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September 10, 2007
Charlotte Payne
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BY S. H.
Braintree:IF it should be enquired—what could induce the writer to submit to the Public aught so uninteresting as the following pieces? (most of which were written many years since, and not intended for publication.) The answer is a painful one.—Years of deep Affliction and Adversity have impelled the painful task.
To those Friends who have so kindly interested themselves in obtaining Subscribers, I beg my best acknowledgments; and anticipating the Patronage of a generous Public, I subscribe myself their most gratefully obliged,
S. H.Coggeshall,
December, 1838.
THE heart that sympathy awakes,
Observes each form that misery takes;
Heeds not the land from whence it came,
No prejudice stints Pity's flame;
Compassionates where woe it sees,
Alike Esquimaux or Chinese.
The proud Chinese, behold him now,
Meridian splendor smites his brow;
Tatter'd his garb, his head is bare,
His feet the rugged pavement tare;
He looks, ah! vainly looks to see,
If any eye speaks sympathy.
Some emblem of his country's store,
He offers,—but who heeds the poor?
He passes thro' the city lorn,
And unobserved, except with scorn.
Tho' his deep sighs prolong the breeze,
None, none, regards the poor Chinese.
Say, can the bosom long sustain,
Unheeded, such dire sense of pain?
Far, far from friends and country dear;
Victim of penury severe;
Wand'ring, no ray of hope he sees;—
Despondence chills the poor Chinese.
More than Fortune thee I prize,
Tho' Fashion may perchance despise,
Peerless gem, that shalt remain,
When dissimulations train,
With all her specious arts shall flee,
Thou shalt prevail—Sincerity.
I never taught my face to wear
The smiles of joy, whilst barb'd with care;
Nor will I e'er congratulate
The worthless, if in brilliant state;
Perhaps such conduct might be wise,
Yet 'tis what I must e'er despise.
From Artifice preserve me free,
And dwell with me—Sincerity.
As thro' life changing scenes I stray,
Of adverse hue, or prospects gay,
Whatever fortune may attend,
Where'er I go, be still my friend;
The future, as the past let be,
All, all thy own—Sincerity.
SAY, what is Life? probation hard,
Where merit rarely meets regard;
What are its hopes? illusion sweet,
Youth believes, but finds deceit.
Experience comes, precept'ress stern,
We sicken whilst her task we learn;
She gives so much to reprobate
Philanthrophy
might almost hate.
Thus in youth, the ardent mind,
With notions generous, too refined;
Too deeply disappointed feels,
As Life its base alloy reveals;
Fastidious with disgust, surveys,
The cunning of the worldling's ways;
With scorn, with pity, sees the mind,
To baseness sink, for worth designed;
Resigns to melancholic mood,
And fancies Life contains no good.
Rash conclusion, false and vain,
Life has bliss, tho' mix'd with pain;
Youth draws Life's picture without shade,
Sees with surprise its brilliance fade.
Unheeding lets despondence seize,
Because its pasing
moments teaze;
Ah! how unwise, thus to resign,
Without an effort sink supine;
Know that each state the active soul,
May dignify, if not control.
WOMAN, would'st thou dare attain
The state for which thou wert designed,
Leave thy idle triumph's vain
And cultivate thy active mind.
Deserve the "suffrage of the wise"
And folly's plaudits cease to prize.
Tho' ignorance and pride conjoin,
Woman to enthral their slave;
Subversive of the grand design,
Th' Almighty Architect first gave.
Who sure in nature's beauteous plan,
Design'd her friend, not slave of man;
And separate pow'r did thus confer,
Gave him protection,—solace her.
Dearly is that protection sold,
To woman in her present state;
How seldom granted but for gold,
Whilst she is deem'd subordinate;
Perversion strange, yet such we find,
Oft fetters man's enlighten'd mind.
Small education stints her pow'rs,
To him is wisdom's page display'd;
In learning, science, proud he tow'rs,
Her little talent's hid in shade.
Superior judgment deep and clear,
Doth man's prerogative appear.
Taste, elegance, and fancy's flow'rs,
Embellish woman's lighter mind;
She calls them to amuse his hours,
Nor seeks their further aid to find.
Content if haughty man approves,
Who female talent seldom loves.
WHEN twilight's shade makes grey the plains,
And pensive meditation reigns,
When Nature sheds around repose,
And all meets rest but human woes;
Ah! then I dearly love to stray,
And think of friends far, far away.
Then faithful memory brings to view
The scenes that time can ne'er renew:
Ingenious youth's romantic hours,
Emboss'd with friendship's sweetest flow'rs,
Hours when enthusiasm warm'd,
And hopes bright pencil doubly charm'd;
With faithless brilliance tho' it deck'd,
Yet, yet I love the retrospect;
And welcome twilight's sombre grey,
Beyond bright Sol's meridian ray.
SHORT was her part on Life's wide stage,
Yet her's was "honourable age."
I knew her, in Life's early hours,
We cull'd together Fancy's flow'rs;
Then, her vivacity was such,
As tempered my romantic touch.
If native worth, if talents rare,
Of fame could make her deathless heir;
Fame should be hers, whilst time shall last,
But time itself is waning fast.
Wise was her choice, a nobler prize,
She sought a treasure in the skies!
Firm was her faith, it marked her way
To realms of everlasting day.
DID'ST thou ne'er see an insect small,
Prais'd for its industry by all,
Extracting sweets from ev'ry flower,
And toiling till protracted hour;
Where'er it could a blossom see,
And it was call'd, a Honey Bee.
But whilst nectareous sweets it stor'd,
A poison mingled with its hoard!
Unseen, amidst its treasure lurk'd,
Unfear'd its fatal havoc work'd,
Until too late for remedy,
To antidote the Honey Bee.
Thus oft while fortune's prize pursuing,
Is Avarice the mind undoing.
THERE is a being misery scares,
Who yet to live, and suffer dares;
Of friends, health, spirits, fortune 'reft,
Hath still the sense of suff'ring left;
Shrinks, lest there lurks some barb of fate,
To pierce more deep the Desolate.
There is for all, in God who trust,
A hope to rise among the just;
From pain, death, sickness, sorrow free,
The heirs of Immortality;
And death may but unfold the gate,
Of endless joy to the Desolate.
WHAT is this Life? a noon-day dream,
Whose fleeting joys with anguish teem;
A beauteous flow'r that fades ere night,
A vapour that deludes our sight.
Yet 'tis to us a blessing sure,
And rightly used will such endure.
Our native boon, whate'er our state,
One we cannot alienate;
Time, rich prerogative, is ours,
'Tis now we may improve its hours;
Or wing'd with joys, or press'd with cares,
For us the future it prepares;
Unheeded tho' it seems to fly,
'Tis recorded eternally.
SAY, with what rapt sensations of delight,
The first blue headland meets the sailor's sight;
He seeks his natal shore, in hope to find,
His friends all happy, and his Emma kind.
But in his absence, sad reverse was theirs,
His friends were luckless, and the maid had cares;
Fear chill'd her heart, lest he should ne'er return,
And fancy pictur'd Henry's distant urn.
AS dew is genial to the flow'r,
That droops beneath the solar beams;
Such, to the soul, in sorrow's hour,
The soothing voice of Friendship seems.
Refrigerant of the wearied mind,
By dire afflictions deeply prest;
It yieldeth consolation kind,
And wounded spirits soothes to rest.
FAR, far from town, 'midst rural shades,
Deep solitude the soul pervades;
Friendly to virtue—forms the heart—
But judgment gives not—gives not art;
Reverse of these, far lighter pow'rs,
Wreath their gay festoons round her bow'rs;
Imagination, sprightly hope,
Range in her shades, with ample scope.
Captive the heart and mind oft take,
(Reason can scarce their influence shake,)
With fascinating softness—bland,
Widely their dang'rous pow'r expand;
Temper the mind to feeling keen,
Unfitting for life's trying scene.
For if the lot should e'er be cast,
To meet the world's tempestuous blast;
ALTHO' to bloom the fig-tree fail;
Tho' famine o'er the fields prevail;
Tho' from the fold the flock be torn,
And every stall be left forlorn:
Yet will I give to God the praise,
Who leads me safe thro' trouble's maze.
HAST thou, say, from fortune hurl'd,
Prov'd the friendship of the world?
Did she, with consoling smile,
Seek thy sorrow to beguile?
Ah! no, thou hast not found her such,
Her smiles fled at Misfortune's touch.
Perchance advice was giv'n aloof,
In kindness rivaling reproof;
Till indignation throb'd thy heart,
And caused the bitter tear to start.
But tell not how thy spirit felt,
If they insulting pity dealt.
But did a real friend then greet,
Extacy was tasted sweet;
Felt that bliss was giv'n to thee,
Tho' hapless seem'd thy destiny:
The world and Fortune's frowns forgot,
Whilst that sweet solace blest thy lot.
IS there a name Benevolence holds dear?
A name each child of mercy must revere;
'Tis Wilberforce, whose active mind, endued
With humane feeling, steadily pursued
One glorious object:—freedom to a race,
Whose slavery was Europe's fell disgrace.
What is Oppression?—fellest of the fell;
But who ne'er felt it vainly seeks to tell;
Subversive of divine and moral plan,
It desolates, it spoils the heart of man.
Dearer than hard earned victory to the brave,
Emancipation to the meanest slave;
The wretched Ethiop need seek no more,
Death,—in the hope to gain his native shore.
Hail, noble Patriot, hail! be thine the meed
Of grateful tears, from Afric's children freed;
Thine, that extatic source of pure delight,
The internal consciousness of acting right.
Hast thou, say, by hope deluded,
Feasted in ideal bliss,
Till reality intruded,
And pronounced thy lot be this?
Hast thou felt chill disappointment,
Till the soul unnerv'd became?
Hast thou shrunk from Heav'n's appointment,
Or submissive met the same?
Hast thy soul, alive to feeling,
Giv'n to ev'ry woe a tear?
And from observation stealing,
Pity's tribute shed—sincere.
Hast thou felt, and hast thou trembled,
At Oppression's iron hand;
Indignation ill dissembled,
Till it broke the slavish band?
Hast thou these, and more than these,
Felt, or suffer'd, or enjoy'd?
I boot not, did they pain or please,
All but their memory is destroy'd.
HITHER, midway on the road,
Ere I had chosen an abode,
A Fairy form, dispensing flow'rs,
Around the train of passing hours,
Threw her light veil before my sight,
And rob'd each prospect with delight;
And thro' that magic medium seen,
E'en Summer wore more brilliant green:
The lively height'ned into gay,
And brighter seem'd solsticial day;
Ambrosia mingled with the air,
The rich gift of Hygeia fair.
No new discoveries I achieve,
Or tell what natives can't believe,
As a late modern tourist found,
My fav'rite vale on rising ground!
But far more fav'rite spot—the Grove,
Where elegance delights to rove;
In which a cottage pleased me more
Than ever mansion did before.
The summit of the Grove attain'd,
Luxuriant prospect hence is gain'd:
Kent's beauteous hills the distance bound—
Rich fields and villages surround;
And admiration catches still,
New objects round by Denmark Hill,
And beauty's fascination plays
O'er the rapt sense where'er we gaze.
A stranger to Great B∗∗∗∗∗∗ stray'd,
Affliction had her heart dismay'd,
She rov'd in search of milder air,
In hope to meet Hygeia there;
Faint was that hope, for reason chid,
Nor let it cheer the Invalid.
The stranger, friendless and unknown,
Unheeded thought to sit alone;
Here, where unhop'd, 'twas hers to find,
Bland Friendship, with congenial mind;
Whose kind attentions this forbid,
Whose converse sooth'd the Invalid.
OFT have I look'd around to see
Thy antidote, Calamity.
I look'd to Friendship, but in vain;
Friendship too oft, like meteor train,
Dissolves; "nor leaves a wreck behind,"
To stem misfortune's chilling wind.
Love, I beheld; the vision fled
To realms where tears are never shed;
Uniting with celestial joy,
Disdaining scenes where cares annoy.
But with Misfortune boldly striving,
Fair Hope alone I saw surviving;
Whose rays illum'd beyond the tomb,
Triumphant o'er despair's dark gloom;
And blest Religion, seraph bright,
Conducts thro' Misery's darkest night;
Serenes the storms of life—to calm,
And sheds o'er every wound a balm.
MARK the firm walls, whose gothic pride
Seem modern fabrics to deride;
It's turrets catch the sun's last rays;
It's tow'r magnificence displays,
In the rude dress of ancient days.
'Tis all that time hath left, to tell
Where once a feudal chief did dwell;
Where once proud grandeur held her court,
Is now the lonely owls resort.
This strange transition time hath made,
Oblivion o'er it throws her shade;
THO' Nature smiles, tho' all I see,
Thy visor wears felicity;
Locality but faint impresses,
The heart that shrinks from life's distresses;
E'en whilst her beauties charm the eye,
Unconscious steals the treach'rous sigh,
That tells tho' veil'd with nicest care,
The canker, sorrow, battens there.
Day's brilliant orb retires to rest,
Its glories mild, illume the west;
Welcome ye moments of romance,
To me ye life endear—enhance;
For Solitude's deep shades are mine,
Tho' deep its gloom, shall I repine?
Tho' o'er my soul its torpor creep,
And deep'ning thought my senses steep.
WHAT different fate awaits us here,—
Pleasure some conducts thro' life;
Another sheds keen Misery's tear,
And shrinks beneath its ills severe,
And feel the pangs of mental strife;
Pleasure with fascinating smile,
The thorns of other's paths beguile.
Yet, what avails what here our lot,
The present flies, the past is gone,
To-morrow it will boot us not,
If we have but our duty done;
Complacent we shall view time gone;
Assur'd the future will give due,
And all things renovate anew.
Ah! could I always thus conclude,
When life's horizon dark appears,
When the chill blight of misery rude,
Sweeps o'er the heart, and almost sears;
I should not sink, whate'er my state,
But rise on future hope elate.
THE welcome season comes—sweet Spring,
And Nature wears her genial smile;
Fair vegetation's bloom to bring,
And rival cultivation's toil.
From Winter's torpid chill to rise,
And fascinate fastidious eyes.
Lo! from April's gilded show'r,
Beauty comes, refulgent bright;
Hail! gay pageant; crown my bow'r;
Thy reign I court, thy stay invite.
To me thou art a welcome guest:—
Come, Flora, wear thy gayest vest.
Music sweet, thy step attends,—
Notes of joy from songsters gay;
The vocal concert sweetly blends,
And floats upon the breeze of May:
And in imagination's dreams,
The voice of gratitude it seems.
To yonder little mound of clay,
Observe the church-yard's beaten way;
A mourner daily wanders there,
To tend the sacred spot with care;
Beneath that sod her treasure lies,
Whose spirit's vested in the skies.
Horace, a sailor bold and brave,
Had often cross'd the Atlantic wave,
As high in hope he homeward came,
Subduing sickness smote his frame;
Languid and faint he reach'd his door,
His journey and his life was o'er.
Altho' no widow's weeds appear,
Yet—felt for him—is grief sincere;
And oft she steals the hours from sleep,
Near the lov'd spot to watch and weep:
Her pallid cheek, her fragile limb,
Proclaim remembrance dwells with him.
WHEN disappointments chill the youthful mind,
Rashly we reckon Providence unkind;
Think that the boon denied is bliss supreme,
And insignificant all other deem.
For oft the youthful mind too keenly feels,
And sweet contentment from the bosom steals:
Gives to dire anguish—life's most precious hours,
Whilst misery enervates the mental pow'rs.
Ah! was sweet patience ours—did we discern—
''What is, is best," and Resignation learn;
Did we but know, as years mature advance,
Wisdom would shine in what we reckon'd chance:
Hope would not die, whate'er our state might be,
But point the solace—bright Futurity.
WHEN Civil Discord fell prevail'd,
Affinity and friends assail'd;
When heros of each party arm'd,
And Patriotism shook—alarm'd;
When Desolation, fatal, swept
The brave to dust; and Pity wept;
All she deplor'd; but some, more dear,
Demanded love, and Friendship's tear.
Foremost 'midst the brave, appear'd
Albert,—name both lov'd and fear'd;
A noble youth, of ardent mind,
Loyal—to glory all resign'd.
Courage—let the soldier fire,
In a cause so just as ours;
Let but unity inspire,
And time will swiftly guide the hours;
Soon fell Rebellion shall be crush'd,
And Freedom rise o'er Discord's dust.
For all that life endears—we fight;
Courage, soldiers! banish fear.
Tho' to oppose us, hosts unite,
Not long shall guilt their standard rear.
Ye tardy hours more swiftly fly,
Ye lead to death or victory!
Victor, oft was Albert hail'd,
But by famine long assail'd;
Pity made the hero yield,
When wants sad victims close appeal'd:
Their tears, their pallid looks he met,
And deem'd his sun of glory set.
The heros then held long debate,
Most urge they must capitulate.
Furious Falcon, then elate,
Triumphant—soon possest the gate;
He, and his council, quick agree,
To sacrifice, to victory,
The firmest friends of royalty.
Could aught but madness urge thus far,
To murder whom they took in war?
By malice led, they saw not shame,
Revenge they chose, nor heeded fame:
Saw not recording History stand,
Their name indelibly to brand;
Thought not that conscience must awake,
And their fierce hearts with terror shake.
The heros, whom to death they doom,
With fortitude survey the tomb;
Like Christians and like heros die,
Who liv'd for immortality.
Their relics rest beneath the sod,
And retribution is with God.
Then Lady Emma, luckless fair,
Exchang'd sweet hope for sad despair;
Deeply she mourn'd her lover brave,
By malice lodg'd in early grave:
Thro' life remembrance of him kept,
In public smil'd, in secret wept;
Inshrin'd his memory in her breast,
And hop'd to meet in endless rest.
SAY, who is that? a luckless wight,
On whom stern misery rack'd her spite:
Of noble lineage he was sprung,
And brilliant prospects o'er him hung;
But perfidy of kindred near,
Insidious, stole his treasure dear.
Then Reason, darkling—fled her throne;
Despair is his, that scorns to moan:
Yet will he sometimes tell his tale;
Ah! then his sighs the heart assail.
He asks a simple boon of pins,
And every stranger's pity wins.
Once he was generous, gay, and proud,—
Then approbation's voice was loud.
But hark! his tale he now narrates;
Come, let us list his luckless fates.
PARCH'D is my heart, and dim my eye,—
Would'st you hear my tale of sorrow?
I shall wake your sympathy,
Mine's a short, sad tale of horror:
I lov'd a maid, as Hebe fair,
But fatal flatt'ry reach'd her ear.
Oh! she was beauteous, good, and mild,
With manners gentle as a dove;
Rapture's bliss was mine—she smil'd:
But ah! my brother stole her love.
Madly I thought life had no charms,
And rashly rush'd to war's alarms.
Years past;—my kindred hop'd me dead;
My brothers did possess my right:
Madness they deem'd the truths I said,
Till I became a madman quite.
Ah! this, no doubt, their craft foresaw,
Would arm them with the shield of law.
My fair-false lover where art thou now?
Ah! what to thee was beauty's meed?
Death's icy coldness wreaths thy brow;
Perchance thy cheek the bold worms feed.
Peace—belov'd ingrate; thou shalt be
Sublimated to constancy.
Tho' the damp earth is oft' my bed,
Tho' clos'd to me is grandeur's door;
Tho' wand'rings strange perplex my head,
I envy not my brother's store.
My suff'rings soon in death shall cease,
But what to him shall whisper peace?
WHEN deeds of prowess only charm'd,
The fair to win, each hero arm'd;
For then what lady could dissent,
To hail the Knight of Tournament?
A haughty baron's daughter fair,
The beauteous Ella, heard with care,
The day announc'd that should decide
To whom she must be giv'n as bride;
For fierce Sir Oswald did demand,
The beauteous Lady Ella's hand.
Her sire evasive answer gave,
And said the knight should Ella have,
Who nobly prov'd himself most brave.
This Ella heard with fearful care,
Almost augmenting to despair;
THE thunder roll'd—fast fell the rain—
The loud wind blew a hurricane;
Darkness veil'd the furious deep,
And light'nings play'd with forked sweep.
Care to the beach a female leads,
Who for herself but little heeds;
O'er the dark sea her eye is cast,—
Fresh terrors press with every blast.
Fair was the morn, the silvery waves
Play'd gently o'er their hidden caves;
And Hilva ventur'd far to sea,
Unfearing what the eve might be;
In fisher's fragile skiff, so light,
How shall it weather this dread night?
Some bark is nearing—joyful cry—
The fisher's wife felt hope rise high;
HIGH was the gateway—bold the tow'r,
O'er which the climbing ivy twin'd;
The turret clock once told the hour,
And Luna's pale beams on it shin'd:
The gothic style proclaim'd its age,—
Its walls bore marks of civil rage.
The stranger gaz'd, then turn'd his steed;
No path he trac'd—the plain was wide;
Reflecting on arts noblest deeds,
The vanity of human pride,
The stranger deeply thought, and sigh'd.
He rov'd, unheeding of the way:
At length a cotter's hut he spied;
Welcome sight, the stranger cried.
Inquir'd the way—whose was the tow'r,
At distance seen, across the moor?
The peasant pointed out the road;
The tow'r, he said, was no abode,
Dark mystery o'er it threw her vail—
Suspicion whispers frightful tale:
A churlish knight late call'd it his;
He left it, sudden, in the night;
'Twas rumour'd, conscience did affright,
For deeds committed much amiss.
Worthy Sir Allan, owner late,
Homeward returning, met his fate;
And rumour said his shade did come,
Demanding justice for his son;
Who, 'twas reported, was alive,
But left with fortune's ills to strive.
The stranger pensive look'd, and sigh'd,
Deep'ning care obscur'd his brow;
The peasant to his sheep-fold hied,
Morn's beams illum'd the vale below—
Mild zephyrs did refreshing blow.
His life was sought, but childhood's smile
Disarm'd the murd'rer of his steel;
His father fell by treach'rous guile,
His son, too young his woes to feel,
Did from the assassin pity steal,
Who oft compunctions turn'd aside,
When—Who's my father? Edgar cried.
The past, the future, conscience drew,
Each horror—height'ned, rose to view;
His with'ring mind by guilt was crush'd,
His ashes were consign'd to dust.
But ere he died, he told the youth,
'Twas all he could,—the fatal truth.
SEE clouds of dust—and hark! the drum,
Proclaim "Mirth's frolic train" is come;
And clad in Sunday vestment, see
The rustics—hail with native glee:
And infancy and age prepare
To view the wonders of the fair.
With treasur'd pence, the children haste,
And show in cakes or toys their taste;
Ye little wights—the happiest ye,
Mirth in her motley group shall see:
Your joy is native bliss of heart,
Without alloy, unknown to art.
Pride of the wake, see rural belles,
Whose native bloom all art excels,
Much passing admiration gain,
And want but polish to retain;
Led by bright hope, with spirits gay,
Hail the long-wish'd for holiday.
Care from each heart and brow seems driv'n,
And all to festive sport is giv'n;
Ev'n housewives from their task forbear,
To see the humours of the fair:
And all in quest of pleasure gay,
Pursue her thro' the holiday.
WHEN Spring's fresh gales the perfume blew,
That Flora shed o'er beauty's hue:
When Nature's vocal music charm'd,
And grateful joy the bosom warm'd;
Oft Anna rov'd, a rural maid,
Who, like a wild flow'r, liv'd in shade;
As blest as innocence could be,
With bosom all tranquillity.
Oft would she quit the rural throng,
To rove the silent shades among;
The pebbled rill, the shady grove,
Were scenes she earliest learnt to love:
Nor did the sound of science flee,
But with it found tranquillity.
I saw the orphan boy,—he play'd
Alone in yonder grassy glade;
With fragile frame, but spirits high,
Gaily he chas'd the butterfly,
Or peel'd green twigs, or else bestrode
A wooden horse—and proudly rode;
I mark'd his eye, it beam'd with bliss,
Tho' love parental was not his.
No friend to teach him right or wrong,
He seems to Nature to belong;
Will instinct teach him to beware,
And tread life's thorny paths with care?
Or will he rove, nor heed retreat,
Till thorns imprint his pilgrim feet?
Or will the Pow'r that powers direct,
Thro' life the orphan boy protect?
MOURN ye, fair of Albion, mourn,
Your bravest youth can ne'er return;
Glory's laurels grac'd his brow,
But early laid those honors low:
Ah weep, for he was worth your tears,
Each grace was his that worth endears.
Humanity, the brightest gem,
That sparkles in a diadem,
Belong'd to him—his deeds it grac'd,
Ev'n when in battle foremost plac'd;
He sav'd my sire, can it be wrong,
My gratitude appears so strong?
Daughters of Albion, shed the tear,
The pride of British youth lies here;
Ev'n I, a lofty Spanish maid,
Wear the deep veil of sorrow's shade,
And breath the unavailing sigh,
For worth remov'd to brighter sky.
FATE frown'd, and Laura felt neglect,
Then Albert paid her more respect;
When shrinking friendship sought retreat,
He with its cheering warmth did greet.
Ah! since what various scenes were hers,
Misfortune touch dire ill confers;
His fate was brilliant, he was brave,
And rest is his, in honor's grave.
What, tho' beneath the distant wave,
Repose the ashes of the brave;
Tho' no memorial point the spot,
Shall worth, shall Albert be forgot?
No, Friendship has the record made,
In memory's tablet, ne'er to fade.
WITH mental misery dire opprest,
Oft, vainly, have I sought for rest;
And oft my heart distends with woe,
As memory paints the long-ago.
Should woe be mine, or pleasure fair,
Life's roses bright, or thorns of care,
With soft regret shall memory show,
The happy, happy long-ago.
COME, memory come, the past review,
And with thy faithful pencil deck;
For nought I in the present view,
Can please me like the retrospect.
Not that its scenes were ever bright,
No, sorrows deepest shades were mine;
But the mind tastes chastis'd delight,
When it can feel and not repine.
Oft in life's morn, by fancy led,
Mary and I together stray'd;
Fictitious woes, with interest read,
And wept o'er Sterne's "Poor luckless maid."
In solitude's sequestered shade,
Time past serenely, tho' not gay;
The needle's nicest skill display'd,
And poesy's first short essay.
Ah! halcyon days, ye swiftly past,
Misfortune like a chilling blight,
Frost-nipt hope's blossoms rendered drear,
And from my bosom chas'd delight.
But heavenly patience sooth'd my soul,
Hope whisper'd fairer days might come;
Fate was preparing sad reverse:
Years of affliction were my doom.
I then sweet friendship's solace prov'd,
Thro' sickness' shade, tho' care depress'd;
The converse of congenial minds
Oft gave to life endearing zest.
But why recal the happy past,
Now friendship's voice I seldom hear?
Ah! let me not too close contrast,
Lest I should shed regrets vain tear.
Tho' Fortune's sport, yet why should I,
Beneath her malice sink supine?
'Tis Heaven's behest,—should I reply?
No, let me to its will resign.
If Hope can whisper—woe shall end;
If Faith can point beyond the grave;
These shall, in deep affliction, blend
Sweet solace, and from misery save.
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