Poems and Fugitive Pieces.

Day, Esther Milnes, d. 1792

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Poems and fugitive pieces, by Eliza

Esther Milnes Day

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• French
• Latin

POEMS BY ELIZA.

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[Frontispiece]

ODE TO SPRING.

Awake my Soul & with the genial Spring,
Thy grateful tributary perfume bring;
Soar as the warbling minstrels of the Sky,
Praise in each note, & Heav'n in thine eye!

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[Title Page]

POEMS
AND
FUGITIVE PIECES,

BY

ELIZA.

PREFACE.

[Quotation marks at the beginning of the first six lines have been deleted, except for those at the beginning of the first line in the Preface.]

"AUTHORS, we are told, are but ill judges of their own performances, and the opinion of friends not always to be trusted; for there is generally a kind of benevolent partiality, which inclines us to think favourably of the works of those we esteem:" yet is it hardly possible not to feel flattered by such commendations.  My friends have, frequently, kindly importuned me for copies of the following poems, and urged me to publish; and I could not but feel soothed, and grateful, from time to time, for such requests, at least kind intentioned, though I had not originally the most distant idea of extending the circulation of such trifling miscellaneous performances beyond their partial hands:  I shrunk fearful from the bar of public investigation.

Yet the many truly delicate and flattering answers to some of these fugitive pieces, and particularly to some lines written upon Ramsgate Pier by moonlight, whilst there in Sept. 1790,

and inserted in the Star, at first, without any signature, by way of amusement in ill health, has drawn me out, almost imperceptibly to myself, and has so far encouraged me as to venture to intersperse through the following pages those testimonies of approbation, just as they appeared in that paper, as some apology for my temerity in presuming at last to solicit of an impartial, though an indulgent Public, a passport for my little work, to the hands of my requiring friends.

If during this convoy, and I should fondly hope not though an enemy's country, such philanthropic guardians should wish to develope the principles of their little protegée, ( pour passer le tems en route ,) I trust, that on finding them founded upon religion, morality, and the social affections, the grave will not be offended by levity, or the gay by moroseness.

CONTENTS.

• Inscribed to the Countess of Abergavenny   xi
• Ode to Spring. 1795.   1
• Lines written on the Anniversary of the Death of
      a tender Mother   4
• Consolatory Verses, to Mrs. H*****, on the
      Death of her Infant Daughter   8
• Lines written to a Friend, at Midnight, watching     the sick-bed of an affectionate Sister   11
• Lines written, on reading some affecting Verses,
      composed by the Rev. Mr. N****n, on the
      first Anniversary of his beloved Wife's Death,
      January, 1792   14
• To Eliza. On reading her beautiful Stanzas in
      the Star of February 27   16
• To Alphonzo.   18
• To Eliza   19
• Lines written on Ramsgate Pier, by Moonlight.
      August 20, 1790.   21
• To the Lady whose Lines, written on Ramsgate
      Pier, were inserted in a former Star   26
• To the Author of Lines written on Ramsgate
      Pier by Moonlight   28
• Verses addressed to the Author of the Lines
      written on Ramsgate Pier by Moonlight   30
• Absence. A pastoral. Found wrapped round a
      Posy of wild Flowers; supposed to have fallen
      from the Bosom of hapless Mary   31
• Sonnet. To Eliza. Occasioned by reading Ab-
      sence, a Pastoral, inserted in the Star, Dec. 4   35

  ---

  Page viii

• To Eliza   36
• To Leander   38
• To Henry   39
• To Eliza   42
• Ode to Health. Written by ill-fated William, on
      recovery from illness; and found in Mary's
      Box of little hoarded Treasures   43
• To Eliza   47
• To Henry   48
• Summer. A Soliloquy by Moonlight. The last
      written by hapless Mary to her unfortunate
      Lover before the Shipwreck   50
• To Eliza   55
• Lines to William, by Mary, with her Miniature
      Picture, on a report of War in India: and taken
      from the lifeless bosom of her unfortunate
      Lover, when thrown on shore after the Ship-
      wreck   56
• To Eliza, on reading her beautiful Lines   59
• Lines sketched in a Pleasure Boat, sailing on the
      Kentish coast from Ramsgate Pier   61
• To a Lady, with a Calendar for the New Year   64
• To Henry   66
• Lines on a Father's Miniature   67
• Impromptu. On Reading the Tragedy of Sir
      Thomas More to some Friends, who were all
      in tears. December, 1794   69
• A Card of Thanks to Mrs. G----for a Bouquet
      of Roses and other Flowers   70
• Lines to a Lady, with an empty Honey Jar   71
• Lines to the Right Honourable the Countess of
      A. with a Flower Basket   73
• Lines to the Countess of A. with a painted Work
      Bag   74
• Lines written to the Countess of A. with a pair of
      Woodstock Scissars and Gloves, after having
      seen Blenheim   76
• Impromptu. To Miss O. with a Bosom-friend   78

  ---

  Page ix

• Lines to Mrs. R. with a plaited paper Work-
      Basket   79
• Lines to the Right honourable the Countess of
      A. upon her Birth Day, with a little fancy
      Painting   80
• An Apology for an Instance of Forgetfulness. To
      a Lady   82
• To Albert   83
• Lines on a favourite Squirrel. Written in the
      school vacation   84
• Lines to the Countess of A. inclosed with a little
      blue enamelled Pencil   86
• To a Lady, weeping at the Wail of Margaretta, in
      the Entertainment of No Song no Supper   89
• Answer   90
• Rural courtship; or, the infant loves of Licidus
      and Annet. A simple story.   92
• Evening. An elegy finished on reading the me-
      lancholy Separation of the Dauphin from the
      Queen of France   112
• Lines written under the Picture of an Owl and
      Bat   117
• Lines sketched on a Party down the River Wye,
      from Ross to Monmouth   118
• Allegorical Epithalamium, after the Manner of
      the Italian Bards, on the Marriage of His Royal
      Highness the Duke of York with the Princess
      Royal of Prussia   122
• Impromptu. Occasioned by a young Lady hiding
      a French Half-crown in her Friend's Hand-
      kerchief, as they could not settle at Cards who
      had won it   126
• Answered by a Gentleman   127
• A short Adieu to the Country, Dec. 1795   128
• Licidus to Annet. The departure   131

---

Page x

COMIC POETRY.

• To Senex   135
• Ænigma   136
• To a Lady, upon her Ænigma, published in the
      Star, 13th Sept. under the Signature of
      "Eliza"   139
• Charades   141
• Solution of Mrs. F--'s Ænigmatical Toast of
      "Here's a health to the man who loves another
      man's child better than his own"   146
• Lines to Mrs. F. not being able to find out one
      of her Riddles   147
• A Card to Miss Lee   148
• Epigrammatic Confutation of two ancient Pro-
      verbs, on a late Accession to a large Fortune   149
• Lines from a Lady to a Gentleman. Occasioned
      by her borrowing some silver of him, at a
      Charity Sermon   150
• Answer, by the same Gentleman   152
• Sketch of the present Fashion, compared with
      those of former Times   153
• Impromptu   160
• Impromptu   161
• A Tour to the Glaciers of Savoy. An Epistle
      to John Waller, Esq.   162
• Explanations   172

INSCRIBED
TO THE RT. HON. THE
COUNTESS OF ABERGAVENNY.

O THOU , to whom my loftiest strains belong,
My love, my admiration, and my song!
Deign to accept these unassuming lays,
Ventur'd to view, encourag'd by thy praise.
When worthless greatness fills the exalted sphere,
Ill sound its labour'd plaudits on the ear;
But when superior merit we'd rehearse,
All will approve the tributary verse.

If, as thy valu'd friendship I can boast,
She should extol thee who has known thee most;
How should I trace thee through each scene of life,
The tenderest mother, daughter, friend, and wife!
How sweet, with splendid titles, 'tis to find
The manners affable, the taste refin'd:
With loveliest features, unaffected ease,
A tear for pity, as a form to please.

Her chiefest care, with ready help to lend
The widow comfort, and her babes befriend;
So feelingly alive each action's shewn,
That sympathy's soft powers are all her own.
Sweet, doubly sweet's the dew-dropp'd rose in tears,
As on its cheek the glist'ning gem appears;
But sweeter far, more precious 'tis to view
The human eye suffus'd with pity's dew:
So in her gentle bosom stands confess'd,
Softness and candour, "by the Graces dress'd."

Thus from the cultur'd stem this shoot we see,
Nurtur'd and branching near the parent tree;
Rear'd, and matur'd, and grateful for the aid,
Twines round that stem its buds to form a shade:
How cheering, as the plant unfolds its bloom,
To own its blossoms yours, and choice perfume;
To see with fond delight, and sweet surprise,
Your native genius in your daughter rise!
To bless each opening virtue as it grew,
To own the giver Heaven,--instructor, you;
To watch with anxious joy, each lively grace,
That sportive plays around her cherub race;
Their noble house depicted through the whole,
The mother's beauty, with the father's soul.

ELIZA.

POEMS
BY ELIZA.

ODE TO SPRING,
1795.

AWAKE , my soul! and with the blooming Spring,
Thy grateful tributary perfume bring:
Soar, as the warbling minstrels of the sky,
Praise in each note, and heaven in thine eye!
Shake off the wint'ry mists, and plume thy wing,
Like the sweet lark, and, as thou mountest, sing!

Welcome, dear views, from this enchanting spot,
Though erst neglected, never quite forgot:
Ah, with what bounding joy from crowds I flee,
To prune my flowers, and renovate with thee!
--So some fond mother to her nursery flies,
And casts around her soft maternal eyes,
Views with delight her playful sprightly race,
And hangs enraptur'd o'er each blooming face;
Marks their quick growth, and, with a fostering hand,
Or stays, or prunes her little docile band;

With balmy kiss their circling arms she meets,
Like vernal gales, she steals and renders sweets.
Her sum of bliss twines round their little length,
Grows with their growth--and strengthens with their strength;
But should her little suckling droop among
The joyous, busy, active, blooming throng,
Ah, how concentred then are all her cares!
To it she turns--for it alone she fears;
For it, enanguish'd, braves the midnight hour,
And in her bosom soothes her fading flower.
How soft, how beauteous, beams her eye to view,--
The glistening blue-bell, bow'd with pearly dew;
Trembling 'midst sanguine hopes and anxious fears,
Like April's sun, she smiles on it through tears!--
Hail, roseate Season! sweetly smiling hours,
Playful as sportive infants, strewing flowers;
Blithsome as hope reviv'd, and young as gay,
And fair as young, soft daisy-footed May!
Hail, hour of prime! for thou art fairest, best--
Ingenuous nature--by the Almighty dress'd!

O thou Supreme! who spread'st this beauteous blaze,
To strike the sense, and charm the astonish'd gaze;
Who pours this soft profusion on our sight,
To woo the mind to scenes of calm delight;
Who gav'st this fair variety for food,
Not only gave it, but pronounc'd it good;
Gave it to cheer--to bless--on all to shine,
And it is yours--and theirs--and thine--and mine.

O THOU , who deign'st this wond'rous good to me,
And gives mine ear to hear, mine eye to see;
Illumes my reason with a ray divine,
And strings my feelings exquisitely fine!
That rears my little fragile frame anew,
Not only rears it--but delights it too.
O give, whilst health reanimates my cheek,
And these delightful scenes I fondly seek--
Give me to see, to own, to praise thy power,
Seen in the storm, or bloss'ming in the flower--
Lead to the source of all this wond'rous plan,
THOU GREAT FIRST CAUSE --least understood by man!

So, when my Summer sun of life is o'er,
And these lov'd scenes shall cease to charm me more;
When age, or pain, or death, shall intervene,
To pall these joys, and close this beauteous scene--
May fairer worlds superior prospects bring,
Unfading foliage--universal Spring!
May my exulting spirit joyful rise
From earth to heaven, from stars beyond the skies!

LINES

FORGIVE the wish, that would have kept thee here,
And, oh, forgive the wild enanguish'd tear!
Forgive the thoughts that give this sorrow birth;
Forgive the grief that sinks me down to earth;
Pardon, dear saint, if thus, at times, I mourn!
If the big drop still bathes thine honour'd urn!

Oh, I've no cause!--no cause, I know it well;
I feel what all would say--what each would tell,
That she's releas'd from every care and pain,
That our poor loss is her transcendent gain!
Religion's paths her early footsteps trod,
The blossom of her youth was spent with God;
Her mid-day powers increasing ardour gain'd,
What her youth caught, her riper years maintain'd.
I know--I know what further might be said,
But--'twas my mother!--and that mother's dead!
Ah! chide me not, whilst I my griefs reveal,
I bow submissive;--but her child must feel!--

Soft, ye my friends! I wou'd retire awhile--
A few fond tears my sadness may beguile:
My recent anguish will betray a groan,
And modest sorrow seeks to weep--alone.

'Tis well!----Here, bent before thy awful throne,
Maker Supreme!--I may each feeling own!
Father benign! who dost each thought controul,
Who see'st each secret movement of my soul!
Thou know'st with humble deference I bow,
And kiss the hand that dealt the friendly blow.
I wou'd not--cou'd a wish recall her here;
'Tis not such thoughts send down the trickling tear:
'Scap'd from all pains, all sublunary things,
Her seat, the heavens;--her friend, the King of kings!
And do I wish thee here--here, on this earth?
Ah, no! I hail the hour that gave new birth,
That burst thy prison bonds, and thee restor'd
Triumphant to thy Saviour, and thy Lord!

These are my thoughts; though yet, at times, I moan,
And grief, insatiate, claims me for her own;
Nature reverts to dear domestic life,
The tender mother, mistress, friend, and wife;
Each character in soft gradations rise,
Swell to my heart, and burst their way in sighs!
Here, to thy urn for ever could I grow,
Enjoy my tears--sad luxury of woe!
A thousand soft sensations draw them forth,
Twine round my heart-strings, chain me down to earth!

Where'er I turn, thy image strikes my view,
Smiles in my face, as thou wert wont to do!
I trace thy active step, thy cheerful looks,
Hang o'er thy couch, and weep upon thy books;--

These books, I trust, shall be my constant guide,
Press'd by thine hand in many a folded side!
O, my full heart!--here breath'd her daily prayer,
That Providence would make our paths his care!
Dim's the dear page, by frequent service torn;
And mark'd the leaf, by her lov'd fingers worn!
Yes, I will kiss them, fold them to my heart;
Dear precious treasures, never shall we part!
Can I forget the hours of anxious toil,
Wakeful, for me, thou'st watch'd the midnight oil!
Heedless of sleep, my little cries distress'd,
Laid on thine arm, and wrangling at thy breast;
Now rock'd, with gentlest motion, to and fro!
Now, cheek to cheek, thou'st strove to soothe my woe!
Ah! vain the wish these anxious cares to show;
None but a mother--mother's cares, can know,
Or duly rate the gratitude we owe!
No foster parent robb'd thee of thy spoils,--
My earliest love,--my first soft infant smiles;
My little arms were stretch'd for thy embrace,
And in thy bosom hid my playful face;
Around thy neck my little fingers clung,
Whilst thou, with fond delight, enamour'd hung;
My uplift eye, yet glist'ning with a tear,
Mark'd thy lov'd kiss, which banish'd every fear;
I felt thy arms enfold me to thy breast,
Then smiling, murmuring, gently sunk to rest.

Oh! thou from whom I learn'd unerring truth,
From dawning reason to maturer youth;

With whom I pass'd whole years of fond delight,
Bask'd in thy sunshine,--gambol'd in thy sight;
In whom the parent held so mild a sway,
Taught what was right--'twas pleasure to obey:
Oh, if thy spirit now unites above
An angel's pity with a mother's love,
Still o'er my ways preserve thy mild controul,
Review, correct, and elevate my soul!
Grant me thy sweet serenity of mind,
Devout, yet cheerful--active, yet resign'd;
Subdue these struggles partial griefs present,
And grant me patience, mellow'd by content.

Ah, with such thoughts, with such a soothing scene,
Why should I droop, and sorrow intervene!
When active fancy takes her aerial flight,
Bursts from this world, to join the realms of light!
But ah, wound up too high, too keen I feel,
Nature clings round, and I am mortal still!

Oh, when shall I, from these keen feelings free,
Enjoy, dear saint, the precepts taught by thee;
When shall I see thee--see thee as thou art,
Without this aching anguish at my heart!
That time will come, with hope I'll humbly seek;
My faith is stedfast, though my nature's weak.

CONSOLATORY VERSES

AT length, sweet babe, her tortur'd frame's at rest;
Life's bands are loos'd, and she is with the bless'd!
No more shall pain thy prattler's limbs annoy,
Mounted on seraphs' wings to realms of joy.
Fain would I soothe thy woe, relieve thy pain,
And urge, thy loss is her transcendent gain:
Yet the fond mother cries, with actions wild,
Deaf to all comfort---- "Oh, my child!--my child!"
Busy reflection yet, with pointed dart,
Recalls each look to wound a mother's heart,
Smiles as her infant smil'd--her voice the same,
Thrills through her ears, and lisps a mother's name;
Clings round her neck--too poignantly displays
Her dear lost child, with all its winning ways.

"Ah! where's the bounding step, the laughing eye?--
"Pale thy dear lips, which wore the coral dye!
"Mute is that voice o'er which with joy I've hung,
"And stopp'd the honey'd prattle of thy tongue;
"Nipp'd are thy budding graces, in their prime,
"Like flowers in spring, cut off before their time!
"Oh, I must ever mourn my hopes beguil'd!
"Pride of my life--my child! my child! my child!"

Ye soothing friends, ah, let her breathe her woes--
From griefs imparted, consolation flows.

Turn, gentle mourner; think, to thee 'tis given
To see thy first-born wear the crown of heaven.
See, through thy tears--tears will awhile remain;
For sighs and tears by nature spring from pain.
See, through the eye of faith, disrob'd of clay,
Thy babe a cherub, join'd eternal day:
A smiling seraph gain'd the heavenly road,
Chanting sweet hallelujahs to her God.
Would'st thou--if yet thou could'st, allure her down,
And rob the exulting angel of her crown?
Ah, no!--'tis anxious, trembling nature yearns--
The Christian yields her--but the mother mourns.

Could'st thou but see her, rob'd in spotless white,
How would her wondrous glories charm thy sight!
Then would she say--"Ah, weep for me no more;
"I am not lost--but gone awhile before;
"Absent, indeed, but we shall meet again
"In realms of bliss, 'midst yon celestial train!

"O, turn thy eyes from that distressing night,
"When death and anguish wrung me from thy sight!
"Soon as the soul was from this body driven,
"I did but close my eyes, and wak'd in heaven!

"Think what a blaze of glory round me smil'd;
"Myriads of angels met thy happy child;

"Ten thousand gracious forms appear'd in view,
"Smil'd in my face, as thou wert wont to do:

"Deck'd me in heavenly robes, each bliss display'd,
"Whilst round my flaxen locks a rainbow play'd;
"Around my neck a golden harp they hung,
"And with sweet hallelujahs tun'd my tongue:

"A branch of palm my little fingers grasp'd,
"And oft, uplift with joy and wonder, clasp'd:
"With cherub's wing, upon a sunbeam's ray,
"O'er silver clouds I wing'd my glorious way!

"Ah, 'tis in vain, cloth'd as thou art with sense,
"To paint the wonders of Omnipotence!
"But thou wilt know, will unincumber'd see,
"When thou hast shot the gulf 'twixt me and thee.

"Then will I tune my harp, and meet my love,
"Who form'd my infant mind for joys above;
"I'll join thy mounting spirit, as it flies,
"And both together seek our native skies!"

"Yes, we shall meet, sweet love, and never part;
"I yet shall see thee, darling of my heart.
"Prostrate before thy throne, O Power divine!
"I'll kiss the rod, and patiently resign;
"Fully convinc'd, in trembling nature's spite,
"Whate'er thou dost, is just--is good--is right!"

LINES Written to a Friend, at Midnight, watching the sick-bed of
an affectionate Sister.

HAST thou, dear Anna, watch'd the sickly bed,
And with thine arm soft-rear'd the drooping head?
Hast thou, with agonizing hope and fear,
Hung o'er the pillow of a friend that's dear?

Has thy heart sunk, to hear the faint reply,
To mark the fading cheek--the languid eye,--
The fluttering spirit starting with alarms,
And fainting breathless in thy trembling arms?

O, hast thou witness'd these!--thou'lt soon excuse
The inattention of Eliza's muse.

Has thine ear, wakeful, told the lonely hours,
From churchyard clock, through boisterous winds and showers--
The ticking watch, the distant dog at bay,
And, longing, look'd for lingering, cheering day?

Hast thou, on tiptoe, pac'd the dreary room,
Fearful thy breath should break the solemn gloom--
Dress'd thee in smiles--suppress'd thine inward grief,
With the sweet thought, thy presence gave relief?--

And, O the joy! to mark the approving eye
Watch thy soft footstep, as thou glidest by--
The expressive look these subtle joys enhance,
And tenfold pay thee, with their grateful glance.

The hand, faint rais'd for thee in silent pray'r,
Its gentle pressure for thy tender care--
Sweet are the pains this speechless shew affords,
And more than thank thee--with ten thousand words.

For these the fragile frame nor feels fatigue,
The spirit buoyant, props the friendly league--
If languid self would raise a piteous plea,
Ah, has not Lucy watch'd and wak'd for me!

And lo, as sweet reward for all my pains,
To see life animate her azure veins,
Health's softest tint the pallid hue efface,
And dress, as wont, her sweetly smiling face.

To see mild rais'd her grateful eye above--
To hear her thank me, with unfeigned love!
These tender scenes can be but faintly guess'd
And felt too much, to clearly be express'd.

So some lov'd drooping plant, from winter's powers* ,
Borne in thine arms to warmer climes and bowers,

Reviving, grateful for the transfer made,
Spreads all its leaves to form for thee a shade;
Breathes all its odours in a rich perfume,
Gives to thy bosom all its beauteous bloom,
Twines its soft tendrils, quickens every shoot,
And cheers thee with its sweetest, choicest fruit.

* Si un arbre avoit du sentiment, il se plairoit à voir celui qui le cultive se reposer sous son ombrage, respirer le parfum de ses fleurs, goûter la douceur de ses fruits. Marmontel.

LINES

HOW pure the love!--how sweet the powers
    That sung these pious strains;
Such music sooth'd her dying hours,
    And soften'd all her pains.

Fainting with languor from disease,
    How soft the silver tones,
That point the fluttering soul to peace,
    'Midst nature's restless groans!

That cheer with fond endearing care,
    That rears the drooping head;
And with a guardian angel's wing,
    Enfolds the sickly bed.

That see with too--too keen an eye,
    Life's sands more faintly run;
Yet, with submissive woe, can cry,
    "O Lord!--thy will be done."

A faith so firm!--a love so just!
    With purest incense burns;
And though the Christian yields the dust,
    The widow'd bosom mourns--

Yet thou hast joy above the rest,
    Whilst bow'd beneath the rod;
Years of affection saw ye bless'd,
    She left thee--but for God!

Rest, then, a while; thy mission o'er,
    Thy zealous labours past;
She but awaits thee on that shore
    Where joys shall ever last.

TO ELIZA. On reading her beautiful Stanzas in the Star of
February 27.

HARK ! hark! in whispering sighs around,
    What accents strike my ear!
Intent I list the plaintive sound,
    And, list'ning--drop a tear.

For thou, O Pity, didst inspire
    Each gentle thrilling note!
Bad'st glow, with thy celestial fire,
    Each line Eliza wrote.

Hush'd be the deep resounding floods,
    And hush'd each gentler rill,
Be hush'd, ye warblers of the woods,
    Ye rustling leaves, be still!

For hark! her heavenly voice again,
    Within the wounded breast
Of widow'd grief, beguiles each pain,
    And bids him yet be bless'd.

Delightful task! to wipe the tear
    That dims affliction's eye;
To lull to sleep each infant fear,
    And check the bursting sigh.

How oft for such a task as this,
    Have angels quitted heaven;
And sure an angel's task it is,
    Since to Eliza given.

Pursue thy work, angelic fair,
    So shalt thou never feel
The iron hand of grim despair,
    Nor sorrow's rankling steel.

But dove-like peace for ever dwell
    Within thy hallow'd breast,
And hope in softest accents tell
    Thy soul to be at rest.

For ne'er before the King of kings
    Hath virtue knelt in vain;
This outstretch'd arm shall watch thee still,
    Thou ne'er shalt taste of pain.

And, life's tempestuous voyage o'er,
    Each threat'ning danger past,
Thrice bless'd, thou'lt reach that peaceful shore,
    Where joys shall ever last.

ALPHONZO.

TO ALPHONZO.

    SOFT Pity hovers round the gentle heart
    Where purest love has claim'd an anxious part;
    Sweet emanation!--wreck of tenderer fires,
    Thou hallow'st every mind pure love inspires;

And though fond Hope has fled her halcyon nest,
Still clings Compassion round this mourning breast.

TO ELIZA.

O FRAUGHT with nerves, acute to feel
The woes of others as thy own!
O prompt to soothe, if not to heal,
The heart where grief has fix'd her throne!
Who blunt'st the lifted, venom'd dart,
Which death has pointed 'gainst the heart,
By bidding gush the crimson life
Of some dear mistress--dearer wife;
Who bid'st the mists of sorrow fly,
Like clouds athwart the orient sky;
When, from his pure crystalline bed,
The sun uprears his blushing head,
And pours, in crimson tides of light,
A flood of glory on the sight:
Say, hast thou drank the bitter draught
By sorrow's deadly hand imbrued?
And hast thou felt the feathery shaft
Of writhing anguish--bath'd in blood?
Ah yes!--at sorrow's shrine thou'st knelt,
Her iron grasp severely felt:
Thou could'st not else have struck the lyre
With so much pathos, so much fire;
Thou could'st not else have led to start
The impassion'd tear, which speaks the melting heart:
Who best the flinty couch of anguish knows,
With pangs severest feels for others woes!

But yet--ah, do not yet complain!
Still mingle comfort with thy cup of pain,
Since, "though fond Hope has fled her halcyon nest,
"Still clings Compassion round thy mourning breast."
For, oh how bless'd! who bounteous treads
Where want and pain unveil their heads,
Where black misfortune frowns despair,
To shed unhop'd for sunshine there.
His life shall glide like yon unruffled stream,
Whose clear expanse drinks evening's golden beam;
Embason'd deep within a copse of trees,
Its bosom kiss'd by no unhallow'd breeze:
Or, as some trav'ller, far from man's abode,
Toils slow and sad along the sleepy road;
If some smooth path he find, some gentle slope,
His heart within him bounds with eager hope;
O'erjoy'd, to view his journey near an end,
His eyes to heaven in silent praises bend.
So joyful he, whose hand allays the smart
That rankles deep within the wounded heart;
From guilty cares remote, from passion's strife,
Unruffled steers through all the storms of life;
While meek Religion, philanthropic power!
With works of mercy fills each vacant hour;
While Hope, pure planet, lends her living rays,
And lights him cheerful through the evening of his days.
At length, as nightly he was wont to steep
His drowzy senses in the arms of sleep--
So soft, so pleas'd, he'll close his eyes in death,
While hovering angels catch his parting breath!

ALPHONZO.

LINES

OH , thou delusive deep, with woe replete,
Whose whiten'd wave steals breathless at my feet,
On dove-like pinions wafted to and fro,
Silent and soft as falls the feather'd snow.
Thou dread abyss! now dimpling with the beams
Of the pale moon, as sadly sweet she gleams.
All hail--hail, sorrow-soothing scene to me,
Whose soul is form'd for sympathy and thee!

Oh had I Fingal's harp, or Jubal's lyre--
Did Mara's tuneful notes my voice inspire--
Here, whilst the liquid lapse so gently flows,
And whilst the summer breeze so mildly blows--
Here would I pour such silver sounds along,
Sweet as their powers, and, as my wishes, strong.

See! from the verge of yon retiring wave,
A hapless wreck just warns you of its grave!
Deep bulg'd its heavy groans are heard no more,
The green surge ling'ring, hides the treach'rous shore;
The sigh of pitying zephyrs swells the breeze,
And heaves, with little sobs, the cruel seas;
The light surf melts in tears of fraudful guile,
Like the fam'd reptile of the dangerous Nile!

But soft--what Ariel form attracts my sight,
Skims o'er the beech with looks of wild affright!
Frantic the phantom glares with fix'd despair,
Beats her sad breast, and, screaming, rends the air!

"Oh! my lost love--my plighted William--see
"Thy wretched Mary lost to hope and thee:
"Her shipwreck'd sense tempestuous haunts this coast,
"Where, with thy blooming honours, thou wert lost!--
"Ah luckless day!--how fearfully it sounds!--
"That saw thy gallant streamers in the Downs!
"The village maids, with fond officious care,
"Had wove the nuptial wreath to bind my hair;
"The kindly swains with haste the laurel chose,
"To greet my love, and grace his conquering brows:
"Soft gratulations 'rose the nymphs among,
"And Mary, happy Mary! form'd their song.
"Haste, haste, they cry'd, and seek the neighbouring sands--
"Perhaps e'en now thy anxious William lands.
"Swift as the bounding doe I flew to meet----
"And saw--too sure!--my lover at my feet!
"Saw his pale corse float on his wat'ry bier,
"Nor heav'd a sigh, nor dropp'd a pitying tear;
"The starting eyeball roll'd athwart the main,
"And instant phrenzy seiz'd my burning brain.

"See!--see!--again he's borne upon the wave--
"Oh, save him!--save him!--pitying angels! save!--

"See! 'gainst the rocks his wounded corse is driven--
"He faints!--he dies!----Oh, mercy!--mercy!--Heaven!
"Hold, hold, my brain!--see!--see!--my love arise,
"And, soothing, points to yonder cloudless skies!
"Invites me to partake his blissful home--
"Shade of my breathless love!--I come--I come!"--

Thus melancholy, with her pallid hue,
Towers o'er the scene, and shades the glorious view;
Mournful, delights to picture deep distress,
And heave the sigh o'er murder'd happiness:
And lo, what sorrowing form, bedew'd in tears,
Faint through yon casement's glimmering ray appears!
See, a fond mother weep, with actions wild,
And watch the startlings of her restless child!
Sad recollection, with her sharpest dart,
Recalls each look to wound her anxious heart;
Smiles as her infant smil'd, its voice the same,
Thrills through her ears, and lisps a mother's name;
Clings round her neck, too poignantly displays
Her blooming boy, with all his winning ways!

"Ah, where's the sprightly look, the sparkling eye!
"Pale thy dear lips which wore the coral dye;
"Mute is thy voice o'er which with joy I've hung,
"And stopp'd the honey'd prattle of thy tongue;
"Nipp'd are thy budding graces in their prime,
"Like flowers in spring, cut off before their time--

"Oh, must I ever mourn, my hopes beguil'd!
"Pride of my life--my child!--my child!--my child!"

Thus busy thought would eagerly display
Each chilling sound, without one cheering ray;
And thus hyp'd fancy rules the passive eye,
And turns a cloudless to a gloomy sky.

But shall ingratitude for blessings given
Close the bright scene?--forbid it, bounteous Heaven!
Whilst health-restoring gales refresh this coast,
She ought to chant them who has felt them most.

Turn then, thou piteous mourner! turn thine eyes
To fairer prospects, through these genial skies:
Bath'd in the briny flood, thy darling boy
Shall spring to life, to liberty, and joy;
Soft blooming health her rosy tints shall trace,
Laugh in his eyes, and glow his cherub face;
Sportive, the foaming billows he shall brave
Like the light cork that dances on the wave;
Thy outstretch'd arms his playful wiles shall meet,
And thy light heart bound with his nimble feet;
Each soothing plan for future years increase,
And all thy anguish'd soul be hush'd to peace.
But, hark! the clock slow sounding o'er the Pier,
Warns me to quit the humid atmosphere.

--Adieu! soft scenes, lov'd subject of my muse,
Which lead the mind to animate its views,

With quick Promethean fire to warm the whole,
And give to imag'd thought a breathing soul;
Where, unrestrain'd, the social spirit's free,
And wooes the mind to sweet philanthropy.
Adieu, the varied scene, wide stretch'd along!
My morning theme shall join my evening song:
Light springing from the wave, thy views rejoin,
And with my pencil strive to make them--mine!

TO THE LADY

O, WHOSOE'ER thou art, whose moaning lay
Thus in soft numbers melts the soul away!
Whether from fancy'd ills your sorrows flow,
Or from the nobler source of others' woe;
Accept this tribute from a friend unknown,
Who makes your well sung sufferings all his own!

Ah, who shall listen to thy Mary's tale,
And not the maiden's hapless fate bewail!
Who the sad story of her William hear,
Without a sigh, or sympathizing tear!

In young affection's days, she saw, forlorn,
Her soul's best object from her bosom torn!
Returning--he, with noblest passions fir'd,
Just in the portal of his bliss expir'd!
The expecting bride beheld the dreadful scene!
Her shipwreck'd love!--the foaming gulf between!

O sad survivor of thy lover's doom!
If yet, for grief, this earth affords thee room,
Soon may thy unavailing sorrows cease,
And all thy woes be lull'd in endless peace!

And thou, dear warbler of the plaintive strain,
Sweetest and best of all the muse's train!
Never, oh never may thy bosom prove
The silent pangs of disappointed love!
But O, while care and fruitless hope are mine,
Be health, and each congenial blessing, thine!

HENRY.

TO THE AUTHOR

PEACEFUL , fair mourner, be thy future days;
Nor tun'd to melancholy be thy lays:
Remember, that the havock of a storm,
The rage of elements, and every form
Of dire calamity afflicting man,
Is but a portion small of one great plan.

When clear the atmosphere, and bright the sun--
When pure as light the dimpled currents run--
When free from clouds the blue arch'd sky appears,
And feather'd songsters' notes rejoice our ears,
Weak man is apt to think--had he the sway--
Time should run on the same from day to day:
But from experience reasoning, we know,
The vivifying streams would cease to flow;
The creatures then for food would search in vain,
For waving corn no more would grace the plain;
Contagious maladies the air would fill,
As if Pandora's box were opening still
To pour forth maladies, destructive more,
Tenfold, than those she let escape before:
But nature cannot bear the fev'rish pain;
Her boist'rous efforts quickly change the scene;

Contending elements boil up--despise controul,
And to just equilibrium bring the whole;
From each part taking that which it can spare;
To each assigning its own proper share:
Thus health and life restoring to each part,
New scenes preparing to make glad the heart.

Shall man repine, because he has not power
To stop the course of nature for an hour?
Shall partial evils, needful to this plan,
Give pain to innocence, or kill the peace of man?

Thus Reason speaks--but Sorrow hates controul,
And soothing melancholy melts the soul,
In sympathizing numbers to confess,
That even in honest grief, there's happiness--
A happiness, but only known to those
Whose souls are form'd to feel another's woes.

LEANDER.

VERSES Addressed to the Author of the Lines written on Ramsgate
Pier, by Moonlight.

WHEN Sappho turn'd the amorous lay,
The melting soul was charm'd away;
Virtue lay vanquish'd by desire,
And all the bosom was on fire.

But thine the muse's nobler art,
To raise the genius, mend the heart;
The purest feelings in thy lay,
With brighter fancy join'd, display;

Bid nature's scenes pourtray'd appear,
And wake impassion'd Pity's tear;
All, all confess, who read thy line,
That Sappho's muse must yield to thine.

ABSENCE.

COME , sweetest flowers! and grace my lonely cot;
    Droop not your beauteous heads, dispel your fears;
Where'er ye go, I'll nurture well the spot,
    Warm ye with sighs, and moisten ye with tears!

Here, on this mossy bank, within this grove,
    The kindest youth, my gentle William, came:
Here breath'd, in softest sounds, his infant love,
    And carv'd with true-love knots his Mary's name!

At eve, returning through this flowery dale,
    He cull'd your balmy sweets with choicest care;
Then, at the stream that glides by yonder vale,
    He deck'd the artless ringlets of my hair.

Each vernal sweet exhales the same perfume,
    And buds, unconscious of this rising sigh;
The hawthorn bush is just as gay in bloom,
    The same dear place!--but ah, how chang'd am I!

Blithe as the lark, I rose at early dawn,
    And caroll'd as I tripp'd, with mirth replete,
Swift as the doe that scours yon velvet lawn,
    My light heart bounding with my nimble feet.

But now--I rise oppress'd from restless sleep,
    All heavy, as a pond'rous weight, my heart!
The daisied mead I wander o'er, and weep;
    And in the jocund dance can take no part.

Yet still I court the sadly mournful scene,
    And trace his lov'd idea in this wood;
I think--'twas here so oft we've happy been;
    Here 'twas we sat, and there my William stood!

And these the haunts my village youth approv'd:
    And these such flowers he to my bosom tied!
And these the well known paths we oft have rov'd,
    And hail'd the moon-beam by the ocean's side!

Ah me, these hours I still remember well!--
    How swift all seasons flew when I was gay:
But, chang'd the scene, December seems to dwell
    'Mid all the fragrance of refulgent May!

'Tis not a place, or view, can peace impart,
    Though form'd by nature exquisite to please;
The eye shrinks back, and waits upon the heart,
    Nor looks abroad--unless the mind's at ease.

Can I forget, at silv'ry twilight's dawn,
    His dulcet notes slow breathing o'er the mead;
Or yet my lute, soft trilling o'er the lawn,
    Responsive answering to his oaten reed?

White as the new shorn flock, or thistle's crown,
    The fav'rite dress I us'd for him to wear--
Blue as the bell my streamers hung adown,
    Expecting William for the dance or fair.

But now!--his fav'rite gown, and ribbons blue,
    Deep in my beechen chest neglected lie;
My Sunday's geer, so neat, so spruce, so new,
    I care not for--so very sad am I!

Ah, can lorn Mary deck herself in these!
    Her wish to shine has with her William fled:
He's far, far off whom she desires to please!
    And all her little vanity is dead.

One only soothing act her heart can prove--
    'Tis, morn and eve, an anxious view to take,
To gaze o'er all his pretty gifts of love,
    Bathe them with tears, and kiss them for his sake!

This little box, preserv'd with miser's care,
    Contains the charms that keep life still awake:
I cannot gaze and cherish wan despair,
    Though, while I gaze, my heart seems fit to break!

The posy'd ring, my silken garters gay;
    All these, and more, the gifts of early days,
Within this box the much-lov'd relics stay,
    And many a rhyme wrote in his Mary's praise!

And here's the silver bit that bears his name!
    Another pledge of constancy and truth;
And, shall I not return so bright a flame.
    Whate'er thy fate, dear, lov'd, unhappy youth!

My posy'd ring--"I'll ever constant be!"
    My motto'd garters--"I will never range!"
Yes, William, yes! and true I'll prove to thee,
    I like my choice--as thou--too well to change!

If thou return'st in peace from war's alarms,
    I'll once more join the dance, the wake, the fair;
If Heaven has snatch'd thee from these faithful arms,
    I too can die!--I'll pine, and meet thee there!

SONNET.  TO ELIZA.

AH , dear Eliza! in lorn Mary's woes,
    Too well thy own sad story I divine;
Whoe'er her William--Heaven only knows--
    But Mary's truth and constancy are thine!

Ah, who, like thee, can paint each tender scene,
    Where mutual flames in kindred bosoms burn!
Who tell, like thee, the anxious sighs between
    The parting tear, and long, long wish'd return!

Pure as the blush unconscious of desire;
    Mild as the joys which holy men extol;
Sad as the dying swan,--thy strains inspire,
    With more than common sympathy, the soul.

Peace to thy breast! and, O may never care,
Or aught but bliss, have room to harbour there!

HENRY.

TO ELIZA.

BUT little us'd to strike the trembling lyre,
Your powerful notes Leander's muse inspire:
No pen like thine can touch the melting strain,
And, sweetly warbling, in such notes complain.

Mary and William's fate first mov'd my lay--
Your little Pastoral--what shall I say?
My soul in sympathy partakes your woe,
And tears spontaneous as your numbers flow--
Feign'd griefs, wrought up with skill, may give some smart--
But real sorrows agonize my heart.

Cynics may laugh, so may the Stoic school,
And measure out my folly by their rule;
Their callous souls, to tenderness unknown,
No ills can feel but those which are their own:
Kind sympathy by them is laugh'd to scorn--
But in each manly heart that virtue's born:
And different souls, in sympathetic tone,
Will feel as if the two were only one:
Like music strings in unison dispos'd,
When one is struck, before the sound be clos'd,
Vibrations animate the other string,
And notes respondent to the first one bring.

When griefs like thine, the mourning lays inspire,
The muse pours forth her plaint in native fire;
No room for trifling ornament is found,
Or sense e'er sacrific'd to rhyming sound.

Soft thrilling through my soul, your woe-fraught tale
Arrests my blood--oft makes my cheeks turn pale.
Could I, with art celestial, give relief,
Or pour the balm of comfort o'er your grief--
Could tears mix'd deep with thine assuage your woe,
To heal these wounds what would I not forego?
For truth, with power majestic, marks your line,
And proves how deep their fate was link'd with thine.

LEANDER.

TO LEANDER.

TO give such anguish to the feeling hearts,
    To probe the gen'rous mind with tort'ring pain--
Are these the hests Eliza's muse imparts,
    To those who fondly listen to her strain?

Ah, change thy theme, and court the Cynic's school,
    With Stoic apathy the soul set free;
Deal out the steady mind by measur'd rule,
    And leave the trembling nerve to grief--and me;

* For ease, nor peace, that flutt'ring breast can know,
    Which like the attracted needle, pointing true,
Turns at the slightest touch of joy or woe,
    And, as it turns, must, shudd'ring, tremble too.

Then arm thy soul with philosophic lore,
    And steel thy breast with adamantine art;
So shalt thou shun a world of pain in store,
    And 'scape the woes that wring--sad Mary's heart!

* See Mrs. Grevill's Ode to Indifference.

TO HENRY.

WHAT silver sounds, melodious, meet my ear,
    And mourn responsive on the sighing gale,
Dropping, so sweetly sad, the pitying tear
    O'er the soft sorrows of a recent tale!

Ah me, no fancy'd woes I held to view!
    The woe-fraught scene is prattled round the coast;
Too true, alas! and pity 'tis, 'tis true--
    William and Mary were together lost!

Nay, start not, Henry! for 'twas half conceal'd,
    The simple facts, too copious for my line;
Listen!--ah list!--the rest shall be reveal'd--
    Thou wilt not grudge to mingle tears with mine.

O it will cost me many a pang, I ween!
    To trace their infant loves, each childish joy,
When little Mary gamboll'd o'er the green
    With her lov'd William, then a fair hair'd boy.

Fresh, like the rosy morn, his cherub face,
    And, like the berry, dark his laughing eyes;
And Mary's too, beam'd sweet with kindred grace,
    The soft mild blue that paints the azure skies.

Oft hand in hand they rambled o'er the plain,
    And fill'd their little laps with store of flowers!
And oft pursu'd the gilded fly in vain--
    These were the pastimes of their earliest hours.

But war's shrill clarion rouz'd the youth to arms!--
    To gain for Mary wealth and fair renown,
Sighing he tore him from her blooming charms,
    And left her weeping, joyless, and forlorn.

Full oft retiring from the noisy throng,
    To hide from vulgar eyes the struggling tear,
He breath'd his constant vows in artless song,
    And pour'd the trembling numbers on her ear.

So the lorn bird, within the grove retir'd,
    Trills her sweet notes, the thorn within her breast:
So sings the swan, her dying notes admir'd,
    Her own sad requiem to eternal rest.

"Mary, dear maid, though ocean rolls between,
    "And far, far off, is white-cliff'd Albion's shore,
"Some sweet remark of thine illumes each scene,
    "Thy image breathes in every opening flower:

"In the carnation, rich with coral glow,
    "The milder rose-bud, and the jess'mine fair,
"Thy lip, thy modest blush, thy skin of snow,
    "And, in the almond brown, thy glossy hair:

"If the tall palm-tree bows beneath the breeze,
    "Thy easy shape waves graceful in my view;
"If the sweet blue-bell glistens through the trees,
    "'Tis Mary's eye, impearl'd with pity's dew!"

Thus would he sing, till years of tedious toll
    Sweet competency's meed had well acquir'd;
He came full laden with the spoiler's spoil,
    And, just in view of happiness--expir'd!

Ah, what remains to close the dire affair?
    Or who can paint the maiden as she stood!
Clasping her hands, and frantic with despair,
    She plung'd, impetuous, in the raging flood!

Ah, hapless lovers!--dear, presumptuous maid!
    There may thy woes, thy cruel sorrows, cease--
Fruitless, alas, is now all human aid,
    The hand which bruis'd, can only give thee peace.

TO ELIZA.

YES , for thine own and gentlest pity's sake,
    Sad and responsive shall my sorrows be,
For Mary's woes, these eyes shall weep and wake;
    And this true heart shall fondly sigh for thee!

O, were e'en William's sufferings wholly mine,
So I could find his Mary's love in thine!

HENRY.

ODE TO HEALTH.

HAIL , beauteous goddess of the jocund train!
If humble bard may strew thy fane with flowers,
Divine Hygeia! listen to my lays,
        While, with my first warm breath,
        I celebrate thy praise!

O thou, with roseate hue, and sparkling eye,
With bounding footstep, and with blithsome mien,
Yclep'd gay Health! accept thy vot'ry's pray'r,
        And with this garland bind
        Thy flowing auburn hair.

Whether adown, amid, around I gaze,
Thy influence gilds the variegated scene--
Beams through the wild thyme--sports along the glade--
        And in yon peasant's song,
        That sprightly cadence made.

Ah, how I've gaz'd upon his infant race!
Admir'd thy riot upon their vermil lip;
Hung o'er their playful gambols, void of guile,

        And trac'd thy rosy glow
        In every dimpling smile!

Glides not the bubbling current through yon vale--
Blooms not a blossom on the mountain's brow--
Breathes not a perfume of the genial spring--
        But to my view, or health
        Or sweet instruction bring.

Ye healthful few, who never felt a pang--
Who vegetate through life in calm retreat;
Ye lose my joys--to you my song is vain:
        --He tastes not bliss complete
        Who never felt a pain!

Ah, had ye prov'd, like me, the burning pulse!
The tortur'd head, weigh'd down! the labour'd sigh!
Thy love's sweet image shrinking from thine eye!
Then gasp'd and rav'd for one--one last adieu,
To burst these horrors!--live for her ador'd!--
        These--these are transports strong,
        And only transports true!

Hail, joys resum'd!--life's sweet complacencies,
All hail!--I wake to life, to liberty, and love!--
Hail, animating Hope! on downy wing,
        Bid Echo catch the sounds,
        And Io Pæans sing!

Thee, Mary, thee, dear sympathizing maid,

With gratulation soft wilt join my song,
Thy dulcet notes shall soothe each late alarm,
        And give returning life
        Its first, its sweetest charm!

Ah, wert thou here with thy enlighten'd mind,
Thy warbling lute attun'd to choral lays!
Here would'st thou trill thy silver notes along,
        Instructive, pure, and soft,
        As tuneful seraph's song.

Whate'er of good informs my nobler sense,
Whate'er refinements harmonize my soul,
Thy converse sweet with magic charm convey'd,
        And my young thoughtful mind
        Thy willing captive made.

O, is it given to breathe how much I love!
To press thy picture to my bounding heart;
To chide the lazy hours that linger on;
        And kiss the loveliest eyes
        That e'er with pity shone!

Teach me to emulate Tibullus strong,
As Petrarch soft, when Laura was his theme!
Then would I breathe such animated lays,
        That, Orpheus-like, I'd make
        E'en rocks to chant thy praise.

Vain--vain the wish! my fluttering spirits fail,

Wound up too high, they tremble, near the goal!
Language would fail to speak thy beauteous mind!
        'Tis admiration strong
        That cannot be defin'd!

TO ELIZA.

TO every gem that decks the mind,
    She joins the art to please;
A native sweetness, unreserv'd,
    Gives dignity to ease.

From every page that boasts a name,
    She culls each opening flow'r,
And reigns alone the Queen of Love,
    Unconscious of her pow'r.

And, fair Eliza! may'st thou reign
    Unrivall'd to the end:
Be bless'd in all thy soul holds dear,
    And all that Heav'n can send!

HENRY.

TO HENRY.

IF , like a gem, to Henry's eye
    Eliza's mind appears,
The diamond's ray we ne'er discern
    To glisten--but in tears!

For, ah! where'er one radiant gem
    Illumes the feeling breast,
Sad sensibility entwines,
    And robs that heart of rest!

Would Henry's muse, to grace my brow,
    Her chaplets gay compose?
Ah, from the past, Eliza dreads
    A thorn in every rose!

For late, amid the fondest scenes
    Which fancy ever drew,
Where I had cull'd the sweetest flow'r,
    The rankling thistle grew!

Pleas'd with the wreath, like sportive lamb
    Which priests for shew adorn,
My unsuspecting breast, alas!
    Was agoniz'd and torn!

Fearful of love, from Scylla's rock
    With cautious sail I bore!
Nor saw Charybdis, ere ingulf'd
    'Mid friendship's dangerous lore!

But let me wave my partial woe,
    And still for Mary weep!
--So the lull'd infant soothes its grief,
    And, moaning, drops asleep.

SUMMER.

LAST night, as wont, I took my ev'ning stand,
My thoughtful head reclin'd upon my hand,
Pensive I lean'd--my casement open stood,
And dim, at distance, rose thy fav'rite wood;
Mild Cynthia's beams play'd quivering o'er my face,
And silv'ry gleam'd o'er forest, tow'r, and space.
Soft soothing light, that modest evening brings,
Which shadowy sets off the face of things!
To thee, lov'd orb! lone hour! sad Mary steals,
And the enanguish'd tear denotes how much she feels!

Whether yon glorious lamp in space immense,
Or this late hour, more keen, assaults the sense--
Whether 'tis meditation's power in various ways,
Freights the lorn mind, and points the tearful gaze,
Thought after thought, like mounting billows rise,
Swell to my heart, and burst their way in sighs;
Transfix'd, awhile for words I vainly seek,
My heart so full--I would, but cannot speak!

William,--lov'd sound!--there lurks the latent theme,
My mid-day thoughts, sad fancy's nightly dream--

Where is the scene that thou art not in force?
Or where's the joy that thou art not the source?
Where points the thought that thou art not the soul?
The first dear cause that actuates the whole!
What is my wish, when these pure scenes I see,
But that my William now partook with me!
Were he but here, reclining by my side,
Viewing this beauteous night in all its pride,
How would our kindred souls, delighted, trace
Each soften'd charm that now adorns this place!
Ah, with what eloquence would he explain
The destin'd movements of yon starry train!
Oft has he led my thoughts with sweet surprise,
From earth to stars!--from stars beyond the skies!

'Twas erst, as now, when kindly suns and showers
Gently drew forth the sweetly timid flowers,
The blushing rose from out its mossy bed,
And rear'd the lily's modest drooping head;
When ev'ry brake our wrapp'd attention meets,
And hill and dale, a wilderness of sweets;
The neighbouring windmill, clacking with the breeze,
The light-wing'd zephyrs whispering through the trees;
The purry note, from pools athwart the plain,
Perhaps the love-songs of the speckled train;
The sheep-bell tinkling 'midst yon harmless flock,
The watch-dog's bark, the deep-ton'd village clock;
These scenes did once the liveliest joys impart;
But what are prospects to an aching heart!

When, at mild eve, I've rested on his arm,
How did his hints my inquiring spirit charm!
Yon silver moon, whose sweet unconscious ray
Lights my poor wanderer o'er his wat'ry way,
Oft hath thy beams, by yonder winding stream,
Improv'd our walk, thy source our grateful theme!

O, he wou'd talk!--how often have I hung,
Hush'd as this night, o'er his instructive tongue--
Oft would he say, "Observe, my gentle love,
"These beauteous flowers--that pure expanse above,
"Who breath'd their balmy sweets, their various hue!
"Who cloth'd yon arch with soft celestial blue!
"Whence swarms with life this clear enamell'd stream!
"All, all pourtray one bounteous Power supreme!
"Yes, Mary, yes--this thought inspires my mind,
"When my rack'd soul presents thee left behind!
"That bounteous Power, who over all things reigns,
"Who o'er this globe such harmony maintains,
"That tun'd thy soul in unison with mine,
"Who stamp'd thy William's love for ever thine,
"He will protect, will shield me from despair,
"And in due time restore me to thy pray'r:
"Oh, let me kiss away these precious tears!
"Strengthen thy hopes, and banish all thy fears!
"Raise thy soft eyes, thou'rt William's joy, his pride--
"His mind's sweet hope--his honour's destin'd bride!
"Fix them, my life, on yon bless'd Power above,
"Whose works breathe peace, benevolence, and love!

"He,--He will shield thy love 'midst war's alarms,
"And give my weeping Mary to my arms!"

Yes, I will hope--hope through these gushing tears--
Bear with me, William!--with these woman's fears!
This anguish'd softness will my thoughts controul,
Spite of thy words, unnerve my very soul;
O, I'm unequal to thy godlike mind,
Bravest of men! tenderest of human kind!
Thy noble soul a counterpart shou'd find--
Dauntless, though tender--ardent, yet resign'd!
But I,--so tortur'd is my woman's heart,
Could basely lure thee back, by woman's art!
Steal on thy mind, by each endearing name
That weeping love cou'd urge, or anguish frame!
Twine round thy heart-strings, take thee by surprise,
And damp the hero through my streaming eyes!
Lift my imploring hands, with piteous clasp,
And bar thy passage with their trembling grasp!
Cling to thy bosom, hide me in thy arms,
And, weeping, tell thee, peace hath many charms!
Plead in such terms, thy tenderness to move,
And blight thy laurels with my selfish love!
Ah, fly me, William! heed not, come not near,
I shou'd not, ought not, must not wish thee here!
Spite of what's right, with agony I mourn,
And my torn soul cries--O! return! return!

O, durst I own the conflicts I sustain,
When my forc'd pen maintains a diff'rent strain;

How hard the task, where nature has no part,
T' assume the heroine with a coward's heart!
Strain'd is the style, and metaphor abounds,
When anguish'd love is crush'd by pompous sounds!

Since, then, I shou'd not say how much I mourn,
Or urge my heart's first wish--return!--return!
Since I have try'd, and find it is in vain,
When the mind's rack'd, to adopt a cheerful strain;
Farewel,--Why should I put thy generous breast to pain,
For, O,--I cannot, cannot say--remain!

Hark! 'tis the deep-ton'd clock through yonder brake--
Here only I--and sorrow--are awake;
I go to breathe my morn, my evening pray'r,
That Providence may make thy paths his care;
Direct, dispense, and hover round thy head;
And, round thy brows, unfading laurels spread!
Give thee but once to quit that hostile shore,
And never--never shalt thou join it more!

TO ELIZA.

SMIT with the love of song, and charm'd with thine,
Fair favour'd vot'ress of the tuneful Nine,
Where blended sense and harmony appear,
Engage the reason, and delight the ear;
Where, with soft numbers, gentlest thoughts unite,
Prompt to applaud, and animate to write,
Speak and adorn the mind from whence they sprung,
Breathe through the verse, or warble on the tongue--
My muse impatient hastes her voice to raise,
And what she marks with pleasure, owns with praise:
But say, much gifted fair, must man submit
At once the palm of tenderness and wit?
Let me, if this be fate, the victor greet,
And lay the sex's laurel at thy feet;
Yet anxious still to combat the decree,
And share some honours with thy muse and thee,
Let me, in verse poetic claims forego,
And boast of numbers, useless as they flow;
As hosts, though vanquish'd, oft their arms retain,
Shut from the captur'd fort, or luckless plain.

ANONYMOUS.

LINES TO WILLIAM, BY MARY,

GO , poor inanimate, unconscious shade,
Thou faint cold image of a wretched maid--
Go, cross the seas, and, if thou can'st disclose
The thousand dreads that rob me of repose;
Go senseless picture, seek my soldier's breast,
Hang round his neck, and soothe his cares to rest:
Amid the din of arms, the warrior's strife,
Cling to his bosom, guard my William's life!
Repel the leaden death, th' envenom'd dart,
And, in my stead, O shield his dauntless heart!
Fix'd and resolv'd, look dangers in the face,
Well as thou can'st, supply sad Mary's place;
Disclose thyself, if press'd on by the foe,
And shriek, 'tis I!--a woman, wards the blow!

Ye vernal breezes, fill the swelling sail,
Unfold your golden wings, and fan the gale;
Ye winds, ye waves, in pity waft it o'er,
Ah, bear it swift to India's hostile shore.
Then could'st thou view him, or these eyes but see
The fond, the tender looks he'll cast on thee!
O, hadst thou ears to hear my William speak,
How wou'd that blooming tint forsake thy cheek;

Faint with surprise, pale with convulsive start,
The flutt'ring spirit bounding round the heart;
How wou'd all form , all studied speeches fly!
And the wild joy gush from thy lifeless eye!
Be mute, my pen; it never could reveal,
In such a case, how thou would'st look--how feel--
Far less how I, who joys to pain refine,
Bliss turns to anguish, passing such a line--
Far less how I shou'd look on his return,
Who days --weeks --months --nay, years of absence mourn!

Take then, my William, take this at my hands,
The boon thy much-lov'd tenderness demands;
Guide it, propitious gales, from dangers free,
'Tis the last sight, perhaps, he'll have of me!

Thus lost almost to hope, is't just for thee,
Too tranquil shade, to picture wretched me!
To own those locks--the painter's studied care--
Where curls, in silken waves, lorn Mary's hair:
Where love's own roses twine with softest art,
Nor shew the thorn which rankles in her heart.
Ah! can I--ought I, such deceit maintain,
When I have such delirium in my brain!
Go, spectre, go!--if right thou would'st advise,
Go, shew this fading cheek--these surcharg'd eyes!
Tell him, for him all ornaments I've scorn'd,
Wild to the winds my hair, and unadorn'd;
O, tell him--if his Mary he wou'd view,
She's the pale primrose, bath'd with early dew!

But soft awhile--be still, my trembling hand--
Peace, smiling cherub, hovers o'er this land;
Ah, stretch thy downy wings, remove the bar,
And chain Bellona's raging dogs of war----
Extend thy influence wide o'er earth and sea,
Or peace, so long'd for, is no peace for me.

Then we may meet, and never, never part;
Thou yet may'st fold me, weeping, to thy heart;
Yes--we shall meet, thou'lt banish all these fears,
We shall be sweetly eloquent--in tears;
Heaven will restore, will shield thee from above,
And bless thee with the bliss of mutual love!

TO ELIZA,

SAY , favour'd of the tuneful Nine,
    Where hast thou stole such heavenly strains,
To sing, with energy divine,
    Love's fleeting joys, its lasting pains?

To touch with skill each gentle chord
    That vibrates through the feeling heart;
To give to pity its reward,
    Sweet sensibility its soothing smart.

For hapless William's much lamented fate,
    Each sympathetic breast will heave a sigh;
But when you Mary's poignant woes relate,
    E'en tears would trickle from a Stoic's eye.--

To me, the child of sorrow, doom'd to woe,
    'Tis given to feel thy captivating verse,
The sharpest pangs of adverse fate to know,
    And sing a requiem o'er each parent's hearse.

From thy seraphic notes the mildest ray
    Of meek ey'd resignation calms the breast;
Swells with its influence each responsive lay,
    And yields to sorrow, momentary rest--

But, if this well-sung energetic woe
    Should draw its sources from thy wounded breast;
From some congenial mind may comfort flow,
    To lull each retrospective grief to rest.

MARIA.

LINES

WITH sportive breeze our vessel sails away,
Mild rolls the sea and cloudless breaks the day,
The pure transparent glitt'ring ocean's seen,
Heaving with golden waves and shades of green;
Sweet rainbow tints reflected by the sun,
Iris with light and vivid touch laid on.
Here whilst the astonish'd mind inquiring clings,
She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings;
Ah, with what bounding joy from crowds I flee,
To muse, to gaze,--to meditate on thee.

Ye green-hair'd syrens of the mighty floods,
Nymphs of the coral caves, and sylvan woods;
Ye rocks terrific, on whose shaggy brows
Apollo's dulcet harp did once repose,
Ah, cou'd I steal the soul-dissolving lyre;
Ah, cou'd I catch a spark of heavenly fire!
Here humbly gliding at thy feet reclin'd,
Here, as I longing, lingering look behind,
Here wou'd I range 'midst fancy's lov'd controul,
And give to breathing thought my active soul;
Whilst echo winding through her mazy bounds,
Gives to the whispering winds the plaintive sounds.

Ye moss-grown towers, whose ruins intervene,
Fade on the cliff, and picturize the scene,
Where many a mouldering pile with sculpture rare,
Here wastes its grandeur in the desert air;
For now oblivion low'ring lurks before,
And shades with dusky wing the inscriptiv'd door!
Where many a breast glow'd with his country's fire,
Or pois'd the lance, or swept the sounding lyre,
Alas! inurn'd with thee their trackless lot;
The world forgetting--by the world forgot.--

And see, the rural village gleams to view,
Faint through yon churchyard's range of solemn yew,
Who lingering rests not--resting, not admires
The Gothic church and heaven directed spires;
The tott'ring ivy'd steeple rear'd on high,
The moss-grown cliff, the ocean rolling by?
Who sweetly wand'ring by these beauteous views,
Stops not to mark the sod, and humble muse?
I love to rest me on the grass green turf,
Read nature's page, and watch the waving surf.----

But soft,--what little group, bedew'd in tears,
Strewing fair flowers round yonder grave appears?
Ah me, the village youth some friend deplore,
Some pretty flow'ret blighted on their shore.

Beneath a shadowy cypress, half conceal'd,
A milk-white urn the whispering winds reveal'd,

Around the turfy steps in slopes arose,
And gave to view, the history of their woes!--

EPITAPH.

HERE , safe from storms, from shipwrecks, and despair,
Rest in one grave a gentle generous pair;
Lovely in life, they were the village pride,
Belov'd, bewail'd, and death did not divide!
William, too vent'rous William of the dale,
And beauteous Mary--lily of the vale.
Reader, should curious pity heave thy breast,
The village maids will, weeping, tell the rest.

TO A LADY,

ACCEPT , Eliza, from a friend sincere,
This little record of the infant year;
And with it take, in unaffected lays,
The purest incense which the muse can raise.

O, dearest maid, with each revolving year,
May'st thou in renovating charms appear;
Bless'd in thy friendships, happy in thy love,
Ne'er may thy breast one anxious minute prove!
But, O, may laughing hours unclouded bring
Unfading summer! universal spring!
And when, at last, life's evening shall decay,
May'st thou arise to never-ending day.

And wheresoe'er I bend my weary way,
In fancy'd sweetness thou shalt journey too;
Thy imag'd smiles will cheer my steps by day,
And soothe, each morn, the cares I must renew!

Shou'd barbarous man assault me as I go,
Or wou'd the wanton lure me to remain,
Thy anxious pray'rs will shield me from the foe--
One thought of thee will break Calypso's chain!

Where'er, at night, these longing eyes may close,
    To thy fond arms this kindred soul shall flee;
In dreams of bliss forget contending woes,
    Or pencil scenes of happiness for thee!

But, in despite of all thy cares and mine,
    Shou'd sad fatality my steps arrest,
To bleak misfortune all thy hopes consign,
    And lay the wanderer low, with grief oppress'd--

O, ne'er may love, nor friendship's sacred glow,
    To thee again the source of sorrow be!
O never, never may that rose-bud blow,
    Which hides the dark insidious thorn for thee!

HENRY.

TO HENRY.

TO thee, though last not least in our esteem,
The muse to whom I dedicate my theme,
To Henry's muse, nor loath devote the hour,
How oft for me she's cull'd the fairest flower,
Has strew'd the path my timid feet would tread,
And wove the freshest wreath to bind my head;
Her pretty gift my grateful thanks demand--
"Receive this present by a muse's hand."
Yes, I will keep it,--keep it as thou'dst choose,
The first fair offering to a sister muse!
And she will tell thee, Henry,--tell thee true,
These artless lines, thy little pencil drew;
It wiles away full oft a thoughtful hour,
And strives to soothe, with all its little power.

So some kind spirit, hovering round unseen,
If we believe fam'd Spencer's Fairy Queen;
Watches each movement, soothes us in distress,
And often cheers with dreams of happiness;
Fashions her gifts to ease the present task,
And cheerful gives us more than we would ask.

LINES

O, I could gaze for ever on this face!
Dwell on that look, and hang o'er every grace,
Till my swoln eyes, unable to explore,
Shrink from the view, and ache at every pore!

Yet ah! how vain thy pencil, to impart
The lively glow which warm'd his bounteous heart;
Though strong the likeness, attitude, and dress,
My throbbing heart, and streaming eyes confess:
Yet should each artist as one man combine,
Did all who ever drew, or breath'd a line,
Could I, in loftiest strains his praise rehearse,
Did flowing numbers deck my humble verse;
Nor I, nor they, nor thou, could ever trace
The smile benign that form'd that gracious face!--
How then attempt the beauties of his mind,
The greatest,--humblest,--best of human kind!

Since then no art can make thy worth appear,
And all my eloquence, is but a tear,
Come thou, dear shade, and let me fondly gaze,
With mute attention, and with fix'd amaze;
Come sweet resemblance, all that can be given,
Of the dear saint triumphant now in heaven

Come thou, sad substitute of him we mourn,
Though gushing tears bedew his sacred urn;
Time, precious trust, with guardian care I'll prize,
Till I rejoin my father in the skies.

IMPROMPTU.

SO have I seen, extracting sweets
    Amid the blooming trees,
Humming with exquisite delight,
    The little busy bees.

Deep from the foldings of each leaf
    They draw the honey'd store,
Then lingering, loitering, as they sipp'd,
    They oft re-wander'd o'er.

Still hov'ring round the fragrant spot,
    In clust'ring throngs they crowd;
In broken murmurs buz applause
    For every sweet allow'd.

But as no rose without a thorn,
    No sweet without alloy;
So sensibility indulg'd,
    Will peace of mind destroy.

Yet the poor bees, entranc'd awhile
    'Midst nature's purest flowers,
Cling to the dewy rose that bends,
    O'erwhelming them with showers.

Card of thanks to Mrs. G---- for a Bouquet of Roses
and other flowers.

'TIS not the gift which stamps the price
    Upon the generous mind;
As Shakspeare says, rich gifts wax poor ,
    When givers prove unkind .

If trifles oft, though light as air,
     Facts to the jealous prove;
A trifle thus becomes a gem ,
    Sent from a hand we love .

Thanks too, are trifles light as air;
    But trifles , when combin'd,
Form a sweet chain of little naughts
    To shew the grateful mind .

And when, alas! these flowers shall droop,
    And lose their beauteous bloom,
The gift, the giver, o'er my mind
    Shall shed a sweet perfume .

LINES

I FAIN my grateful heart wou'd shew;
    But thanks I vainly labour;
My words inadequately flow,
    To thank so kind a neighbour.

Than honey sweet your friendly words,
    Enhanc'd the kind donation;
A still more healing balm affords,
    Joins grace to obligation.

The fetter'd slave, from bondage free,
    Its benefactor seeks;
My captive voice unchain'd by thee:
    Its kind deliverer greets.

And though an empty jar is found,
    Which late o'erflow'd its banks;
The sweets of gratitude cling round,
    To fill its void--with thanks.

Thanks! ah how trifling for my line;
    Yet trifles oft profess
To more endearingly define,
    The thoughts we can't express.

No trifling act, no trifling lays,
    No common deed is sung,
Resound, ye echoing hills, her praise,
    Who loos'd my captive tongue.

LINES

TWO tiny favours here are sued,
    Forgive the one who asks it;
First you'd accept, next daily use,
    This little trifling basket.

'Tis not the lustre of a gift
    That strikes the generous mind,
Truth and affection often wear
    Exteriors unrefin'd.

Simple, and valueless as yet,
    The little suppliant stands;
And much entreats to date its worth
    And value from your hands.

A trifle thus benignly stamp'd,
    Our little fears remove;
We look delighted on a work,
    Prais'd by a voice we love.

Give it then value in my eyes,
    Let me not vainly ask it;
My little pains are well repaid,
    If you accept--my basket.

LINES

MY muse, a little petted elf,
    Like infant that is spoil'd,
Again entreats another boon,
    Because you lately smil'd.

Though saws and proverbs are a bore,
    Yet here one apt will tell:
Give to a certain set an inch,
    They'll shortly steal an ell.

Ah, heed them not; I'll steal no ell,
    Much less my views will suit;
I wish to gain but just the length
    That bounds thy tiny foot.

Bless'd with this talisman, I then
    Might undismay'd appear;
Success with halcyon wing wou'd chase
    Each idly anxious fear.

No garter'd knight more pleas'd, more proud,
    Had I such badge from you;
And " Honi soit, qui mal y pense ,"
    Should be my motto too.

Ah smile, approve, accept my work,
    I'll think it such a treasure:
No bounds my gratitude shall own,
    I'll thank you--beyond measure.

LINES

WHEN conquering John our battles won,
    As erst on Blenheim's plain,
The glorious deeds by him achiev'd
    For ever shall remain.

Where'er he came, so great his fame,*
    Once seen, 'twas to imply,
As motto bold of hero old,
     "Veni,--vidi,--vici." +

His sword oft drew, and gauntlet threw,
    The glove with challenge warm,
Requir'd renew, so Woodstock flew
    Their gallant chief to arm.

Bright shone the spear of Blenheim's heir,
    For just their cause they feel;
Our hearts of oak their weapons took
    From Woodstock, blades of steel.

Th' unrivall'd glove, since born with love,
    No longer hostile thrown,
Now hand in hand is through the land
    As pledge of friendship shown.

This pledge, ah take! and for her sake
    Who absent thinks on thee;
So make it prove, respectful love,
     Douce gage d'amitié.

* John the great Duke of Marlborough, who was never conquered.

+ Cæsar's boast, "I came,--I saw--I conquer'd."

IMPROMPTU.

ON thy fair neck, without a speck,
    This rival ermine fold;
And may it warm, and gentle arm
    Thy tender breast from cold.

So may it tend to shew the friend,
    The spotless friend in me;--
Pure, warm, and true, dear girl, to you,--
    A bosom friend to thee.

LINES

WHEN my charm'd eye thy various works survey,
I bow beneath the bright effulgent ray;
Like some poor snail, just peeping from its shell,
Shrinks from the sun, and sinks into its cell;
Yet thou, all gentleness, dispel our fears,
For those thy genius awes,--thy sweetness cheers.
Go then, thou trifle, seek her fostering hand,
Wait on her person, meet each kind command;
Tell her,--respect and love claim equal ranks,
Twine with each wave, and fill thy void with thanks;
Crowd all thy little services to view,
And in dumb shew pourtray what thou can'st do:
Whisper--thy spotless bosom would protect,
Each pretty work, and shield it from neglect;
Or yet, perchance of consequence more rare,
Some of her relick's choice might shelter there!
Thus might my basket, where small worth is seen,
Obtain a value, through the gems within.

LINES

FAIN would I tune my harp to choral songs,
    And sweep the trembling strings with jocund lays;
Swell with full chords its silver sounds to joy,
    To hail this morn, and celebrate thy praise.

Hail cheerful day, though haply dress'd in storms,
    That gave thine infant graces to the view;
And sent a fairer snow-drop to the world,
    Than spring e'er usher'd, or than fancy drew.

Hail, artless nature,--soft enchantress, hail!
    Behold a sweet reward for all thy pains!
Thy blue bell glistening in thy favourite's eye,
    Thy violet gliding through her azure veins.

Hail, happy parents of a form so fair,
    In whom each gentle virtue is combin'd;
And hail, the favour'd few, who daily share!
    Thy converse sweet, with elegance refin'd!

Hail, winning softness, mild attractive grace,
    Retiring excellence, with aspect meek!
Cheer'd by thy smiles,--ah wherefore this dismay!
    Why is my heart so full!--I cannot speak.

Go then, thou little trifle, meet her hands,
    Add to her sweet simplicity of dress;
And by thy rural emblems interwove,
    Hint the kind wishes I would fain express.

Tell her, thy winding wave is life pourtray'd;
    May it be trac'd out by the laughing hours:
The little baskets, interspers'd between,
    Entreat to strew her natal day with flowers.

Joy to thy lord!--joy to thy lovely babes,
    And may these sweet emotions ever last!
May each succeeding year fresh comforts bring,
    To crown thy worth, and bless thee, like the past.

AN APOLOGY

If memory act a treacherous part,
    Impute the error to thy charms;
'Tis love engrosses all my heart,
    And every other power disarms.

Who from that form, without a fault,
    Could turn inferior charms to see?
Or who could e'er remember aught,
    Whose every thought was fix'd on thee?

ALBERT.

TO ALBERT.

ALBERT ! 'tis strange--would Agnes say,
    Were she the idol of thy verse--
The source that prompts thy tuneful lay,
    When Delia's powers thou would'st enforce.

Strange, that each grace ador'd by thee--
    Strange, that thy love, so pure in rhyme--
Are for forgetfulness thy plea,
    For any space--at any time!

Say, Albert, did she less deserve,
    Or didst thou love like common elf,
Would'st thou invert--and never swerve,
    Nor turn each charm against herself?

LINES

AH , my Scuggy, is it drooping?--
    By thy hoarded store I tell;
By thy little nuts unscoopen,
    Much I fear, thou art not well.

Scuggy--Scuggy; peep, my Scuggy,
    Let me see thy glist'ning eye
Beam, whilst nuzzling in thy ruggy;--
    Do not let thy mistress cry.

Wake, my Scuggy, bound to meet me;
    Steal my sugar from my cup;
With thy lively anticks treat me;
    Seek the milk, and lap it up.

On the teaboard take thy station,
    Near the little china vase;
Nibble there thy morning's ration,
    With thy pretty slender paws.

Sit erect in all thy beauty,
    Furl aloft thy feather'd tail;
Grunt, nay, bite me, if it suits thee,
    So that thou did nothing ail.

Hark! with all thy wonted cunning,
    Perk thy little spiral ears;
Up the curtain wert thou running,
    I'd divest me of these fears.

Come, my Scuggy, range my pocket,
    Revel on the hidden store;
Rout and rummage all that stock it,
    And when gone, I'll give thee more.

Seize the chesnut, brown and shining,
    Shaded like thy pretty self;
Strip it to its silken lining!
    Or go hide it on the shelf.--

Scuggy, look, thy favourite fruit--see!
    Whisk from out thy prison door;
Let me hear thy tiny footsy
    Pad and scud along the floor.

In the cream jug pop thy whisker,
    I'll not fright thee for the theft;
Could I once more see thee frisk here,
    I'd not be of hope bereft.

Scuggy--Scuggy; peep, my Scuggy,
    Let me see thy bright bead-eye,
Brisk, though nuzzling in thy ruggy;--
    Do not let thy mistress cry.

LINES

I, little suppliant, beg to kiss your hands,
I will with zeal perform all your commands;
Let me beseech to show my little skill,
To point, with just exactitude, your will:
Meek and submissive, form'd for non-resistance,
Slave I must be, whilst I can hold existence:
Your word's my rule, whatever the expedient;
Of all your suite I'll be the most obedient.

My person's slender, though 'tis shrewdly said,
I must be heavy, for my brains are lead;--
Trust not physiognomy; ah! give me quarter;
I may be ruin'd, if you heed Lavater,*
Judge for yourself; there often has been found
Pure ore hid deep beneath a barren ground.

* La physiognomie n'est pas une regle qui nous soit donnée pour juger des hommes!--elle nous peut servir de conjecture. La Bruyere.

No rival roses tinge my copper skin,
I'm brown without, and dark my veins within;
And though I've kin with mouths as red as cherries,
Yet, for my own, 'tis black as huckle-berries;

Thus though, as stated, I can boast no beauty,
I'll make it up in most obsequious duty:
True to my trust, your every thought I'll suit,
You can't plan faster than I'll execute.

Various my liveries, glittering to behold,
With silver oft, and oft emboss'd with gold;
Now simply clad, as different tastes prevail;
And now a hero, clad in coat of mail;
Now chang'd again, I wear a gayer hue,
And sport, to please you, Windsor's royal blue.
Full of device my head, and not unletter'd ,
Is it so strange I wish my station better'd?
All languages can write with equal ease,
And strike them off in any hand you please:
Should active mem'ry agitate thy mind,
When the fond mother leaves her babes behind;
Should the mute tear glide down thy beauteous cheek,
In numbers pure that crystal gem shall speak;
I'll catch thy gentle sighs, thy plaintive tone,
Steal thy soft sorrows, make them all my own,
With anxious zeal to thy lov'd fingers crowd,
And tell my joy, for every touch, aloud;
Kiss thy dear hand, in token of submission,
When trembling, entering on my new condition.

Again, should brighter scenes thy smile incline,
Ah, with what joy I'll sketch the comic line;
Make thy own playful style the page adorn
Like dancing clouds o'er ripening fields of corn:

Whate'er they will, implicit I'll obey;
Loose but these bands, and give me cheering day.

Need I urge more?--ah, dearest lady, try me,
Take me in hand, 'twere cruel to deny me;
My spotless faith I ever will preserve ye,
And lose existence in my zeal to serve ye.

TO A LADY

WHY , lovely mourner, 'mid this comic crew,
Are those bright eyes impearl'd with pity's dew!
Why, at the mimic sorrows of this scene,
That look averted, that dejected mien?
In vain your hand would check that rising sigh;
In vain your fan conceal that glistening eye;
Ah me, these woes, so tender and refin'd,
Bespeak no common cause!--no vulgar mind!

Now the scene shifts--but ah, thy cheek, the while,
Mocks all its skill--nor brightens with a smile!
'Mid laughing crowds, sad, joyless, and alone,
Still Margaretta's sorrows are thy own!
O, if they are, may'st thou, like her, survey
Thy love, returning, kiss those tears away!
May no rude winds his passage interpose,
But future joys compensate former woes!

Yet, sad reverse! if thou art doom'd to mourn
Some long lost youth, who never can return!
O may kind Heaven its healing influence lend
To smooth life's path, till gentle death descend!

Then may thy shade its kindred spirit join,
In bliss supreme, in ecstasy divine!

ANSWER.

WHOE'ER thou art that thus, with sad surprise,
Wakes slumbering thought, and fills these surcharg'd eyes;
Whoe'er thou art, that thus, without controul,
Arrests the purpos'd firmness of my soul.
Art thou a spirit form'd of fleeting air,
That clothes thee with a form and speech so fair;
Be'st thou my evil genius rais'd anew,
Thou com'st in such a questionable view?

That I must speak, must call thee by each name,
Sad retrospective fancy still would claim,
Oh, ere the fiction of this dream be o'er,
And thou withdrawing cease to rack me more;
Ere thy unconscious gentle shade recedes,
Unknowing that this heart in secret bleeds;
Oh let me pause, and weep, whilst I review
Past scenes of joy, when love and hope were new!

Tell me, ah tell me, if thou couldst but say,
Why art thou rais'd, unsought, athwart my way,
Why has thy restless spirit cross'd the sea,
Dead as thou wert, thou art, to love and me.

Oh, thou look'st on me with that pensive smile,
Not gaily turn'd, which did these thoughts beguile:
Then ere this painful interview be o'er,
And thy lorn shade withdraws to rise no more,
Brief let me sketch the woes thy likeness cost,
She best can paint them, who has felt them most.

RURAL COURTSHIP;

'TWAS in the season of the year,
    As now, when all was gay;
Two little prattlers rambled forth,
    To pluck the flowers of May.

The primrose pale, the violet blue,
    Their simple sweets did yield;
With daisies, and with king-cups too,
    Their little laps they fill'd.

Now tir'd with trotting far and wide,
    Amid the new mown hay,
They long'd to spread their gather'd store,
    And set them down to play.

So, side by side, adown they sat,
    Their treasur'd store to see:
Sure, never brimful budget yet
    Was op'd with half the glee.

Look, sister, look what pretty flowers!
    Some on the ground they spread,
Some 'mid the curling locks they plac'd
    Around each other's head.

And sure, no courtly dame, bedeck'd
    With glittering jewels gay,
Did e'er withal so blithe appear,
    Or half so pleas'd as they.

Now hiding deep beneath the hay,
    The moving mow they rear,
Whilst just above the hay falls off,
    Their curly poles appear.

Now scrambling through the scatter'd hay
    Upon their hands and knees,
A pretty butterfly they spied
    Come fluttering through the trees.

Up sprang Annet with eager joy,
    To catch the gilded fly;
The ground was rough, she fell adown,--
    Good Lord, how she did cry!

Her rosy face was soil'd, and bruis'd,
    But most she did deplore,
"There, there it flies!" she sobbing said,
    "I ne'er shall see it more!"

Hard by the spot, a little boy,
    A neighbour's son was he,
To get a nest of chirping birds
    Was clambering up the tree:

Full well Annetta's voice he knew,
    And flew to her relief;
When soon with sobs and tears she told,
    The hist'ry of her grief.

Don't cry, Annet,--he mournful said,
    And softly wip'd her face;
If you won't cry, I'll strive to get
    Another in its place.

Swift o'er the glade the kindly boy
    With hasty steps withdrew;
To catch the fly;--ah, wist ye not
    'Twas Licidus that flew?

O'er hill and dale, with hat in hand,
    He ran as quick as thought;
Nor rested once, till he secure
    The fluttering captive brought.

No errant knight, with giant ta'en,
    More pleas'd, more proud could be:
When I did kiss him for the gift,
    Ah,--wist ye not 'twas me?

I was not bought, though oft he gave,
    And could not but approve;
And e'er receiv'd, with artless joy,
    His pretty gifts of love.

He taught a prating bird to speak,
    As by his side it ran;
Oft at my casement would it call,
    "O pretty--pretty--Anne."

Then it would peck, and look so pert,
    And sideling hop away:
I'll go and tell what feats I've done,--
    It said, or seem'd to say.

Oft would he fill his pockets full,
    From distant wake, or fair,
With songs, and story books, and nuts,
    And ribands for my hair.

Sometimes he'd sing, sometimes he'd read,
    Reclin'd all on the ground;
Whilst pleas'd such wond'rous things to hear,
    We little folk stood round.

Sometime the children in the wood,
    So mournfully he'd sing;
Poor little babes! we'd sobbing say,
    And cry like any thing.

Four sides adown of verse sublime,
    A frontispiece withal;
And when it had been sung, or said;
    It grac'd our whiten'd hall.

Of giants next, bestriding rocks,
    And dragons in the air;
Then how our eyes were lifted up,--
    Lord, how we all did stare!

Then of some ghost with saucer eyes,
    That grinn'd o'er churchyard wall!
Then he would archly start and shriek,--
    How we did run and squall!

Then he would coax and fetch us back,
    And vow 'twas only play;
And promise us a merry tale,
    If we'd not run away.

He'd then of mighty Tommy Thumb
    The gallant feats explain;
How we did laugh to hear his pranks!--
    So all was right again.

Ah me! well known, both far and near,
    And much belov'd was he;
How pleasant was he unto all,
    But ah!--how kind to me!

Oft, has he brought through bush and briar,
    Of strawberries a store;
And oft with blackberries his hat
    Was brimful running o'er.

And oft he'd scale the orchard's bounds,
    To seize the mellow pear;
Ah me, for ready to receive,
    His little love was there.

O it would take an age, to dwell
    On such a theme as this;
But I must think--not what he was,
    Alas! but what he is.

Yet in recounting of the past,
    Though it my woes renew,
'Tis far more soothing to my mind
    Than any mirth that's new.

Thus flew the laughing hours away,
    Playful and being lov'd;
And what our infant minds so priz'd,
    Our riper years approv'd.

No goddess bright, he call'd Annet,
    Or styl'd her fairest she:
The simplest, tenderest words he chose;
    And those were all to me.

Nor thought I of his graceful mien,
    Till mix'd among the rest;
And then, indeed, I could but think
    He danc'd and look'd the best.

Yet oft he'd twine my curling hair
    Athwart my laughing een:
Then peeping, say, such pretty eyes,
    Sure, never yet were seen!

With true-love knots he carv'd my name
    On many a beechen tree;
Whilst as the rind the cyphers spread,
    So grew his love for me.

And oft the verse to me he tun'd,
    And sung with so much ease;
How sweet are gracious words from those
    We fondly wish to please!

Ah, how I linger o'er this part!
    And shrink as I draw near
The piteous close, which e'er must be
    Review'd with many a tear.

For now the gathering storm approach'd
    That marks the mournful tale!
My Licidus, for India, left
    His Annet of the vale.

He could not bear his much lov'd maid
    Should yield to any she
In rural state:--he had it not,
    And so would go to sea.

Oh! 'twas a scheme of woe indeed,
    What did not Annet say!
How did she weep, and seek to turn
    His thoughts another way.

But he had seen his kindred go,
    And prosper in that line;
Which made him fondly urge to me,
    He sooner should be mine.

With tenderest, kindest, softest words,
    His motives did explain:
Think, my Annet, my only love,
    How soon we'll meet again.

Yet still my surcharg'd eye with tears
    Was fix'd upon the ground;
Ah, he did kiss, and call them pearls,
    And fondly fold me round.

To paint the parting scene at last,
    No language yet affords;
It may be felt; but to express,
    Exceeds the power of words.

Calm grief and fix'd despair, with me
    A dumb submission spread:
Ten thousand torturing words he raved:--
    I fainted,--and he fled.

Long time in stupid woe reclin'd,
    For tears deny'd relief;
Like meek-ey'd patience o'er a tomb,
    I seem'd at peace with grief.

The fluttering mind uncertain weeps,
    But when fix'd woes are come,
Like stagnant pools become unmov'd;
    For sure great griefs are dumb.

But swift a welcome letter came;
    Again sprang hopes and fears;
I kiss'd the well known folds of love,
    And melted into tears.

Whate'er to soothe that pen could urge,
    From heart so long endear'd,
He wrote, to cheer his drooping love;
    And she became more cheer'd.

The youthful mind revives to hope
    At times, though keenly press'd;
Ah me, the heart thus never is,
    But always to be bless'd.

Again he wrote; alas, how well
    Sad memory records
The little isle that gave it date,
    And these his very words.

LICIDUS TO ANNET.

By fortune, stern relentless foe,
To India's scorching clime I go,
    Her favours to pursue;
Like vain illusions of the night,
She sets my bliss before my sight,
    But mocks me with the view.
From her I ask no miser's store,
No lucre, bought with Indian gore,
    To soothe a guilty breast;
Health--competency,--peace of mind,--
Or all, in one wide wish combin'd,
    The power to make thee bless'd.

All anxious, thus he soon arriv'd,
    Unfix'd upon a plan;
Impatient to be great at once,
    From scheme to scheme he ran.

Restless, with shining talents bless'd,
    He dash'd with courage bold;
But changing oft, be found, dear youth,
    Not all that glitter'd gold.

Nor could he cringe, or falsely praise
    The lordlings of an hour;
Or, cruel, wring the gems from those
    That chance put in his power.

Nurtur'd, and firm in thoughts like these,
    His schemes did slow prevail;
Ah, how I sought to turn his views
    To peace and Arno's vale!

With cheering, soothing, gentlest words,
    I hid my griefs from view;
Whilst of the blessings yet in reach
    The liveliest picture drew.

For me thou cross'd the treacherous seas,
    To try that glittering bourn;
Unkindly has it prov'd to thee,
    Ah then, for me, return!

What, if thou hast not much obtain'd,
    Our real wants are few;
With cheerful smiles, and frugal hands,
    I'll make that little do.

'Tis but a competency's meed
    That's vital to content;
Or much, or little, that depends
    On what the heart is bent.

If that a russet gown would save,
    Russet with joy I'd wear;
And still preserve thy favourite dress,
    To dance at wake or fair.

How many little plans I've rang'd,
    That love would render sweet,
Ah, many,--many rise to view;
    Ah, could we once but meet!

I oft did curl my flowing hair,
    To please thy partial eye:
And could I not for thee the same,
    All foreign aid supply?

O, I could weep, and break my heart,
    All anxious as I trace,
How thou would'st fondly fold me round,
    Thus prattling in thy face!

How much I had to thee to tell,
    How much from thee to hear;
And oh how, thus for thee employ'd,
    'Twou'd banish every fear.

If any swain commend Annet,
    Or aught that's pleasing see!
She, sooth'd that what thou lov'd's approv'd,
    And still preserv'd for thee.

She would be prettiest, if that gift
    Were dearest to thy breast;
She think herself but match for thee,
    If fairest, richest, best.

And when on Sundays, as I'd wont,
    I join the house of prayer,
I gaze o'er all the gallery's front,
    Alas! thou art not there.

I listen for thy tenor notes,
    As silver-sweet they rose;
But voice, nor look, nor mien like thine,
    Though all in Sunday's clothes.

And yet the scarlet waistcoat glow'd,
    Like fields with poppies growth;
With freshest nosegays in their hands,
    A bit placed in their mouth.

And then--as home o'er churchyard stile,
    Through rows of shadowy yew,
The village poet draws my tears,
    In many a sad adieu.

"Afflictions sore, long time I bore,"--
    Full often meets my eye:
Alas, ye were not griev'd alone,
    Afflicted sore am I.

Pillow'd beneath the grass green turf,
    Your heads and hearts at ease;
The daisied sod just heaves to view,
    Like peaceful summer seas.

I sit beside the peopled slope,
    To learn its lesson rare;
And careful pluck the nettles thence,
    They should not harbour there:

But pretty heart's-ease, speaking flowers,
    And chamomile be spread,
Its velvet soft, and beauteous green,
    Around your tranquil head.

Ah, harbour safe!--ah haven sure!
    Each anxious care suppress'd;
The sun receding leaves ye calm,
    Returning, finds ye bless'd.

But I, alas! if, worn with thought,
    Do haply drop asleep,
My wakeful fancy still presides,
    I murmuring moan and weep.

Sometimes thou turn'st displeas'd away,
    When swift I seek to prove,
With wringing hands and gushing tears,
    My pure, my spotless love.

And oft sad fancy shows thy form
    Struggling amidst the wave:
I, plunging, shriek, with outstretch'd arm,--
    O mercy,--mercy--save!

Then wak'd, with agonizing start,
    I yet pursue the theme;
My fluttering pulse and beating heart
    Long tremble o'er the dream.

Beware of men, a gipsy said,
    With black and piercing eye;
Why should I fear,--I've done no harm;
    I would not hurt a fly.

For once a poor despoiled bird,
    Some boys had robb'd its nest,
Fluttering with sad affright, it sought
    A refu