Say, dark prow'd visitant! that o'er the brineStalk'stproudly—heeding not what wind may blow,What chart, what compass, shapes that course of thine,Whence didst thou come, and whither dost thou go?
Art thou a Monster born of sky and sea?Art thou a Pagod moving in thine ire?Were I a Savage I must bend to thee,A Ghiber? I must own thee "God of fire."
The affrighted billows fly thy hissing rout,Thy wake is followed by turmoil and din,Blackness and darkness track thy course without,And fire and groans and vapours strive within.
And they who cling about thee—who are they?And canst thou be that fabled boat, that waitsOn the dark banks of Styx for souls? Oh, say!Let me not burst in ignorance—thy freight.
Thus spake I, wandering near the Brighton shore,Straining my very eye-balls from myCab;First came two "ten-horse" laughs—and then a roar,"Be off, queer Chap, or I'll soon stop your gab!"
Then swept she onward, breathing mist and cloud,While from my bosom this reflection broke;Although I think the steam-boat something proud,Suchloftyquestions often end insmoke.To all Grandiloquents a hintIdeem it,And whilst I live, I'll ever suchesteemit.
Bless'd be the hour that gave my LYDIA birth,The day be sacred 'mid each varying year;How oft the name recals thy spotless worth,And joys departed, still to memory dear!If matchless friendship, constancy, and love,Have power to charm, or one sad grief beguile,'Tis thine the gloom of sorrow to remove,And on the tearful cheek imprint a smile.May every after-season to thee bringNew joys, to cheer life's dark eventful way,Till time shall close thee in his pond'rous wing,And angels waft thee to eternal day!Loved friend, farewell! thy name this heart shall fill,Till memory sinks, and all its griefs are still!
Written at the Cottage of T. LEWIS, Esq. Woodbury Downs.
In the retirement of this lovely spot,Sacred to friendship, industry, and worth,To boundless hospitality and mirth,Be ever peace and joy—all care forgot,Save that which carest for a higher, holier, lot!
And thou, sweet girl, whose lovely modest mien,Cheers the gay banquet with unconscious wiles,Long mayest thou grace it with affection's smiles,The vocal syren of this sylvan scene.Warbling thy sweetest notes 'midst flowers and woodlands green.
Long be the social circle's grace and pride,Of parents' hopes, the dearest and the best,"The Dove of promise to this ark of rest:"Who, when around the world's fierce billows ride,Beareth the branch that speaks of the receding tide!
July, 1827
Farewell! loved youth, for still I hold thee dear,Though thou hast left me friendless and alone;Still, still thy name recals the heartfelt tear,That hastes MATILDA to her wish'd-for home.
Why leave the wretch thy perfidy hath made,To journey cheerless through the world's wide waste?Say, why so soon does all thy kindness fade,And doom me, thus, affliction's cup to taste?
Ungen'rous deed! to fly the faithful maidWho, for thy arms, abandon'd every friend;Oh! cruel thought, that virtue, thus betray'd,Should feel a pang that death alone can end.
Yet I'll not chide thee—And when hence you roam,Should my sad fate one tear of pity move,Ah! then return! this bosom's still thy home,And all thy failings I'll repay with love.
Believe me, dear, at midnight, or at morn,In vain exhausted nature strives to rest,Thy absence plants my pillow with a thorn,And bids me hope no more, on earth, for rest.
But if unkindly you refuse to hear,And from despair thy poor MATILDA have;Ah! don't deny one tributary tear,To glisten sweetly o'er my early grave.
[Footnote 1: The above lines were written at the request of a lady, and meant to describe the feelings of one "who loved not wisely, but too well."]
I love the joyous thoughtless heart,The revels of the youthful mind,'Ere sad experience points the dart,Which wounds so surely all mankind.
It glads me when the buoyant soul,Unconscious ranges, fancy free,Draining the sweets of pleasure's bowl,And thinking all as blest as he.
Ah! me, yet sad it is to know,The many griefs the future brings,That time must change that note to woe,Which now its merry carrol sings.
This "summer of the mind," alas!Must have its autumn—leafless, bare,When all these pleasing phantoms pass,And end in winter, age, and care!
Such, such is life, the moral tells—The tempest, and its sunny smiles,A warning voice the cheerful bells,The knell of death, our youth beguiles!
With a Drawing of the Head of an Eminent Artist.
Dear Sir, you remember, when Herod of JewryHad given a ball, how a shocking old furyDemanded, so bent was the vixen on slaughter.The head of St. John at the hand of her daughter:Now do not detest me, nor hold me in dread,Because, like King Herod, I send you a head:Not a saint's, by-the-bye, althoughtaken from life,But a head of my friend, by the hand of my wife.
By Miss A.M. TURNER, Daughter of the Eminent Engraver.
Deathto the verylife!not the closed eye,Not those small paralytic limbs alone,But every feather tells so mournfullyThy fate, and that thylittlelife has flown.
Manhood forbids that I should weep, and yetSadness comes o'er my spirit, and I standGazing intensely, and with mute regret,Turn from the wonder of the artist's hand.
Exquisite artist! could I praise thee moreThan by the silent admiration? no!And now I try to praise I must deploreHow feeble is the verse that tells thee so;But thou art gaining for thyself a fameWorthy thyself, thy sex, and thy dear father's name!
Genius of England! wherefore to the earthIs thy plumed helm, thy peerless sceptre cast?Thy courts of late with minstrelsy and mirthRang jubilant, and dazzling pageants past;Kings, heroes, martial triumphs, nuptial rites—
Now, like a cypress, shiver'd by the blast,Or mountain-cedar, which the lightning smites,In dust and darkness sinks thy head declined,Thy tresses streaming wild on ocean's reckless wind.
Art thou not glorious?—In that night of storms,When He, in Power's supremacy elate,Gaul's fierce Usurper! fulminating fate,The Goth's barbaric tyranny restored,And science, art, and all life's fairer forms,Sunk to the dark dominion of the sword:Didst thou not, champion of insulted man!Confront this stern Destroyer in his pride?Didst thou not crush him in the battle shock,While recent victory shouted in his van,And shrunk the nations, shadow'd by his stride?Yea, chain him howling to yon desert rock,Where, thronging ghastly from uncounted graves,His victims murmur 'midst the groans of waves,And mock his soul's despair, his deep blaspheming ban!
Nor erst, in Liberty's avenging day,When, launching lightnings in her wrath divine,She rose, and gave to never-dying fame,Platæ, Marathon, Thermopylæ,Did each, did all, sublimer laurels twineRound Græcia's conquering brows, than Waterloo on thine!
Then, wherefore, Albion! terror-struck, subdued,Sitt'st thou, thy state foregone, thy banner furl'd?What dire infliction shakes that fortitude,Which propt the falling fortunes of the world?—Hush! hark! portentous, like a withering spellFrom lips unblest—strange sounds mine ear appal;Now the dread omens more distinctly swell—That thrilling shriek from Claremont's royal hall,The death-note peal'd from yon terrific bell,The deepening gale with lamentation swoln—These, Albion! these, too eloquently tell,That from her radiant sphere, thy brightest star has fall'n!
And art thou gone?—graced vision of an hour!Daughter of Monarchs! gem of England's crown!Thou loveliest lily! fair imperial flower!In beauty's vernal bloom to dust gone down;Gone when, dispers'd each inauspicious cloud,In blissful sunshine 'gan thy hopes to glow:From pain's fierce grasp, no refuge but the shroud,Destin'd a Mother's pangs, but not her joys, to know.
Lost excellence! what harp shall hymn thy worth,Nor wrong the theme? conspicuously in thee,Beyond the blind pre-eminence of birth,Shone Nature in her own regality!Coerced, thy Spirit smiled, sedate in pride,Fixt as the pine, while circling storms contend;But, when in Life's serener duties tried,How sweetly did its gentle essence blend,All-beauteous in the wife, the daughter, and thefriend!
Not lull'd in langours, indolent and weak,Nor winged by pleasure, fled thy early hours;But ceaseless vigils blanch'd thy virgin cheek,In silent Study's dim-sequester'd bowers:Propitious there, to thy admiring mind,With brow unveil'd, consenting Science came;There Taste awoke her sympathies refined;There Genius, kindling his etherial flame,Led thy young soul the Muse's heights to dare,And mount on Milton's wing, and breathe empyreal air!
But chiefly, conscious of thy promised throne,Intent to grace that destiny sublime;Thou sought'st to make the historic page thine own,And win the treasures of recorded time;The forms of polity, the springs of power,Exploring still with inexhausted zeal;Still, the pole-star which led thy studious hourThrough Thought's unfolding tracts—thy Country's weal!While Fancy, radiant with unearthly charms,Thus breathed the whisper Wisdom sanctified:"Eliza's, Anna's glories, arts, or arms,Beneath thy sway shall blaze revivified,And still prolonged, and still augmenting, shineInterminably bright in thy illustrious line!"
'Tis past—thy name, with every charm it bore,Melts on our souls, like music heard no more,The dying minstrel's last ecstatic strain,Which mortal hand shall never wake again—But, if, blest spirit! in thy shrine of light,Life's visions rise to thy celestial sight;If that bright sphere where raptured seraphs glow,Permit communion with this world of woe;And sore, if thus our fond affections deem,Hope mocks us not, for Heaven inspires the dream—Benignant shade! the beatific kissThat seal'd thy welcome to the shores of bliss,No holier joy instill'd, than then wilt feelIf thine the task thy kindred's woes to heal;If hovering yet, with viewless ministry,In scenes which Memory consecrates to thee,Thou soothe with binding balm which grief endears,A Sire's, a Husband's, and—a Mother's tears!—
Till Pity's self expire, a Nation's sighs,Spontaneous incense! o'er thy tomb shall rise:And, 'midst the dark vicissitudes that waitEarth's balanced empires in the scales of Fate,Be thou OUR angel-advocate the while,And gleam, a guardian saint, around thy native isle!
Sung by Mr. PYNE.—Composed by Mr. ROOKE.
Come away, come away, little fly!Don't disturb the sweet calm of lore's nest;If you do, I protest you shall die,And your tomb be that beautiful breast.Don't tickle the girl in her sleep,Don't cause so much beauty to sigh;If she frown, half the graces will weep,If she weep, all the graces will die.Come away, little fly, &c.
Now she wakes! steal a kiss and be gone;Life is precious: away, little fly!Should your rudeness provoke her to scorn,You'll meet death from the glance of her eye.Were I ask'd by fair Chloe to sayHow I felt, as the flutterer I chid;I should own, as I drove it away,I wish'd to be there in its stead!Come away, little fly, &c.
Address, written for a Benefit, at a Provincial Theatre, for theWounded Survivors, Families, and Relatives, of the Heroes ofWaterloo.
Once more Britannia sheathes her conqu'ring sword,And Peace returns, by Victory restored;Peace, that erewhile estranged, 'midst long alarms,Scarce welcomed home, was ravish'd from our arms;What time, fierce bounding from his broken chain,Gaul's banish'd Despot re-aspired to reign;Whilst at his call, prompt minions of his breath,Round his dire throne rush'd Havoc, Spoil, and Death;With wonted pomp his baleful ensign blazed,And Europe shrunk, and shudder'd as she gazed.Insulted Liberty her tocsin rung;Again Britannia to the combat sprung:Star of the Nations! her auspicious formLed on their march, and foremost braved the storm.
Pent-in its clouds, ere yet the tempest flash'd,Ere peal on peal the mingling thunder crash'd;While Fate hung dubious o'er the marshall'd powers,What anxious fears, what trembling hopes, were ours!For never yet from Gallia's confines cameWar's fell eruption with so fierce a flame:She sent a Chief, matur'd in martial strife,Who fought for fame, for empire, and for life;Whose Host had sworn, deep-stung with recent shame,To satiate vengeance, and retrieve their fame!Each furious impulse, each hot throb, was there,That spurs Ambition, or inflames Despair.Then Britain fix'd on her Unconquer'd Son,Her eye, her hope—immortal WELLINGTON!He, skill'd to crash, with one collective blowSustain'd sedate the fierce assaulting foe.How stood his squadrons like the steadfast rock,Frowning on Ocean's ineffectual shock!Till forward summon'd to the fierce attack,They give to Gaul his furious onset back;Swift on its prey each fiery legion springs,As when Heaven's ire the vollied lightning wings!Then Gallia's blood in expiation stream'd,Then trembling Europe saw her fate redeem'd;And England, radiant in her triumph past,Beheld them all transcended in the last:Yes, raptured Britons blest the gale that blewThe tidings home—the tale of Waterloo!But, oh! while joy tumultuous hail'd the day,Cold on the plain what gallant victims lay!Deaf to the triumph of their sacred cause,Deaf to their country's shout, the world's applause!
Rear high the column, bid the marble breathe,Pour soft the verse, and twine the laureate wreath;From year to year let musing Memory shedHer tenderest tears, to grace the glorious dead.'Tis ours with grateful ardour to sustainThe wounded veteran on his bed of pain;To soothe the widow, sunk in anguish deep,Whose orphan weeps to see its mother weep.
Oh! when, outstretch'd on that triumphant field,The prostrate Warrior felt his labours seal'd;Felt, 'midst the shout of Victory pealing round,Life's eddying stream fast welling from his wound;Perchance Affection bade her visions rise—Wife, children, floated o'er his closing eyes:For them alone he heaved the bitter sigh;Yet for his country glorying thus to die!To her bequeath'd them with his parting breath,And sunk serene in unregretted death.—
To no cold ear was that appeal prefer'd;With glowing bosom grateful England heard;With liberal hand she pours the prompt relief,Soothes the sick head, and wipes the tear of grief.
Our humble efforts consecrate, to-night,To this great cause, our small but willing mite.Bright are the wreaths the warrior's urn which grace,And bless'd the bounty that protects his race!Thus warm'd, thus waken'd, with congenial fire,Each hero's son shall emulate his sire;From age to age prolong the glorious line,And guard their country with a shield divine!
Can it be true, so fragrant and so fair,To give thy perfumes to the dews of night?Can aught so beautiful, despise the glare,And fade, and sicken in the morning light?
Yes! peerless flower, the Heavens alone exhaleThy fragrance, while the glittering stars attest,And incense wafted by the midnight gale,Untainted rises from thy spotless breast.
How like that Faith whose nature is apartFrom human gaze, to love and work unseen,Which gives to God an undivided heart,In sorrow steadfast, and in joy serene;That night-flower of the soul, whose fragrant powerBreathes on the darkness of the closing hour!
1827;
Ye Bards in all your thousand dens,Great souls with fewer pence than pens,Sublime adorers of Apollo,With folios full, and purses hollow;Whose very souls with rapture glisten,When you can find a fool to listen;Who, if a debt were paid by pun,Would never be completelydone.Ye bright inhabitants of garrets,Whose dreams are rich in ports and clarets,Who, in your lofty paradise,See aldermanic banquets rise—And though the duns around you troop,Still float in seas of turtle soup.I here forsake the tuneful trade,Where none but lordlings now are paid,Or where some northern rogue sits puling,(The curse of universal schooling)—A ploughman to his country lost,An author to his printer's cost—A slave to every man who'll buy him,A knave to every man who'll try him—Yet let him take the pen, at onceThe laurel gathers round his sconce!
On every subject superseded,My favorite topics all invaded,I scarcely dip my pen in praise,When fifty bardlings grasp my bays;Or let me touch a drop of satire,(I once knew something of the matter),Just fifty bardlings take the trouble,To be my tuneful worship's double.Fine similies that nothing fit,Joe Miller's, thatmustpass for wit;The dull, dry, brain-besieging jokes,The humour that no laugh provokes—The nameless, worthless, witless rancours,The rage that souls of scribblers cankers—(Administer'd in gall go thick,It makes even Sunday critic's sick!)Disgust my passion, fill my place,And snatch my prize before my face.
If then I take the "brilliant" pen.And "scorning measures" talk of men—There Luttrel steps 'twixt me and fame—So like, egad, we're just the same;I never half squeeze out a thought,But jumps its fellow on the spot—My tenderest dreams, my fondest touch,Are victims to his ready clutch;The whirling waltz, the gay costume,The porcelain tooth, the gallic bloom;The vapid smiles, the lisping lovesOf turtles (never meant for doves)—The dreary stuff that fills the ears,Whereallthe orators are peers—The hides reveal'd through ball-room dresses,Where all the parties are peer-esses;The dulness of thetoujours gai,The yawning night, the sleepy day,The visages of cheese and chalk,The drowsy, dreamy, languid talk;The fifty other horrid things,That strip old Time of both his wings!There's not a topic of them allBut comes, hey presto! athiscall.
Or when I turn my pen to love,A theme that fits me like my glove,A pang I've borne these twenty yearsWith ten-times twenty several dears,Each glance a dart, each smile a quiver,Stinging their bard from lungs to liver—To work my ruin, or my cure,Up starts thy pen, Anacreon Moore!In vain I pour my shower of roses,On which the matchless fair one dozes,And plant around her conch the graces,While jealous Venus breaks her laces,To see a younger face promoted,To see her own old face out-voted;And myrtle branches twisting o'er her,Bow down, each turn'd a true adorer.Up starts the Irish Bard—in vainI write, 'tis all against the grain:In vain I talk of smiles or sighs,The girls all have him in their eyes;And not a soul—mamma, or miss—But vows he's the sole Bard of Bliss!
Since first I dipp'd in the romantic,A hundred thousand have run frantic—There's not a hideous highland spot,(Long fallowed to the core by Scott)—No rill, through rack and thistle dribbling,But has its deadlier crop of scribbling.Each fen, and flat, and flood, and fell,Gives birth to verses by the ell—There Wordsworth, for his muse's sallies,Claims all the ponds, the lanes, and alleys—There Coleridge swears none else shall tuneA bag-pipe to the list'ning moon;On come in clouds the scribbling columns,Each prowling for his next three volumes.I scorn the rascal tribe, and spurn allThe yearly, monthly, and diurnal.
I write the finest things that everMade duchess fond, or marquiss clever—(Although I'd rather half turn Turk,The thing's such monstrous up-hill work).Myton'sthe very cream of fashion,My passion the sublimest passion,My ragesatanic, love the same,Of all blue flames, the bluest flame—My piety perpetual matins,A quaker propp'd on double pattens;My lovely girls the most precocious,My beaus delightfully atrocious!Yet scarcely have I play'd my card,When up comes politician Ward,Before my face he trumps my trump,Sweeps off my honours in the lump,And never asking my permission,Talks sermons to the third edition.
Or Boulogne, Highway Byeway, Grattan,(The Pyrenees begin to flatten,A feast denied to storm and shower,The pen's the wonder-working power);Or Smith, the master of "Addresses,"Carves history out in modern messes:—Tells how gay Charles cook'd up his collops,How fleeced his friends, how paid his trollops—How pledged his soul, and pawn'd his oath,'Till none would give a straw for both;And touching paupers for the Evil,Touch'd England half way to the devilOr Hook, picks up my favorite hits,For when was friendship between wits?Or Lyster, doubly dandyfied,Fidgets his donkey by my side;Or Bulwer rambles back from Greece,Woolgathering from the Golden fleece—Or forty volumes, piping hot,Come blazing from volcano Scott;When pens like their's play all my game.The tasteless world must bear the blame.
I had a budget, full of fan,But here again, I'm lost, undone!I'm so forestall'd—that faith, I couldHalf quarrel with—mylively Hood:Forodd it is, my "Oddities,"Areevenall the same with his;WouldSherwood(him of Paternoster),Assist my pilferings to foster,I'd turn free-booter—nay, I wouldE'en play the part ofrobbing Hood—But brother Wits should never quarrel,Nor try to "pluck each other's laurel,"And tho' my income's scarce enoughTo find friend Petersham with snuff,Here's peace to all! and kind regards!AndBrother Hoodamong the Bards.
So all, friends, countrymen, and lovers,With one, or one and twenty covers,Farewell to all;—my glories past,I pen my lay, my sweetest, last!Another Phoenix, build my nestOf spices, Phoebus' very best,Concentrating in these gay pages,Wit, worth the wit of all the stages;Love, tender as the midnight talk,In softest summer's midnight walk,With leave to all earth's fools to spurn 'em,Nay (if they first willbuy) to burn 'em.
Oh! ye, enthroned in presidential awe,To give the song-smit generation law;Who wield Apollo's delegated rod,And shake Parnassus with your sovereign nod;A pensive Pilgrim, worn with base turmoils,Plebeian cares, and mercenary toils,Implores your pity, while with footsteps rude,He dares within the mountain's pale intrude;For, oh! enchantment through its empire dwells.And rules the spirit with Lethëan spells;By hands unseen aërial harps are hung,And Spring, like Hebe, ever fair and young,On her broad bosom rears the laughing Loves,And breathes bland incense through the warbling groves;Spontaneous, bids unfading blossoms blow,And nectar'd streams mellifluously flow.
There, while the Muses wanton unconfined,And wreaths resplendent round their temples bind,'Tis yours to strew their steps with votive flowers;To watch them slumbering 'midst the blissful bowers;To guard the shades that hide their sacred charms;And shield their beauties from unhallow'd arms!Oh! may their suppliant steal a passing kiss?Alas! he pants not for superior bliss;Thrice-bless'd his virgin modesty shall beTo snatch an evanescent ecstacy!The fierce extremes of superhuman love,For his frail sense too exquisite might prove;He turns, all blushing, from th' Aönian shade,To humbler raptures with a mortal maid.
I know 'tis yours, when unscholastic wightsUnloose their fancies in presumptuous flights,Awaked to vengeance, on such flights to frown,Clip the wing'd horse, and roll his rider down.But, if empower'd to strike th' immortal lyre,The ardent vot'ry glows with genuine fire,'Tis yours, while care recoils, and envy flies,Subdued by his resistless energies,'Tis yours to bid Piërian fountains flow,And toast his name in Wit's seraglio;To bind his brows with amaranthine bays,And bless, with beef and beer, his mundane days!Alas! nor beef, nor beer, nor bays, are mine,If by your looks my doom I may divine,Ye frown so dreadful, and ye swell so big,Your fateful arms, the goose-quill, and the wig:The wig, with wisdom's somb'rous seal impress'd,Mysterious terrors, grim portents, invest;And shame and honour on the goose-quill perch,Like doves and ravens on a country church.
As some raw 'Squire, by rustic nymphs admired,Of vulgar charms, and easy conquests tired,Resolves new scenes and nobler flights to dare,Nor "waste his sweetness in the desert air,"To town repairs, some famed assembly seeks,With red importance blust'ring in his cheeks;But when, electric on th' astonish'd wightBurst the full floods of music and of light,While levell'd mirrors multiply the rowsOf radiant beauties, and accomplish'd beaus,At once confounded into sober sense,He feels his pristine insignificance:And blinking, blund'ring, from the generalquizRetreats, "to ponder on the thing he is."By pride inflated, and by praise allured,Small Authors thus strut forth, and thus get cured;But, Critics, hear I an angel pleads forme,That tongueless, ten-tongued cherub,Modesty.
Sirs! if you damn me, you'll resemble thoseThat flay'd the Traveller who had lost his clothes;Are there not foes enough todomy books?Relentless trunk-makers and pastry-cooks?Acknowledge not those barbarous allies,The wooden box-men, and the men of pies:For Heav'n's sake, let it ne'er be understoodThat you, great Censors! coalesce withwood;Nor let your actions contradict your looks,That tell the world you ne'er colleague withcooks.
But, if the blithe Muse will indulge a smile,Why scowls thy brow, O Bookseller! the while?Thy sunk eyes glisten through eclipsing fears,Fill'd, like Cassandra's, with prophetic tears:With such a visage, withering, woe-begone,Shrinks the pale poet from the damning dun.Come, let us teach each other's tears to flow,Like fasting bards, in fellowship of woe,When the coy Muse puts on coquettish airs,Nor deigns one line to their voracious prayers!Thy spirit, groaning like th' encumber'd blockWhich bears my works, deplores them asdead stock.Doom'd by these undiscriminating timesTo endless sleep, with Delia Cruscan rhymes;Yes, Critics whisper thee, litigious wretches!Oblivion's hand shallfinishall mysketches.But see,mysoul, such bug-bears has repell'dWith magnanimity unparallel'd!Take up the volume, every care dismiss,And smile, gruff Gorgon! while I tell thee this:Not one shall lie neglected on the shelf,All shall be sold—I'll buy them in myself!