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NATIVE BARDS; 
 
 Sattrfcal mf^UBion 
 
 WITH 
 
 Other Occasional Pieces. 
 
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 }9ft(laliirlpft(a : 
 
 E. L. CAREY & A. HAKT,-CHESNUT STREET. 
 
 1831. 
 

 Entered, according' to the Act of Congress, in the 
 year 1831, by E. L. Caret 8c A. Hart, in the office of 
 the Clerk of the District Court for the Eastern District 
 of Pennsylvania. 
 
 31iffiin & Parry, Printers, 
 59 Locust Street. 
 
TO 
 
 ROBERT T. DUNBAR, 
 
 PLANTER, 
 OF 
 
 NATCHEZ, MISSISSIPPI, 
 
 THIS UNWORTHY TOKEN OF THE AUTHOR's 
 ATTACHMENT AND REGARD 
 
 IS 
 
 AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 In exposing this little work to the general eye, I 
 would take the liberty to remark, that it is not the 
 production of an author by profession, and that its 
 contents, with the exception, perhaps, of one piece, 
 were not originally written with a view to publica- 
 tion. It is composed almost entirely of the literary 
 recreations which have from time to time beguiled 
 the ruggedness of an arduous study, and soothed the 
 asperities of a toilsome and eventful youth. This 
 explanation, if it obtain not the indulgence of the 
 critic, will at least satisfactorily explain the many 
 defects, which will doubtless offend the eye of the 
 intelligent reader. Perhaps I ought to apologize 
 for the acrimonious warmth which characterizes 
 the first piece, a feeling from which I could not de- 
 fend myself, when I beheld the degrading spectacle 
 which our poetical literature presents to the mor- 
 
tified American and sneering foreigner. * It may be 
 found also that I have dwelt with too much detail 
 upon the coxcombry of manner, affected by our as- 
 pirants for the bays ; but as it has often filled me 
 with unutterable disgust, I really could not permit 
 the opportunity to escape me, of exposing some of 
 its ludicrous and offensive peculiarities. A similar 
 feeling led me into the digression, at the expense of 
 the unity of my plan, in which I have attempted to 
 cast ridicule upon thefuromania (pardon the etymo- 
 logy) which disgraces the taste of the day, and 
 which I cannot help likening to the rage for melo- 
 dramatic spectacle, which has superseded the more 
 legitimate and intellectual entertainments of the 
 stage. The liberty which I have taken will surprize 
 less, when I declare, that the work in which it oc- 
 curs was commenced without any regular design or 
 preconceived plan, so that it grew to its present size 
 and shape, as it were, spontaneously, and to the ex- 
 
 • A friend dissenting from the indiscriminate censure 
 conveyed in this paragraph, asked whether I had read 
 Mr. Bryant's Thanatopsis. It is with great pleasure I 
 declare my sincere admiration for that production, which 
 evinces no common share of poetical talent and feel- 
 ing. 
 
elusion of several topics, which I had vaguely in 
 contemplation when I set out. 
 
 With regard to the characters, or to speak more 
 correctly, specimens of characters, which I have in- 
 troduced, I would merely observe that they are ra- 
 ther sketches than portraits, and should with one or 
 two exceptions, be considered rather as individuals 
 representing classes, than accurate representations 
 of distinct personages. I will not pretend to conceal, 
 however, that while drawing each portrait, I had 
 some individual in view, although I may have merg- 
 ed his personal characteristics in a more general and 
 comprehensive form. I should have multiplied 
 these specimens, (no difficult effort) had not the 
 task been ungrateful to my nature, and revolting to 
 my feelings. I must not forget to ask pardon of the 
 ladies, for some good humoured raillery, in which I 
 have indulged, and beg them not to consider these 
 sportive sallies as intended to be offensive.* — Sed 
 manum de tabuld. 
 
 The other pieces contained in this little volume, 
 were written at various periods, generally upon the 
 
 * Oh ! for a fine thief, of the age of two and twenty, 
 or thereabouts! — Falstaff. 
 
8 
 
 spur of the occasion, and must be regarded, what- 
 ever may be their defects or merits in other respects, 
 as, at least, strongly expressive of the feelings or 
 circumstances under the influence of which they 
 were produced. 
 
 In conclusion, I do not hesitate to admit, in ap- 
 pearing for the first time before the public, that I 
 feel no small degree of anxiety about the reception 
 of my "virgin muse," whose shrinking timidity did 
 not very readily yield to the persuasions, which final- 
 ly induced her to expose herself to the general gaze. 
 But this is the old pretence : — " Oblig'd by hunger 
 and request of friends." I have often envied, though 
 I can by no means lay claim to, the philosophic spirit 
 of the author, who, when told that the public had 
 damned his play, very coolly replied, that he would 
 take the liberty of returning the compliment. 
 
NATIVE BARDS, 
 
 SATIRICAL EFFUSION. 
 
I cannot but think it the most reasonable thing in the 
 world to distinguish good writers by discouraging the bad. 
 Nor is it an ill natured thing to the very persons upon 
 whom the reflections are made. It is true it may deprive 
 them a little the sooner of a short profit and a transitory 
 reputation, but then it may have a good effect and oblige 
 them (before it be too late), to decline that for which 
 they are so very unfit, and to have recourse to something 
 in which they may be more successful. 
 
 Dennis^ Remarks on Prince Arthur. 
 
NATIVE BARDS. 
 
 Curs'dbe the verse, how well soe'er it flow, 
 That tends to make one worthy man my foe, 
 Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear. 
 Or from the soft-eyed virgin steal a tear. 
 
 * » * * * 
 
 A lash like mine no honest man shall dread, 
 But all such babbling blockheads in his stead. 
 
 Pope, Epilogue to the Satires. 
 
 Each songster, riddler, ev'ry nameless name. 
 All crowd, who foremost shall be damn'd to fame. 
 
 Ibid. Dunciad. 
 
 The lash of satire and the sting of song. 
 
 Have oft reclaim'd or sham'd at least the throng, 
 
 Who virtue's noble dictates have forsworn, 
 
 Or laugh'd religion's sacred law to scorn ; 
 
 Whose callous souls from honor long estrang'd, 
 
 By love unmelted, as by fear unchang'd. 
 
 Nor earthly pains, nor dread of death can shake, 
 
 Or bid the stony, sleeping conscience wake. 
 
 Strange, that who heeds not pow'r's uplifted rod, 
 
 Nor trembles at the anger of his God, 
 
 Who justice mocks, and judgment holds a jest, 
 
 Nor feels the vulture preying in his breast, 
 
 Before the poet's feeWe breath should quail, 
 
 And bide the biddings of a thing so frail. 
 
IZ 
 
 But thus it is ; the arm of wit can strike 
 
 The boldly wicked through his shield of might. 
 
 Can pluck the mask that hides his guilty face, 
 
 Or gilds it with a meretricious grace, 
 
 Hold forth to hissing scorn the villain's name, 
 
 And far and wide his infamy proclaim. 
 
 Blasted and blacken'd all, by satire's scorching flame. 
 
 My scope is not so high, nor trust so great, 
 
 To abler hands I leave a task whose weight 
 
 Mine cannot wield, folly I make my game, 
 
 And wing my shafts with a less noble aim. 
 
 What rod, I ask then, to chastise the fool 
 
 Can match with thine, resistless ridicule ? 
 
 What weapon, keen or piercing, can arrest 
 
 The monster's progress like a scornful jest ? 
 
 Whose pow'r the rich, the proud, the mighty own, 
 
 And coxcombs, male or female, curse and groan. 
 
 Spirii of Pope ! Oh ! might I catch a spark 
 
 Of thine immortal flame, amid the dark 
 
 In which I dwell, and at thy living fire 
 
 Kindle my glowing breast's indignant ire ; 
 
 Might I but learn the secret of that art 
 
 W^hose withering strength, and ever during smart. 
 
 Fierce Dennis, drivelling Tibbalds, Blackmore felt. 
 
 Which wheresoe'er it turn'd, 'lestruction dealt 
 
 On fools and flatterers, with their beastly train, 
 
 I would not fear to wield my pen in vain ; 
 
 A second Dunciad should appearand sweep 
 
 Alcides like, the Augean stable's heap, 
 
13 
 
 Clean out the filthy purlieus that disgrace 
 Our mental realm, that every spot deface. 
 And far and near the grovelling tenants chace. 
 But ah ! Elijah mounting to the skies. 
 Bears too his mantle from earth's longing eyes, 
 Though many seek the sacred skirt to snatch, 
 And Avith his robe, the prophet's spirit catch. 
 Nor vice and folly shall again regard 
 A foe to match with Twickenham's honor'd bard. 
 Obscure, and weak in health and mind, with dread. 
 And trembling awe, I in his footsteps tread. 
 Since none can now be found to wield the blade 
 "Which arm'd his hand, and ev'ry fool dismay 'd ; 
 Yet though I shrink before his towering crest 
 His proud example stimulates my breast. 
 'Tis not the will I want, had I the pow'r 
 To crush these puny creatures of an hour. 
 These shameless scribblers that disgrace our name, 
 And stain and soil the escutcheon of our fame. 
 The great five hundred poets that abound 
 Like mushrooms in the dunghill's steaming ground, 
 The countless authors that in ev'ry town 
 And village bounds, a nuisance foul have grown. 
 The piddling poetasters, scrawling scribes. 
 Who spread throughout the land in myriad tribes 
 Tliat burst in darkening swarms and creep or fly 
 Like locust bands beclouding A fric's sky ; 
 Oh were the pow*r but mine, as is the will. 
 To save our realm from this wide spreading ill, 
 2* 
 
14 
 
 To crush the hydra headed monster's sway 
 
 And brush his filthy progeny away, 
 
 Arm'd with a "whip of scorpions" in my hand, 
 
 From this rapacious brood I'd free the groaning land. 
 
 I love my country, bless my native soil, 
 
 The son of one who strove midst blood and toil, 
 
 Long strove, and suffer'd much, with dauntless breast, 
 
 To plant young freedom's empire in the West ; 
 
 I would not sit with patient soul and hear 
 
 Her name revil'd, nor lend a tranquil ear 
 
 To story of her wrongs which should be mine. 
 
 Nor patriot worships at a purer shrine. 
 
 How oft when wandering on some distant strand, 
 
 Tow'rd my far home my spirit would expand. 
 
 And sweet the memory come of my lov'd parent land. 
 
 But jealous of her glory and her fame. 
 
 It grieves me much and fills my soul with shame. 
 
 To view the foul disease, the loathsome pest. 
 
 That stains her brow and riots in her breast, 
 
 To mark these vile pretenders to the muse 
 
 On ev'ry side their myriad swarms diffuse, 
 
 (l)Thick as the countless, formless things which stir, 
 
 Nor dead, nor living, in Nile's fetid mire. 
 
 That crawl and wallow in the muck and slime 
 
 Which Egypt's shores with pregnant filth begrime. 
 
 Rot ere they live, corrupt before they die, 
 
 (2) "Till the land stinks so num'rous is the fry." 
 
 In the proud days of England's monarch Anne, 
 
 In Grub-street's famous precincts liv'd a clan 
 
 Of hungry, starveling bards who rav'd and wrote 
 
 With furious ardor, and discordant note. 
 
15 
 
 By famine urg'd, and cold, ill cloth'd, ill fed. 
 Bartering their products coarse, for coarser bread ; 
 Want was their muse, starvation their defence, 
 Clamouring like beggars for their paltry pence. 
 But happy England then with pride could boast 
 Of glorious spirits ^nunrivall'd host, 
 (3)Great Dryden, matchless Pope, chaste Addison, 
 Swift, Prior, Garth and Gay, with more who shone 
 The brilliant constellations of an age 
 Yet unsurpass'd in history's ample page. 
 Our mighty Grub-street, far and wide extends. 
 From East to West, from North to South, nor ends 
 But with our shores, and have we ought to make 
 
 amends ? 
 Would I could show each prostituted name, 
 Like Cromwell's " damn'd to everlasting fame," 
 Would that each desperate rhymster I might give 
 To infamy, in verse that should outlive 
 The transient epoch which his works deface, 
 And hold him up in eloquent disgrace, 
 A warning wide, an object for the scorn 
 Of distant realms and ages yet unborn, 
 To vindicate with after times the land 
 Which gave me birth, from this polluting brand. 
 Vain hope in one to fame as little born 
 As those he rails at with indignant scorn. 
 Obscure, unknown, whose wish, abhorring strife. 
 Is but to steal with tranquil pace through life. 
 Himself perhaps as worthy of the blame 
 As those his angry verse upholds to shame; 
 
16 
 
 Prone to dislike, and eager to condemn, 
 
 Does he not act what he disdains in them ? 
 
 Well, be it so — I speak not truth the less. 
 
 E'en though my own transgressions I confess, 
 
 And like the parson say to those who chide, 
 
 " Friends do not as I do, but as I bid;" 
 
 Surely he gives a proof of candour rare, 
 
 A proof sincere, who scorns himself to spare, 
 
 And of the blame he deals, accepts his share. 
 
 Yet am I not of that low, grovelling crew, 
 
 (Call this pride, vanity, 'tis not less true,) 
 
 That shameless, heartless, despicable race 
 
 Of scriblers who the name of bard disgrace 
 
 (That sacred title, that illustrious name 
 
 Of bard and prophet, which was once the same,) 
 
 By paltry trick, vile arts, and base intrigue. 
 
 Who cling together in dishonest league. 
 
 And earn by petty management the fame 
 
 They know full well their merits cannot claim. 
 
 By treachery scale Parnassus' airy mount. 
 
 And dabbling soil the pure Castalian fount. 
 
 Pollute with sacrilege the holy shrine 
 
 Of Phoebus, and degrade the sacred nine. 
 
 No ! God be prais'd ! I have not made the muse 
 
 A prostitute to such debasing use, 
 
 I have not sought her face, nor won the smile 
 
 Of the chaste nymph, for purposes so vile ; 
 
 Ah ! no ! the Aonian maid to me hath been 
 
 As a fond sister to console, and wean 
 
 My wearied spirit from the sordid strife 
 
 Of earth, and sickening cares of life, 
 
17 
 
 To scatter flowers on my thorny path 
 
 And melt my anxious soul from pain or wrath; 
 
 Her gentle tone hath lull'd the torturing jar 
 
 Of passion, and subdued the bosom's war, 
 
 Her sweet, angelic voice oft sooth'd my heart, 
 
 And still compos'd my breast with its bewitching art. 
 
 Calm, I have kept the tenour of my way. 
 
 Nor from the common track have long'd to stray. 
 
 Content to seek for happiness at home, 
 
 For bliss, in mine own breast, nor elsewhere roam. 
 
 I never strove for fame nor courted praise, 
 
 My quest hath been for hearts-ease, not for bays; 
 
 The laurel wreath, the palm, I have not sought. 
 
 Nor vain applause, nor empty breath have bought. 
 
 At the dear sacrifice of precious ease. 
 
 The price which men must pay to shine or please. 
 
 No more of this, it is a task ingrate 
 
 Of self, or good, or ill, though due, to prate; 
 
 With eager ardour I retrace my track. 
 
 Impatient to hunt down the clamorous pack 
 
 Of scribes and scribblers whose tumultuous throng 
 
 Counts like young David its ten thousand strong;(4) 
 
 From the four corners of the wind they crowd, 
 
 A host unnumber'd, busy, boist'rous, loud. 
 
 And spread throughout our borders from the shore 
 
 Which echoes back the vast Atlantic's roar. 
 
 To where the ocean waves of Mississippi pour. 
 
 And first, ye Yankee Byrons, take your part. 
 
 Ye mimic Harolds, feel the well earn'd smart, 
 
 Ye, whose wild strains, and dark, defying air. 
 
 Would ape the thrilling songster of despair; 
 
18 
 
 Ye merchant Corsairs, legal Laras, lend 
 
 An ear attentive, to a candid friend, 
 
 Who kindly would your erring steps reclaim, 
 
 And save yourselves and native soil much shame — 
 
 Why will ye seek, aspiring, to attain 
 
 The lordly poet's dark, Promethean strain ? 
 
 Why emulate by your low, grovelling flight 
 
 The monarch eagle's proud career of light. 
 
 And seek to track his journey toward that sun, 
 
 Whose blaze your feeble glance must ever shun ? 
 
 'Tis not by shaving of your brows, nor hair 
 
 Whose streaming locks, like those of meteors, flare 
 
 Upon the wind, nor cloak whose gloomy fold 
 
 Defends not yet the naked neck from cold ; 
 
 'Tis not by wandering with a low'ring brow 
 
 Compos'd in all the tragic lines of woe. 
 
 Nor walking among men as in a cloud. 
 
 With a stern visage, and an aspect proud; 
 
 'Tis not, I say, by all this nauseous trick. 
 
 These madcap airs that speak the lunatic. 
 
 Which can deceive some foolish girl at most 
 
 Who deems she sees terrific Lara's ghost. 
 
 And then exclaims with a most flattering awe, 
 
 " How much like Byron ! Mr. Simpkins ! la !" 
 
 That you can hope, dull souls, to emulate 
 
 The bard of sadness, dark and desolate, 
 
 Or in your misty, frothy strains, infuse 
 
 The spirit of his wild, romantic muse. 
 
 The outward form cannot the mind avail. 
 
 And if it did, e'en there you sadly fail, 
 
19 
 
 You cannot wholly play the part you take. 
 
 Your vulgar nature will oft times out break, 
 
 The pedlar and the prince can ne'er agree, 
 
 Nor base born coarseness, with true majesty. 
 
 Go, then, and with a grateful heart to God, 
 
 Devour each day your pudding and your cod, 
 
 Comfort yourselves with flaggons, courage ! cheer 
 
 Your maudlin spirits with besotting beer. 
 
 Go, plough your fields, teach hopeful youth, engross, 
 
 Plant onions, notions vend, for gold sell dross. 
 
 Vote, muster, edit journals, import tea. 
 
 Make (5) Goshen cheeses, wretched rum for sea. 
 
 Bad cloths, and flimsy fabrics for the mart ■ 
 
 Of the poor south, that still must pay and smart; 
 
 But sport not antics on the awful grave 
 
 Of him alas ! whom genius could not save. 
 
 Illustrious Harold ! in these lines be paid 
 
 A trembling tribute to thy mighty shade; 
 
 I cannot coldly speak thy name, but feel 
 
 A solemn fervour through my bosom steal. 
 
 As I recall thine image dark and sad. 
 
 By clouds encompass'd, and in tempests clad; 
 
 Thy course was short, thy flight though proud and 
 
 high. 
 Glanced like a meteor through the frighted sky; 
 Born to astonish man's admiring sight. 
 And sacrifice thyself for earth's delight. 
 The ardent flame which burn'd within thy breast. 
 Though bright, to thee became the torture of unrest. 
 Thou wert not made for happiness below. 
 This world could not assuage thy spirit's glow. 
 
20 
 
 Being of nobler clay, nor earth's low clime 
 Suffice thy soul, or slake the thirst sublime 
 Which long'd for higher joys, and prouder scope, 
 With a deep yearning, and a quenchless hope. 
 Thy faults were many and thou oft didst err, 
 I cannot prove thy memory's flatterer, 
 Yet like the angel with a pitying tear, 
 I'd blot the stains which sully thy career. 
 Nor mark as on the radiant orb 1 gaze. 
 The cloudy specks that dim his dazzling blaze. 
 What'er thy life, how noble was thy death ! 
 Martyr to freedom, Greece, thou pour'dst thy breath, 
 And didst to after times a glorious name bequeath. 
 But hadst thou known to what thy fame would come. 
 Thy muse had ceased to sing, thy voice been dumb. 
 Its degradation would have brought a tear 
 To thy proud eye, and forc'd a withering sneer; 
 To mark thy name with stupid ignorance 
 Become the excuse for all extravagance; 
 To view thyself the example and pretence 
 Of ev'ry rhymster against common sense. 
 Who thinks it argues genius to seem sad. 
 And deems, the fool, a poet should be mad. 
 There's not a beardless boy that's " mad or vain," 
 Who does not emulate thy lofty strain. 
 Not one poor devil author, starveling scribe. 
 But who pretends thy spirit to imbibe. 
 Nor doggrel scribbler for the weekly press, 
 Thy widow'd muse who lusts not to caress. 
 They write, they rave, they rant, on ev'ry side, 
 And pour their musings in a whelming tide 
 
21 
 
 Of sighs, and sobs, and snivelling whimpers, till 
 Rivers of mingled tears and ink they spill. 
 All, all, lift up to thee their dazzled eyes, 
 Tir'd of low earth, they rush into the skies. 
 And spite of reason, nature, fate, would Byronize. (6) 
 But who is he that meets my fancy's eye 
 With face fanatic lifted up on high. 
 Who seems to scorn the company of men 
 As all unworthy of his lofty ken. 
 And like a being of superior birth 
 Would even spurn his common mother earth :* 
 Some mighty genius sure, or bedlamite. 
 For now the difference has become but slight. 
 And madness is to poetry allied 
 So near, 'tis hard between them to decide. 
 Thus when the maid whose soul Apollo fir'd. 
 To know the future, and declare, inspir'd. 
 With trembling awe ascended the tripod. 
 And felt within her breast, the striving God, 
 Her eyeballs glar'd, her rigid hair upstood, 
 Fear shook her limbs, and horror froze her blood. 
 The holy rage so rack'd her tossing frame, 
 A maniac fury, seem'd the sacred flame. 
 Say, who is he, again I ask, whose air 
 So melo-dramatic, portends despair. 
 Who seems to labour 'neath the stern controul 
 Of a poetic agony of soul. 
 And wrestle with a fiend as wild he goes. 
 With inward strivings, and convulsive throes ? 
 3 
 
22 
 
 You take him for some genius proud, sublime, 
 
 A master spirit of his land and time, 
 
 One of those souls an age doth oft refuse, 
 
 A miracle of mind, pride of the muse. 
 
 The very moisture on his brow, Castalian dews. 
 
 How sad is your mistake, though such he deems 
 
 Himself, amid his vapoury dreams. 
 
 And lives, he says, contented and alone, 
 
 In a vast, wild creation of his own, 
 
 (A sort of vague, poetic cant, I fear. 
 
 To others, as to me, not very clear.) 
 
 He is indeed, the wonder of his set. 
 
 His own devoted, scribbling cabinet, 
 
 Compos'd of those who have, or would set up 
 
 With his good word a literary shop; 
 
 Who take him for their model and their type. 
 
 And far and near his nauseous praises pipe. 
 
 Talk not to them of Dryden, Pope, or Gay, 
 
 " Yes, those were pretty poets in their day, 
 
 " They versified with spirit and with ease 
 
 " And even now indeed may sometimes please," 
 
 Shrugging their shoulders they reply and sneer, 
 
 « But then they feeling, fancy, lack'd, while here 
 
 " In this great bard these noble traits combine 
 
 "With ev'ry talent, human or divine. 
 
 "The system has quite chang'd you needs must 
 
 know, 
 " And what was good of old is not so now; 
 " We have obtain'd in poetry new light, 
 ** That shines abroad so gloriously bright," 
 (Its ardent votaries are dazzled quite.) 
 
23 
 
 Magnus Apollo, shines in ev'ry sheet. 
 
 With honours heap'd so thickly and so sweet, 
 
 They absolutely cloy, nay worse, pollute. 
 
 Like perfumes plaster'd on a prostitute. 
 
 We have descriptions of his face and mien. 
 
 His lofty forehead, and his visage lean. 
 
 His fine poetic eye, his noble air. 
 
 So grand, one scarce from worship can forbear. 
 
 Ah ! learn one sober truth, however sad. 
 
 This, — your mad poets, friend, are also bad. 
 
 And genius does not signify the want 
 
 Of common sense, despite the age's cant; 
 
 A vain idea, a pernicious rule. 
 
 That ofttimes makes a madman of a fool. 
 
 And sends to Bedlam, or consigns to shame. 
 
 More souls than any folly I can name. 
 
 Believe me, friend, it will not long suffice 
 
 To look the poet only, and seem wise; 
 
 This vulgar clap trap, these low, stage trick arts. 
 
 Wild glances, solemn airs, and sudden starts. 
 
 Cannot of genuine merit take the place. 
 
 But bring at last exposure and disgrace. 
 
 This fate I've known an actor fam'd befall. 
 
 Whose talent was to rave, to rant, and bawl. 
 
 Whose power was muscle, and whose passion lung, 
 
 Whose high wrought efforts not from genius sprung; 
 
 Though long he held the scene, and taste defied, 
 
 And look'd on all with an oppressive pride. 
 
 His arts expos'd at length, he sank in shame. 
 
 And fell, to rise no more, with blasted fame. 
 
24 
 
 I fear I've grown ill natur'd, splenetic, 
 Of sentimental cut throats I'm quite sick, 
 (Alas ! that I should have so little taste 
 Nor join my suffrage with an age so chaste,^ 
 Corsairs by sea, and cut-purses by land, 
 That board your ships, or boldly bid you stand. 
 Or pick your pockets clean, or rob in alleys, 
 The heroes of the gallows, or the galleys ; 
 Fine fellows, noble blades, upon my word. 
 So well they wield a cutlass or a sword. 
 Their forms so sturdy, and their eye so keen, 
 So bold their port, so chivalrous their mien. 
 But how they always have, is vastly queer, 
 Cutthroat, or cutpurse, thief, or buccaneer. 
 Some fond, romantic maid, those men of blood. 
 To soothe their leisure, and to cook their food, 
 To drop a tear when they prepare to roam. 
 And with a kiss and comfort, welcome home, 
 Supply them with clean linen, sweet and fair. 
 And wash the blood that's clotted in their hair, 
 Nurse them when sick, their spirits animate 
 When brandy fails, and cheer their lonely state, 
 I wish, egad, I was so fortunate. 
 These gentry too are always so divine, 
 The very cream of ev'ry thing that's fine, 
 And talk so interestingly of love. 
 And sentiment and soul, it needs must move, 
 Of justice, honour, mercy, and all that. 
 That common virtue seems to theirs quite fiat. 
 And one would almost draw the inference sad, 
 True goodness harbours only with the bad. 
 
25 
 
 But is it not a little strange, the taste 
 Of those fair maidens, modest, pure and chaste > 
 To dwell with "minions of the moon," and men 
 Who rove the seas or haunt some gloomy den, 
 Whose hands are stain'd with blood, who steal from 
 
 all. 
 An honest trade they primitive justice call. 
 And only seek, kind souls, to equalize 
 The rights of nature, which with zeal they prize; 
 Thus, meum, tuum, o'er their ill got wine. 
 They reason quite away with logic fine. 
 I am not quite a coward, though not brave. 
 Yet dread the sight of bandit or of knave, 
 Rhinaldo Rhinaldini, Captain Kidd 
 Have oft in dreams my panting breast bestrid. 
 And when I roam o'er fell, or sail o'er flood, 
 I pray to meet them not by sea or wood. 
 And think, were I a maid, I'd rather flee. 
 Than trust my honour in such company. 
 Poor souls ! with hunger too, they oft must pine, 
 Have no fix'd hour at which they daily dine. 
 Or what is worse, drink tea, dear, gentle sinners ! 
 Because their lovers first must steal their dinners. 
 And many little female comforts miss. 
 So necessary to domestic bliss. 
 But 'tis no easy task to comprehend 
 The sex, and find out where their fancies tend; 
 Perhaps their ardent souls prefer a life 
 Replete with changes, with adventures rife, 
 
26 
 
 Pleasures the humdrum business cannot give. 
 Of the dull scenes in which alas ! we live. 
 Women we know and read it in their glance. 
 Have ever been the lovers of romance, 
 A kindred flame is all that they require, 
 Seek only passion's warm and mutual fire. 
 Without which, in their eyes, a saint's a devil. 
 And with it fiends not altogether evil. 
 These heroes fierce their bosoms so entrance. 
 That now an honest man has scarce a chance. 
 They deem a sober citizen a bore, 
 Fellows that never dipt their hands in gore. 
 Know nothing of romance, adventures bold. 
 Lack spirit, made of base born mould. 
 So anxious am I to deserve their grace, 
 I'm sometimes tempted to adorn my face 
 With fierce mustachios and then sally out. 
 And sweep the seas, or in the forests scout, 
 Arm'd with a trusty cutlass, glorious blade ! 
 To earn my bread, and win some gentle maid ; 
 Blackburn himself my prowess should out brave. 
 But then, alas ! I have a soul to save. 
 Doubtless some homespun epic will appear, 
 Whose hero is a roving buccaneer. 
 Perhaps that canting rogue so lately hung. 
 The pirate Gibbs, shall by some bard be sung, 
 I think his story could not fail to please. 
 Some Homer, sing the Achilles of the seas. 
 And let not Lethe's sullen billows hide 
 The prince of Corsairs and his lovely bride. 
 
27 
 
 We're not content the glories to declare 
 
 Of this heroic race, but ape their air. 
 
 And high and low, in ev'ry grade, and place. 
 
 Copy their manners too with vile grimace. 
 
 To buy a glove into a shop I peep. 
 
 Straightway fierce Conrads from the counter leap. 
 
 And haughtily demand the price, good lord ! 
 
 As if they meant to back it with the sword; 
 
 And when I lose my beard, I'm in the pow'r 
 
 Of a drawn weapon wielded by a Giaour. 
 
 A tailor is but half a man 'tis said. 
 
 You'd take mine for stern Alp the renegade. 
 
 So proud, so fierce, so desperate, he scowls. 
 
 And if his bill's not paid, terrific growls; 
 
 I have a Tomlinson to clean my shoes. 
 
 And six Paul Cliffords where I read the news. 
 
 — Oh ! when shall song and sense again unite. 
 
 And each by mutual lustre shine more bright ? 
 
 When shall the judgment and the heart agree. 
 
 And sober reason sanction their decree ? 
 
 Though verse should chiefly please the charmed 
 
 sense. 
 It need not give the cooler head offence. 
 Nor tinkling syllables delight the ear 
 Alone, but also court the taste severe. 
 Imagination should not spurn the rein 
 Of judgment, nature, and their laws disdain, 
 Nor fancy riot heedless of controul. 
 And scorn the dictates of the chasten 'd soul. 
 
28 
 
 Give me the line that speaks unto the heart, 
 
 Delights the fancy with seductive art. 
 
 And yet where reason, nature, taste, may find their 
 
 part. 
 And thou too, Moore, the bard of wine and love, 
 Soft, amorous, as the cooings of a dove, 
 Britain's Anacreon, and Catullus too. 
 Whose rich voluptuous strains the spirit woo 
 With every perfume of the odorous East, 
 Cuird for thy luscious, epicurean feast ; 
 Thou too, accept my pity, hast a score 
 Of ardent neophytes on this far shore. 
 Score, did I say ? the list cannot be told. 
 So vast its length, their names so manifold. 
 One celebrates in mawkish verse or prose. 
 The novel themes, a rainbow or a rose. 
 And finds in ev'ry flow'r, and leaf, and blade, 
 Materials for his low, poetic trade. 
 Ceaseless he drivels forth his ideot strains. 
 The milk-sop drippings of his sickly brains. 
 The wishy washy weepings of a muse 
 That feeds on sickening froth and stale refuse ; 
 Puling and whimpering, like a love sick girl. 
 Of winds that murmur, and of streams that purl. 
 Of summer clouds, .that sail athwart the heaven, 
 And stars that never fail to shine at even. 
 He vents his namby pamby ditties, trash. 
 His snivelling, sentimental balderdash. 
 The nauseous rinsings of a cup of tea. 
 Which he would fain dole out for poesy. 
 
29 
 
 Another not content to stay at home, 
 
 And sing, and scribble, must in fancy roam 
 
 To the far shores of sacred Palestine ; 
 
 Not to prostrate at Jesus' holy shrine. 
 
 Or like the fam'd crusaders of old time. 
 
 Peril his safety for a hope sublime ; 
 
 But with a vulgar itching to deface 
 
 The Hebrew annals of their antique grace, 
 
 In barely tolerable song relate 
 
 Of ancient Solyma, the tearful fate, 
 
 Her deeds embellish, and her tale rehearse. 
 
 In humdrum stanzas, and just so so verse. 
 
 As if he fondly hop'd, vain man, to mend 
 
 The word of God, and Deity transcend. 
 
 A third, the duties of a shop attends. 
 
 And now his spirit with the muse unbends, 
 
 A yard of tape now higgling sells, and then 
 
 Delights his fancy with his procreant pen. 
 
 One moment vends a pin, the next, 
 
 Unmov'd by calls, by customers unvext, 
 
 Indites a stanza or a lyric spins. 
 
 And canting doggrel with his trade combines. 
 
 How enviable is his happy vein. 
 
 Which nought disturbs, how eloquent the strain 
 
 Which smells both of Parnassus and the shop, 
 
 And breathes such evangelic faith and hope, 
 
 Twould lift our ardent longings to the skies. 
 
 Did we not dream of fall of stocks, and rise. 
 
 And think we saw the spirit of Cheapside 
 
 Glow in his verse and o'er his lines preside. 
 
30 
 
 But am I mad ? this bard so godly, pure, 
 
 Ranks not, I ask his pardon, with Tom Moore. 
 
 Mark that poor devil with the rusty coat, 
 
 And bristling beard, his dolorous phiz but note, 
 
 Say, is he not, so shabby and unshorn. 
 
 So sad, so sentimental, so forlorn, 
 
 A rich example of the poet's fate, 
 
 A living, walking libel on the state 
 
 That lets him starve, nor blushes to refuse 
 
 A crumb of bread, to his pale, tatter'd muse ? 
 
 Methinks I see, ah ! melancholy sight ! 
 
 A shred protrude, nor black, alas, nor white. 
 
 From the worn elbow, lo ! another there ! 
 
 My modest muse, chaste nymph,willnot say where; 
 
 With piteous tears, my melting eyes flow o'er. 
 
 Behold a third ! a fourth ! I'll see no more ! 
 
 The dangling skirt in vain would seek to hide 
 
 These moving, meek appeals to sordid pride. 
 
 For alms he scorns the passers to assail. 
 
 But bears a mute petition at his tail. 
 
 Yet poverty cannot depress his soul. 
 
 Nor haggard want his feelings proud contrcul. 
 
 He feels that he was born to write and sing. 
 
 To mount aloft on fancy's soaring wing, 
 
 On wild imagination's pinions rise. 
 
 And sail sublime, a denizen of the skies. 
 
 What cares he then for comforts gross below. 
 
 For joys, or pains, he scorns, too proud, to know ? 
 
 Camelion like he'd rather feed on air. 
 
 Or run a naked savage, than forbear 
 
31 
 
 His lofty spirit's wants to satisfy, 
 
 And drink in living streams of poesy, 
 
 Or rather pour them forth, for poets still 
 
 Would rather give than take, so free their will. 
 
 To him the joys of verse are meat and drink. 
 
 Food, clothing, ev'ry thing, he finds in ink. 
 
 And wifeless, childless, he would rather chuse. 
 
 So pure his taste, a mistress in the muse. 
 
 His whole existence is a life of song. 
 
 To Phoebus all the moments fleet belong. 
 
 No matter what the subject, or the lay. 
 
 Which he assumes for fame, or paltry pay. 
 
 He turns to verse all things that fall into his way 
 
 This day he pens an ode unto the sun. 
 
 The morrow to escape an odious dun. 
 
 Proclaims at large with his notorious quill. 
 
 His clamorous tailor's unexampled skill, 
 
 Now celebrates the radiant stars, and now. 
 
 The lottery on which they smile below. 
 
 Or writes a sonnet on a lady 's eyes. 
 
 Or patent blacking's merit magnifies. 
 
 Observe that strolling poetaster go. 
 
 An ambulating bard, a public show. 
 
 The maudlin satellite of wretched song, 
 
 The stupid wonder of an ideot throng, 
 
 The muse's vagabond, Apollo's jest, 
 
 A nation's nuisance and a public pest. 
 
 The votary of Bacchus and the nine. 
 
 The Anacreon of bad brandy and worse wine. 
 
 Poetic pedlar, who retails his wares. 
 
 As others theirs, at public shows and fairs. 
 
32 
 
 And scatters far and near his nauseous strain, 
 
 From East to West, from Florida to Maine. 
 
 See him, besotted, desperately scrawl 
 
 With an old tavern quill upon the wall. 
 
 His drunken stanzas and his beastly strains, 
 
 The foul outpourings of his reeking brains ; 
 
 See him, vile spectacle ! gulp forth each time 
 
 A filthy stream of mingled beer and rhyme, 
 
 While at each loathsome, eructating pause 
 
 The gaping listeners hiccup their applause. 
 
 And laud his reeling rantings to the skies. 
 
 While gin and gratitude pour from his eyes. 
 
 He too is one of that illustrious band. 
 
 The famous songsters of our favour'd land ; 
 
 Nay ! start not, nor his well known merits slight. 
 
 Has he not with the rest an equal right 
 
 To fame ? can he not boast a name ? 
 
 What more, I ask and blush, can others claim i* 
 
 Where shall I find the talent and the time 
 
 To celebrate each noted son of rhyme. 
 
 Each real poet, mighty man of verse. 
 
 His glory sing, his merits vast rehearse •* 
 
 This noble duty I must needs postpone. 
 
 And trust their fortune to their works alone ; 
 
 Since, justice did I wish to do, and fill 
 
 The growing canvass, empty were the will : 
 
 For each vile journal, paltry magazine. 
 
 Of weekly, monthly date, each sheet unclean 
 
 Of reeking folds, each dirty, low gazette 
 
 Throughout the land, can boast its famous set 
 
33 
 
 Of bards for hire or fame, its long array, 
 Sullen or sprightly, wo-begone or gay. 
 Of Mortimers, Almanzors, Lauras, met 
 With ev'ry letter of the alphabet. 
 Eager to see their pseudo names in print, 
 And far too vain to spare a gentle hint. 
 By which the ladies and the world may know 
 The genius whence such matchless numbers flow. 
 The lust of scribbling now inflames each breast, 
 And song, alas ! becomes a public pest, 
 (Blest art ! of old to wondering mortals giv'n 
 To soothe the breast, and lift the soul to heav'n) 
 An epidemic ill, a furious rage. 
 Bane of the time, and torment of the age. 
 Which groans beneath th' oppressive weight of verse; 
 Phoebus, incens'd, again inflicts his curse. 
 As when among the Grecian hosts he shed 
 His wrath to avenge Chryseis captive led. 
 God of the silver bow, ah ! hear our moan ! 
 Remit thy rage, Latona's direful son ! 
 Recall thy fatal shafts, and send a cure 
 To cleanse our breasts from this disease impure. 
 This leprous pest that spreads on ev'ry hand. 
 This vile infection that corrupts the land. 
 I've somewhere read, I think it was in France, 
 A furious mania seiz'd on all, to dance ; 
 They caper'd through the crowded streets like mad, 
 The old, the young, the cheerful, and the sad ; 
 Bishops were seen to trip it merrily. 
 And priests and Cyprians join with equal glee, 
 4 
 
34 
 
 Cowl*d monks and veiled nuns rebounding jump, 
 And meagre anchorites with abbots plump ; 
 Not to describe the party -colour'd throng 
 Of soldiers, citizens, who frisk'd along. 
 With nobles, beggars, princes, pedlars, all, 
 (As oft I've witness'd at a masquerade ball,) 
 Ladies of rank with common trulls, a troop 
 Grotesque, now here, now there, now down, now up. 
 At length a hoary priest, whose pious soul 
 Was scandaliz'd by this adventure droll. 
 First at the Virgin's shrine a vow address'd. 
 That she would deign to give their members rest, 
 And then by exorcisms the charm effac'd, 
 And from their limbs the jolly demon chac'd : 
 The fury ceas'd, the dancers made a halt, 
 And pray'rs were offer'd for the general fault. 
 Oh, might some exorcism or holy charm 
 Each scribbling member of its rage disarm. 
 Relieve our fingers, as the feet of those 
 Who furious leapt on saltatory toes. 
 And you, ye fair, ah ! you are much to blame. 
 You too contribute to the public shame. 
 By lauding each low effort of the muse. 
 Which taste should teach not even to peruse. 
 Why will you ope your albums to the strains 
 Of ev'ry coxcomb bard who sense disdains. 
 And make yourselves recipients of the trash 
 Of ev'ry fool whom shame cannot abash ? 
 You know right well, in all things that men do. 
 They chiefly look for their reward to you, 
 
35 
 
 And search within the circles of your eyes 
 
 The blame they dread, or the applause they prize : 
 
 Woman, sweet woman, is the end and scope 
 
 Of all we hazard and of all we hope. 
 
 The source of ev'ry joy and ev'ry tear, 
 
 For whom we fight, write, sing, or suffer, here. 
 
 The heav'n or hell of man, when gentle or severe. 
 
 Why lend yourselves, I ask then, to deface 
 
 Your country's glory and your nation's grace, 
 
 And give your "most sweet voices" to the host 
 
 Of babbling bards, to shame and reason lost ? 
 
 Look rather down with disapproving brow 
 
 On each poor, paltry songster, nor allow 
 
 The simpering fool his fancy to beguile 
 
 With gentle beauty's approbating smile; 
 
 Yes, without mercy, I beseech, proscribe 
 
 In everlasting exile, the whole tribe. 
 
 I have an anecdote, I scarcely know 
 
 Where to insert, but since 'tis apropos. 
 
 And not less true, I think I may as well 
 
 Relate it here, just as the thing befell. 
 
 Miss Angelina Wilhelmina Stubbs 
 
 Was courted by Napoleon Jackson Dubbs, 
 
 Said Dubbs a lawyer's clerk, of promise rare. 
 
 And Angelina sensible and fair. 
 
 Only her stockings were a little blue. 
 
 But such a girl as you or I would woo. 
 
 One day unto her lover, the soft maid 
 
 Her gilt-edg'd album's splendid page display'd. 
 
 And sweetly smil'd, and said, " My Dubbs, my dear, 
 
 " I know to please me you'll write something here." 
 
36 
 
 " Write what, my love, say, what shall I indite ? 
 " Really, my fair, I know not what to write," 
 He staring said, and anxious watch'd her look, 
 *' Nay, but my hand would spoil so fine a book." 
 " Pshaw now," the maid replied, •' you surely jest, 
 « Come, Mr. Dubbs, some verses I request 
 " From your own pen, some stanzas — I declare 
 " You're quite a bore; what makes the fellow stare ?" 
 The lover seem'd astounded, look'd quite blank, 
 "Miss Stubbs," he said, "your civil speech I thank, 
 " And flatter'd feel by your polite demand, 
 " Couch'd in such terms 'twere graceless to with- 
 stand; 
 " But as to verse, I really can't comply, 
 "At stanzas yet I ne'er my hand did try, 
 " My studies are confin'd to legal prose, 
 '*I rarely read such stuff, much less compose." 
 The lady bridled up and knit her brow, 
 *' What ! not write verses ! then I'd have you know 
 «= You're not the man for me, no, no, good lord I 
 " The Stubbses have some taste, and can't afford 
 « To waste their merits on dull souls like you ; 
 *• D'ye think I'd match with such a monster ? Pooh !" 
 The lawyer bow'd, withdrew his case, because 
 'Twere vain to plead with love's capricious laws 
 He knew full well, abided a nonsuit. 
 And ceas'd his hopeless claims to prosecute. 
 — I sometimes hear a zealous bard exclaim 
 «* What has the country done to foster fame i* 
 *' What has she done for genius and the muse r"' 
 And of ingratitude the state accuse. 
 
37 
 
 At this complaint, in mute surprise I stand, 
 This modest speech ! this righteous reprimand ! 
 What ! when our country lets her sages die, 
 O'erwhelm'd by debt, and utter misery, 
 And higgles yearly o'er the paltry pay 
 Due to the veterans of the hard fought day 
 Which saw at length the tree of freedom bloom, 
 Blood-fed by those we now begrudge a crumb; 
 You'd have her make provision, I suppose. 
 For each vile dabbler both in verse and prose, 
 Appropriate perhaps the public land, 
 To glut and gorge the vast, voracious band 
 Of craving poetasters, begging bards, 
 Insatiate of honours and rewards. 
 The state, fond souls, must needs become diy nurse, 
 Or milch cow to the suckling sons of verse, 
 And Jonathan, forsooth, tear off the locks 
 For you alone, from his belov'd strong box. 
 But " hold !" I hear one cry, " not quite so fast, 
 " Think of the ills of poverty aghast, 
 "How hard it is with hunger pale to pine, 
 "Nor have alas ! the wherewithal to dine. 
 " You would not have them starve and perish quite ?" 
 No, pay them then, but pay them not to write. 
 And now, I bid you all adieu, my friends, 
 You see though harsh my strain, in peace it ends ; 
 I feel no malice tow'rd you, know no spite. 
 Thirst not for vengeance, and no wrongs requite. 
 No drama damn'd, rejected lines, incite 
 My wrath, or sting me on to write; 
 4* 
 
38 
 
 I know you not, thank God, nor ever shall. 
 
 Not one of all who desperately scrawl. 
 
 And will scrawl on, for 'tis a hopeless ill 
 
 That ever baffles the physician's skill; 
 
 Who scribbles once, will scribble evermore, 
 
 Nor, self admir'd, the dirty trade give o'er; 
 
 'Tis thus with women, many never sin. 
 
 But then they never stop when they begin. 
 
 My purpose only is to give advice. 
 
 Free both from flattery and from prejudice, 
 
 Your manners to reform I wish, and cure 
 
 Your cacoethes fierce, and lust impure. 
 
 But take it thankfully as sinners shou'd, 
 
 Nor wince beneath the infliction of the rod, 
 
 Submit with penitence, I say, nor spurn 
 
 The hand which fain would do you a good turn ; 
 
 Hath not the monarch wise, ye dull, self-will'd. 
 
 Of old, said, spare the rod and spoil the child ? 
 
 For if you dare recalcitrate, nor reck 
 
 The lesson of to-day, this trifling check. 
 
 Take warning now before it be too late. 
 
 Ye mighty small ones, and ye little great, 
 
 I'll to the task again, and try a strain. 
 
 Which shall not, by your leave, be heard in vain 
 
 Again Apollo's aid I will invoke, 
 
 And ply my weapon with a closer stroke. 
 
 Each recreant rhymster shall behold his name. 
 
 And notes and illustrations speak his shame. 
 
 — Now I have purg'd my choler, spilt my gall. 
 
 And feel more placid, I shall nought recall, 
 
 Write, rave, blaspheme, I do despise ye all. 
 
 1 
 
(0- 
 
 Sic ubi deserult madidos septem fiuus agros, 
 Nilus et antique sua flumina reddidit alveo 
 JEthereoque recens exarsit sidere limus^ 
 Plurima cultores versis animalia glebis 
 Inveniunt, et in his qusedam modo coepta sub ipsum 
 Nascendi spatium: qusedam imperfecta suisque 
 Trunca vident numeris; et eodem in corpora saepe 
 Altera pars vivit; rudis est pars altera tellus. 
 
 Ovid. Metam. Lib, I. 
 
 (2). 
 
 *' And the land stank, so numerous was the fry." 
 
 Cowper. 
 
 (3). 
 " Great Dri/den." 
 I have ranked Dryden in the list as a cotemporary, al- 
 though he died the year previous to that in which Anne 
 ascended the throne. 
 
 (4). 
 *' Counts like young David its ten thousand strong." 
 I find that my recollection of the passage to which 
 this allusion is made was not accurate. It runs thus: — 
 And the women answered one another as they played, 
 and said, Saul has slain his thousands, and David his ten 
 thousands. — 1 Saml. xviii. 7. 
 
 (5). 
 " Make Goshen cheeses." 
 These elegant products, I am told, derive their name 
 from a place in New York, and not " old" New England. 
 C'est egal, cela revimt au meme. 
 
40 
 
 (6). 
 *^ Byronize.'' 
 I have taken the liberty of inventing- this verb, which 
 corresponds in character with the ItaUan Danteggiarey 
 to Dantify, i. e. to imitate Dante. 
 
41 
 Epistle to H. A -r, H. D. 
 
 OF 
 
 CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA. 
 
 Much lov'd and honor'd friend, accept this line, 
 An humble offering at affection's shrine, 
 Indulge the modest tribute of a heart 
 That clings to thine, tho' time and distance part. 
 And loves to dwell on days and hours gone by, 
 Though joy be mingled there with many an aching 
 
 sigh. 
 Together have we roam'd the distant shore. 
 Where art and science spread their ample store, 
 Join'd arm in arm, have wander 'd oft and long 
 O'er scenes immortaliz*d in poet's song. 
 Or fam'd for glorious deeds, the historic page 
 Hath blazon'd forth to each admiring age ; 
 View'd where the mighty dead in dust repose. 
 O'er whom the shades of vanish 'd centuries close 
 In vain, for oft lamenting genius weeps, 
 And memory o'er their tombs, her sacred vigil keeps. 
 Together have we plough'd the trackless main. 
 Where restless tempests hold their stormy reign 
 In wild dominion o'er the watery plain, 
 Mark'd the rough billows in their boisterous play. 
 And thought how like years, ages, roll away, 
 (Those waves that stir time's agitated sea 
 Awhile, then sink into eternity,) 
 
42 
 
 Till landed on our native shore at last, 
 
 We turn and shudder at the perils past. 
 
 Not the fierce dangers of the tempest's force, 
 
 But those more threat'ning of youth's stormy course. 
 
 Through ev'ry changing scene of joy or ill. 
 
 Thy soul, my friend, was firm and faithful still. 
 
 Nor could affliction blight, though oft oppress'd 
 
 By grief, one holy feeling of thy breast ; 
 
 Then, know, could verse of mine aspire to fame, 
 
 With grateful pride, it should record thy name, 
 
 A name whose honest characters would grace 
 
 The page that flattery's breath shall ne'er deface. 
 
 An exile long upon a distant strand, 
 
 Once more upon my parent soil I stand, 
 
 Taste with delight of peace to me unknown. 
 
 Since four sad years with gloomy wing have flown, 
 
 And blest with respite short from anxious care, 
 
 And ills that wrung my spirit to despair, 
 
 Sooth'd by the stillness of a tranquil hour, 
 
 Oft yield my soul to meditation's pow'r; 
 
 Whether with sauntering step 1 tread the lawn. 
 
 Or night's dark curtain o'er the scene be drawn, 
 
 Whether I haunt the busy walks of life. 
 
 Or steal to solitude from earth's low strife. 
 
 Conflicting thoughts commune within my breast, 
 
 Pursue my steps, the couch of sleep infest, 
 
 And frequent, from my eyelids banish rest. 
 
 Vain the proud wish to search with piercing eye. 
 
 Vain the attempt to fathom Deity, 
 
 And read the hidden counsels of that mind. 
 
 Which form'd fond mortals impotent and blind. 
 
43^ 
 
 And spake to man, as to the billows' flow, 
 "Thus far thy course, no farther shalt thou go." 
 But vainer still would be the attempt to crush 
 Those thoughts aspiring, that for ever rush 
 Into the restless soul, and eager crave 
 Knowledge forbid, and seal'd until the grave; 
 Though oft repuls'd they still will question fate. 
 And seek with prying gaze the veil to penetrate. 
 For ever on the wing man's spirit soars, 
 Th' unfathomed abyss of thought explores. 
 Roams with bold flight the empyrean realm. 
 Or plunges where night's deepest shades o'erwhelm, 
 Unwearied roves through fancy's boundless reign, 
 Nor shrinks from dread Eternity's domain ; 
 With heav'n directed eye aspiring, spurns 
 Her earthly dwelling, and for ever burns 
 For joys forbid, and knowledge hopeless here. 
 Found haply in some bright, celestial sphere, 
 The secret goal to which her longing tends. 
 But whose far entrance mortal bar defends. 
 Hence thy high dream, philosophy, proceeds, 
 Hence superstition with her countless creeds. 
 Hence the vain systems that pretend to scan. 
 And analyze creation's mighty plan; 
 A thousand schemes ingenious man hath wrought. 
 By fancy colour'd, with false learning fraught. 
 The hidden mystery of man t' expound. 
 And pluck the veil in which all things are bound. 
 Need I, my friend, dwell longer on this theme 
 And spread before thee each illustrious dream ? 
 
44 
 
 Shall I with Plato take my flight on high, 
 
 Or wallow in the " Epicurean stye ?" 
 
 With oracles adorn my modest page, 
 
 Of old proclaim'd by Athens' god-like sage, 
 
 And cull, from ancient and from modern store, 
 
 A harvest rich of philosophic lore ? 
 
 No, vain were such display ; thou know'st full well, 
 
 And better far indeed than I can tell. 
 
 Each fond endeavour of the human mind 
 
 To grasp at Deity, his purpose find. 
 
 Explore the depths obscure of hidden fate. 
 
 The secrets dread of life, and death, to penetrate. 
 
 Mid these perplexing thoughts, that oft infest, 
 
 And ever agitate the anxious breast. 
 
 That lure the impatient soul in quest of light 
 
 In vain, to dissipate the gloom of night, 
 
 None more than this torments my troubled mind, 
 
 Or fills me with compassion for mankind; 
 
 The sad conviction, that the transient gleam 
 
 Of bliss, is but an unsubstantial dream. 
 
 Whose visions bright seduce the eye of youth 
 
 With radiant hopes that fly the touch of truth ; 
 
 And when I view the chace of transient good 
 
 That still contrives the eager grasp t' elude. 
 
 And mark the brilliant prospects that caress 
 
 The soul with promise bright of happiness. 
 
 Then fade away, and as they disappear, 
 
 Leave in the breast, a void all dark and drear. 
 
 Was man, I sometimes ask, as hath been said. 
 
 The sport of heaven, its jest and riddle made ? 
 
I 
 
 45 
 
 Or was he form'd by some foul fiend of night 
 To vent on him his vengeance and his spite ? 
 No, far from me such impious thought be driv*n, 
 Let me not mock the majesty of heav'n; 
 My purpose only is to show the cloud 
 That wraps man's destiny as in a shroud. 
 The mist in which he wanders, and the gloom 
 That shades his weary passage to the tomb. 
 The time will doubtless come, perhaps 'tis near. 
 When plain the awful mystery shall appear. 
 When God shall deem it proper to display 
 His hidden purposes, his secret way. 
 And night and darkness, yield to heaven's eternal 
 
 day. 
 — In the bright morning of our days, when life 
 With all the blooming charms of youth is rife. 
 When health and glowing spirits ever cheer. 
 And deck with smiles the spring time of the year. 
 When undeceiv'd by knowledge of the past. 
 We deem each fair enchanting scene will last. 
 At list confiding to the syren voice 
 Of soothing hope, that ever bids rejoice; 
 Bright hour ! when all things lovely haunt the breast, 
 And joyous innocence affords a zest 
 To bliss, that later pleasures cannot know. 
 Nor after life again on man bestow ; 
 In that fair dawn of life's expanding day, 
 What visions bright around the fancy play, 
 What tempting dreams of bliss the soul caress. 
 Of joys untold, and untried happiness ! 
 5 
 
46 
 
 A thousand gay imaginations rise. 
 
 And dimly float before the ravish'd eyes. 
 
 Unutterable thoughts the bosom swell 
 
 With vague emotions language cannot tell. 
 
 Fantastic hopes the exulting breast elate, 
 
 And raptures high the soul intoxicate. 
 
 Methinks the ardent youth reclin'd I see 
 
 Beneath the shade of some fair spreading tree, 
 
 While at his outstretch'd feet a rivulet flows. 
 
 That makes a gentle murmuring as it goes, 
 
 Mingling its music with the soothing sound 
 
 Of summer winds, that breathe a fragrance roundj 
 
 The enchanting beauties of the scene and hour. 
 
 Come o'er his spirit with a magic pow'r. 
 
 Charming each sense acute to ecstacy. 
 
 Till sinks his soul at length, deep plung'd in reverie. 
 
 Mark the flush'd cheek, the eye to heav'n addrest 
 
 With fix'd and fervent glance, the labouring breast 
 
 That strives in vain for speech, the kindling brow 
 
 That with unearthly ardour seems to glow. 
 
 Who that beholds the rapture of that eye 
 
 Whose gaze intense is proudly fix'd on high. 
 
 As if the soul to hold communion strove 
 
 With the bright throng that tread the courts above, 
 
 Or pierce at least the dazzling curtain thro' 
 
 That hides the blest abodes from mortal view. 
 
 Ah ! who, I ask, with tongue of earthly mould 
 
 Can speak the things that in that glance are told. 
 
 The musings proud reveal, or hope to tell 
 
 The thrilling thoughts that in that bosom swell ? 
 
47 
 
 How eager then the unquiet spirit spurns 
 
 The present hour, the moments past, and burns 
 
 To take her perilous flight with wing unfurl'd, 
 
 And fearless launch upon a stormy world. 
 
 Thus the proud courser at the starting place. 
 
 Longs with impatience to begin the race. 
 
 His ardent courage scarce can be represt. 
 
 His eye darts flame, and heaves his swelling chest. 
 
 He neighs indignant, frequent paws the ground. 
 
 Till loos'd, he rushes with impetuous bound. 
 
 Ah ! could it but endure, life's dawning hour 
 
 Whose fruit belies the promise of the flow*r ! 
 
 Could they but stay, those moments bright of joy, 
 
 Nor beauty fade, nor sorrow's blight destroy 1 
 
 Those tempting visions linger, that adorn 
 
 The blooming scenes of life's enchanting morn ! 
 
 Vain wish that combats the decree of fate. 
 
 Change is the tenure of our mortal state, 
 
 The never failing law of nature's reign. 
 
 Whose sway upholds creation's boundless chain ; 
 
 Earth, ocean, air, and all that they embrace, 
 
 When time at length hath run his weary race. 
 
 Must perish, we are told, and sink in gloom ; 
 
 Mortality's inevitable doom 
 
 Nought can escape — above, around, beneath. 
 
 Destruction plies with fell unsparing breath. 
 
 The universal frame awaits impending death. 
 
 — Thus youth's fair prospect changes, and the day 
 
 That with bright promise op'd his smiling way. 
 
 Sees clouds arise, and-threat'ning tempests low'r 
 
 To mar the beauties of the dawning hour. 
 
48 
 
 Each op'ning bud, each blooming flow'ret dies. 
 Each joy, each hope, in dust prostrated lies ; 
 Fortune's gay smiles, that erst propitious shone, 
 Scar'd by adversity's malignant frown, 
 Fade and depart, the shades of sorrow fall, 
 Till night's dark veil at length envelopes all ; 
 Spring flies, and gloomy winter's icy breath 
 Levels the vernal scene in undistinguish'd death. 
 Consult thine own emotions, and compare 
 Thine early feelings with what now they are, 
 A moment stop thine onward course, and cast 
 Thy vision from the present to the past, 
 The everflowing stream of time trace back 
 E'en to the verge of childhood's fiow'ry track, 
 Survey the vanish'd scenes, the prospects fled. 
 The hopes, the joys, now mingling with the dead; ■ 
 Evoke and bid, as with a magic wand. 
 The spirits of the past before thee stand. 
 Behold ! they come, they flit like shadows by. 
 The motley train of youth's gay pageantry, 
 Unnumber'd forms of shadowy shape and hue, 
 Whose charms, though dimm'd, still tempt the long- 
 ing view. 
 Sad is the vision of that spectral band, 
 Hov'ring like shades upon the Lethean strand ; 
 No voice is theirs indeed, no hollow sound 
 The solemn stillness breaks that reigns around. 
 No tone is heard from that sepulchral throng, 
 Of joy or woe, as slow it flits along, 
 
49 
 
 Save some sad notes, that faintly, gently, swell 
 Upon the ear, of joys gone by that tell, 
 Like the far echo of a passing knell. 
 Now look around, the chequer'd scene survey. 
 Pursue the steps that throng life's crowded way. 
 Observe the candidates for bliss that press. 
 And join the ardent chace for happiness ; 
 Behold the eager train that hope impels, 
 And fortune binds in her delusive spells, 
 Mark how they mingle in the headlong chace, 
 Each striving still the other to displace, 
 As if for one alone were kept the honors of the race. 
 Then say of that vast multitude how few, 
 If any, ever reach the goal in view. 
 Or pluck with eager grasp the tempting prize. 
 That bright and dazzling lures the longing eyes. 
 Though oft it seem in reach, nor far the end 
 To which their hastening footsteps ever tend. 
 Whether they run with aspect fix'd on high. 
 Or grovelling creep with earthward bending eye, 
 Whether with lofty hopes the bosom glow, 
 Or grosser joys ofsense alone it know. 
 Whether love's flame the raptur'd breast excite. 
 With transports vague of more than earth's delight, 
 Ambition mad, the thirst to win a name. 
 Stir the proud soul in quest of deathless fame. 
 Or low pursuit of wealth absorb the mind. 
 That prompts the meaner spirits of mankind, 
 5* 
 
50 
 
 Whate'er the impulse, and whate'er the end, 
 
 Or high or low the anxious vision bend, 
 
 Like disappointment doth each fond pursuit attend, 
 
 — Here, let me hold, for ah ! 'tis sad to trace 
 
 The various ills which human life deface, 
 
 Sad the long catalogue of woes to tell 
 
 Whose gloomy list might countless pages swell ; 
 
 No, let me rather turn the averted eye 
 
 From each dark scene of wrong and misery. 
 
 Seek in forgetfulness the sense to steep. 
 
 Of sorrow's pangs o'er which in vain we weep, 
 
 And drown each bitter, self-tormenting thought 
 
 Of hopeless suffering with which earth is fraught ; 
 
 Like him who stretch'd upon the couch of pain. 
 
 Flies to the oblivious draught, nor flies in vain, 
 
 But finds a refuge sweet, though brief, from woes 
 
 That rack'd his frame with agonizing throes. 
 
 The voice of wisdom hath proclaim'd of old, 
 
 This truth by sad experience ever told, 
 
 By saint declar'd, by sceptic, and by sage, 
 
 On ev'ry shore, in each revolving age, 
 
 " All, all, is utter vanity below, 
 
 Vexation of the spirit all we know ;" 
 
 A truth the monarch feels upon his throne. 
 
 Alike the wretch who toils for life alone. 
 
 The victor 'mid the trophies of the brave. 
 
 The lord of empires and the quivering slave ; 
 
 In ev'ry state, in each pursuit confest, 
 
 Or hid at least within the aching breast. 
 
51 
 
 (For smiles will sometimes play, and gladness shine, 
 Yet mask the bitterness of grief within,) 
 And countless volumes could not make appear 
 This oracle of oracles, more clear. 
 Then why, you ask, this melancholy tale, 
 These sad repinings, that can nought avail, 
 Why these complaints that strike at nature's plan, 
 Yet cannot change the destiny of man ? 
 Thick shades in gloom his course mysterious shroud, 
 Nor can we pierce the impenetrable cloud ; 
 'Twere wiser sure life's cureless ills to bear. 
 With patient soul, nor murmur, nor despair, 
 Heav'n's high decrees are ever just and right. 
 Though thus they do not always strike our sight. 
 Nor are the lofty ways of Providence 
 Fit for the feeble grasp of mortal sense. 
 With confidence and hope await the end ; 
 There we shall learn at length, and comprehend 
 The ways mysterious, dark designs of Him, 
 Whose hidden path defies conjecture dim ; 
 Knowledge, whose light we vainly seek to know 
 While groping blindly on our course below : 
 'Tis folly's part to weep our sad estate. 
 Nor tears, nor sighs, can melt inexorable fate. 
 True, yet 'tis hard within the bosom's core, 
 To nurse, and pine in silent sadness o'er 
 Ills, though irreparable, pangs, though vain, 
 And weak it be to murmur and complain, 
 The utterance of woe assuages grief. 
 And sympathy, thou know'st, is sweet relief. 
 
52 
 
 Be this my sole excuse, as here I end 
 
 My stram, and claim the indulgence of a friend. 
 
 Who ne'er hath view'd my faults with eye severe. 
 
 Whose mild and modest censure yet I fear. 
 
 And whose esteem and love unto my soul are dear. 
 
53 
 
 THE TOMB OF ST. HELENA. 
 
 hoc quod premis, inquit, habeto, 
 
 De tot agris terrse. 
 
 Ovid. Metam. Lib. V. 
 
 Calm was the air, serene the sky, 
 And nought was heard around, 
 
 Save the hovenng seabird's mournful cry, 
 And the ocean's hollow sound, 
 
 That murmurs round the narrow strand, 
 
 Fragment of Afric's far-off land. 
 
 I gaz^d in silence on the spot, 
 
 The solitary grave, 
 Of him who ne'er shall be forgot, 
 
 The mighty and the brave. 
 The warrior chief whose glorious name 
 Stands first upon the roll of fame. 
 
 Doth not some proud memorial rise 
 
 In triumph o'er his head. 
 Some pyramid whose strength defies 
 
 Time's ever-wasting tread. 
 Frowning, like those his prowess won, 
 Solemn and stern, 'neath Egypt's sun i* 
 
54 
 
 No sculptur'd columns towering swell 
 
 Triumphant to the skies, 
 Nor monumental trophies tell 
 
 Where slumbering he lies. 
 But, spreading in funereal gloom, 
 A willow waves above the tomb. 
 
 What though no proud mausoleum crown 
 
 The hero's dust beneath, 
 Nor pyramid of ages frown 
 
 In majesty of death ! 
 The simple grandeur of a name 
 Unmatch'd in time, is ample fame. 
 
 Words cannot tell what feelings rose 
 
 ^^'ithin Tr,y stirring breast. 
 While gazing where, in di'ead repose. 
 
 Those mouldering ashes rest, 
 But late the dwelling of a mind 
 Earth's mighty limits scarce could bind. 
 
 A mingled memory of the deeds 
 
 Of him who sleeps beneath, 
 Of thrones that fall, a world that bleeds, 
 
 Of hosts who pour their breath 
 To swell the blast of fame — for whom ? 
 The tenant of that lonelv tomb. 
 
55 
 
 I thought me on Marengo's day. 
 
 And Adda's crimson'd flood, 
 Where youthful valour bore away 
 
 The victory of blood. 
 When glory kmdled round that brow 
 Now mingling with the dust below. 
 
 Thy combat, too, dark Austerlitz ! 
 
 The deadly strife for pow'r. 
 How ill this noiseless strife befits 
 
 Thine appalling hour ! 
 Nor wert thou absent from my view. 
 Tomb of the valiant — Waterloo! 
 
 And musing with myself, I said, 
 
 While gazing on that spot, 
 " Must thou, whom thrones and realms obey'd, 
 
 Share too the common lot. 
 That mingles in the selfsame earth 
 Princes and those of lowliest birth ? 
 
 The imperial crown that girt thy brow. 
 
 The sceptre of a world. 
 Where are they fled ? ah ! where is now 
 
 Thine awful sword that hurl'd 
 From their high seats of kingly pow'r 
 The craven monarchs of an hour ? 
 
 I 
 
56 
 
 And where are they, the martial train, 
 The pride, the pomp of war ? 
 
 Shall ne'er the cannon's voice again. 
 Like thunder from afar. 
 
 Come rolling o'er the Atlantic wave, 
 
 And rouse thee from thy tranquil grave ? 
 
 The trumpet's clang, the clash of arms, 
 No more shall wake thy sleep. 
 
 Nor at the conflict's stern alarms. 
 Thy soul, proud spirit, leap : 
 
 The din of battle's maddening roar 
 
 Ne'er echos from this silent shore. 
 
 Is this the end of glory's strife. 
 
 Ambition's bright reward. 
 For which was offer'd up a life 
 
 From peace, from bliss, debarr'd ? 
 This the rich prize, bestow 'd by fame? 
 An exile's grave ! a fearful name !" 
 
 Majestic shade, I would not seek 
 
 To injure thy repose. 
 Nor on thy tomb reproaches wreak, 
 
 I am not of thy foes : 
 Thy path will ne'er again be trod, 
 Who wert on earth a demigod. 
 
57 
 
 In adopting the metrical form of the celebrated hymn 
 to Lig-ht by Cowley, and that to Darkness by Yalden, I 
 have not been g-overned by chance or caprice, but by a 
 conviction of its appropriateness to subjects like those 
 for which I have employed it. 
 
 ODE TO THE DEITY. 
 
 Nihil aliud est natura, quamUeus, et divina quaedam 
 ratio toti mundo, et partibus ejusinserta. 
 
 Seneca. 
 
 Principio ccelum ac terras, camposque liquentes 
 Lucentemque globum lunse, Titaniaque astra, 
 Spiritus intus alit, totamque infusa per artus. 
 Mens agitat molem et magno se corpore miscet. 
 
 Virg. Mneid. lib. vi. 
 
 Being of unimaginable might, 
 Unspeakably sublime and bright, 
 Enthron'd in majesty on high 
 For evermore, lone dweller of Eternity ! 
 
 Source of all light and life, Almighty cause ! 
 Ere time began, or nature was. 
 Existing in thyself. Creative Mind ! 
 Wisdom conceptionless, Power graspless,unconfin'd! 
 6 
 
58 
 
 How shall man's feeble accents speak thy name, 
 
 God of the universal frame ! 
 
 Or tongue of earth essay to express 
 
 The vast, the incomprehensible, the measureless ? 
 
 For such thy nature is, mysterious One ! 
 
 Untold, unrivall'd, and alone. 
 
 Whose limit is infinite space. 
 
 In splendour unapproachable who veil'st thy face. 
 
 First Author of all things, Fountain of life ! 
 
 Thou bad'st the elemental strife 
 
 Begin, the word of pow'r was spoke. 
 
 And leaping from the womb, rejoicing nature woke. 
 
 Eye of the universe, thy boundless view 
 Immensity doth wander thro'. 
 Thy single glance with mightiest ray. 
 Creation's vast domain doth evermore survey. 
 
 Mysterious Providence ! whose hand unseen 
 
 Impels, controuls the world's machine. 
 
 Chance, Fortune, Destiny or Fate, 
 
 Whate'er we call, thy power doth all things regulate. 
 
 Eternal spirit ! from whose centre flow. 
 
 In unremitting streams below. 
 
 All motion and all life, thy soul 
 
 Extends thro' every part and stirs the mighty whole. 
 
59 
 
 Preserver of all beings ! from on high 
 Gazing with ever watchful eye, 
 Thine arm upholds the endless chain 
 Of life, and ever doth the universe sustain. 
 
 King of eternity ! thou lookest down 
 Serene, from thine immortal throne, 
 On all thy various works below. 
 From thine exhaustless hand perpetual blessings 
 flow. 
 
 The iron chain of stern necessity 
 Thy force controuls not, thy decree 
 Is fate, which Heaven dare not gainsay. 
 And Earth and Hell's deep bounds with trembling 
 awe obey. 
 
 Thy simple word is infinite pow'r, thy nod. 
 
 Dread signet of the approving God, 
 
 The stamp of destiny, thy will 
 
 But speaks, and myriads rush its mandates to fulfil. 
 
 The page of nature where reveal'd we see 
 
 A distant glimmering of Thee, 
 
 Thy veil reflects, the glorious sun 
 
 Is but the shadow dim of thine eff'ulgent throne. 
 
 The gorgeous canopy o'erspread by night. 
 
 With countless constellations bright, 
 
 The silver radiance of the moon, 
 
 Retiring, fade before the splendour of thy noon. 
 
60 
 
 Ocean, whose restless, storm-excited swell, 
 Deep surging from the caves of Hell, 
 Shakes either pole, and threats the sky, 
 Is as a drop compar'd with thine immensity. 
 
 The tempest's rage whose fearful breath lays waste 
 Kingdoms with desolating blast. 
 The whirlwind's rushing chariot, these 
 To thee are as the sport of summer's whispering 
 breeze. 
 
 The thunder's loud reverberating din 
 
 Is as the still small voice, within 
 
 Thine ear, the flashings of the sky 
 
 Are darkness to the light of thine all lustrous eye. 
 
 The wild, portentous comet's trackless race. 
 Whose wanderings science cannot trace. 
 Far shooting thro' the realm of night. 
 Is motionless before thine all pervading sight. 
 
 The countless tribes which people the wide earth. 
 
 With those that from creation's birth 
 
 Have been, the myriads that each star. 
 
 Each sun, each system, holds, with Thee as nothing 
 
 The Stygian realms, death's silent, sad domain. 
 
 E'en these confess thy searching reign. 
 
 Thy voice can bid the Lethean wave 
 
 Emerge to light, can burst the barriers of the grave. 
 
61 
 
 The shore where disembodied spirits dwell. 
 
 Whose awful secrets none can tell. 
 
 Where crowding from each clime await 
 
 The trembling shades, their last, irrevocable fate. 
 
 The mystic, cloud- wrapp'd land whence none return. 
 
 Once pass'd the inexorable bourne. 
 
 The shrouded mansions of the tomb, 
 
 To Thee alone, reveal the terrors of their gloom. 
 
 The soaring spirit that inspires man's breast. 
 Mortality's immortal guest. 
 This craving, knowledge-thirsting soul. 
 From thee its source, first sprang, still seeks Thee 
 as its goal. 
 
 Dark and invisible are all thy ways. 
 
 Dark from the splendour of thy blaze. 
 
 Thy glorious path is veil'd in night 
 
 To mortal eyes, because insufferably bright.* 
 
 Being ! whom worlds untold of magnify, 
 For stretch of human thought too high, 
 Source of thy proper happiness. 
 Unutterable name, infinite, fathomless ! 
 
 * Dark with excessive bright thy skirts appear. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 6* 
 
62 
 
 Almighty ! who thro' endless time dost live, 
 
 And shalt all other life survive, 
 
 To whom eternity is as a speck 
 
 Of mist, a drop dissolved, the universal wreck. 
 
 Whose glory ear hath not heard, eye hath not seen. 
 
 Whose lustre maketh light a screen, 
 
 Whose image thought can ne'er attain 
 
 Tho' wandering to the verge of fancy's utmost reign. 
 
 Before the splendour of whose glittering throne. 
 
 The dazzled cherubim fall down. 
 
 From whose effulgent, living blaze 
 
 The seraph with his glorious wings defends his gaze. 
 
 Unspeakable, unsearchable, where lie 
 The springs of immortality. 
 Essence of all existence. Soul 
 Of the universe. Great God ! Thyself, the wondrous 
 Whole. 
 
 Shuddering with awe and terror at the glare 
 Of thy perfections, if I dare 
 Essay to shadow forth thy form. 
 Dread Monarch of all things, crush not the aspiring 
 worm. 
 
63 
 
 THE SISTER OF CHARITY. 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to observe that the Soeurs de 
 Charity, are a religious order, whose duty it is to nurse 
 the sick and relieve the afflicted, and whose lives are in- 
 cessantly devoted to these pious offices. 
 
 Sister of Charity ! whose pious cares 
 Support the sick man on the couch of woe. 
 
 Whose sacrifice more sweet than empty pray'rs 
 Ascends to heav'n, like incense from below. 
 
 Can aught of formal worship match with thine, 
 
 Fair child of piety, and grace divine ? 
 
 Thy ceaseless office is the work of love. 
 To soothe the suff"erings of the sons of pain. 
 
 With zealous ardour kindled from above 
 
 To sympathize with woe, with calming strain 
 
 To whisper to the sin-sick bosom rest. 
 
 Child of benevolence, thy deed how blest ' 
 
 With anxious look and sweetly melting eye, 
 I see thee bending o'er the sick man's head. 
 
 And ev'ry soft endearment fondly try. 
 
 To pluck the thorns that o'er his couch are spread, 
 
 While tears of pity flow adown thy cheek. 
 
 And heavenly love glows in thine aspect meek. 
 
64 
 
 And when all hope of mortal life hath fled 
 
 Thou striv'st to give the tortur'd breast release, 
 
 Exultingly thou point'st beyond the dead, 
 And whispering to the sin-sick bosom peace. 
 
 Thy soft, persuasive accents more controul 
 
 Than formal homilies, the shrinking soul. 
 
 How enviable is thy happy lot ! 
 
 How blissful is thy calm and peaceful way ! 
 Life's vexing cares and sorrows, all forgot, 
 
 No lowering clouds deform thy cheerful day, 
 But shelter'd from the ills that vice await. 
 Sister of charity, how blest thy state ! 
 
 Thy time flows gently 'twixt thy cares and God, 
 No pangs of conscience gnaw with bitter tooth. 
 
 Thy bosom feels not guilt's oppressive load, 
 Illumin'd by the rays of heavenly truth, 
 
 A holy rapture settles on thy brow, 
 
 And in thy face, faith, hope, ecstatic glow. 
 
 How happier far than mine, thy tranquil state, 
 A prey to restless passion's ceaseless war. 
 
 Now low desponding, now, with hope elate. 
 And sure when happy, sorrow is not far. 
 
 Angel of love ! what would I not resign, 
 
 Pow'r, glory, fame, to change my fate for thine ? 
 
65 
 
 TO THE SPIRIT OF THE STORM. 
 
 Written at Sea. 
 
 Terrific spirit of the raging storm, 
 Thou that in gloom, and havoc dost rejoice. 
 
 Delighting nature's visage to deform. 
 
 And frighting earth with thine alarming voice. 
 
 Dread spirit, that o'er land and sea dost roam. 
 
 Wild wanderer of the air, say, where hast thou 
 thy home ? 
 
 Lov'st thou in savage regions of the north 
 In "palaces of thick-ribb'd ice" to reign. 
 
 Or answer, dost thou rather wander forth 
 
 Where suns meridian scorch the sandy plain ? 
 
 Thy course is various, now thou shak'st the pole. 
 
 And now thy blasting steps o'er burning deserts roll. 
 
 Wild terror is thy herald, and thy train' 
 Death and gaunt famine, follow in thy rear. 
 
 Thine awful breath is heard athwart the plain. 
 And nations at the sound grow pale with fear. 
 
 The thunder is thy voice, and from thine eye 
 
 Dart livid lightnings through the dusky mantled sky. 
 
 The winds that wild o'er ocean's bosom sweep. 
 These are the couriers that thy mandates bear, 
 
 Which do thine errands in the mighty deep. 
 Coursing with swiftness through the empty air. 
 
 The circling whirlwind is thy restless throne. 
 
 Thy mantle is of clouds, and meteors form thy crown. 
 
66 
 
 Thy chariot is the dread tornado's blast 
 Which rusheth fiercely o'er the craven earth, 
 
 Tracing its path with desolating waste, 
 Seated on which thou ridest proudly forth, 
 
 Spirit of wrath ! in vengeance onward sent. 
 
 Thou minglest nature's forms in one wild element. 
 
 Before thy face proud man is struck with fear. 
 And trembling looks around him for relief^ 
 
 He feels his littleness when thou art near. 
 And cowering sinks in dark dismay and grief i 
 
 Thou crushest populous cities in thy wrath 
 
 Like empty spray which garnisheth thy watery path. 
 
 Destruction is thy sport, thou blow'st thy breath, 
 Dark spirit, ruthless in thy direful might. 
 
 And hurlest thousands to a gloomy death. 
 Against thy wrath 'tis vain for man to fight. 
 
 Majestic navies, riding on the wave. 
 
 Thou plungest with thine arm beneath a billowy 
 grave. 
 
 Thy music is the moaning of the blast 
 Mingled with wailings of the drowning wretch, 
 
 The dash of billows in the watery waste, 
 
 The roar of ocean, and the sea bird's screech. 
 
 These thou delight'st to hear, while ruin stalks, 
 
 And desolation grim o'er nature's bosom walks. 
 
67 
 
 TO ETERNITY. 
 
 Infinity of time ! whose boundless whole. 
 
 The insatiate, all-searching soul 
 
 Essays in vain to comprehend. 
 
 Thou that didst ne'er begin nor yet shalt ever end ! 
 
 Can nought our souls conceive, of thee impart J 
 
 Some faint idea, thou that art 
 
 Coeval with the Deity, 
 
 Who though he made all things existed not ere thee? 
 
 An ocean without shores, and fathomless, 
 Thy substance yet doth not increase. 
 Though all devouring in thy course. 
 Nought of created things to thwart thy power hath 
 force. 
 
 Thou art incomprehensibly sublime; 
 
 Compared with thy duration, time 
 
 An infant is, that views the light. 
 
 Then shuts its dazzled eyes in never ending night. 
 
 Ere earth was form'd thou held'st thy lonely sway. 
 
 Or ere the sun gave birth to day, 
 
 The constellations of the sky 
 
 Thou view'st as momentary meteors on high. 
 
68 
 
 Thou hast nor youth, nor age, no change thou hast. 
 The future ever as the past, 
 Unnumber'd ages roll in vain. 
 From thine exhaustless womb they are produc'd 
 again. 
 
 Years, what are they to thee, e'en ages, say ? 
 
 The drops that form thine ocean, yea. 
 
 The vapory atoms that ascend. 
 
 Then melting fall again and with its bosom blend. 
 
 To thee what is an empire's ruin, nay a world. 
 Into destruction's vortex hurl'd ? 
 Calmly thou keep'st thy silent way. 
 Unmindful though the universe itself decay. 
 
 Thou art a mystery on which the mind 
 
 In contemplation is struck blind. 
 
 Vainly thought seeks some refuge nigh. 
 
 To rest its flight, when lost in thine immensity. 
 
 Whate'er of grand or mighty we behold. 
 
 Or in imagination's told. 
 
 The image e'en we have of thee, 
 
 Compar'd with what thou art, is nought, Eternity ! 
 
69 
 
 TO MIRTH. 
 
 Say sportive nymph, with laughing eye, 
 And step that bounds so merrily, 
 
 Why wilt thou flee my path? 
 To fright thee, Mirth, what have I done, 
 That thou my fond pursuit dost shun, 
 
 Say, how deserv'd thy wrath ? 
 
 Time was when thou did'st ceaseless bless 
 My blithesome heart with fond caress, 
 
 For ever at my side. 
 How jocundly I tripp'd along, 
 The groves resounded with my song. 
 
 That gloomy care defied. 
 
 Young health then nerv'd my active frame, 
 Nought could my dauntless ardour tame, 
 
 And every joy was near, 
 No pining sorrows gnaw'd my breast, 
 Nor anxious cares disturb'd my rest, 
 
 A stranger then to fear. 
 
 Exulting hope inspired my heart. 
 And constant plied her soothing art 
 
 With scenes of heavenly hue. 
 While fancy bade her prospects rise, 
 Ting'd with a thousand brilliant dyes. 
 
 Before my raptur'd view. 
 7 
 
70 
 
 And every scene of hill or dale, 
 
 Each murmuring stream, and summer gale, JKi 
 
 Brought bliss without alloy, ^«i 
 
 And every tone that breath'd around. 
 And every flower that deck'd the ground. 
 
 Was redolent of joy. 
 
 But now that thou hast ta'en thy flight. 
 And wilt no longer bless my sight, 
 
 Alas ! how chang'd the scene. 
 What numerous ills my soul invade. 
 While melancholy spreads her shade, 
 
 A prey to vexing spleen. 
 
 The hue of health has left my brow, 
 No more my ardent feelings glow 
 
 With rapturous delight. 
 Dark, boding thoughts my mind assail. 
 And powers of soul and body fail 
 
 Beneath a withering blight. 
 
 Ah ! come again, inspiring mirth ! 
 And stir the languid bosom's dearth 
 
 With thine awak'ning voice. 
 Disperse the gloomy clouds that spread. 
 In lowering shadows o'er my head. 
 
 And bid my soul rejoice. 
 
71 
 
 TO MELANCHOLY. 
 
 Rapt nymph with earth-ward bending view. 
 And pensive face of pallid hue, 
 
 Contemplatively wild. 
 In vain I strive to shun thy sight, 
 Thy very frowns are my delight. 
 
 Affliction's wayward child. 
 
 In infancy's unthinking hour. 
 
 Ere yet misfortune's chastening pow'r 
 
 Had weigh'd my spirit down, 
 I sought with thee, in solitude. 
 From noisy strife and clamours rude, 
 
 A refuge sad and lone. 
 
 And still with thee I love to rove, 
 By haunted stream or shadowy grove, 
 
 Neath moonlight's pensive sway. 
 Or where a never ending night. 
 Thick verdure scarce admits of light, 
 
 A solitary ray. 
 
 To linger by some ancient tow'r. 
 That stands, of time's decaying pow'r 
 
 A mouldering monument. 
 While sweeping through deserted halls. 
 Re-echoed from the tottering walls. 
 
 The moaning blast is sent. 
 
72 
 
 But most with thee I love to tread 
 The silent mansions, where the dead 
 
 Repose in lonely gloom. 
 Where solitude and stillness throw 
 A calm o'er those who sleep below. 
 
 The sabbath of the tomb. 
 
 Thou lov'st to dwell upon the past, 
 Thy retrospective glance to cast 
 
 Upon the times gone by. 
 While venerable shades of yore, 
 In garb sepulchral crowd before 
 
 Thy fancy's gloomy eye. 
 
 Thou art the nurse of wild romance, 
 And genius catches from thy glance 
 
 Exulting ecstacies. 
 The flame his frenzied eye that fires 
 Thou light'st, and 'tis thy soul insp ires 
 
 His burning reveries. 
 
 Thy presence hath a hallow'd charm, 
 Which can e'en wisdom's pow'r disarm. 
 
 Can pleasure's influence quell. 
 Such beauty thou dost lend to grief. 
 We strive not e'er to seek relief 
 
 From thine absorbing spell. *^ 
 
 * La melancolie est une volupte serieuse. 
 
 Montaigne. 
 
73 
 
 Sweet hour of moonlight's pensive sway, 
 How, lovelier far than gaudier day! 
 Robing each scene of hill or dale, 
 Within thy soft and silvery veil, 
 I love to gaze upon thy light, 
 So sweetly fair, so mildly bright. 
 
 Thy placid smiles which all invest. 
 Compose the troubled soul to rest. 
 And hush in silent, soft repose 
 The bosom's agonizing throes. 
 Sweet hour ! thou giv'st thy gentle tone 
 To all thy radiance shines upon. 
 
 Thy soft expanse of mellow light 
 Shed gently o'er the face of night. 
 Imparts a feeling to the mind 
 Intense, pathetic, calm, refin'd. 
 And to my view thou seem'st to be 
 The hour of nature's reverie. 
 
 How often have I lonely stray'd 
 With anxious footstep through the glade 
 The partner of my love to meet. 
 While thrill'd my soul with visions sweet, 
 Mov'd by thine influence from above. 
 Sweet hour ! thou sure wert made for love. 
 7* 
 
74 
 
 When leaning o'er the vessel's side 
 The sea boy views the rolling tide, 
 While sportively the billows dance, 
 Lit by thy brightly glimmering glance, 
 He thinks upon his distant home, 
 And sighs the fate that made him roam : 
 
 For crowds upon his pensive thought 
 Each pleasing scene by memory wrought. 
 When 'neath thy heavenly beaming ray 
 In childhood he was wont to play. 
 And sad, he thinks, how long before 
 His eyes shall greet his native shore. 
 
 The tints which daylight brings to view, 
 
 Thou minglest in one milder hue. 
 
 And though indeed less bright, less gay. 
 
 Thou seemest but a softer day : 
 
 Delightful hour ! to thee is giv*n 
 
 A look, a tone, which breathes of heav'n. 
 
75 
 
 LINES 
 
 Up.on viewing in the LouvrCt the celebrated fiicture 
 supfiosed to represent the mistress of Titian. 
 
 Being of light and love, whose form. 
 The pictur'd traits of vanish'd life, 
 
 Is yet with animation warm. 
 With glowing loveliness so rife, 
 
 Wert thou indeed a child of earth. 
 
 Or but a dream's ecstatic birth •* 
 
 If thou didst live, I envy much 
 The happy mortal who possess'd 
 
 Those matchless charms of heavenly touch, 
 Who with an angel's love was blest : 
 
 'Tis bliss to look upon that face, 
 
 What then to clasp in love's embrace ! 
 
 If thou wast not, I envy still 
 
 The unrivall'd soul that could command, 
 And call before its view at will. 
 
 Such beings, that with fancy's wand 
 Could people earth with forms like this. 
 And revel in the ideal bliss. 
 
76 
 
 While gazing- on thy radiant brow, 
 Thy dove-like eye, and raptur'd cheek, 
 
 Methinks a bright, seraphic glow 
 Is kindled in thine aspect meek. 
 
 Thy charms are so unearthly fair. 
 
 Thou seem'st a rainbow thing of air. 
 
 Perhaps thou wert a remnant lone 
 Of those bright beings who of yore 
 
 From their high seats woo'd angels down 
 To earth, as taught in holy lore : 
 
 If still such forms below had birth 
 
 Were heaven a fit exchange for earth ? 
 
 3 
 
77 
 
 THE MOOR'S LAMENT. 
 
 I have somewhere read, that the Moors, wlien driven 
 from Spain by their relentless conquerors, would for 
 g-enerations after, visit the shore of Barbary, and casting 
 their eyes over the waters towards their lamented coun- 
 try, slied tears for its loss, and offer up vows for its re- 
 covery. 
 
 On the silent shore an old man stood. 
 His locks were white and spare. 
 
 And he gaz'd upon the sullen flood, 
 With a melancholy air. 
 
 Deep plung'd in reverie he seem'd, 
 
 That sad and lonely one, 
 As if of days gone by, he dream 'd. 
 
 Of joys decay'd and flown. 
 
 And ever and anon he would 
 
 Lift up his hollow eye. 
 And peer, as if beyond the flood 
 
 Some far off^ land to spy. 
 
 Vainly his vision wander'd wide, 
 Tho' bright the heav'ns expanse, 
 
 And calm and smooth the ocean tide. 
 Nought met his searching glance. 
 
78 
 
 The tear drops gather'd in his eye, 
 
 And roll'd his cheeks adown, 
 And his bosom heav'd an aching sigh, 
 
 As sad he stood, and lone. 
 
 " And ah !" he cried, " shall I ne'er again 
 
 Thy lovely shores behold, 
 Delightful Spain ! delightful Spain ! 
 
 Where my fathers dwelt of old. 
 
 Thine is the land where in beauteous glow, 
 
 The flower and fruit unite. 
 O'er beds of gold thy rivers flow. 
 
 And thy heav'n is pure and bright. 
 
 The joyous days of youth I sped 
 Mid thy fountains cool and bow'rs. 
 
 Ere the sons of the prophet sorrowing fled 
 From the sword of the haughty giaours. 
 
 Grenada ! Grenada ! thy lofty walls 
 
 Are levell'd to the ground. 
 The maidens and swains that danc'd in thy halls. 
 
 Are there no longer found. 
 
 The stranger hath made the Alhambra his 
 home. 
 
 Each beauteous grove and bow'r, 
 And fountain reflecting the orange tree's bloom, 
 
 Hath pass'd to the infidel's pow'r. 
 
79 
 
 The sons of the prophet are scatter 'd wide. 
 
 In distant realms they stray. 
 They weep when they think of their fallen pride, 
 
 And their splendour past away. 
 
 And with constant pray'r their hearts implore 
 
 The God who reigns above. 
 That again to their vows he would restore 
 The country of their love. 
 
 And shalt not mine aged eyes again 
 
 Thy lovely shores behold. 
 Delightful Spain ! delightful Spain ! 
 
 Where my fathers dwelt of old ?" 
 
80 
 
 Why shrouds unchanging gloom the brow 
 And flows the never ceasing tear •* 
 
 Though adverse fortune darken now. 
 Let hope the sinking spirit cheer. 
 
 Then weep no longer, child of sorrow ! 
 
 A brighter hour will come to-morrow. 
 
 Affliction cannot always last. 
 Misfortune will not ever lower. 
 
 The fiercest storms are quickest past, 
 A calm succeeds the tempest's power. 
 
 Then weep no longer, child of sorrow ! 
 
 A brighter hour will come to-morrow. 
 
 The fairest day must set in night. 
 And summer yield to winter's gloom, 
 
 But darkness flies the morning light. 
 And earth revives in vernal bloom, 
 
 Then weep no longer, child of sorrow ! 
 
 A brighter hour will come to-morrow. 
 
81 
 
 Say, stranger, would'st thou know for whom 
 Was rais'd this lone, sequester'd tomb. 
 Whose simple head with wreaths is crownd, 
 Cull'd from the flowers that bloom around ? 
 
 She was a fair and lovely maid. 
 In all the charms of youth array'd, 
 Whose lover left his native land. 
 To combat on a distant strand. 
 
 And thus the mournful tidings came, 
 That urged by glory's stirring flame. 
 He sought the battle's thickest tide^ 
 And bravely fighting, bled and died. 
 
 There came no tear into her eye. 
 Her aching breast heav'd not a sigh. 
 As this was told, but one faint shriek 
 Was all her anguish'd soul could wreak. 
 
 She did not even speak his name. 
 From her prest lips no lament came. 
 Sole sign of grief, the deadly hue 
 That o'er her cheek its paleness threw. 
 
 A father's pray'r, a mother's wail. 
 Could nought upon her woe prevail, 
 Silent she sate, as though her ear 
 Refus'd their soothing tones to hear. 
 8 
 
82 
 
 And oft with pensive step she sought 
 This valley near, whose groves were fraught 
 With fond memorials of the hours. 
 When love and bliss were in its bowers. 
 
 Yes, hither would she frequent come. 
 With heedless, sauntering step to roam, 
 Her madness was of silent mood. 
 And memory was its bitter food. 
 
 A stranger enter'd, as she stray'd 
 One day in her accustom'd glade. 
 In the proud garb of glory drest. 
 The star of honour on his breast. 
 
 He enters, sudden stops, and then 
 With hasty step proceeds again. 
 Again he stops, "Ah ! can it be? 
 " Yes ! yes !" he cries, " 'tis she ! 'tis she \" 
 
 He rush'd and clasp'd her to his breast. 
 His throbbing heart her bosom prest. 
 He spoke not, but the frequent tear 
 Fell showering on her temples clear. 
 
 At length he could pronounce the name 
 Whose tone he lov'd, no answer came, 
 She seem'd to cling unto his heart. 
 But not a breath her lips impart. 
 
83 
 
 He press'd her face with tender glow, 
 Cold was the damp upon her brow. 
 Wildly his maddening eyeballs stray, 
 A corpse within his arms she lay. 
 
84 
 
 How few the joys man's life affords 
 
 To satisfy his high desires ! 
 How little that he meets, accords 
 
 With that for which his soul aspires ! 
 Vainly he looks around to find 
 Scenes that are pictur'd in his mind. 
 
 He seems a being form'd to dwell 
 In realms not such as here below. 
 
 The thoughts that in his bosom swell. 
 Kindle with an unearthly glow. 
 
 Perhaps a wanderer from a clime. 
 
 More suited to his soul sublime. 
 
 A longing stirs within his heart, 
 And agitates his anxious breast. 
 
 For objects earth cannot impart. 
 Nor lull his lofty soul to rest, 
 
 A feeling high and undefin'd. 
 
 That racks in vain his restless mind. 
 
 Is it of heavenly fire a spark 
 
 That still inspires his earthly frame, 
 A glimmering lamp amid th'e dark, 
 
 To point his soul from whence it came, 
 A ray divine, whose light is giv'n 
 To mark his kindredship with heav'n ? 
 
85 
 
 REPLY TO A FREQUENT QUESTION. 
 
 Why am I sad ? ah ! can I smile 
 Mid sorrow, suffering, care and toil. 
 And all the ills Avhich make our life 
 A pilgrimage of pain and strife •* 
 
 Why am I sad ? but look around 
 And view earth to its farthest bound. 
 Can aught thou seeest make thee gay, 
 Thou sportive thing of fragile clay ? 
 
 Why am I sad ? where seek for rest 
 With vultures preying in the breast. 
 Passions that crave in vain their food. 
 And tumults boiling in the blood ? 
 
 Why am I sad ? behold that form 
 Now icy cold, but late 'twas warm 
 With glowing hope, and soft desire, 
 And kindled with celestial fire. 
 
 Why am I sad ? that ancient man 
 Shall answer for me, well he can, 
 Does aught he speaks thy bosom cheer ? 
 His only answer is a tear. 
 
 8* 
 
86 
 
 Why am I sad ? behold the car 
 That bears the blood-stain'd god of war, 
 Plagues, famines, earthquakes, storms, arise. 
 And banish gladness from mine eyes. 
 
 Why am I sad ? I stand upon 
 The dust of generations gone; 
 Like those, I soon must pass away, 
 And night involve my transient day. 
 
87 
 
 Oh ! the bright days when youth had pow'r 
 To lend a charm to ev'ry hour. 
 When nature seem'd for ever fair. 
 And undisturb'd by anxious care. 
 With heedless step along we mov'd. 
 And gather'd joys where'er we rov'd. 
 
 Oh ! the bright days when early love 
 First in the panting bosom strove. 
 And with a magic influence stole 
 Into the unpolluted soul. 
 When spread before the ravish'd eyes 
 A fair, enchanting paradise. 
 
 Oh! the bright days, when fairy dreams, 
 Array 'd in fancy's loveliest beams. 
 We fondly deem'd would never pass, 
 Now faded, vanish'd, all, alas ! 
 Ah ! could such blissful ign'rance stay. 
 Nor yield to truth's relentless ray. 
 
 Oh ! the bright days when unconfin'd. 
 In future regions rov'd the mind. 
 When by experience sad, untaught, 
 Angelic hope, gay visions wrought. 
 And spread before the raptur'd view 
 Scenes deck'd with ev'ry heavenly hue. 
 
88 
 
 Oh ! the bright days when all things smil'd, 
 Ere through life's thorny paths we toil'd. 
 Ere yet by frequent sorrows scarr'd. 
 The bosom callous grew and hard, 
 Ah ! those bright days for which we burn. 
 Are gone and never to return. 
 
 
89 
 
 A DREAM AT SEVENTEEN. 
 
 The fervid sun now past the midway heav'n, 
 Mov'd on with languid pace tow'rd milder ev'n, 
 Oppress'd with heat and toil I bent my course 
 To where a cooling fountain took its source. 
 
 Here on a mossy bank, beneath a tree. 
 
 My couch the turf, verdure my canopy, 
 
 I sank in sweet forgetfulness to rest. 
 
 While zephyrs bland my senseless form carest. 
 
 Scarce were my weary eyes in slumber seal'd 
 And by their curtains from the day conceal'd, 
 When sportive fancy, gay, aerial queen. 
 Of bright, unreal forms compos'd a scene. 
 
 A blooming garden round me spread, mettiought 
 With ev'ry charm, for every sense, twas fraught, 
 A thousand flow'rs their varied gifts unite, 
 Some by their fragrance, some their hues, delight. 
 
 Here stretch'd a silver lake its smooth expanse, 
 Upon whose polish'd face the sunbeams dance, 
 There rose a shady grove in stately form, 
 An equal shelter from the heat and storm. 
 
90 
 
 With various fruits the bending branches hung, 
 And on the breeze their spicy odours flung, 
 With sweetest songs of birds the ear was charm 'd. 
 And ev'ry sense, and ev'ry feeling warm'd. 
 
 It seem'd a hallow'd spot, by heaven design'd 
 As a fit refuge for a weary mind. 
 Where freed from worldly cares and worldly foes, 
 In soft security it might repose. 
 
 Enraptur'd as upon this scene I gaz'd, 
 
 A sudden change my wondering view amaz'd, 
 
 As if by talismanic power deform'd, 
 
 The garden to a desert stood transform'd. 
 
 Where late the lake a stagnant pool was seen. 
 Its surface cover'd by the mantling green. 
 Some leafless shrubs of all the grove remain'd. 
 Whose lofty summit late the earth disdain'd. 
 
 No flowers of brightest hue, nor odours sweet, 
 Nor cheerful song of birds the senses greet. 
 But bowlings of the blast whose scorching breath, 
 Like the fell simoom's swoop, seem'd big with death. 
 
 The heavens were of a lurid cast, as when 
 An earthquake threats to leave his gloomy den. 
 Nor sun, nor moon, nor stars, met the strain'd eye, 
 But baleful meteors glared athwart the sky. 
 
91 
 
 A wild tornado sweeping o'er the land, 
 Heaved like old ocean's waves the burning sand. 
 When at the thunder's voice, and lightning's gleam. 
 Startling, I woke, and shudder'd at my dream. 
 
92 
 
 Ah ! how it grieves the soul to part 
 
 From those we fondly love, 
 Condemn'd, lone exiles of the heart. 
 
 In solitude to rove. 
 While clings remembrance of the past. 
 All that of happiness can last. 
 
 That sound so desolate, farewell. 
 
 Falls mournful on the ear. 
 Of joy the melancholy knell. 
 
 The echo of a tear. 
 It sadly antedates the doom 
 That waits within the oblivious tomb. 
 
 How wretched is the fate of man ! 
 
 Since e'en his very joys 
 Prove, soon or late, of bliss the bane. 
 
 As time or chance destroys. 
 And pleasure's smile, and love's delight, 
 Must surely fade in withering blight. 
 
 Poor wanderers on life's weary way. 
 We pass from stage to stage. 
 
 While the frail creatures of a day. 
 Our reckless hearts engage, 
 
 As if eternity were giv'n 
 
 To man below, or earth were heav'n. 
 
93 
 
 Yet vain we seek to still the heart. 
 It bursts the chains that bind. 
 
 And burns with ardour to impart 
 The flame it strives to find. 
 
 Abhorring, spite of all controul. 
 
 The dismal solitude of soul. 
 
94 
 
 LINES 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN IN A GARRET. 
 
 Ye monarchs of the earth proclaim 
 
 The grandeur of your state, 
 Exalt your high and haughty fame, 
 
 I envy not your fate. 
 
 A loftier place I occupy, 
 
 I soar above ye all. 
 And what is more, though rais'd so high, 
 
 Fear not ignoble fall. 
 
 But safely lodg'd, my eye surveys 
 
 The world on ev'ry side, 
 And as with downward view I gaze, 
 
 I feel no common pride. 
 
 And scarce from smiling can refrain, 
 
 To think that I'm possest 
 Of that which all men strive to gain. 
 
 And sacrifice their rest. 
 
 What's thirst of fame, but a desire 
 
 O'er fellow men to rise. 
 An anxious craving to aspire 
 
 And soar toward the skies ? 
 
95 
 
 For this the warrior draws his sword. 
 
 The poet wields his pen, 
 The miser still augments his hoard. 
 
 Ambition curses men. 
 
 I sacrifice nor ease nor joy, 
 
 My station to maintain. 
 Know nought of cares that peace destroy. 
 
 Nor feel suspicion's pain. 
 
 Secure I sit, and look below. 
 
 To fall were e'en to rise. 
 Why should my wishes higher go ? 
 
 A denizen of the skies. 
 
 The earliest sun illumes my head. 
 My state, the stars declare it, 
 
 The cope of heav'n is o'er me spread. 
 High seated in my garret. 
 
96 
 
 LINES 
 
 UPON HEARING A FRIEND COMPLAIN OF THE 
 SLOWNESS OF TIME. 
 
 How slow is time ! ah ! say not so. 
 Swiftly the gliding moments flow. 
 And soon his hastening stream shall be 
 Engulph'd in vast eternity. 
 
 How slow is time ! his constant race 
 Runs with a never failing pace, 
 And rapidly the periods roll. 
 Which bear him to his destin'd goal. 
 
 How slow is time ! ah ! where are fled 
 The countless years already sped ? 
 With hurrying steps they journey'd fast. 
 The future's story is the past. 
 
 How slow is time ! alas ! how fleet ! 
 He wings his way with flying feet, 
 The lightning's glance, the meteor's light 
 Are emblems of his viewless flight. 
 
 How slow is time ! all things beside 
 May check, however swift, their tide, 
 E'en death himself may be delay 'd. 
 Time's ceaseless course is never stay'd. 
 
97 
 
 The lines of which I offer a translation below, were 
 written by the French poet Gilbert, a few days before 
 his death, which took place at the ag-e of twenty-nine, 
 in the hospital of the Hotel Dieu at Paris, whither he 
 had been carried in a state of derangement, from the 
 adjoining palace of his patron, M. de Beaumont, the 
 Archbishop. The fate of this interesting" and highly 
 gifted young man, was most melancholy and heart-rend- 
 ing. His principal productions are two satires of distin- 
 guished merit, in which he lashes with unsparing seve- 
 rity, the French philosophers of the eighteenth century, 
 and stigmatizes in glowing colours, the unblushing vices 
 of the day. These drew down upon him the vengeance 
 of those powerful writers, wliich together with his tem- 
 perament prone to gloom and melancholy, finally redu- 
 ced him to a state of mental distraction. The immediate 
 cause of his death, was a key which he swallowed in a 
 paroxysm of madness, and which adhering in his throat, 
 terminated his existence after some hours of the most 
 hoiTible anguish. The lines which follow, were written 
 in one of his lucid interA^als, a few days before his disso- 
 lution, and derive a melancholy interest from the cir- 
 cumstances under which they were produced. They 
 have always been much admired in France, particularly 
 the last three stanzas, which are irresistibly pathetic and 
 touching. The translation which I offer, may be regard- 
 9* 
 
98 
 
 ed as a pretty fair approximation to the sentiments, 
 thoug-h they cannot g-ive the faintest idea of the inimita- 
 ble beauties of the original. 
 
 The God of innocence hath seen 
 
 My penitential tears, 
 He makes my troubled breast serene, 
 
 And drowns my anxious fears, 
 He yields my suffering soul relief. 
 For his is every child of grief. 
 
 My cruel enemies have cried 
 
 Exulting, " Let him die ! 
 And perish too his name, belied !" 
 
 But thou, Lord, from on high. 
 Hast like a tender father spoke, 
 " Fear not, their hate shall turn its stroke. 
 
 Thy dearest friends are now thy foes, 
 
 They mock thy soul sincere; 
 The mercenary wretch who owes 
 
 To thee his daily cheer. 
 Traffics thine injur'd image, shown 
 Stain'd with the blackness of his own. 
 
 But God thy plaintive accents hears, 
 
 God hearkens to the cry 
 Of deep remorse, baptiz'd in tears. 
 
 And soothes thine agony, 
 God, who with pardoning eye surveys 
 The frailty of misfortune's ways. 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
99 
 
 The voice of pity, I will wake. 
 
 The justice sure of time. 
 And each foul effort shall but make 
 
 Thine honour shine less dim. 
 Thine uncorrupted fame shall rise 
 More pure, more bright, to mortal eyes." 
 
 Oh God ! who deign'st my soul redress 
 
 With virtue's noble pride. 
 Thy grace my heart shall ever bless, 
 
 In which I now confide 
 To guard me in the lonely gloom 
 Of death, and watch above my tomb. 
 
 A sad, a momentary guest. 
 
 Life's banquet me receiv'd. 
 And now I leave the bitter feast. 
 
 My transient course achiev'd. 
 Nor tears shall on the tomb descend 
 Tow'rd which my languid footsteps bend. 
 
 Farewell ! ye pleasant fields, farewell ! 
 
 Sweet verdure of the grove ! 
 Where nameless beauties secret dwell. 
 
 Proud canopy above ! 
 Nature with all thy wondrous store, 
 Farewell ! I ne'er shall greet ye more. 
 
100 
 
 Oh ! may those friends who now refuse 
 
 To listen to the voice 
 With which I pour my last adieus. 
 
 Long in your charms rejoice, 
 And when at last they sink with years, 
 Their eyes be seal'd by friendship's tears. 
 
 I 
 
101 
 
 'Tis sweet when summer rules the sky, 
 And rides the scorching sun aloft, 
 
 Beneath a spreading tree to lie. 
 Beside a fountain murmuring soft ; 
 
 To feel the zephyr's soothing balm 
 Play gently o'er the burning cheek, 
 
 While nature wrapt in holiest calm, 
 No rude alarms the stillness break; 
 
 Reclining soft with book in hand. 
 To pore o'er some delightful tale. 
 
 Till bodied forth by fancy's wand. 
 Flit forms ideal o'er the vale ; 
 
 Or as the expanding feelings glow. 
 
 To hold bright converse with the muse, 
 
 Till numbers soft spontaneous flow, 
 Deck'd with imagination's hues ; 
 
 To glance in raptur'd reverie 
 
 O'er bliss enjoy'd or promis'd yet. 
 
 Survey bright scenes in prospect lie. 
 And present grief in hope forget; 
 
 Till, wearied with its musing task. 
 Soft sinks the soul in slumber's arms. 
 
 In golden dreams of bliss to bask 
 And revel in ideal charms. 
 
102 
 
 Nessun mag-gior clolore 
 Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
 Nella miseria. 
 
 Dante. 
 
 What greater grief than to recall 
 Delights when fled and vanish'd all. 
 To muse o'er joys in time of woe. 
 O'er joys departed long ago, 
 Past pleasure lures the heart in vain. 
 And adds fresh pangs to present pain. 
 
 Hath not each day abundant share 
 
 Of ill for mortal strength to bear. 
 
 That we must add unto its lot 
 
 Vain sighs for what were best forgot. 
 
 And seek the tantalizing pow'r 
 
 Of vanish'd bliss in grief's sad hour ? 
 
 When age involves our years in gloom, 
 
 Say, shall we sigh for childhood's bloom, 
 
 And aggravate our hopeless fate 
 
 With vain regrets for youth's bright state ? 
 
 No ! let each day alone supply 
 
 Its ample share of misery. 
 
103 
 
 May the dim veil of time conceal 
 The bliss we can no longer feel. 
 And may the bitter memory sleep 
 Of joys for which in vain we weep; 
 When recollection's pow'r is grief, 
 Forgetfulness is best relief. 
 
104 
 
 TRANSLATION 
 
 OF A SONNET OF PETRARCH. 
 
 Mid desert paths and solitary ways, 
 Pensive and lone, my languid steps I wend, 
 And my^sad eyes with anxious vision bend 
 Where the still ground no human trace displays; 
 My only refuge this, against the gaze 
 Importunate which curious mortals send. 
 And in my looks of joy bereft, portend 
 The inward flame that on my spirit preys; 
 And thus the mountain and the silent vale. 
 The groves and streams my soul's grief under- 
 stand. 
 Which is a hidden pain to others' eye,; 
 But yet such rugged path, or savage dale. 
 Where love can come not, vainly I demand. 
 For converse prompt, he evermore is nigh. 
 
105 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 ON THE FIELD OF MARENGO. 
 
 And is it here, on this fair quiet spot. 
 Where nought is heard around, nor aught is seen, 
 Save song of birds, and spring's delightful green. 
 Embattled nations met in combat hot. 
 To cast with human lives the awful lot. 
 Decisive of an empire's fate, between 
 Legions of maddening foes of various mien. 
 Where fellfa^^hero not by victory smote ? 
 Oh ! what a lesson here may glory read. 
 Where earth, regardless of man's petty wrath, 
 Riots and fattens on his richest blood. 
 'Tis sickening to behold, as slow I tread. 
 The flowers that garnish desolation's path. 
 Nourished by mortals with their vital flood. 
 
 10 
 
106 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 i 
 
 The venerable church of Sante Croce, in Florence, 
 contains the ashes of Gahleo, MachiaveUi, Michel Ange- 
 lo, and Alfieri. 
 
 Tomb of the mighty dead, illustrious shrine ! 
 
 Where genius in the majesty of death. 
 
 Reposes solemn, sepulchred beneath. 
 
 Temple o'er ev'ry other fane divine ! 
 
 Dark Santa Croce ! in whose dust recline 
 
 Their mouldering relics, whose immortal wreath 
 
 Blooms on unfaded by time's withering breath. 
 
 In these proud ashes what a prize is thine ! 
 
 Sure it is holy ground I tread upon. 
 
 Nor do I breathe unconsecrated air. 
 
 As rapt, I gaze on each undying name ; 
 
 These monuments are fragments of the throne 
 
 Once rear'd by genius on this spot so fair. 
 
 When Florence was the seat of arts and early fame. 
 
107 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Fair Italy ! thou country of the tomb, 
 
 Deck'd with the garlands that o'erhang the grave. 
 
 Soft land of loveliness ! where nought is, save 
 
 The beauteous relics of thy faded bloom. 
 
 Soon may the day of retribution come 
 
 Destin'd to break the fetters that enslave 
 
 Those who were once the mighty and the brave, 
 
 Monarchs of earth, sons of imperial Rome. 
 
 For though a stranger on thy far fam'd shore, 
 
 A lonely wanderer from a distant strand. 
 
 Yet as I pore o'er each illustrious spoil, 
 
 And warm with rapture at thy living lore, 
 
 I feel my heart with filial glow expand. 
 
 And love thee as my own, Ausonia's matchless soil 
 
108 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Ah ! whence, oh life ! the secret charm thou hast, 
 That mortals should to thee for ever clmg ? 
 Tho' time bears off on his untiring wing 
 Each day some fond illusion of the past. 
 And shows the future land of promise waste; 
 While joys departed leave a bitter sting. 
 Nor doth each sad to-morrow fail to bring 
 Some new affliction fiercer than the last : 
 Yet nought the fetters can unloose that bind 
 The soul to earth, nor weary us with life. 
 Though with increasing evil ever fraught; 
 How few when death advances, are resign'd 
 To leave a world with ceaseless suffering rife. 
 Whose rare enjoyments are so dearly bought. 
 
109 
 FRAGMENTS 
 
 FROM AN ABANDONED POEM. 
 
 These thoughts that wander thro' Eternity. 
 
 Paradise Lost. 
 
 When the full season of the year is past 
 And fiercely threatening howls the wintry blast, 
 When the sad trees have shed their verdant dress. 
 And herb and flower have lost their loveliness. 
 When turned to stone the rills refuse to flow. 
 And earth is mantled in a shroud of snow. 
 Dark, gathering clouds deform the lowering air. 
 And nature seems a desert bleak and bare ; 
 Amid the desolation of this scene, 
 Made gloomier by the thought of what has been. 
 This dreary waste, this melancholy dearth 
 Of every charm that cheer'd the face of earth. 
 What then can gladness to the soul impart. 
 Or soothe and animate the sinking heart.^ 
 The cheering prospect of approaching spring. 
 Of days which renovated joy shall bring, 
 Of brighter suns to gild the year's gay morn 
 And with rich fruits replenish plenty's horn. 
 When each fair flower shall beauteously expand 
 And breathe a fragrant odour o'er the land. 
 When murmuring rills through meadows green shall 
 glide 
 
 10* 
 
1! 
 
 110 
 
 And blooming forests crown the mountain's side. 
 When jocund flocks along the hills shall stray. 
 And nature's music usher in the day. 
 Thus man for refuge from his mortal fate 
 Flies to the prospect of a future state. 
 From earth's low regions lifts his eye sublime. 
 And looks beyond to Heaven's eternal clime; 
 Some happy goal where, run his toilsome race. 
 His weary steps shall find a resting place, 
 Where safely landed on some blissful shore, 
 Sorrow and care shall visit him no more. 
 But all his sufferings here below forgot. 
 Pleasure unmix'd with pain shall be his lot; 
 Where anxious fears no more shall rack his soul. 
 No bitter drops invade joy's ever- sparkling bowl. 
 
 Who hath not felt at times within him rise 
 Some anxious, craving, heav'n-ward tending sighs. 
 Some high desires that fill the glowing breast 
 With lofty aspirations to be blest ? 
 Who hath not felt his kindling bosom glow 
 With thoughts that proudly spurned at all below. 
 Thoughts nameless, boundless, undefin'd and high. 
 Glancing from time into eternity ? 
 Gifted with godlike powers and a mind 
 That glows with feelings of unearthly kind. 
 With faculties that ever on the stretch 
 Still grasp at objects far beyond their reach, 
 With thoughts that wander busy o'er the past. 
 And through the future's veil their prying vision 
 cast; 
 
Ill 
 
 If with his present state man's being cease, 
 His property in life a transient lease. 
 If night eternal swallow up his days. 
 The grave his everlasting dwelling-place. 
 Then of all creatures that inhabit earth. 
 Most cause has he to mourn his hapless birth ; 
 Each lofty feeling of the soul a curse. 
 Of pining discontent the fostering nurse, 
 A cankering worm that ever mars his rest. 
 Each high desire infus'd within the breast. 
 Urging his restless spirit still to etrive 
 For what no sublunary joy can give, 
 An ignis fatuus of the erring mind, 
 A vision false to tantalize the blind. 
 Much better would it with his station suit, 
 If, dull and heedless like the stupid brute, 
 His wishes were to sensual joys confin'd. 
 To pleasures gross, ignoble, unrefin'd. 
 And satisfied alone to eat and drink, 
 He ne'er aspir'd to reason or to think, 
 Nor ever enter'd in his ardent mind, 
 Visions of future bliss, celestial, undefin'd. 
 
 ******** 
 
 With aspect shrouded in monastic veil 
 Mark in her cloister'd cell the virgin pale. 
 See clad in coarsest serge that form divine. 
 Those lovely limbs where matchless graces shine 
 The parting robe betrays the snowy breast 
 Where no fond wish disturbs eternal rest, 
 Banish'd by c^lm devotion's holy frame 
 Each earthly feeling and each passion's flame. 
 
112 
 
 Cold, rigid abstinence, remains alone, 
 
 Where late entwin'd gay pleasure's purple zone. 
 
 The hope of future bliss absorbs her mind, 
 
 For this she leaves the dwellings of mankind. 
 
 And mortifies in penitential grief 
 
 The world's amusements and its pleasures brief; 
 
 Her glowing fancy, with enraptur'd eyes. 
 
 Views scenes of heavenly joys in prospect rise, 
 
 Sees wandering in the fields of bliss above 
 
 The parted objects of her former love. 
 
 And kindling as the ecstacy prolongs. 
 
 Hears angels hymn their beatific songs. 
 
 This hope consoles the hermit in his hut. 
 
 Far from the noisy world for ever shut. 
 
 With this, the stream that murmurs at his side 
 
 Is sweeter than the vineyard's purple tide. 
 
 With this he loves his scant, abstemious board 
 
 Far more than if with costly viands stor'd. 
 
 And finds within his solitary glen 
 
 More bliss than in the busy haunts of men. 
 
 Joyous he hails the oft returning day. 
 
 While peacefully his moments glide away, 
 
 Till age at length exhausts his weary breath. 
 
 And soft he sinks into the arms of death. 
 
 The martyr fasten'd to the cruel stake 
 
 Exults in suffering for his conscience's sake, 
 
 With eye complacent views the scorching flames. 
 
 And to the last his steadfast faith proclaims. 
 
 The kindling fires that round him fiercely glow. 
 
 But show the calm that settles on h\^ brow. 
 
113 
 
 But mark the fortitude and high disdain 
 
 With which he triumphs over mortal pain; 
 
 Visions of bright reward his pangs controul. 
 
 Exulting hope supports his shrinking soul. 
 
 And glorying in such holy cause to die. 
 
 His shouts triumphant rend the lofty sky. 
 
 This hope with firmness nerv'd the Athenian's soul 
 
 When calm he drank the deadly poison'd bowl. 
 
 And high in virtue's majesty arose 
 
 Above the bitter malice of his foes. 
 
 'Twas this the soul of godlike Cato stay'd 
 
 When rushing on the self-directed blade. 
 
 He thus the Csesar's tyrant pow'r defied. 
 
 And rather than submit with Roman courage died. 
 
 What state will not this heavenly prospect cheer ? 
 
 It soothes each pang, relieves each anxious fear. 
 
 It wipes the tear from pale affliction's eye. 
 
 And softens to a smile the rising sigh, 
 
 Blunts the sharp point of fierce misfortune's dart 
 
 And heals the wounds which canker in the heart, 
 
 In smiles it robes e'en death's terrific face 
 
 And turns each horrid feature to a grace. 
 
 Its brightening hopes life's closing scene illume, 
 
 And throw a brilliant halo round the tomb. 
 
 ********* 
 
 O grant me but this hope, celestial pow'r ! 
 To light the darkness of my dying hour. 
 Grant but a glimpse of heavenly bliss to cheer. 
 And chace away each cruel, lingering fear. 
 
114 
 
 With dissolution's pangs I'll firmly strive. 
 Nor breathe one trembling, anxious pray'r to live. 
 My soul with joy shall hail the approach of death. 
 And sounds of rapture seal my parting breath. 
 
 Oi^ 
 
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