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[Title Page]
BY
To
THE
FOLLOWING PRODUCTIONS OF EARLY YOUTH
ARE
(BY HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS'S GRACIOUS PERMISSION)
MOST HUMBLY INSCRIBED,
BY HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS'S HIGHLY OBLIGED
AND MOST GRATEFUL SERVANT, F. D. BROWNE.
The following pieces are the genuine productions of a young lady, written between the age of eight and thirteen years. By this information it is not intended to arrogate to them that favour to which they may perhaps have no intrinsic claim; but if it should appear that they possess a degree of merit sufficient to obtain the approbation of the reader, the circumstances under which they have been produced may give them that additional interest to which they are most truly intitled. They owe their publication to the kind and condescending favour of the RIGHT HONOURABLE VISCOUNTESS KIRKWALL, to the regard and partialities of friendship, and to the hope that they may in some degree be rendered subservient to the earnest wish of the young authoress for intellectual improvement.
WHAT tho' with feeble hand I strike the lyre,
I will not sigh to gain the poet's bays;
Or soar with Genius on the wing of fire,
If gentle bosoms prize my artless lays.
For still, inspir'd by soft affection's glow,
Or true to melting gratitude sincere,
" Warm from the heart," my native measures flow,
'Unknown to fame, yet still to friendship dear.
Fair patroness of my untutor'd strain,
Oh ! if the numbers please thy feeling breast,
These wild effusions are not poured in vain,
My song is honor'd, and my muse is blest.
When early led by nature's charms divine,
My youthful vows to Poesy I paid;
And bending low at fancy's rural shrine,
Of opening buds a fragrant offering made;
Thy hand with laurel crown'd my infant head,
Thy cheering kindness fann'd my rising flame,
And oh ! whate'er the future path I tread,
My grateful heart shall ever love thy name.
May pleasure wing thy lightly fleeting hours,
And health attend thee on thy smiling way !
May hope and joy unite, congenial pow'rs,
To gild thy prospect with propitious ray !
The muse for thee a votive wreath shall twine,
Sweeter than vernal roses bath'd in dews;
For there the flowers of gratitude combine,
Of simple beauty, but of lasting hues.
F. D. B. Aged 13.
Gwrych, 1st Oct.
1807.
CLAD in all their brightest green,
This day the verdant fields are seen;
The tuneful birds begin their lay,
To celebrate thy natal day.
The breeze is still, the sea is calm,
And the whole scene combines to charm;
The flowers revive, this charming May,
Because it is thy natal day.
The sky is blue, the day serene,
And only pleasure now is seen;
The rose, the pink, the tulip gay,
Combine to bless thy natal day.
F. D. B. Aged 8.
A PRAYER.
OH ! GOD, my father and my friend,
Ever thy blessings to me send;
Let me have virtue for my guide,
And wisdom always at my side;
Thus cheerfully thro' life I'll go,
Nor ever feel the sting of woe;
Contented with the humblest lot,
Happy, tho' in the meanest cot.
F.D.B. aged 9.
ON A ROSE.
HOW short, sweet flower, have all thy beauties been,
An hour they bloom'd, and now no more are seen:
So human grandeur fades, so dies away;
Beauty and wealth remain but for a day.
But virtue lives for ever in the mind,
In her alone true happiness we find:
The perfume stays, altho' the rose be dead;
So virtue lives, when every grace is fled.
ON HEALTH.
OH ! tell me, Cambrians, tell me true,
Does fair Hygeïa 'bide with you ?
" Yes, she with us for ever dwells,
In groves, in shady woods, or dells.
Oh ! stranger, turn and stay--for here
She deigns to give her influence dear.
In yonder vale her temple stands;
Her brows entwin'd with roseate bands
In Cambria's land she ever dwells,
In groves, in shady woods, or dells."
WRITTEN IN NORTH WALES.
OH ! happy regions of delight and joy,
And much-loved scenes of bliss without alloy;
Hail ! to your mountains, groves, and woodlands dear,
Hail ! to your flowery lawns, and streamlets clear;
Hail ! to your lowly cots, and stately parks,
And hail ! your meadows green, and soaring larks.
Observe yon verdant fields, and shady bowers,
Wherein I've passed so many happy hours;
See, too, yon rugged hill, upon whose brow
Majestic trees and woods aspiring grow.
There to the right, the vale of Clwyd ends;
Here to the left, huge Penman-mawr extends:
Look to the south, the Cambrian mountains o'er;
Hark ! to the north, the ocean's awful roar.
Remark those lowing herds and sportive sheep,
And watchful shepherds too, their flocks who keep.
Behold yon ships, now on the glassy main,
Which spread the sails, their destin'd port to gain.
These lovely prospects, how they cheer my soul.
With what delight and joy I view the whole!
Accept Great GOD, thanks for these blessings giv'n,
And may my gratitude ascend to heav'n.
HOW awful how sublime this view,
Each day presenting something new.
Hark ! now the seas majestic roar,
And now the birds their warblings pour;
Now yonder lark's sweet notes resound,
And now an awful stillness reigns around.
F. D. B. aged 10
MORNING.
NOW rosy morning clad in light,
Dispels the darkling clouds of night,
The sun in gold and purple drest,
Illumines all adown the east;
The sky-lark flies on soaring wings,
And as he mounts to heav'n, thus sings:
" Arise, ye slothful mortals, rise!
See me ascending to the skies:
Ye never taste the joys of dawn,
Ye never roam the dewy lawn,
Ye see not Phoebus rising now,
Tinging with gold the mountain's brow;
Ye ne'er remark the smiling land,
Nor see the early flowers expand.
Then rise ye slothful mortal, rise,
See, I am mounting to the skies."
IF spotless innocence, and truth refin'd,
With every virtue of the feeling mind;
If these can raise to heaven's eternal sphere,
Be comforted--Eliza's surely there.
Oh, hark ! I hear the immortal spirit sing:
" I rise above on light ethereal wing;
" Then weep no more; ah, cease those flowing tears,
" No more Eliza death or sickness fears;
" Earth and its fading pleasures far behind,
" In heaven a happy, happy seat I find.
" Mourn not for me--'tis you I mourn for now;
" I soar on high, while you remain below.
" In heaven we all at length shall meet again,
" Where all is happiness, all free from pain.
" Then weep no more; ah ! cease those flowing tears;
" No more my spirit death or sickness fears."
IN that blest age when never care annoy'd,
Nor mortals' peace by discord was destroy'd,
A happy pair descended from above,
And gods and mortals nam'd them Joy and Love.
Together had they seen each opening day,
Together shar'd each sportive infant play;
In riper years with glowing warmth they lov'd;
Jove saw their passion and his nod approv'd.
Long happy did they live, when cruel fate
From bliss to misery chang'd their envied state.
Mankind grew wicked and the gods severe,
And Jove's dread anger shook the trembling sphere.
To Joy he sent his high behest to fly
On silken pinions to her native sky.
Reluctant she obeys, but Love remains,
By Hope his nurse, led to Arcadia's plains:
When from his starry throne, the mighty Jove
In thunder spoke: " Let Sorrow wed to Love !"
The awful stern command Love trembling hears;
Sorrow was haggard, pale, and worn with tears,
Her hollow eyes and pallid cheeks confest,
That hapless misery " knows not where to rest."
Forc'd to submit, Love's efforts were in vain;
The thunderer's word must ever firm remain.
No nymphs and swains to grace the nuptial day
Approach, no smiling Cupids round them play;
No festal dance was there, no husband's pride,
For Love in sadness met his joyless bride.
One child, one tender girl, to Love she bore,
Who all her father's pensive beauty wore;
So soft her aspect, the Arcadian swains
Had nam'd her Pity--and her name remains.
In early youth for others' woe she felt;
Adversity had taught her how to melt.
Love's myrtle, Sorrow's cypress she combin'd,
And form'd a wreath which round her forehead twin'd
She oft sat musing in Arcadia's shades,
And play'd her lute to charm the native maids.
A ring-dove flew for safety to her breast;
A robin in her cottage built its nest.
Her mother's steps she follows close; to bind
Those wounds her mother made: divinely kind,
Into each troubled heart she pours her balm,
And brings the mind a transitory calm.
But both are mortal; and when fades the earth,
The nymph shall die, with her who gave her birth;
Then, to elysium Love shall wing his flight,
And he and Joy for ever re-unite.
F. D. B. aged 11.
UNLIKE December's frown this gladsome day
Inspires my bosom, and invites my lay.
The sun meridian darting from on high,
Lights the gay scene, and brightens all the sky;
Soft rolls the glassy main; the lightsome breeze
Brings to my heart serenity and ease.
Here calmness reigns; nought but the lowing herds,
The waters falling, and the twittering birds,
Invade the ear; here, in this tranquil scene,
Far from the notice and the noise of men,
Here, could I peaceful live, nor breathe a sigh
For gayer views, and happy could I die.
Hope, thy sister, airy queen,
Forms with thee her lovely scene.
" Oh ! thou visionary maid,"
Lend my soul thy magic aid,
To cheer with rainbows every shade.
MOTHER
MY son, let virtue animate thy breast;
Fly to the battle--spurn inglorious rest!
Take up the spear and lance--with ardour go,
March proudly forward to repel the foe!
Let all the spirit of thy noble sire,
With rising energy thy soul inspire!
Thy bleeding country calls thee to the fight,
And duty prompts thee to defend the right.
Fly swiftly, Isadas, for glory says,
" Why dost thou waste in peace thy slothful days?"
SON
I go my mother, for the deathless crown
Which fires the youthful hero to renown,
And if thy soldier shall return to thee,
And bring the, laurel-wreath of victory,
Ah ! let the tribute of thy praise impart,
The dearest pleasure of my glowing heart.
And should I fall--oh ! be my glorious grave
Crown'd with the patriot-honours of the brave.
Think that I died in virtue's sacred cause;
Think that I died to win her bright applause.
MOTHER
My noble Isadas, to me what pride,
Wert thou to die--as thy brave father died,
Go, young enthusiast, to the battle go,
Repel with native zeal the daring foe,
Oh ! that I were a bird, with thee I'd fly,
And search the ranks among with piercing eye,
For thee my son: thy actions brave I'd mark,
And grave them in my breast. ----But hark ! oh, hark!
The martial trumpet sounds to war's alarms;
Farewell my hero, haste thee from my arms.
SON
Adieu ! my mother, if with glory crown'd
Home I return not, scarr'd with many a wound,
I'll bravely fall in battle's rushing tide;
Conquer or die--" as my brave father died !"
IN winter awful, lovely in the spring,
Romantic Cambria hail ! to thee I sing.
No longer now I view thy verdant trees,
Thy joyous harvest waving to the breeze;
Thy mountain streams, thy vallies filled with corn,
Thy larks which fly to greet the roseate morn;
Thy summer sun cheering all nature round,
Thy meads with Flora's early primrose crown'd;
The stores Pomona's liberal hand bestows,
And from her lap in rich profusion throws:
Of these no more I sing; those cheerful days
Are fled, and winter claims my pensive lays.
Yet even in winter charms may oft be view'd,
If by the philosophic mind pursu'd:
Yes, even in chilling frost, and blustering wind,
The grandeur of the Almighty Power we find.
Do not the winds aloud his praise declare?
Look at the snowy hills--we view him there!
Whether by cold we're nipp'd, or heat oppress'd,
In either is the Great Supreme confess'd.
But let me now assume the festive song,
And to the lyre let sportive notes belong;
For all th' endearments of the social powers,
Shall bless December's consecrated hours.
Now tho' joyful summer's fled,
Why regret her garlands dead!
For in the winter we can see
The beauties of variety.
And if 'twere summer all the year,
Variety would ne'er appear;
But in the seasons moving round,
If sought for, she is always found;
Then tho' summer's reign is fled,
Mourn not if the flowers be dead;
Tasteless would she ever be,
Wanting sweet variety.
Hail ! then, December's pleasing reign,
In the wild enraptur'd strain;
And let the winter sacred be
To mirth and hospitality.
FAIR enchantress gaily kind,
Sweet the dream inspir'd by thee;
Ever bless thy poet's mind
With thy heavenly energy!
Thine, oh ! Hope, the magic art,
To charm the sorrows of the heart;
To chase the fond, the plaintive sigh,
With visions of felicity.
Ah ! when real joys are o'er,
And love and peace delight no more,
Then thy melting syren-voice
Bids the pensive mind rejoice.
Ah ! thy dreams are too beguiling;
Ah ! thy prospect is too smiling.
Welcome still thy dear illusions;
Ever sweet thy wild effusions;
" Fair enchantress, gaily kind,
Ever bless thy poet's mind !"
Thine th' inspiring song of peace,
Soon the plaint of woe shall cease;
Soon again a brighter guest
Calm the mourning soul to rest.
Roses in thy path shall bloom;
Think, oh ! think of joys to come!
Come Hope, and all my steps attend,
Oh ! ever be my bosom-friend;
To me thy fairest dreams impart,
And whisper comfort to my heart.
Oh ! shed thy sweet enchanting ray,
To bless my wild romantic way.
In thy magic scene we view
Gay delusions, seeming true.
" Sweet musician, gaily kind,
Ever bless thy poet's mind !"
TO FRIENDSHIP.
OH ! Friendship, sweetest, exquisite delight,
For fine according spirits form'd alone!
'Tis thine our feeling bosoms to unite,
And youthful hearts thy melting ardours own.
To give the mind its animated glow,
Kindle the languid virtues to a flame,
To bid the genial tear of pity flow,
To raise the " blushes of ingenuous shame,"
These arts, oh ! child of sympathy, are thine;
And I will bless thy consecrated power;
Will pour my early offering at thy shrine,
And oft invoke thee in the pensive hour.
Ah ! when our brightest prospects fade away,
And Hope shall cease her glowing hues to blend:
Then, when the bright illusive scenes decay,
'Tis then we prove the blessings of a friend.
Diffuse thy influence o'er my youthful mind,
The artless song I dedicate to thee;
What pleasing sorrows oft in thee we find,
Oh ! child of tender sensibility.
With thee in pensive pleasure I would melt;
To me thy raptures, thy endearments give:
Oh ! ye, who these according joys have felt,
Say, with a generous friend, how sweet to grieve.
Oh ! yes, we love our sorrows to impart,
And meet our comfort from a kindred heart;
The elevated soul, by thee refin'd,
Once to thy dear enchanting sway resign'd,
Shall ever pour the genuine vow to thee,
Oh ! child of tender sensibility.
THE
WHEN the blythe mariners with glowing hearts,
Guide the proud vessel to their native shore,
Then Hope the animating lay imparts,
And whispers of the rapture yet in store.
Their spreading sails the lingering breezes gain,
The airy streamers waving o'er the main;
That main, which causes many a heart to mourn,
Now softly rolls to favour their return.
Now, with the balmy summer gale they glide;
Ah ! soon the seaman hopes to meet his bride.
Now, to the coast enraptur'd they advance,
While o'er the wave the setting sun-beams dance.
Now shouts of joy, impetuous joy, arise,
The cliffs of Albion meet their sparkling eyes;
With ardent cheers they hail the native shore,
" Our toil, our care, our dangers, are no more."
No more from love the mariners will roam,
But dwell with peace and festive mirth at home.
And now they spring exulting from the wave,
To meet the sacred honours of the brave;
Their friends, their loves, they welcome on the strand,
And acclamations greet them as they land.
Ah ! then the tears of manly transport flow,
The tears that bid the generous bosom glow.
He who could stand by battle compass'd round,
Stand unconcern'd, nor heed the deathful wound;
He, who could boldly face the cannon's roar,
Now melts in tears, to see his native shore.
Then let my country's lasting honours crown
The brave defenders of her bright renown;
With rapture hail the heroes of the wave,
Or strew her weeping laurels on their grave.
ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.
THE infant muse, Jehovah ! would aspire
To swell the adoration of the lyre:
Source of all good, oh ! teach my voice to sing,
Thee, from whom nature's genuine beauties spring;
Thee, GOD of truth, omnipotent and wise,
Who saidst to Chaos, " let the earth arise."
Oh ! author of the rich luxuriant year,
Love, truth, and mercy, in thy works appear:
Within their orbs the planets dost thou keep,
And even hast limited the mighty deep.
Oh ! could I number thy inspiring ways,
And wake the voice of animated praise!
Ah, no ! the theme shall swell a cherub's note;
To thee celestial hymns of rapture float.
'Tis not for me, in lowly strains to sing
Thee, GOD of mercy,--heav'n's immortal king.
Yet to that happiness I'd fain aspire;
Oh ! fill my heart with elevated fire:
With angel-songs an artless voice shall blend,
The grateful offering shall to thee ascend.
Yes ! thou wilt breathe a spirit o'er my lyre,
And " fill my beating heart with sacred fire !"
And when to thee my youth, my life, I've giv'n,
Raise me, to join Eliza, blest in heav'n.
HAIL ! Independence, source of blessings, hail!
Nurse of the towering thought, the gallant deed;
When blest by time how sweet the simple vale,
How charms with thee the brook, th' enamelI'd mead!
And when the lark, the messenger of day,
Proclaims the roseate morn will soon appear;
With thee what melody inspires the lay,
How soft the carol, how distinct, how clear.
With thee how doubly fair by Cynthia's beam,
The starry lamps resplendent in the sky:
How gently flows the chrystal purling stream,
How radiant Phoebus meets the dazzled eye.
With thee how jocund fleets th' ecstatic hour,
How shine the lucid drops which bend the flower;
How gay the sylvan scene, whene'er we rove,
Wandering with thee, and with the maid we love.
TO THE MOON.
CYLLENE rise ! yon osier trees,
Waving their branches to the breeze,
Court thee in hollow gentle sighs,
And whisper, " Fair Cyllene rise."
Heaven's canopy is studded bright,
With countless stars, in streams of light;
Yet what avail their beams divine,
If thou fair queen, refuse to shine ?
The shepherd's lute with sprightly sound
Awakes the mountain echoes round;
And as the warbling cadence dies,
It murmurs forth, " Cyllene rise."
Down in yon vale the minstrel's hand
Strikes the loud harp to glory's band;
And as the glowing theme's pursu'd,
Feels all his youthful fires renew'd.
And now to thee he tunes the lay,
And courts thy soft and placid ray;
Romantic melody awakes the skies,
To thee he carols, " Fair Cyllene rise."
YOUTH.
OH ! halcyon Youth, delightful hours,
When not a cloud of sorrow lowers;
When every moment wings its flight,
To waft new joy and new delight.
Kind, unsuspecting, and sincere,
Youth knows no pang, no jealous fear;
And sprightly Health, with cherub face,
Enlivens ev'ry opening grace;
And laughing Pleasure hovers near,
And tranquil Peace to youth is dear.
If Sorrow heave the little breast,
There plaintive sorrow cannot rest;
For swiftly flies the transient pain,
And Pleasure re-assumes her reign.
The tale the sons of woe impart,
Vibrates upon the youthful heart;
The soul is open to belief,
And Pity flies to soften grief.
Hope with sweet expressive eye,
Mirth, and gay Felicity,
Fancy in her lively dress,
Pity who delights to bless;
Innocence, and candid Truth,
These and more attend on Youth.
HYMN.
GREAT GOD ! at whose " creative word,"
Arising Nature own'd her Lord;
At whose behest, from gloomy night
The earth arose in order bright!
To whom the poet swells the song,
And cherub's loftier notes belong:
To Thee be glory, honour, praise;
Great GOD ! who canst depress or raise.
Say all ye learned, all ye wise,
What towering pillars prop the skies ?
What massy chain suspends the earth ?
'Tis His high power who gave it birth.
'Tis He who sends the grateful shower;
'Tis He who paints the glowing flower.
Let the loud anthem raise the strains
While echo murmurs it again.
And ye who wander o'er the sheaf-crown'd fields,
Praise Him for all the plenty harvest yields;
Let harp and voice their swelling notes combine,
To praise all nature's GOD, the architect divine
THE EXILE.
WHY memory recal the chearful hours,
The tranquil time that never can return;
When gaily wandering in my native bowers,
I once was smiling as the summer morn.
And why recal my early friendships dear,
Why lead my thoughts to fond illusions past:
They claim the plaintive tribute of a tear;
I weep for dreams of joy that fled so fast.
Ah ! still will Fancy all the scenes revive,
The favorite scenes that charm'd my youthful breast;
She bids them now in softer colours live,
And paints the cottage of domestic rest.
When pleasure lighted up my sparkling eye,
And on swift pinions flew the social day;
Ah ! then I pour'd the simple melody,
To hail the brilliance of the matin ray.
Ah ! still retentive only to my woe,
Will memory trace the picture of my cot;
And while in vain the tears of sorrow flow,
I rove in fancy to the sacred spot:
There fragrant woodbines form'd a mantling bower;
And there I planted the luxuriant vine;
There love and friendship bless'd the festive hour,
While every rural happiness was mine.
Ah ! thus will " sadly-pleasing" memory dwell
On all the hopes, the fond illusions o'er;
And still with touching power she loves to tell,
Of happy moments to return no more.
THE LILY OF THE VALE.
SEE bending to the gentle gale,
The modest lily of the vale;
Hid in its leaf of tender green,
Mark its soft and simple mien.
Thus sometimes Merit blooms retir'd,
By genius, taste, and fancy fir'd;
And thus 'tis oft the wanderer's lot,
To rove to Merit's peaceful cot,
As I have found the lily sweet,
That blossoms in this wild retreat.
INVOCATION TO THE FAIRIES. FOR MY SISTER'S GROTTO.
FAYS and Fairies haste away!
This is Harriet's holiday:
Bring the lyre, and bring the lute,
Bring the sweetly-breathing flute;
Wreaths of cowslips hither bring,
All the honours of the spring;
Adorn the grot with all that's gay,
Fays and Fairies haste away.
Bring the vine to Bacchus dear,
Bring the purple lilac here,
Festoons of roses, sweetest flower,
The yellow primrose of the bower,
Blue-ey'd violets wet with dew,
Bring the clustering woodbine too.
Bring in baskets made of rush,
The cherry with its ripen'd blush,
The downy peach, so soft so fair,
The luscious grape, the mellow pear:
These to Harriet hither bring,
And sweetly in return she'll sing.
Be the brilliant grotto scene
The palace of the Fairy Queen.
Form the sprightly circling dance,
Fairies here your steps advance;
To the harp's soft dulcet sound,
Let your footsteps lightly bound.
Unveil your forms to mortal eye;
Let Harriet view your revelry.
LIBERTY. AN ODE
WHERE the bold rock majestic towers on high,
Projecting to the sky;
Where the impetuous torrent's rapid course
Dashes with headlong force;
Where scenes less wild less awful meet the eye,
And cultur'd vales and cottages appear;
Where softer tints the mellow landscape dye,
More simply beautiful, more fondly dear;
There sportive Liberty delights to rove,
To rove unseen,
In the dell, or in the grove,
'Midst woodlands green.
And when placid eve advancing,
Faintly shadows all the ground;
Liberty with Hebe dancing,
Wanders through the meads around.
Fair wreaths of brightest flowers she loves to twine,
Moss-rose, and blue-bell wild;
The pink, the hyacinth with these combine,
And azure violet, nature's sweetest child!
When the moon beam silvery streaming,
Pierces through the myrtle shade;
Then her eye with pleasure beaming,
She trips along the sylvan glade.
She loves to sing in accents soft,
When the wood-lark soars aloft ;
She loves to wake the sprightly horn,
And swell the joyful note to celebrate the morn!
In the dell, or in the grove,
Liberty delights to rove;
By the ruin'd moss-grown tower,
By the wood-land, or the bower;
On the summit thence to view,
The landscape clad in varied hue.
By the hedge-row on the lawn,
Sporting with the playful fawn;
Where the winding river flows,
And the pensile osier grows,
In the cool impervious grove,
Liberty delights to rove.
HYMN.
OH ! thou Creator, Father, Friend,
Source of all blessings mortals prize,
Let nature's praise to thee ascend,
In swelling chorus to the skies.
Most high, ineffable, supreme,
Celestial, awful, brightest bright;
The cherubim's inspiring theme,
Enrob'd in glory, crown'd with light,
When solemn thunders distant roll,
And when the vivid lightnings dart,
They strike upon th' astonish'd soul,
And speak thy pow'r to ev'ry heart.
TO A BEAUTIFUL VINE AND A ROSE-BUSH.
THOU fair expanding mossy-rose,
Long may thy opening foliage twine
With this luxuriant cluster'd vine;
Which round thee wreathes its tender boughs.
Fair vine, long may thy leaves extend,
While gentle showers refresh thy root;
Long may thy graceful branches bend,
Enrich'd with purpling luscious fruit.
Sweet rose, long may thy flow'rs receive
The lucid tears of morn and eve;
Long mayst thou in profusion spread,
Thy straying buds of brigthest
red.
LOVELY Hesperus arise,
Why so tardy, glittering star ?
See already in the skies,
Cynthia guides her beaming car.
The night is placid, sweet, and clear,
Hesperus, appear, appear.
Deign this festive eve to bless,
Thou, than glowing gems more bright!
Beaming in thy fairest dress,
Shed thy lustre on the night.
Auspicious Hesperus, appear,
In thy radiance, soft and clear.
From the busy world retiring,
Now the pensive eve we hail;
Let thy ray so calm inspiring,
Cheer us in this happy vale:
Hesperus, arise, arise,
Shine amid the azure skies.
Light as gossamer that's borne
Floating on the breath of morn;
Light as fays that haunt the shade,
We lead the dance along the glade:
Hesper with thy light serene,
Gild the merry merry scene.
TO
HAPPY soon we'll meet again,
Free from sorrow, care, and pain;
Soon again we'll rise with dawn,
To roam the verdant dewy lawn.
Soon the budding leaves we'll hail,
Or wander through the well-known vale
Or weave the smiling wreath of flowers,
And sport away the light-wing'd hours.
Soon we'll run the agile race,
Soon, dear play-mates, we'll embrace;
Through the wheat-field or the grove,
We'll hand in hand delighted rove;
Or, beneath some spreading oak,
Ponder the instructive book;
Or view the ships that swiftly glide,
Floating on the peaceful tide:
Or raise again the caroll'd lay;
Or join again in mirthful play;
Or listen to the humming bees,
As their murmurs swell the breeze;
Or seek the primrose where it springs;
Or chase the fly with painted wings:
Or talk amidst the arbour's shade;
Or mark the tender shooting blade;
Or stray beside the babbling stream,
When Luna sheds her placid beam;
Or gaze upon the glassy sea;
Happy, happy, shall we be.
ASTRE DE LA NUIT. (Par ANNA COXE, agée de douze ans et demi.)
BELLE astre de la nuit charmante,
Aimable et clairvoyante;
Que je t'aime, que je t'adore,
Quand tu disparais avant l'aurore.
Rivale timide de la lune modeste,
Encore plus belle, et plus celeste;
Brillante avec eclat dans l'air,
Parmi le doux atmosphere.
Continue oh ! belle astre luisante,
De guider mes pas errants;
Et de soirée en soirée,
Eclairer mes promenades égarées.
TRANSLATION.
HEAVENLY star of lovely night,
Glittering in the azure sky,
How I love thy halo bright,
When stealing from Aurora's eye.
Rival of Phoebe's placid gleam,
Still more celestial is thy beam;
How brilliant is thy lustre clear,
Amidst the balmy atmosphere.
Continue lucent shining star,
To guide my wandering steps afar;
And still each evening as I stray,
Shed o'er my walk thy silver ray.
F. D. B.
CHANSON. (WRITTEN IN LONDON.)
QUAND j'etois en Galles, ce pays charmant,
Avec mes oiseaux,
Pres de mes ruisseaux;
Mes ruisseaux si transparens;
Parmis les vallées
Humides de rosée;
De doux eglantiers,
Je fus couronnée:
Oh ! que je me trouvois toujours gaie.
F. D. B.
THE APRIL MORN.
Now a smile, and now a frown;
Brightening now, and now cast down;
Now 'tis cheerful, now it lowers;
Yet sunshine in the midst of showers.
Now the sky is calm and clear;
Now the frowning clouds appear:
Evanescent soon they fly;
Calm and clear again the sky.
Such the face which April wears,
Now in smiles, and now in tears;
Like the life we lead below,
Full of joy, and full of woe.
Lovely prospects now arise;
Vanish now before our eyes:
Yet, amid the clouds of grief,
Still a sun-beam sheds relief.
Like the face which April wears,
Now in smiles, and now in tears.
ODE TO MIRTH.
THOU, oh ! Mirth, with laughing eye,
Spread thy empire o'er my soul;
No cares obtrude when thou art by,
To crown the bright nectareous bowl.
Leave the rich to pomp and splendour;
Happiness they cannot render.
Let the miser heap his hoard;
Mirth shall bless the festive board.
Friendship and the smiling muse
Their influence all around diffuse.
Now the flute with mellow sound
Invites thee to the feast;
The lively hautboy echoes round,
We form the sprightly jest.
O'er the mantling generous wine,
Good humour and delight combine:
Genial Pleasure for a while,
Bids her votaries gaily smile.
Pleasure twines the rosy wreath,
And bids inspiring music breathe,
While we lead the circling dance;
Oh ! Mirth, to join the airy maze, advance.
Mirth has heard the festive measure,
We devote the day to pleasure;
Let the miser heap his hoard,
Mirth shall crown the social board.
CEBA. AN INDIAN LOVE SONG.
SMOOTH the ocean's glassy breast,
The winds and waves are lull'd to rest;
Zephyr, breathing soft and calm,
Whispers through the grove of palm:
Haste, my Ceba to the bower,
Love demands one social hour;
Here the tamarind waves its head,
And weeping gums their spicy riches shed.
Come listen to the pleasing sound
Of all the dashing falls around;
Of all the birds that sweetly sing,
While the mountain-echoes ring:
To me their carols seem to say,
" Lovely Ceba, haste away."
Here the tamarind waves its head,
And weeping gums their amber riches shed.
Come, repose my lovely maid,
Beneath the arching plaintain's shade;
Hasten Ceba, hasten here,
Fragrant lemons blossom near;
Long lianas, blue and red,
Fringing o'er the rocks are spread;
Here the tamarind waves its head,
And weeping gums their balmy riches shed.
Hasten, hasten, then my love,
To the arbour, to the grove.
THE RUINED CASTLE.
OH ! let me sigh to think this ruin'd pile
Was favour'd once with fortune's radiant smile;
These moss-grown battlements, these ivy'd towers,
Have seen prosperity's uncertain hours;
Their heroes triumph'd in the scenes of war,
While victory follow'd in her trophied car.
Here, where I muse in meditation's arms,
Perhaps the battle raged with loud alarms;
Here glory's crimson banner waving spread,
While laurel crowns entwin'd the victor's head;
And here, perhaps, with many a plaintive tear,
The mourner has bedew'd the soldier's bier.
The scene of conquest pensive fancy draws,
Where thousands fell, enthusiasts in their cause.
Yon turret, moulder'd by the hand of time,
Shaded by silver ash and spreading lime,
Was once, perhaps, the hall of mirth and joy,
Where warriors sought no longer to destroy;
And where, perhaps, the hoary-headed sage,
Would lead them o'er the animating page;
Where history points to glorious ages fled,
And tells the noble actions of the dead.
Still fancy with a magic power recalls
The time when trophies grac'd the lofty walls:
When with enchanting spells the minstrel's art,
Could soften and inspire the melting heart;
Could raise the glowing elevated flame,
And bid the youthful soldier pant for fame:
While deeds of glory were the themes he sung,
The pleasant harp in wild accordance rung.
Ah ! where is now the warrior's ardent fire ?
Where now the tuneful spirit of the lyre ?
The warrior sleeps; the minstrel's lay is still;
No songs of triumph echo from the hill.
Ah ! yet the weeping muse shall love to sigh,
And trace again thy fallen majesty;
And still shall Fancy linger on the theme,
While forms of heroes animate her dream.
JEU D'ESPRIT.
FANCY lend thy magic aid,
Let me draw a heavenly maid.
Bring the azure of the sky,
For the fair one's lovely eye;
Join the rose-bud's damask glow
To the lustre of the snow;
Juno's dignity of mien,
Venus' smile and look serene;
Taste and genius to excel;
All that fabling poets tell
Of the Goddesses divine,
The Graces, or the Sister Nine;
Native elegance refin'd,
Lovely person, lovely mind:
To these add candour, pity, truth,
All that can embellish youth.
Now the finished picture see,
Sportive Fancy's jeu d'esprit.
TO MY BROTHER.
MUSE of friendship wake the lyre,
Strike it with unwonted fire;
Now my brother asks the lay,
The pleasing tribute let me pay.
Let the measure softly flow,
To give him all the thanks I owe;
To wish him all my heart would say,
All that's happy, all that's gay.
Cherub health with beaming eye,
Well-deserv'd prosperity,
Joy and honour, fortune, fame,
All that merit e'er can claim;
Inward peace with placid mien,
And domestic joy serene.
May Heaven propitious deign to hear,
This a sister's genuine prayer.
MELANCHOLY.
WHEN autumn shadows tint the waving trees,
When fading foliage flies upon the breeze;
When evening mellows all the glowing scene,
And the mild dew descends in drops of balm;
When the sweet landscape placid and serene,
Inspires the bosom with a pensive calm;
Ah ! then I love to linger in the vale,
And hear the bird of eve's romantic tale;
I love the rocky sea-beach to explore,
Where the clear wave flows murmuring to the shore;
To hear the shepherd's plaintive music sound,
While Echo answers from the woods around;
To watch the twilight spread a gentle veil
Of melting shadows o'er the grassy dale,
To view the smile of evening on the sea;
Ah ! these are pleasures ever dear to me.
To wander with the melancholy muse,
Where waving trees their pensive shade diffuse.
Then by some secret charm the soften'd mind
Soars high in contemplation unconfin'd,
To melancholy and the muse resign'd.
FAIRY SONG.
ALL my life is joy and pleasure,
Sportive as my tuneful measure;
In the rose's cup I dwell,
Balmy sweets perfume my cell;
My food the crimson luscious cherry,
And the vine's luxurious berry;
The nectar of the dew is mine;
Nectar from the flowers divine.
And when I join the fairy band,
Lightly tripping hand in hand,
By the moonlight's quivering beam,
In concert with the dashing stream;
Then my music leads the dance,
When the gentle fays advance;
And oft my numbers on the green,
Lull to rest the fairly queen.
" All my life is joy and pleasure,
" Sportive as my airy measure."
SHAKSPEARE.
I LOVE to rove o'er history's page,
Recal the hero, and the sage;
Revive the actions of the dead,
And memory of ages fled:
Yet it yields me greater pleasure,
To read the poet's pleasing measure.
Led by Shakspeare, bard inspir'd,
The bosom's energies are fir'd;
We learn to shed the generous tear,
O'er poor Ophelia's sacred bier;
To love the merry moonlight scene,
With fairy elves in vallies green;
Or borne on Fancy's heavenly wings,
To listen while sweet Ariel sings.
How sweet the " native wood-notes wild"
Of him, the Muse's favorite child;
Of him whose magic lays impart,
Each various feeling to the heart.
TO A BUTTERFLY.
LITTLE fluttering beauteous fly,
With azure wing of softest dye,
Hither fairy wanton hie,
Nor fear to lose thy liberty:
For I would view, thou silly thing,
The colours of thy velvet wing.
Its lovely melting tints outvie
The glories of the summer sky.
Can pencil imitate the hue,
So soft, so delicate a blue ?
Well I know thy life is short,
One transient hour of idle sport:
Enjoy that little halcyon hour,
And kiss each fair and fragrant flower;
No more I'll stay thy mazy flight,
For short thy moments of delight.
WISDOM.
ALL Wisdom's ways are smooth and fair,
No treasures can with hers compare;
More precious than the ruby bright,
She leads to honour and delight.
Seek her, and she is quickly found,
With never-fading olives crown'd.
Riches may fly within an hour,
Pale sickness wither beauty's flower,
Death may our dearest friendships sever,
And rend the social tie for ever;
Ah ! what but Wisdom then remains,
To cheer the heart beneath its pains!
To bid each murmuring thought arise,
And soar with rapture to the skies.
She calms the passions of the breast,
With soothing hopes of future rest;
And like a minister of heaven,
She tells us " mortals are forgiven."
Then Ophir's gold to her is nought,
Nor polished silver finely wrought;
Nor all the jewels of the mine,
Compar'd with Wisdom's gem divine.
FLORA TO CLAUDE, ON HIS PLUCKING A ROSE.
AH ! you thoughtless cruel boy,
'Tis all your pleasure to destroy;
Fairer was my blushing rose,
Than any fragrant flower that blows.
Already, lo ! it droops and dies,
And all its lovely crimson flies.
'Twas I who breath'd the sweet perfume,
I shed the rich luxuriant bloom;
And when the bud in embryo lay,
I chased the nipping blight away.
'Twas I the silken texture spun:
Now my work is all undone;
And now I mourn my fairest flower,
The glory of my summer bower.
THE DREAM OF JOY.
IN life's young morn, with fairy wiles,
Hope cheats the soul, and Fancy smiles;
They lull with flattering dreams of joy,
Ah ! why must truth the dreams destroy ?
Those halcyon days too soon are past,
The lovely visions will not last;
The golden dream of frolic joy,
Alas ! ere long will truth destroy.
The glowing scene by fancy spread,
Gay hope by youthful ardour led,
The flattering dream of frolic joy,
Ah ! soon, too soon will truth destroy.
SONG.
WHY should we with fancied cares,
Shade the sun-shine hope bestows;
When, alas ! our being bears
But too many real woes ?
Time is cheating, life is fleeting,
Why then half its bliss destroy!
Friendship blessing, hope caressings
Let us quaff the cup of joy.
THE BEE. INSCRIBED TO MY SISTER.
MARK how the neat assiduous bee,
Pattern of frugal industry,
Pursues her earnest toil;
All day the pleasing task she plies,
And to her cell at evening hies,
Enrich'd with golden spoil.
She warns us to employ the hours,
In gathering stores from learning's flowers;
For these will ever last:
These mental charms will fill the place
Of every beauty, every grace,
When smiling youth is past.
INSCRIPTION FOR A COTTAGE.
OH ! give me, Heaven, whate'er my lot,
Or in the palace, or the cot,
A noble generous mind;
Exalted in a lowly state,
At fortune's favours not elate,
To all her frowns resign'd.
SONG.
SAY, does calm Contentment dwell,
In palace rich, or lowly cell ?
Fix'd to no peculiar spot,
Gilded rooms, or simple cot,
She will grace the courtly scene,
Or love to haunt the village green:
Where Virtue dwells, Content must be.
And with her Felicity.
HYMN.
OH ! God of mercy, let my lyre
Speak with energetic fire;
And teach my infant tongue to raise,
The grateful animated lays.
While musing at thy hallow'd shrine,
I listen to thy word divine;
I bless the page of genuine truth;
Oh ! may its precepts guide my youth.
To Thee, thou Good Supreme ! I bend,
Do thou the humble prayer attend.
F.D.B. aged 12.
SONG OF ZEPHYRUS.
WHEN sportive hours lead on the rosy spring,
Then in the frolic smiling train I come;
And wander with the bee on sylphid wing,
To kiss each floweret in its tender bloom.
And at the fragrant time, the close of day,
Or at the sweet and pensive moonlight hour,
Then in the summer air I love to play,
And sport with Flora in the dewy bower.
Oft o'er the harp of winds with gentle sigh,
I breathe a mellow note, a mournful lay;
And then enraptur'd with the melody,
I list with pleasure till the sounds decay.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF LORD NELSON.
WHILE British hearts with noble ardour glow,
Warm with the genuine spirit of the brave;
Ah ! still a grateful tear of joy must flow,
The sacred tribute o'er a hero's grave.
Oh ! yes, a sweet enthusiastic tear
Shall tremble in the generous Briton's eye;
And own with melting energy sincere,
A Nelson's worth, a country's liberty,
The mournful muse shall consecrate his name
With all the inspiration of the lyre;
And loyal bosoms kindling at his fame,
Shall glory in the patriotic fire.
And o'er the tomb that holds his sacred dust
Shall glory weave the brightest laurel crown;
While in the noble records of the just,
His name shall live in virtue's fair renown.
HOLIDAY HOURS. INSCRIBED TO MY BROTHER CLAUDE.
DEAR boy, let us think of the pleasures in spring,
When the season is welcom'd with garlands of flowers;
How thy moments will fly with delight on the wing,
How thy fancy will dwell on the holiday hours.
And sweet are those moments the young bosom knows,
Preceding the social endearments of home;
Where maternal affection so tenderly glows,
And invokes the gay holiday pleasures to come.
And oh ! my sweet boy, when our years shall expand,
When we wander no more thro' our favorite bowers;
Perhaps we may sigh for the pleasures so bland,
The sportive delights of the holiday hours.
SONNET TO THE MUSE OF PITY.
Oh ! mistress of the melancholy song,
I love to bend before thy sacred shrine;
To thee my fondest early vows belong,
For pity's melting tenderness is thine.
Thine is the harp of wild expressive tone,
'Tis thine to touch it with entrancing art;
Till all thy numbers vibrate on the heart,
And sympathy delights thy powers to own.
Oh ! sweetest muse of pity and of love,
In artless song thy plaintive lyre I hail;
Be mine to weep with thee o'er sorrow's tale,
And oft thy pleasing visions may I prove.
" Thou mistress of the melancholy song,
" To thee my fondest early vows belong."
THE SONG OF A SERAPH.
Lo ! the dream of life is o'er;
Pain the christian's lot no more!
Kindred spirit ! rise with me,
Thine the meed of victory.
Now the angel-songs I hear,
Dying softly on the ear;
Spirit, rise ! to thee is given,
The light ethereal wing of heaven.
Now no more shall virtue faint,
Happy spirit of the saint;
Thine the halo of the skies,
Thine the seraph's paradise.
SONNET, TO MY MOTHER.
To thee, maternal guardian of my youth,
I pour the genuine numbers free from art;
The lays inspir'd by gratitude and truth,
For thou wilt prize th' effusion of the heart.
Oh ! be it mine, with sweet and pious care,
To calm thy bosom in the hour of grief;
With soothing tenderness to chase the tear,
With fond endearments to impart relief.
Be mine thy warm affection to repay
With duteous love in thy declining hours;
My filial hand shall strew unfading flowers,
Perennial roses to adorn thy way:
Still may thy grateful children round thee smile,
Their pleasing care affliction shall beguile.
THE MINSTREL TO HIS HARP.
WHEN youthful transport led the hours,
And all my way was bright with flowers,
Ah ! then my harp, thy dulcet note,
To songs of joy would lightly float;
To thee I sung in numbers wild,
Of hope and love who gaily smil'd.
And now tho' young delight is o'er,
And golden visions charm no more;
Tho' now my harp, thy mellow tone,
I wake to mournful strains alone;
Ah ! yet the pleasing lays impart
A pensive rapture to my heart.
I sung to thee of early pleasures,
In sweet and animated measures;
And I have wept o'er griefs and cares,
And still have lov'd thy magic airs:
To me thy sound recals the hours,
When all my way was bright with flowers.
ON MY MOTHER's BIRTH-DAY. IN AFFLICTION.
AH ! withering sorrow wilt thou come
And steal the Roses of to-day,
Nor leave one lonely sweet to bloom,
And cheer us in this mournful May.
Oh ! yes, one blossom yet shall smile,
And filial childhood shall expand,
Maternal anguish to beguile,
And crown the wish affection plann'd.
Then ah ! tho' withering sorrow come,
And steal the early birth-day rose;
Let hope reserve one sweet to bloom,
" Tho' thorns its dewy leaves enclose."
TO E. B. ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
To thee, sweet girl, these lays impart,
The genuine friendship of my heart.
Oh ! be this day for ever blest;
I hail it with my gayest measure;
And may thy sympathetic breast
Enjoy affection, love, and pleasure.
And if thy heart should ever mourn,
May friendship soothe the anxious sorrow;
Till hope with lovely smile return,
To promise thee a brighter morrow.
And ah ! may health benignly shed
Her blessings o'er thy sister's head;
And nurse the charge with influence bland,
Till on her cheek the rose expand.
TO MY AUNT, ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
THE muse shall breathe a native lay,
And sweetly consecrate the day;
While Anna by the power of truth
Leads on our emulative youth;
While each young virtue of the heart,
To her a rapture can impart.
The genuine thoughts her soul may prize,
Endear'd by fond affection's ties;
Warm from the bosom's ardent glow,
The wild effusions gaily flow.
" The muse shall breathe a native lay,
" And sweetly consecrate the day: "
While love and friendship's pure delight,
To bless our little band unite.
TO THE MOONLIGHT HOUR.
SWEETEST of the pensive hours,
Welcome to our Cambrian bowers;
While the harp with plaintive close,
Bids us love the song of woes;
Or the lute so gaily sweet,
Echoes thro' this wild retreat;
While our hearts with frolic pleasure,
Vibrate to the dulcet measure;
We will bless thy soothing power,
Sweet and pensive moonlight hour.
By the soft expressive sigh
We breathe to mournful melody;
By the poet's melting trance,
And by his visions of romance;
By the lover's trembling tear,
To sorrow and to rapture dear;
Ever be thy shadowy beam
Sacred as the minstrel's theme.
Sweetest of the pensive hours,
Welcome to our Cambrian bowers.
TO MY ELDEST BROTHER, LIEUTENANT IN THE TWENTY-THIRD REGIMENT OF FOOT;
WHILE Hope, the syren fair and gay,
Tells of some future happy day,
Let Pleasure with benignant power,
The empress of the social hour,
Smile on the day to love so dear,
And smile more softly thro' a tear.
Yet, while on fancy's raptur'd sight,
Beam the sweet visions of delight,
For thee affection fondly sighs,
And fears, and doubtful wishes rise:
Yet lovely Hope again appears,
And lifts the veil of distant years.
" For thee," she sings, " shall fancy bloom,
" And love the path of life illume;
" For thee shall health her roses shed,
" And glory's laurels twine thy head.
" Then joy shall drop a precious tear,
" To hail the gallant fuzileer."
TO PATRIOTISM.
GENIUS of Britannia's land,
Hither lead thy chosen band:
Honour with the laurel crown,
Valour, panting for renown;
Enterprize, who waves on high
The British flag of victory;
And Fortitude, with awful state,
Who soars above the storm of fate.
Oh ! by the spirits of the brave,
The heroes of Trafalgar's wave;
And by our Nelson's sacred name,
And by our Abercromby's fame,
Do thou Britannia's sons inspire
With all thy energy and fire:
Teach them to conquer or to die
With firm unshaken loyalty.
Then may some bard record their praise
In sweet enthusiastic lays;
And hail the patriotic band,
The guardians of their native land;
Whose names shall live in warlike story,
Consigned to everlasting glory.
TO MY YOUNGER BROTHER, ON HIS ENTERING THE ARMY.
HAIL ! thou dear thou gallant boy,
Oh ! be our hero, be our joy;
May " love and glory" fire thy soul,
Inspir'd by virtue's pure controul;
And then our hearts with joy sincere,
Would bless our noble fuzileer.
Tho' we are now resign'd to grief,
It may be thine to bring relief;
Oh ! let us see thy patriot name
Recorded in the lists of fame;
And then our hearts with joy sincere,
Will bless our noble fuzileer.
SONNET.
WHERE nature's grand romantic charms invite
The glowing rapture of the soul refin'd;
In scenes like these the young poetic mind
May court the dreams of fancy with delight;
And dear to those by every muse inspir'd,
The rural landscape, and the prospect fair;
They love in mountain solitudes retir'd,
To own illusions that may banish care.
These gentle visions ever shall remain,
To soothe the poet in his pensive hours;
For him shall Fancy cull Piërian flowers,
And strew her garlands o'er the path of pain:
For him shall Memory shed her pensive ray,
O'er the soft hours of life's enchanting May.
TO AUTUMN.
No more the glowing flowers of spring,
Enrich the sweet romantic dell;
Yet ah ! the tints of Autumn bring,
A fading charm, a soft farewell.
Dear Autumn ! as thy sober hues
Adorn the scene with shadowy grace;
A mellow beauty they diffuse,
Which pensive pleasure loves to trace.
And dearer is thy transient calm,
That wakes the mild and soothing tear,
Than summer air of fragrant balm,
Than all the treasures of the year.
And sweeter is thy partial ray,
For ah ! too soon it melts away.
F. D. B. aged 13.
SONNET.
'TIS sweet to think the spirits of the blest,
May hover round the virtuous man's repose;
And oft in visions animate his breast,
And scenes of bright beatitude disclose.
The ministers of Heaven with pure controul,
May bid his sorrow and emotion cease;
Inspire the pious fervour of his soul,
And whisper to his bosom hallow'd peace.
Ah ! tender thought, that oft with sweet relief,
May charm the bosom of a weeping friend.;
Beguile with magic power the tear of grief,
And pensive pleasure with devotion blend;
While oft he fancies music sweetly faint,
The airy lay of some departed saint.
THE PETITION OF THE REDBREAST.
AH ! why did thy rude hand molest
The sacred quiet of my nest ?
No more I rise on rapture's wing,
The ditties of my love to sing.
Restore me to the peaceful vale,
To wander with the southern gale;
Restore me to the woodland scene,
Romantic glen, or forest green;
To hail the Heaven's ethereal blue,
To drink the freshness of the dew;
Now, while my artless carols flow,
Let pity in thy bosom glow.
For this, at morn's inspiring hour,
I'll sing in thy luxuriant bow'r:
To thee the breeze of airy sigh
Shall waft my thrilling melody;
Thy soul the cadence wild shall meet,
The song of gratitude is sweet.
And at the pensive close of day,
When landscape-colours fade away,
Ah ! then the robin's mellow note,
To thee in dying tone shall float ;--
" Now, while my plaintive carols flow,
" Let pity in thy bosom glow ;"
And I will consecrate to thee,
The wildest note of liberty.
INSCRIPTION FOR A HERMITAGE.
PILGRIM, view this mossy dell,
View the woodland hermit's cell;
And if thou love the rustic scene,
And love to court the muse serene;
If virtue to thy soul be dear,
And sometimes melancholy's tear;
Oh ! thou wilt view the vale around,
As if 'twere consecrated ground.
The pious hermit here retir'd;
With love of solitude inspir'd;
He Iov'd the scene of this retreat,
This smiling dell to him was sweet;
And here he sought for hallow'd rest,
To calm the sorrows of his breast;
And resignation with a smile,
His tear of grief would oft beguile;
Would soothe to peace his tranquil age,
In this romantic hermitage.
WHERE awful summits rise around,
With wild and straggling flowerets crown'd;
'Tis there the poet loves to sigh,
And touch the harp of melody:
And wake the measure of delight,
Or melt in fairy visions bright:
And sometimes will his soul aspire,
And feel almost etherial fire.
Ah ! then the fond enthusiast dreams,
(Enraptur'd with celestial themes,)
That happy spirits round him play,
And animate the magic lay:
Their floating forms his fancy sees,
And hears their music in the breeze.
Then, while the airy numbers die,
He wakes his sweetest harmony;
To imitate the heavenly strain,
Which memory fondly calls again.
To Fancy then he pours his song,
To her his wildest notes belong.
Oh ! spirit of the lyre divine,
I deck with flowers thy sacred shrine;
Thus let me ever melt with thee,
In the soft dreams of poesy.
TO THE MUSE.
GODDESS of the magic lay,
Ever let me own thy sway;
Thine the sweet enchanting art,
To charm and to correct the heart;
To bid the tear of pity flow,
Sacred to thy tale of woe;
Or raise the lovely smile of pleasure,
With sportive animated measure.
" Oh ! Goddess of the magic lay,"
To thee my early vows I pay;
Still let me wander in thy train,
And pour the wild romantic strain.
Be mine to rove by thee inspir'd,
In peaceful vales, and scenes retir'd;
For in thy path, oh ! heavenly maid,
The roses smile that never fade.
GENIUS.
NOW evening steals upon the glowing scene,
Her colours tremble on the wave serene;
The dews of balm on languid flowers descend,
The mellow tinges of the landscape blend;
Hail ! placid eve, thy lingering smiles diffuse
A pensive pleasure to the lonely muse.
I love to wander by the ocean side,
And hear the soothing murmurs of the tide;
To muse upon the poet's fairy-tale,
In fancy wafted to the moonlight vale:
Sometimes I think that Ariel's playful bands
Are lightly hovering o'er " these yellow sands."
'
Tis thus that Shakspeare with inspiring song,
Can lead the visionary train along;
Then by his magic spell the scene around,
The " yellow sands" become enchanted ground.
But when the lingering smile of even dies,
And when the mild and silvery moonbeams rise,
Then sweeter is the favourite rustic seat,
Where pensile ash trees form the green retreat,
And mingle with the richer foliage round,
To cast a trembling shadow on the ground;
'Tis there retir'd I pour the artless rhyme,
And court the muses at this tranquil time.
Oh ! Genius, lead me to Piërian bowers,
And let me cull a few neglected flowers.
By all the poets, fanciful and wild,
Whose tales my hours of infancy beguil'd,
Oh ! let thy spirit animate my lyre,
And all the numbers of my youth inspire.
Perhaps, where now I pour the simple lays,
Thy bards have wak'd the song of other days;
Some Cambrian Ossian may have wander'd near,
While airy music murmur'd in his ear:
Perhaps, even here, beneath the moonlight beam,
He lov'd to ponder some entrancing theme;
And here, while heavenly visions fill'd his eye,
He rais'd the strain of plaintive melody;
This fond idea consecrates the hour,
And more endears the calm secluded bower.
Sweet was the Cambrian harp in ancient time,
When tuneful bards awak'd the song sublime;
And minstrels caroll'd in the banner'd hall,
Where warlike trophies grac'd the lofty wall;
They sang the legends and traditions old,
The deeds of chivalry, and heroes bold.
Oh ! Cambria, tho' thy sweetest bards are dead,
And fairies from thy lovely vales are fled;
Still in thy sons the musing mind may trace
The vestige of thy former simple race:
Some pious customs yet preserv'd with care,
Their humble village piety declare;
Ah ! still they strew the fairest flowers and weep,
Where buried friends of sacred memory sleep.
The wandering harper, too, in plaintive lays,
Declares the glory of departed days;
And, Cambria, still upon thy fertile plains,
The power of hospitality remains.
Yet shall my muse the pleasing task resign,
Till riper judgement all her songs refine;
But let my sportive lyre resume again
The purpos'd theme, to hail another's strain.
Yes, heavenly Genius, I have heard thee raise
The note of truth, of gratitude, and praise.
'Twas thine with modest indigence to dwell,
And warble sweetly in the lowly cell;
To rove with Bloomfield thro' the woodland shade,
And hail the calm seclusion of the glade:
Beneath the greenwood canopy reclin'd,
'Twas thine to elevate his artless mind.
While in the lovely scene " to him so dear,"
He trac'd the varied beauties of the year;
And fondly loiter'd in the summer bower,
To hail the incense of the morning hour;
Or thro' the rich autumnal landscape toy'd,
And rais'd a grateful hymn for all he lov'd.
Oh ! Genius, ever with thy favour'd band
May Piety be seen with aspect bland;
And conscious Honour with an eye serene,
And Independence with exalted mein
.
Ah ! may'st thou never to Ambition bend,
Nor at the shrine of Luxury attend;
But rather consecrate some tranquil home,
And in the vale of peace and pleasure bloom.
There may'st thou wander from the world retir'd,
And court the dreams by poesy inspir'd;
And sometimes all thy pleasing spells employ,
To bid affliction own a transient joy:
For oft 'tis thine to chase the tear away
With soothing harp and melancholy lay;
And sorrow feels the magic for a while,
And then, with sad expression, learns to smile.
Oh ! teach me all the soft bewitching art,
The music that may cheer a wounded heart:
For I would love to bid emotion cease,
With sweetest melodies that whisper peace;
And all the visions of delight restore,
The soften'd memory of hours no more.
Ah ! Genius, when thy dulcet measures flow,
Then pleasure animates the cheek of woe;
And sheds a sad and transitory grace,
O'er the pale beauty of the languid face.
But when 'tis thine to feel the pang of grief,
Without one melting friend to bring relief;
Then, who thy pain shall soften and beguile,
What gentle spirit cheer thee with a smile;
And bid thy last departing hopes revive,
And all thy flattering dreams of rapture live ?
Oh ! turn to Him thy supplicating eye,
The God of peace and tenderest charity;
And He will bless thee with consoling power,
And elevate thy soul in sorrow's hour.
Ah ! then a pensive beam of joy shall play,
To cheer thee, weeping Genius, on thy way:
A lovely rainbow then for thee shall rise,
And shed a lustre o'er the cloudy skies.
Tho' all thy fairy prospects are no more,
And tho' the visions of thy youth are o'er;
Yet Sorrow shall assume a softer mein
,
Like Melancholy, mournful yet serene:
The placid Muse to thee her flowers shall bring,
And Hope shall " wave her golden hair," and sing;
With magic power dispel the clouds on high,
And raise the veil of bright eternity.
OH ! may I ever pass my happy hours
In Cambrian rallies and romantic bow'rs;
For every spot in sylvan beauty drest,
And every landscape charms my youthful breast.
And much I love to hail the vernal morn,
When flowers of spring the mossy seat adorn:
And sometimes thro' the lonely wood I stray,
To cull the tender rosebuds in my way;
And seek in every wild secluded dell,
The weeping cowslip, and the azure bell;
With all the blossoms, fairer in the dew,
To form the gay festoon of varied hue.
And oft I seek the cultivated green,
The fertile meadow, and the village scene;
Where rosy children sport around the cot,
Or gather woodbine from the garden spot.
And there I wander by the cheerful rill,
That murmurs near the osiers and the mill;
To view the smiling peasants turn the hay,
And listen to their pleasing festive lay.
I love to loiter in the spreading grove,
Or in the mountain scenery to rove;
Where summits rise in awful grace around,
With hoary moss and tufted verdure crown'd;
Where cliffs in solemn majesty are pil'd,
" And frown upon the vale " with grandeur wild:
And there I view the mouldering tower sublime,
Array'd in all the blending shades of time.
The airy upland and the woodland green,
The valley, and romantic mountain scene;
The lowly hermitage, or fair domain,
The dell retir'd, or willow-shaded lane;
" And every spot in sylvan beauty drest,
And every landscape charms my youthful breast."
THE ALPINE SHEPHERD.
IN scenery sublime and rude,
In wild romantic solitude,
Where awful summits crown'd with snow,
In soft and varied colours glow;
There, in some grassy shelter'd spot,
The Alpine shepherd forms his cot;
And there, beside his peaceful home,
The fairest mountain-flowerets bloom;
There oft his playful children climb
The rock fantastic and sublime,
And cull the mantling shrubs that creep,
And sweetly blossom o'er the steep.
'Tis his to mark the morning ray,
Upon the glittering scenery play;
To watch the purple evening shade,
In sweet and mellow tinges fade;
And hail the sun's departing smile,
That beams upon the hills a while:
And oft, at moonlight hour serene,
He wanders thro' the shadowy scene:
And then his pipe with plaintive sound
Awakes the mountain-echoes round.
How dear to him the shelter'd spot,
The waving pines that shade his cot;
His pastoral music wild and gay,
May charm his simple cares away;
And never will he sigh to roam,
Far from his native mountain-home.
SONNET, TO AGNES.
AH ! could my Agnes rove these favourite shades,
With mirth and friendship in the Cambrian vale,
In mossy dells, or wild romantic glades,
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