.10.But, not for him, your fairest wreath is wove,Lo! Chateaubriand treads your favour'd soil,Let the famed laurel, from Apollo's grove,Reward him richly for his classic toil.11.To him 'tis given, to bid your name resound,To breathe, in sweetest strains, your Country's woes,And, as he wanders o'er the sacred ground,His own rich fancy more sublimely glows.12.How oft, with love of classic lore inspir'dThe groves of Academus own'd his tread,How oft, with Lacedemon's glory firedHe sought the tombs of the illustrious dead!13.Where fam'd Eurotas rolls his silent wave,Midst frowning ruins, and deserted towers,Where all is sad and gloomy as the grave,In musing solitude he pass'd the hours.14.To make the slumbering echoes wake once more,He hail'd the Spartan Hero's honour'd shade,But all was still, and silent as before,For Sparta's patriot fires had all decayed.15.But, weep no more, ye Heaven‐descended Nine,That Grecia's Sons no more your power adore,For Chateubriand guards your sacred shrine,And to th' admiring world unfolds your varied lore.Barbados, July, 1815.ON MARQUIS WELLINGTON.OH! blow the loud Trumpet of Wellington's fame,Let the blast echo far as the Earth's widest bounds;For the sound of his glory, the praise of his name,On the wild winds is borne, and old Ocean resounds!2.Let England, with pride, o'er her Hero rejoice,And crown him with honours immortally bright;Let the Bard wake the strain, and the minstrel his voiceAnd the nations all join in the Song of delight.3.Let the heart of the Briton with rapture beat high,That his Country has given a Wellington birth;Let the glow of the Patriot beam in his eye,As he hails that lov'd Country the Queen of the Earth!4.Oh! waft it, ye winds, thro' the Universe wide,Bear England's and Wellington's name on your wings,Resound with his triumphs, thou turbulent tide,Till, round the Globe echoed, the wild music rings!5.Let the battles of Blenheim and Ramillies now,To Wellington's Victories yield up the palm,Let garlands immortal encircle his brow,And the