There's something strange, I know not what,Come o'er me,Some phantom I've for ever gotBefore me.I look on high and in the sky'Tis shining;On earth, its light with all things brightSeems twining.In vain I try this goblin's spellsTo sever;Go where I will, it round me dwellsFor ever.
And then what tricks by day and nightIt plays me;In every shape the wicked spriteWaylays me.Sometimes like two bright eyes of blue'Tis glancing;Sometimes like feet, in slippers neat,Comes dancing.By whispers round of every sortI'm taunted.Never was mortal man, in short,So haunted.
Not from thee the wound should come,No, not from thee.Care not what or whence my doom,So not from thee!Cold triumph! first to makeThis heart thy own;And then the mirror breakWhere fixt thou shin'st alone.Not from thee the wound should come,Oh, not from thee.I care not what, or whence, my doom,So not from thee.
Yet no—my lips that wish recall;From thee, from thee—If ruin o'er this head must fall,'Twill welcome be.Here to the blade I bareThis faithful heart;Wound deep—thou'lt find that there,In every pulse thou art.Yes from thee I'll bear it all:If ruin beThe doom that o'er this heart must fall,'Twere sweet from thee.
I love a maid, a mystic maid,Whose form no eyes but mine can see;She comes in light, she comes in shade,And beautiful in both is she.Her shape in dreams I oft behold,And oft she whispers in my earSuch words as when to others told,Awake the sigh, or wring the tear;Then guess, guess, who she,The lady of my love, may be.
I find the lustre of her brow,Come o'er me in my darkest ways;And feel as if her voice, even now,Were echoing far off my lays.There is no scene of joy or woeBut she doth gild with influence bright;And shed o'er all so rich a glowAs makes even tears seem full of light:Then guess, guess, who she,The lady of my love, may be.
When Love, who ruled as Admiral o'erHas rosy mother's isles of light,Was cruising off the Paphian shore,A sail at sunset hove in sight."A chase, a chase! my Cupids all,"Said Love, the little Admiral.
Aloft the winged sailors sprung,And, swarming up the mast like bees,The snow-white sails expanding flung,Like broad magnolias to the breeze."Yo ho, yo ho, my Cupids all!"Said Love, the little Admiral.
The chase was o'er—the bark was caught,The winged crew her freight explored;And found 'twas just as Love had thought,For all was contraband aboard."A prize, a prize, my Cupids all!"Said Love, the little Admiral.
Safe stowed in many a package there,And labelled slyly o'er, as "Glass,"Were lots of all the illegal ware,Love's Custom-House forbids to pass."O'erhaul, o'erhaul, my Cupids all,"Said Love, the little Admiral.
False curls they found, of every hue,With rosy blushes ready made;And teeth of ivory, good as new,For veterans in the smiling trade."Ho ho, ho ho, my Cupids all,"Said Love, the little Admiral.
Mock sighs, too,—kept in bags for use,Like breezes bought of Lapland seers,—Lay ready here to be let loose,When wanted, in young spinsters' ears."Ha ha, ha ha, my Cupids all,"Said Love, the little Admiral.
False papers next on board were found,Sham invoices of flames and darts,Professedly for Paphos bound,But meant for Hymen's golden marts."For shame, for shame, my Cupids all!"Said Love, the little Admiral.
Nay, still to every fraud awake,Those pirates all Love's signals knew,And hoisted oft his flag, to makeRich wards and heiressesbring-to.[1]"A foe, a foe, my Cupids all!"Said Love, the little Admiral.
"This must not be," the boy exclaims,"In vain I rule the Paphian seas,"If Love's and Beauty's sovereign names"Are lent to cover frauds like these."Prepare, prepare, my Cupids all!"Said Love, the little Admiral.
Each Cupid stood with lighted match—A broadside struck the smuggling foe,And swept the whole unhallowed batchOf Falsehood to the depths below."Huzza, huzza! my Cupids all!"Said Love the little Admiral.
[1] "To Bring-to, to check the course of a ship."—Falconer.
Still thou fliest, and still I woo thee,Lovely phantom,—all in vain;Restless ever, my thoughts pursue thee,Fleeting ever, thou mock'st their pain.Such doom, of old, that youth betided,Who wooed, he thought, some angel's charms,But found a cloud that from him glided,—As thou dost from these outstretched arms.
Scarce I've said, "How fair thou shinest,"Ere thy light hath vanished by;And 'tis when thou look'st divinestThou art still most sure to fly.Even as the lightning, that, dividingThe clouds of night, saith, "Look on me,"Then flits again, its splendor hiding.—Even such the glimpse I catch of thee.
Then first from Love, in Nature's bowers,Did Painting learn her fairy skill,And cull the hues of loveliest flowers,To picture woman lovelier still.For vain was every radiant hue,Till Passion lent a soul to art,And taught the painter, ere he drew,To fix the model in his heart.
Thus smooth his toil awhile went on,Till, lo, one touch his art defies;The brow, the lip, the blushes shone,But who could dare to paint those eyes?'Twas all in vain the painter strove;So turning to that boy divine,"Here take," he said, "the pencil, Love,"No hand should paint such eyes but thine."
Hush, sweet Lute, thy songs remind meOf past joys, now turned to pain;Of ties that long have ceased to bind me,But whose burning marks remain.In each tone, some echo fallethOn my ear of joys gone by;Every note some dream recallethOf bright hopes but born to die.
Yet, sweet Lute, though pain it bring me,Once more let thy numbers thrill;Tho' death were in the strain they sing me,I must woo its anguish still.Since no time can e'er recoverLove's sweet light when once 'tis set,—Better to weep such pleasures over,Than smile o'er any left us yet.
Bright moon, that high in heaven art shining,All smiles, as if within thy bower to-nightThy own Endymion lay reclining,And thou wouldst wake him with a kiss of light!—By all the bliss thy beam discovers,By all those visions far too bright for day,Which dreaming bards and waking loversBehold, this night, beneath thy lingering ray,—
I pray thee, queen of that bright heaven,Quench not to-night thy love-lamp in the sea,Till Anthe, in this bower, hath givenBeneath thy beam, her long-vowed kiss to me.Guide hither, guide her steps benighted,Ere thou, sweet moon, thy bashful crescent hide;Let Love but in this bower be lighted,Then shroud in darkness all the world beside.
Long years have past, old friend, since weFirst met in life's young day;And friends long loved by thee and me,Since then have dropt away;—But enough remain to cheer us on,And sweeten, when thus we're met,The glass we fill to the many gone,And the few who're left us yet.Our locks, old friend, now thinly grow,And some hang white and chill;While some, like flowers mid Autumn's snow,Retain youth's color still.And so, in our hearts, tho' one by one,Youth's sunny hopes have set,Thank heaven, not all their light is gone,—We've some to cheer us yet.
Then here's to thee, old friend, and longMay thou and I thus meet,To brighten still with wine and songThis short life, ere it fleet.And still as death comes stealing on,Let's never, old friend, forget,Even while we sigh o'er blessings gone,How many are left us yet.
Dreaming for ever, vainly dreaming,Life to the last, pursues its flight;Day hath its visions fairly beaming,But false as those of night.The one illusion, the other real,But both the same brief dreams at last;And when we grasp the bliss ideal,Soon as it shines, 'tis past.
Here, then, by this dim lake reposing,Calmly I'll watch, while light and gloomFlit o'er its face till night is closing—Emblem of life's short doom!But tho', by turns, thus dark and shining,'Tis still unlike man's changeful day,Whose light returns not, once declining,Whose cloud, once come, will stay.
Tho' lightly sounds the song I sing to thee,Tho' like the lark's its soaring music be,Thou'lt find even here some mournful note that tellsHow near such April joy to weeping dwells.'Tis 'mong the gayest scenes that oftenest stealThose saddening thoughts we fear, yet love to feel;And music never half so sweet appears,As when her mirth forgets itself in tears.
Then say not thou this Alpine song is gay—It comes from hearts that, like their mountain-lay,Mix joy with pain, and oft when pleasure's breathMost warms the surface feel most sad beneath.The very beam in which the snow-wreath wearsIts gayest smile is that which wins its tears,—And passion's power can never lend the glowWhich wakens bliss, without some touch of woe.
Fleetly o'er the moonlight snowsSpeed we to my lady's bower;Swift our sledge as lightning goes,Nor shall stop till morning's hour.Bright, my steed, the northern starLights us from yon jewelled skies;But to greet us, brighter far,Morn shall bring my lady's eyes.Lovers, lulled in sunny bowers,Sleeping out their dream of time,Know not half the bliss that's ours,In this snowy, icy clime.Like yon star that livelier gleamsFrom the frosty heavens around,Love himself the keener beamsWhen with snows of coyness crowned.Fleet then on, my merry steed,Bound, my sledge, o'er hill and dale;—What can match a lover's speed?See, 'tis daylight, breaking pale!Brightly hath the northern starLit us from yon radiant Skies;But, behold, how brighter farYonder shine my lady's eyes!
1811.
The song that lightens the languid way,When brows are glowing,And faint with rowing,Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay,To whose sound thro' life we stray;The beams that flash on the oar awhile,As we row along thro' the waves so clear,Illume its spray, like the fleeting smileThat shines o'er sorrow's tear.
Nothing is lost on him who seesWith an eye that feeling gave;—For him there's a story in every breeze,And a picture in every wave.Then sing to lighten the languid way;When brows are glowing,And faint with rowing,'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay,To whose sound thro' life we stray.
* * * * *
'Tis sweet to behold when the billows are sleeping,Some gay-colored bark moving gracefully by;No damp on her deck but the eventide's weeping,No breath in her sails but the summer wind's sigh.Yet who would not turn with a fonder emotion,To gaze on the life-boat, tho' rugged and worn.Which often hath wafted o'er hills of the oceanThe lost light of hope to the seaman forlorn!
Oh! grant that of those who in life's sunny slumberAround us like summer-barks idly have played,When storms are abroad we may find in the numberOne friend, like the life-boat, to fly to our aid.
* * * * *
When Lelia touched the lute,Notthenalone 'twas felt,But when the sounds were mute,In memory still they dwelt.Sweet lute! in nightly slumbersStill we heard thy morning numbers.
Ah, how could she who stoleSuch breath from simple wire,Be led, in pride of soul,To string with gold her lyre?Sweet lute! thy chords she breaketh;Golden now the strings she waketh!
But where are all the talesHer lute so sweetly told?In lofty themes she fails,And soft ones suit not gold.Rich lute! we see thee glisten,But, alas! no more we listen!
* * * * *
Young Love lived once in a humble shed,Where roses breathingAnd woodbines wreathingAround the lattice their tendrils spread,As wild and sweet as the life he led.His garden flourisht,For young Hope nourisht.The infant buds with beams and showers;But lips, tho' blooming, must still be fed,And not even Love can live on flowers.
Alas! that Poverty's evil eyeShould e'er come hither,Such sweets to wither!The flowers laid down their heads to die,And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh.She came one morning.Ere Love had warning,And raised the latch, where the young god lay;"Oh ho!" said Love—"is it you? good-by;"So he oped the window and flew away!
* * * * *
Spirit of Joy, thy altar liesIn youthful hearts that hope like mine;And 'tis the light of laughing eyesThat leads us to thy fairy shrine.
There if we find the sigh, the tear,They are not those to sorrow known;But breathe so soft, and drop so clear,That bliss may claim them for her own.Then give me, give me, while I weep,The sanguine hope that brightens woe,And teaches even our tears to keepThe tinge of pleasure as they flow.
The child who sees the dew of nightUpon the spangled hedge at morn,Attempts to catch the drops of light,But wounds his finger with the thorn.Thus oft the brightest joys we seek,Are lost when touched, and turned to pain;The flush they kindle leaves the cheek,The tears they waken long remain.But give me, give me, etc.
* * * * *
To sigh, yet feel no pain.To weep, yet scarce know why;To sport an hour with Beauty's chain,Then throw it idly by;To kneel at many a shrine,Yet lay the heart on none;To think all other charms divine,But those we just have won;This is love, careless love,Such as kindleth hearts that rove.
To keep one sacred flame,Thro' life unchilled, unmoved,To love in wintry age the sameAs first in youth we loved;To feel that we adoreTo such refined excess.That tho' the heart would break withmore,We could not live withless;This is love, faithful love,Such as saints might feel above.
* * * * *
Dear aunt, in the olden time of love,When women like slaves were spurned,A maid gave her heart, as she would her glove,To be teased by a fop, and returned!But women grow wiser as men improve.And, tho' beaux, like monkeys, amuse us,Oh! think not we'd give such a delicate gemAs the heart to be played with or sullied by them;No, dearest aunt, excuse us.
We may know by the head on Cupid's sealWhat impression the heart will take;If shallow the head, oh! soon we feelWhat a poor impression 'twill make!Tho' plagued, Heaven knows! by the foolish zealOf the fondling fop who pursues me,Oh, think not I'd follow their desperate rule,Who get rid of the folly by wedding the fool;No, dearest aunt! excuse me.
* * * * *
When Charles was deceived by the maid he loved,We saw no cloud his brow o'er-casting,But proudly he smiled as if gay and unmoved,Tho' the wound in his heart was deep and lasting.And oft at night when the tempest rolledHe sung as he paced the dark deck over—"Blow, wind, blow! thou art not so coldAs the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."
Yet he lived with the happy and seemed to be gay,Tho' the wound but sunk more deep for concealing;And Fortune threw many a thorn in his way,Which, true to one anguish, he trod without feeling!And still by the frowning of Fate unsubduedHe sung as if sorrow had placed him above her—"Frown, Fate, frown! thou art not so rudeAs the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."
At length his career found a close in death,The close he long wished to his cheerless roving,For Victory shone on his latest breath,And he died in a cause of his heart's approving.But still he remembered his sorrow,—and stillHe sung till the vision of life was over—"Come, death, come! thou art not so chillAs the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."
* * * * *
When life looks lone and dreary,What light can dispel the gloom?When Time's swift wing grows weary,What charm can refresh his plume?'Tis woman whose sweetness beamethO'er all that we feel or see;And if man of heaven e'er dreameth,'Tis when he thinks purely of thee,O woman!
Let conquerors fight for glory,Too dearly the meed they gain;Let patriots live in story—Too often they die in vain;Give kingdoms to those who choose 'em,This world can offer to meNo throne like Beauty's bosom,No freedom like serving thee,O woman!
A lottery, a Lottery,In Cupid's court there used to be;Two roguish eyesThe highest prizeIn Cupid's scheming Lottery;And kisses, too,As good as new,Which weren't very hard to win,For he who wonThe eyes of funWas sure to have the kisses inA Lottery, a Lottery, etc.
This Lottery, this Lottery,In Cupid's court went merrily,And Cupid playedA Jewish tradeIn this his scheming Lottery;For hearts, we're told,Inshareshe soldTo many a fond believing drone,And cut the heartsIn sixteen partsSo well, each thought the whole his own.Chor.—A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.
* * * * *
Tho' sacred the tie that our country entwineth,And dear to the heart her remembrance remains,Yet dark are the ties where no liberty shineth,And sad the remembrance that slavery stains.O thou who wert born in the cot of the peasant,But diest in languor in luxury's dome,Our vision when absent—our glory, when present—Where thou art, O Liberty! there is my home.
Farewell to the land where in childhood I've wandered!In vain is she mighty, in vain, is she brave!Unblest is the blood that for tyrants is squandered,And fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave.But hail to thee, Albion! who meet'st the commotion.Of Europe as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam!With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the ocean,Hail, Temple of Liberty! thou art my home.
* * * * *
Oh think, when a hero is sighing,What danger in such an adorer!What woman can dream' of denyingThe hand that lays laurels before her?No heart is so guarded around,But the smile of the victor will take it;No bosom can slumber so sound,But the trumpet of glory will wake it.
Love sometimes is given to sleeping,And woe to the heart that allows him;For oh, neither smiling nor weepingHas power at those moments to rouse him.But tho' he was sleeping so fast,That the life almost seemed to forsake him,Believe me, one soul-thrilling blastFrom the trumpet of glory would wake him.
* * * * *
Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice,The one squeaking thus, and the other down so!In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice,For one was B alt, and the rest G below.Oh! oh, Orator Puff!One voice for one orator's surely enough.
But he still talked away spite of coughs and of frowns,So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs,That a wag once on hearing the orator say,"My voice is for war," asked him, "Which of them, pray?"Oh! oh! etc.
Reeling homewards one evening, top-heavy with gin,And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown,He tript near a sawpit, and tumbled right in,"Sinking Fund," the last words as his noddle came down.Oh! oh, etc.
"Help! help!" he exclaimed, in his he and she tones,"Help me out! help me out—I have broken my bones!""Help you out?" said a Paddy who passed, "what a bother!Why, there's two of you there, can't you help one another?"Oh I oh! etc.
(Entering as if to announce the Play.)
Ladies and Gentlemen, on Monday night,For the ninth time—oh accents of delightTo the poor author's ear, whenthree times threeWith a full bumper crowns, his Comedy!When, long by money, and the muse, forsaken,He finds at length his jokes and boxes taken,And sees his play-bill circulate—alas,The only bill on which his name will pass!Thus, Vapid, thus shall Thespian scrolls of fameThro' box and gallery waft your well-known name,While critic eyes the happy cast shall con,And learned ladies spell yourDram. Person.
'Tis said our worthy Manager[1]intendsTo help my night, andhe, ye know, has friends.Friends, did I say? for fixing friends, orparts,Engaging actors, or engaging hearts,There's nothing like him! wits, at his request.Are turned to fools, and dull dogs learn to jest;Soldiers, for him, good "trembling cowards" make,And beaus, turned clowns, look ugly for his sake;For him even lawyers talk without a fee,For him (oh friendship)Iact tragedy!In short, like Orpheus, his persuasive tricksMakeboarsamusing, and put life insticks.
Withsucha manager we can't but please,Tho' London sent us all her loud O. P.'s,[2]Let them come on, like snakes, all hiss and rattle,Armed with a thousand fans, we'd give them battle;You, on our side, R. P.[3]upon our banners,Soon should we teach the saucy O. P.'s manners:And show that, here—howe'er John Bull may doubt—In allourplays, the Riot-Act's cut out;And, while we skim the cream of many a jest,Your well-timed thunder never sours its zest.
Oh gently thus, when three short weeks are past,At Shakespeare's altar,[4] shall we breathe our last;And, ere this long-loved dome to ruin nods,Die all, die nobly, die like demigods!
[1] The late Mr. Richard Power.
[2] The brief appellation by which these persons were distinguished who, at the opening of the new theatre of Convent Garden, clamored for the continuance of the old prices of admission.
[3] The initials of our manager's name.
[4] This alludes to a scenic representation then preparing for the last night of the performances.
* * * * *
Yet, even here, tho' Fiction rules the hour,There shine some genuine smiles, beyond her power;And there are tears, too—tears that Memory shedsEven o'er the feast that mimic fancy spreads,When her heart misses one lamented guest,[1]Whose eye so long threw light o'er all the rest!There, there, indeed, the Muse forgets her task,And drooping weeps behind Thalia's mask.
Forgive this gloom—forgive this joyless strain,Too sad to welcome pleasure's smiling train.But, meeting thus, our hearts will part the lighter,As mist at dawn but makes the setting brighter;Gay Epilogue will shine where Prologue fails—As glow-worms keep their splendor for their tails.
I know not why—but time, methinks, hath pastMore fleet than usual since we parted last.It seems but like a dream of yesternight.Whose charm still hangs, with fond, delaying light;And, ere the memory lose one glowing hueOf former joy, we come to kindle new.Thus ever may the flying moments hasteWith trackless foot along life's vulgar waste,But deeply print and lingeringly move,When thus they reach the sunny spots we love.Oh yes, whatever be our gay career,Let this be still the solstice of the year,Where Pleasure's sun shall at its height remain,And slowly sink to level life again.
[1] The late Mr. John Lyster, one of the oldest members and best actors of the Kilkenny Theatrical Society.
A sylph, as bright as ever sportedHer figure thro' the fields of air,By an old swarthy Gnome was courted.And, strange to say, he won the fair.
The annals of the oldest witchA pair so sorted could not show,But how refuse?—the Gnome was rich,The Rothschild of the world below;
And Sylphs, like other pretty creatures,Are told, betimes, they must considerLove as an auctioneer of features,Who knocks them down to the best bidder.
Home she was taken to his Mine—A Palace paved with diamonds all—And, proud as Lady Gnome to shine,Sent out her tickets for a ball.
Thelowerworld of course was there,And all the best; but of theupperThe sprinkling was but shy and rare,—A few old Sylphids who loved supper.
As none yet knew the wondrous LampOf DAVY, that renowned Aladdin,And the Gnome's Halls exhaled a dampWhich accidents from fire were had in;
The chambers were supplied with lightBy many strange but safe devices;Large fire-flies, such as shine at nightAmong the Orient's flowers and spices;—
Musical flint-mills—swiftly playedBy elfin hands—that, flashing round,Like certain fire-eyed minstrel maids,Gave out at once both light and sound.
Bologna stones that drink the sun;And water from that Indian sea,Whose waves at night like wildfire run—Corked up in crystal carefully.
Glow-worms that round the tiny dishesLike little light-houses, were set up;And pretty phosphorescent fishesThat by their own gay light were eat up.
'Mong the few guests from Ether cameThat wicked Sylph whom Love we call—My Lady knew him but by name,My Lord, her husband, not at all.
Some prudent Gnomes, 'tis said, apprisedThat he was coming, and, no doubtAlarmed about his torch, advisedHe should by all means be kept out.
But others disapproved this plan,And by his flame tho' somewhat frighted,Thought Love too much a gentlemanIn such a dangerous place to light it.
However,therehe was—and dancingWith the fair Sylph, light as a feather;They looked like two fresh sunbeams glancingAt daybreak down to earth together.
And all had gone off safe and well,But for that plaguy torch whose light,Though notyetkindled—who could tellHow soon, how devilishly, itmight?
And so it chanced—which, in those darkAnd fireless halls was quite amazing;Did we not know how small a sparkCan set the torch of Love a-blazing.
Whether it came (when close entangledIn the gay waltz) from her bright eyes,Or from thelucciole, that spangledHer locks of jet—is all surmise;
But certain 'tis the ethereal girlDiddrop a spark at some odd turning,Which by the waltz's windy whirlWas fanned up into actual burning.
Oh for that Lamp's metallic gauze,That curtain of protecting wire,Which DAVY delicately drawsAround illicit, dangerous fire!—
The wall he sets 'twixt Flame and Air,(Like that which barred young Thisbe's bliss,)Thro' whose small holes this dangerous pairMay see each other but not kiss.
At first the torch looked rather bluely,—A sign, they say, that no good boded—Then quick the gas became unruly.And, crack! the ball-room all exploded.
Sylphs, gnomes, and fiddlers mixt together,With all their aunts, sons, cousins, nieces,Like butterflies in stormy weather,Were blown—legs, wings, and tails—to pieces!
While, mid these victims of the torch,The Sylph, alas, too, bore her part—Found lying with a livid scorchAs if from lightning o'er her heart!
* * * * *
"Well done"—a laughing Goblin said—Escaping from this gaseous strife—"'Tis not thefirsttime Love has made"Ablow-upin connubial life!"
After a Conversation with Lord John Russell, in which he had intimated some Idea of giving up all political Pursuits.
What!thou, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy name—Thou, born of a Russell—whose instinct to runThe accustomed career of thy sires, is the sameAs the eaglet's, to soar with his eyes on the sun!
Whose nobility comes to thee, stampt with a seal,Far, far more ennobling than monarch e'er set;With the blood of thy race, offered up for the wealOf a nation that swears by that martyrdom yet!
Shaltthoube faint-hearted and turn from the strife,From the mighty arena, where all that is grandAnd devoted and pure and adorning in life,'Tis for high-thoughted spirits like thine to command?
Oh no, never dream it—while good men despairBetween tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow,Never think for an instant thy country can spareSuch a light from her darkening horizon as thou.
With a spirit, as meek as the gentlest of thoseWho in life's sunny valley lie sheltered and warm;Yet bold and heroic as ever yet roseTo the top cliffs of Fortune and breasted her storm;
With an ardor for liberty fresh as in youthIt first kindles the bard and gives life to his lyre;Yet mellowed, even now, by that mildness of truthWhich tempers but chills not the patriot fire;
With an eloquence—not like those rills from a height,Which sparkle and foam and in vapor are o'er;But a current that works out its way into lightThro' the filtering recesses of thought and of lore.
Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade;If the stirrings of Genius, the music of fame,And the charms of thy cause have not power to persuade,Yet think how to Freedom thou'rt pledged by thy Name.
Like the boughs of that laurel by Delphi's decreeSet apart for the Fane and its service divine,So the branches that spring from the old Russell treeAre by Libertyclaimedfor the use of her Shrine.
"My birth-day"—what a different soundThat word had in my youthful ears!And how, each time the day comes round,Less and less white its mark appears!
"When first our scanty years are told,It seems like pastime to grow old;And as Youth counts the shining linksThat Time around him binds so fast,Pleased with the task, he little thinksHow hard that chain will press at last.Vain was the man, and false as vain,Who said—"were he ordained to run"His long career of life again,"He would do all that hehaddone."—Ah, 'tis not thus the voice that dwellsIn sober birth-days speaks to me;Far otherwise—of time it tells,Lavished unwisely, carelessly:Of counsel mockt; of talents madeHaply for high and pure designs,But oft, like Israel's incense, laidUpon unholy, earthly shrines;Of nursing many a wrong desire,Of wandering after Love too far,And taking every meteor fireThat crost my pathway, for his star.—All this it tells, and, could I traceThe imperfect picture o'er again.With power to add, retouch, effaceThe lights and shades, the joy and pain,How little of the past would stay!How quickly all should melt away—All—but that Freedom of the MindWhich hath been more than wealth to me;Those friendships, in my boyhood twined,And kept till now unchangingly,And that dear home, that saving ark,Where Love's true light at last I've found,Cheering within, when all grows darkAnd comfortless and stormy round!
The more I've viewed this world, the more I've found,That filled as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare,Fancy commands within her own bright roundA world of scenes and creatures far more fair.Nor is it that her power can call up thereA single charm, that's not from Nature won,—No more than rainbows in their pride can wearA single tint unborrowed from the sun;But 'tis the mental medium; it shines thro',That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue;As the same light that o'er the level lakeOne dull monotony of lustre flings,Will, entering in the rounded raindrop, makeColors as gay as those on angels' wings!
Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,Fanny dearest, for thee I'd sigh;And every smile on my cheek should turnTo tears when thou art nigh.But between love and wine and sleep,So busy a life I live,That even the time it would take to weepIs more than my heart can give.Then wish me not to despair and pine,Fanny, dearest of all the dears!The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine,Would be sure to take cold in tears.
Reflected bright in this heart of mine,Fanny dearest, thy image lies;But ah! the mirror would cease to shine,If dimmed too often with sighs.They lose the half of beauty's light,Who view it thro' sorrow's tear;And 'tis but to see thee truly brightThat I keep my eye-beams clear.Then wait no longer till tears shall flow—
Fanny, dearest! the hope is vain;If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,I shall never attempt it with rain.
dicebas quondam, etc.
Thou told'st me, in our days of love,That I had all that heart of thine;That, even to share the couch of Jove,Thou wouldst not, Lesbia, part from mine.
How purely wert thou worshipt then!Not with the vague and vulgar firesWhich Beauty wakes in soulless men,—But loved, as children by their sires.
That flattering dream, alas, is o'er;—I know thee now—and tho' these eyesDoat on thee wildly as before,Yet, even in doating, I despise.
Yes, sorceress—mad as it may seem—With all thy craft, such spells adorn thee,That passion even outlives esteem.And I at once adore—and scorn thee.
pauca nunciate meae puellae.
Comrades and friends! with whom, where'erThe fates have willed thro' life I've roved,Now speed ye home, and with you bearThese bitter words to her I've loved.
Tell her from fool to fool to run,Where'er her vain caprice may call;Of all her dupes not loving one,But ruining and maddening all.
Bid her forget—what now is past—Our once dear love, whose rain liesLike a fair flower, the meadow's last.Which feels the ploughshare's edge and dies!
peninsularum Sirmio, insularumque ocelle.
Sweet Sirmio! thou, the very eyeOf all peninsulas and isles,That in our lakes of silver lie,Or sleep enwreathed by Neptune's smiles—
How gladly back to thee I fly!Still doubting, asking—canit beThat I have left Bithynia's sky,And gaze in safety upon thee?
Oh! what is happier than to findOur hearts at ease, our perils past;When, anxious long, the lightened mindLays down its load of care at last:
When tired with toil o'er land and deep,Again we tread the welcome floorOf our own home, and sink to sleepOn the long-wished-for bed once more.
This, this it is that pays aloneThe ills of all life's former track.—Shine out, my beautiful, my ownSweet Sirmio, greet thy master back.
And thou, fair Lake, whose water quaffsThe light of heaven like Lydia's sea,Rejoice, rejoice—let all that laughsAbroad, at home, laugh out for me!