The Past, &c. : electronic version.

%iso-lat1; %iso-lat2; %iso-num; %iso-pub;]> The Past, &c. : electronic version. Holford, Miss (Margaret), 1778-1852. Electronic text encoded by Brenda Deely Electronic edition 50 Kb University of California, Davis, General Library, Digital Initiatives Program Davis, Calif. 2007 holfmpast

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series 161 Managing Editor Charlotte Payne Founding Editor Nancy Kushigian The past, &c. Holford, Miss (Margaret), 1778-1852. by Miss Holford Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Browne London John Upham Bath 1819

This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis, Kohler I Suppl:456. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler I Suppl:456mf.

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French Italian Latin November 20, 2007 Charlotte Payne ed. Proofed and entered final corrections.

[Title Page]

The Past, &c. JOLI MOIS DE MAI, QUAND REVIENDRAS TU? JAMAIS, JAMAIS! BY MISS HOLFORD, AUTHORESS OF "WALLACE," A POEM. PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWNE, PATER-NOSTER-ROW, LONDON; AND JOHN UPHAM, BATH. 1819. Printed by Richard Cruttwell, St. James's-Street, Bath. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY ISABELLA KING.

IN inviting your Ladyship to cast a glance over "The Past," I shall not startle or appal your fancy; for if you, who have devoted your talents, your fortune, your very existence, to the service and succour of those who needed a Friend, if you may not look cheerfully and smilingly on the Past, who shall presume to indulge in retrospection?

On a mind so seriously and courageously bent on pursuing its own exalted and peculiar vocation, to have intruded a work of mere imagination, would have appeared somewhat to stretch even the privileges of friendship; but the Lines, for which I ask your Ladyship's protection, are the effusions of a suffering heart, a language from which it is not in your nature to turn.

That the "quality of mercy," which has so abundant a source in your bosom, may prove, indeed, "twice blessed;" and that your Ladyship may live to triumph in the complete accomplishment of that benevolent plan, which opens a home to the Orphan, and offers a friend to the friendless, is the fervent prayer of

Your Ladyship's Most affectionately And respectfully attached MARGARET HOLFORD. Jan. 23d, 1819. THE PAST. OH Earth! how fair thou art! With life, with mirth, With freshness, and with glory, teemest thou! Say, was the morn that wak'd thee into birth, Than that which sheds its sunbeams on thee now,∗ Of purer radiance, or of rosier glow? The clear, calm sapphire of the cloudless sky, Noon's glance of splendour, gilding the tall brow Of some heav'n-climbing steep; or, these gone by, The mild controul of eve's benignant majesty;

The summer of 1818.

The soft, night-wafted fragrance of the grove, The glitt'ring dews which strew the grassy floor, The tender strain of melancholy love, Which some lone chantress of the woods doth pour, When the loud chorus of the day is o'er;— Oh! ne'er did Nature offer to the sense Of wayward man a richer, brighter store! How may he rightly prize the gift immense! Earth's loveliness is his, and Heaven's magnificence! Oh thou, of sparkling eye and jocund breast! Oh thou, whose prime is yet upon the wing! This is thine hour! And never hour more blest Did Time upon his glancing current bring; Oh, ere it passes, smite the bounding string! Yea, haste to bid the fleeting present hail! And let thy harp around in echoes fling, Of youth, and life, and joy, th' inspiring tale, One wild thanksgiving hymn o'er ocean, hill, and vale! For thou canst feel and taste, thy glance is strong To mingle with the sunbeam! 'Tis thy hour! Thy heart-pulse dances light to every song; Thy ready fingers pluck the springing flow'r, Just as it opens to the genial show'r Its new-born bloom. Now, even while ye may, While yet the fibres of your heart have pow'r To keep life's mortal weariness at bay, Wait not to-morrow's dawn! Be glad, be glad to-day! Ere mix'd and turbid with the mountain storm, Drink of the stream which sparkles as it flows! Ere eating canker, or the secret worm, Consume the cluster which so brightly glows, Seize thou the bloomy prize. The summer rose, To deck thy bosom, or thy brow to wreathe, Her fragrance and her blushes doth disclose. Then take her ere she fade, or some rude breath Scatter her lovely leaves thy heedless foot beneath! The present hour, with all its charms, be thine; All that it gives, all that it promises; For in thy laughing eyes youth's sunbeams shine, And all is real that thy fancy sees! Joy whispers to thee in the morning breeze; With thee she bounds the woodland path along;— And will she stay? Try! Grasp her ere she flees, Oh! let her not escape, for thou art young! Youth's pulse is in thy heart, youth's spirit swells thy song. To each his theme! For me the present seems A gleamy moment, vague and undefin'd. My fancy wantons 'mid a world of dreams, And Memory's passive vassal is my mind. What is, it wots not, cares not;—for behind, On that which was, are all its glances cast, A region pale, swept by destruction's wind, The native land of dimness and of waste, Of ruins and of graves,—the spectre-peopled Past! 'Tis thus the Spirit of the Desert stays Musing alone! Behold! a scatter'd heap Lies pillar'd Tadmor, pride of elder days! Slow o'er the wreck does cold oblivion creep, And sand-fraught whirlwinds o'er the fragments sweep; The grey owl, through the noon-day, undismay'd Pours her dull chant, for all around doth sleep; Her voice alone the silence doth pervade, Where once Longinus thought, and once Zenobia sway'd! Yet some bold steps still track the wilderness, Led by devotion for the sacred Past; For this they tempt the plain's wild emptiness, The lurking Arab, or the fiery blast, The huge o'erwhelming armies of the waste, Annihilation's legions! But to gaze A little while on majesty defaced; To sigh and moralize; then go their ways, Revolving in their souls deep thoughts of other days! Long years gone by, the harp of Selma's halls Gave to the awful Past its solemn strain; It echoed mid the dank, deserted walls, Smote by a master hand,—but, ah! in vain! No chieftain own'd the battle-call again! And he who wak'd it, childless and alone, Blind and bereft, along the silent plain Wander'd, and dream'd of life and glory gone; Or sought his mournful haunt beside the dark-grey stone. Shut from his sightless orbs, the present scene To him was nothing. While the sunbeam plays O'er the blue bosom of the lake serene, He sate in darkness 'mid the noon-tide blaze! But he had other eyes, whose gifted gaze Illumin'd midnight, peopled solitude; From him did Fate the dim, inglorious days Of present years by kind decree exclude, Nor on his visions might their puny shapes intrude! The feast of shells—the banquet of the brave Was over, and within the hollow hall The sullen mountain winds did hoarsely rave; There the red thistle and the yarrow tall Wav'd their rank heads; against the mildew'd wall The spear lean'd idle—for the valiant race Had heard the voice which bids the mighty fall! Strong in the battle,—ardent in the chase,— But time past o'er their pride, and vacant was their place. Yet that dark, aged, solitary sire Thrid back the maze of life; he talk'd with those Whose deeds of glory wak'd his harp of fire, Whose radiant morning with his morn arose, Who found, beneath the cromlech's heap, repose! Of them his soul was full! The very blast, Which raved upon the wint'ry evening's close, Came laden with their forms, sublime and vast, Stern, dark, and terrible—the people of the Past! Then did the dreary bosom blaze again With flame rekindled,—'twas the light of song! That light which saves the names of glorious men From time's slow mildew, from oblivion's wrong! Then, borne upon the eddying blast along, The ghosts of heroes gather'd to the sound, Each on his cloud, a dim and dusky throng! Their forms decay beneath the turfy mound! Their names shall die when Time gives o'er his annual round! That lone lament, that solitary wail, Still floats majestic down the stream of years, And still we listen to the blind old Gaël! What is it that the antique lay endears So to our hearts, and cheats us of our tears? What is it wakes such solemn tenderness, Even now, in this our day, in him who hears That rude, wild song, born in the wilderness, Commingling fond regrets with warlike loftiness? Who has no sigh to sanctify the past, No tear for Memory? Who can steer his mind Right onward in life's road, nor pause to cast One yearning look on things left far behind? Unenvied be his lot, though he shall find A level causeway and a cloudless day, And travel safe, unskaith'd by Fortune's wind, While we, forlorn, with loitering footstep stray, In vain, to seek the forms which shar'd our earlier way! Ask those who touch the autumn of their year, The mellow side of their maturity, Why they do halt so oft in their career, Turning their glances tow'rds their eastern sky, Neglectful of the hour which hastens by? Oh! they will tell you, how, that long ago This world, which now seems fading on their eye, Had skies all glittering bright in golden glow, Then sunshine blaz'd above, and verdure smiled below! There was a freshness in the ambient gale; There was a sparkle on the river's tide; The emerald's hue o'erspread each dewy vale; Then Flora laugh'd in all her gaudy pride, Her lovely train ten thousand colours dyed! What fragrant hawthorn deck'd the May-bush then The very milkmaids, as they homeward hied, In those fair evenings, pour'd a blither strain Than e'er comes wafted now along the village lane! They wonder why so tuneless comes the chime From yon grey spire, to cheer the rustic feast, For they can well recall the distant time, When those old bells, of some strange charm possest, With mirth and joy o'erfill'd the youthful breast! 'Tis pleasant yet, to think how merrily They echoed in the heart, ere manhood's guest, Grim care, such irksome music did supply, As dull'd all other sounds, the deep, slow-heaved sigh! Tornasti∗ Primavera! But in vain Returnest thou, since they return no more, The little loves which frolick'd in thy train, Youth, and the hopes, which sprang thy steps before, Gay heralds of the jocund spring of yore! The gaudy swarm of bright-wing'd promises, Which erst upon thy flatt'ring breeze did soar, Time brush'd them down, and lent, instead of these, His tarnish'd, way-worn troop, to grace thy pageantries! Erst when thou camest, how our steps have press'd To snatch the first sweet gem thou didst awake! The violet, lurking in its mossy nest, Or primrose, sprinkling o'er the dewy brake! We spare them now, for sad remembrance' sake, And they shall live their little lives, and stay Till frost, or blight, or worm, their bloom o'ertake; Or, till their fair heads droop in slow decay,— They shall not lure us now to linger on our way!

Tornasti O Primavera, con l'erbe verdi e fiori, &c.

Oh ye, who of the present make your boast! Yours is a trembling bliss! Ye hold a prize, Which, even as ye look on it, is lost, A shade, which even as ye grasp it, flies! Yea, ere the frail ephemeron, it dies! Ye see it, touch it, speak to it! And lo! Where is it? Gone! Forgotten! For your eyes Pursue the painted phantoms as they go, Swift following o'er the scenes of life's still varying show! But that which we are fond to call our own, Is ours, secured by Fate's eternal seal! What chance could do to harm it, chance has done; And time has stol'n, whatever time could steal! The blows which disappointment loves to deal We fear not! We the heavy cost have paid; Our hearts have felt what hearts bereaved feel, When long-nurs'd hopes in sad succession fade; Now, neither time nor chance our treasure may invade! We ask no tidings of the passing hour, No longer tempted with its motley ware! Its cup of mingled beverage, sweet and sour, Its little freight of pleasure and of care, Nor wake our fancy, nor our hearts ensnare! Our traffic o'er, the chiding of the blast Threats not our bark, and, tho' the wind be fair, Its swells no sail of ours! Its anchors east, Our vessel rides at peace, life's shoals and quicksands past! The bitter drop is drain'd. The hour has come Which was to come to us! The sable thread Has cross'd our web! Yea, we have seen the tomb Close o'er the forms to which our souls∗ were wed! Our sighs are silent now, our tears are shed, Shed in the dust! Our bosom's secret core Affliction's dart has search'd; and it has bled, As once the heart can bleed, and bleed no more! That is which was to be! And now the strife is o'er!

"The soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul."—1 Sam. ch. 18.

Shall apathy's dull twilight overcast Our sky, and dim the remnant of our day? Withering, and overthrown in sorrow's blast, Shall cold indifference on our spirits prey, Till our minds moulder as our frames decay? No! e'en while on the precious wreck we gaze Of blessings Heaven bestowed, and took away, A voice within us vindicates the ways Of GOD to man, and fills the bruised heart with praise! Why, what are we, who would our doom evade? If all of Adam born, are born to weep! If every form which of the dust was made, Return, its task fulfill'd, in dust to sleep, Why, what are we, that would our idols keep? Alas! blind children of the earth are we! Our blessings oft in bitter tears we steep; Our evil we pursue, our good we flee; Eternal Wisdom judge, and question GOD'S decree! The fickle and forgetful may bemoan That time has robb'd them, for the ductile mind Soon closes o'er the past, and all is gone; As travels through the skies the summer wind, Or keel across the wave, and leaves behind A moment's trace, but on the billows glide And the trace fades for ever, none can find What path the vessel took, though deep and wide She cleft the briny waste, as onward she did ride! And thus it should be! Some are born to hold, Deep written in their heart, and on their brain, The story of the past, so lively told, That time has journey'd o'er their heads in vain, For they do act life's drama o'er again! The present is a shadowy sketch, a dream; And all which to the present doth pertain, A form but half defin'd, a cloud, a gleam! The real is, for them, as though it did but seem! They wander in the same green spots, where erst Their happier fancy led; the common eye Might deem them all alone; but they, who first Did make those paths so pleasant, still are nigh, Arm kindly link'd in arm, for Memory She recks not of the grave; again she brings The rescued pledges of her victory, E'en from the gulf where cease all mortal things, E'en from the grasp of Fate, the precious prey she wrings! She leads again, where bold St. Vincent rears, O'er Avon's dusky wave, his forehead grey; The sunshine evenings of long-lapsed years Glow at her bidding, and, as on they stray, The liquid, trembling, melancholy lay Still warbles from the copse. The virgin-bow'r∗ Spreads o'er the rock its slender tassel'd spray, Its matted foliage, and its feathery flow'r, Even as once it did, in life's benignest hour!

Clematis vitalba.

Leaving the murm'ring crowd afar behind, Now blythe across the broomy down they hie, Mingling sweet converse with the healthful wind; Or silent, musing, with enthusiast eye, O'er that wide scene of beauty, till a sigh From each surcharged bosom softly says Why they were silent. 'Tis the heart's reply, Its little meed of unadulterate praise To Him who wrought the pomp, on which they fondly gaze! Thus once it was; and thus by memory's aid Re-living life, thus still it seems to be, Still, as when erst the Sabbath warning bade, Together bending low the duteous knee, Two mingled voices in one pray'r agree! Is this illusion too? Or may the pray'r A mourning mortal utters, heav'nward flee? May they, whose earth still clings about them, dare Aspire the holy song an Angel sings to share? A Harp there was,—'tis mute and stringless now, And cold the hand which smote its tuneful chord! Sweet flow'd the strain, which never more shall flow, And sweeter, sweeter still, a voice which pour'd Full many a note divine and treasur'd word, The heart's own music! Must it speak no more? Oh yet! by faithful memory restored, There are who hear it, in whose bosom's core It speaks, and still shall speak, till life and sense be o'er! Earth has no sound so pleasant as that still, Soft, mournful, cherish'd voice of other years! It comes o'er the cold breast with kindly thrill, And opes the fountain of assuaging tears! And who, such sad and solemn sound that hears Has ear for aught beside? "Awake," it cries, The laden spirit it uplifts and cheers— "Awake! and think how brief the pathway lies, "Time's journey to fulfil, between ye and the skies!" A little while,—and they who fondly muse On things which were, and are not, even they Shall be like that their wayward thought pursues, A thing which was, and is not! Yesterday They wept, they smil'd, they felt the heart-pulse play; They shrank and shudder'd in the chilling blast, Or bask'd exulting in the genial ray, Unconscious they, how they were tending fast There, whence no foot returns, the region of the Past! And be it so! For, them who went before, The weary soul is panting to o'ertake; Fain would it spread its wings, and heav'nward soar, And fain to earth each earthy burthen shake; For the world's cumbrous fetter sorrow brake,— That magic fetter, that entangling tie, Which makes man deem it bitter to forsake The varying light of time's capricious sky For that unclouded day which fills Eternity! TO THE LAST LEAF ON A PLANE TREE. LAST of the leaves! why lingerest thou So late upon the naked bough? Those who were young with thee are gone, And thou art wither'd and alone! Thou, who 'mid songs and sweets wert born In the year's green and smiling morn Bursting to life in happy hour 'Mid the glad tears of April show'r Nor lonely was thy birth, I ween; Since, peeping forth in tend'rest green, A thousand sister buds were seen, When thou, upon thy mother-spray, First felt the soft caress of May! Benignantly the changeful sky Look'd on thy tender infancy, While many a leaflet by thy side, Frost-nipt or mildew'd, early died; But thou, the while, wert spar'd to know The summer's bright and kindly glow, To mingle in the general mirth, When warmth and beauty bless'd the earth! When thou wert faint, in sultry hour, To cool thee fell the transient show'r; And still, to renovate thy frame, The sparkling dews of evening came. Beneath thy screen the linnet sate, And told his love-tale to his mate; Folding his wings, the honey bee Would waste a precious hour with thee; That loveliest idler of the sky, The mealy-coated butterfly, Would spread his Argus robe, and rest In sunshine on thy verdant breast; But thou hast liv'd the leaves to see, Which budded and which bloom'd with thee, Drooping and chang'd, as o'er them past, With warning voice, October's blast: Then, Winter blew with sterner breath, And whirling crowds were swept to death! Some faded tremblers clung, like thee, Tenacious, to the parent tree, But, one by one they dropt, and thou Art lonely on the naked bough! And wou'dst thou linger, till again The year leads spring-time in her train; Till leaves, which were not born with thee, Shall clothe again the naked tree; Young leaflets, that shall laugh to scorn Thy aspect, wither'd and forlorn? No! the next blast which sweeps the sky Shall lay thee where thy comrades lie; And thou, who leavest nought behind, Shalt yield, and call the summons kind! INSCRIPTION FOR A GARDEN SEAT. WHAT! art thou weary? Wouldst thou rest From yon tumultuous world awhile, And welcome to thy feverish breast Reflection's sad, yet quiet smile? Come hither, then! But cast aside Each thought which may the haunt profane,— Back on the world fling care and pride, Till thou hast need of them again! ANOTHER. FANCY! thy living blushes spread On every bud my bow'r that blesses; Bend thou the branches o'er my head, Gem the soft turf on which I tread, And weave the woodbine's fragrant tresses! Ah! by the bright and tender green, By the sweet smile that gilds the scene, By this full heart, and swimming eye, I know thou art already nigh! ONCE! THERE is a word in every breast, That finds a sure response, Howe'er by present bliss caress'd, A sigh, that may not be repress'd, Shall vibrate still for—Once! Once! Once! What visions of the past That little spell can raise, As back our tearful eyes we cast Upon the dim and length'ning waste Of ne'er returning days! Oh! who so prosperous or so gay, So reckless or so dull, That feels not, on his brightest day, The thought of things long past away Against his heart-strings pull? Once tells of frolic forms that rang'd At morning by our side,— Of these, some, time and sorrow chang'd, Some has the fickle world estrang'd, Some early droop'd and died! Once hints of hopes too fondly nurs'd, That long have ceas'd to cheat; Of phantoms fled, and bubbles burst, And gay chimeras, wide dispers'd, Or laid at reason's feet! Once, with thy dim and mournful train, I'll muse no more with thee; The Present calls me home again, And bring it joy, or bring it pain, I'll seize it ere it flee! ON THE DEATH OF PHILIP AINSLIE WALKER. WHY, Parents, do your sorrowing sighs Pursue your treasure to the skies? Why do your thoughts still sadly trace The beauties of his infant face, While Fancy (drown'd in tears the while) Still feeds upon his living smile, Or bends to meet the sweet caress, Dear pledge of infant tenderness? Ah! dry your tears! your sighs restrain, For know, the promise was not vain If mortal beauty deck'd his brow While yet ye held him here below, Uplift your thoughts! Behold him shine In grace ineffable, divine! Say, did his artless smile bespeak A spotless spirit, bright, yet meek? That transient smile of earthly bliss Is fix'd in endless happiness! That smile, no cloud of grief shall chase For ever from the angel face! The little tongue's imperfect frame, Which scarce could lisp the filial claim, Now, to the Eternal Father pays Loud hymns of worship and of praise! Still weep ye? No! Your tongues would fain Unite with his the grateful strain, To bless the care which snatch'd him hence, While safe in infant innocence; Nor, in the world, allow'd him time To know that sorrow dwells with crime. TO MRS. ∗. ∗∗∗∗∗∗∗. ON RECEIVING FROM HER A BEAUTIFUL SKETCH OF LAKE SCENERY, THE PRODUCTION OF HER OWN PENCIL. WHEN weary of the world's perplexing change, How sweet it is the troubled gaze to rest On the wild silence of yon mountain range, Where yet the eagle builds his lonely nest; Or wistfully to watch the lake's unruffl'd breast! Oh! sweet it is, amid the calm sublime, To lose each little, sordid, earth-born care, To lift our souls above the wrongs of time; For here, where all is solemn, grand, and fair, One thought to human strife 'twere sacrilege to spare! Is there a nobler, loftier, lovelier scene, Repose more meet for Contemplation's eye, Than the broad bosom of yon lake serene, Reflecting back the golden, glorious sky, Or some cloud-crowned cliff's aspiring majesty? Yes, silent Nature, lovely as thou art, There is a charm, and I have felt its pow'r, Which sweeter peace sheds o'er the troubled heart, Than e'en the sunshine of thy evening hour, When balm is on the breeze, and dew is on the flow'r. There is a sunbeam more sublimely bright Than ever darted from the orb of day,— When, from the heart the pure internal light Of virtue's sun sends forth its heavenly ray O'er some benignant brow in smiles divine to play! Oh ∗∗∗∗∗∗∗! well thy spirit may delight Such haunts to trace of beauty and of rest, And o'er them fling a portion of the light Which warms and animates thine own bright breast, Tinting each placid scene with hues more blest Than ever evening sun spreads o'er the ruddy west! WEANING. WHAT is the earliest task of woe Our nature struggles with below? Oh! when does man begin to learn Of human lot the lesson stern? Ere thought is born, ere reason's pow'r Has brac'd our nerves to meet the hour, Comes sorrow with her aspect sour! The yearning lip of babyhood Is cheated of its native food, Snatch'd from the fond and fost'ring breast That yielded nutriment and rest, In vain the little hands are spread, The unavailing tear is shed, That weaned infancy may guess How tastes the bread of bitterness! Advanc'd in life's maturer season, And grown in stature, strength, and reason, Go, ask the proud adult,—he'll own The same hard lesson bids him groan. 'Tis weaning still,—in vain he'd cling To some belov'd, forbidden thing, E'en man, the food he loves must yield, And bend to Fate, a weaned child! In vain he'll fret, resist, repine— Fate mocks the coil—man must resign! Cradled he lies on pleasure's breast, By flattery sooth'd, by hope caress'd, Till cold conviction opes his eyes To life's austere realities: The irksome hints by reason given, The thorn by disappointment driven, Love's treasons,—all assist the plan,— All help to wean presumptuous man! One after one, his joys are reft, Till life, and only life is left; Then time, who ne'er the remnant spares, Brings death to wean him from his cares! SPRING. AH yes! the hours, in verdure dress'd, Dance lightly on the plain; And, peeping from its mossy nest, Glad April sees his fragrant guest, The violet, born again: In ev'ry hedge-row, brake, and dell, Some "bonny gem" is springing; And, wak'd by Nature's kindly spell, Upsoaring from the russet fell, The new-fledg'd lark is singing O Spring! thy breath comes o'er the hill, The vital spark renewing; And whose the heart so stern and chill, As not to own thy genial thrill, And soften at thy wooing? With Hope's fond smile, and Memory's sigh, Mine welcomes thy returning; Yet, gentle Spring, methinks mine eye Was wont to view thy sapphire sky With brighter glories burning! Methinks, that once the vernal hours Came sparkling o'er the scene, And spread the meads, and deck'd the bow'rs With softer dews, and gaudier flow'rs, And robes of livelier green: Then ev'ry breeze of life and love Some blissful message brought; But now, fair Spring, o'er hill and grove Thy lagging pinions seem to move With fainter raptures fraught! Say, faded is thy emerald vest, Thy wreath of varied hue; And hast thou shaken from thy crest The orient pomp it erst possest, Its pearls of morning dew? No! still thou keep'st thy wonted place Amid the annual train, And still, with soft relenting grace, Thou dost the rigid bands unbrace Of Winter's sullen reign. Then why, with Springs long past away, Does Memory haunt my bosom? They bloom'd when life was green and gay, When all my circling year was May, And Hope was full in blossom; When thoughts burst rapid in my breast, Like buds in April showers, As vivid as thy vernal vest, As gentle as thy whisp'ring west, As varied as thy flowers; As wild and artless as thy lay, Just wak'd in yonder grove; As kindly as thy genial ray, Which calls the smiling world to pay Its willing meed of love. Yes! still, fair Spring, the same art thou, Though sanguine youth is flown, Who us'd to aid the garden's glow, And o'er thy brightest landscape throw New glories of his own: Yet, while with chasten'd extacy Thy lovely scenes I greet; Still is the tear through which mine eye, Uplifted, hails thy genial sky, Though mournful, passing sweet! EPITAPH ON THE LATE JOSEPH PALMER, ESQ. NO solitary mourner offers here Of private grief th' unmingled, partial tear, Here mourns mankind! Here human nature weeps! For here, man's kindest brother, PALMER, sleeps! He walk'd below as though he had been sent On message bland from yon bright firmament; For oft the seraph smile and godlike deed Shone, like a glory, round his mortal weed! His mission done, his gentle task complete, Heaven call'd his spirit to the mercy seat! Alas! we dare not pierce beyond the tomb, Nor judge on earth a fellow-lab'rer's doom; But this we know, when PALMER seeks the skies, Ten thousand mingled blessings with him rise; And loud the widow and the orphan tell That PALMER'S part on earth was acted well! FINIS. Printed by Richard Cruttwell, St. James's-Street, Bath.