[Frontispiece]
A. Chalon delt. C. Turner sculpt.
Such shelter as my Cot affords be thine. Vide Sailor.
London Publish'd Jany. 1. 1808, by Vernor & Hood.
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[Title Page]
UPON SEVERAL SUBJECTS.
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Copyright ©2007, University of California
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February 4, 2008
Charlotte Payne
-- ed.
[Frontispiece]
A. Chalon delt. C. Turner sculpt.
Such shelter as my Cot affords be thine. Vide Sailor.
London Publish'd Jany. 1. 1808, by Vernor & Hood.
[Title Page]
BY MRS. ILIFF.
Hail! Independence, hail! Heaven's next best gift,
To that of life and an immortal Soul!
The life of life! that to the banquet high
And sober meal gives taste; to the bow'd roof
Fair dream'd repose, and to the cottage charms.
TO inform the world that the trifles which compose this little Volume were not intended originally to meet the public eye, is an apology so trite and general, that it loses its effect in averting the censure of the Critic, or exciting the lenity of the candid reader; and, therefore, however applicable to the present work, the author declines a repetition of it; and more especially, as the generality of the Poems are too local to hazard even a supposition of their having been written for publication: they are, in fact, offered merely to give an opportunity to a generous public of aiding the exertions of a Mother, towards educating her children, during the anxious period of their Father's absence.
To the Subscribers to this Volume, she offers the warmest acknowledgments of a grateful heart; and trusts that a work, offered to the public under such circumstances, will either be considered by the Reviewers as too trivial for criticism, or as claiming that protection from them, which courtesy gives a female an indisputable right to expect from men of sense, when she assures them, that she has not laid aside her Needle, though she has occasionally taken up her Pen.
London, Feb. 12, 1808.
IN vain against the Muse's charms
I've try'd to interpose my will;
She stole me from my nurse's arms,
And holds me in her bondage still.
What tho' she ne'er my humble head
Crown'd with the laurel or the bay,
Each simple flow'ret of the mead
She twines around my rustic lay.
The briar-rose wild, the primrose pale,
The hair-bell, and the vi'let blue;
The snowy lily of the vale,
And woodbine sweet, she gives me too.
These, o'er life's rugged path to fling,
Is her delight, with lavish hand;
Whilst Fancy, ever on the wing,
Transforms them with her magic wand.
Love is the briar-rose, wild and sweet,
That in youth's gay and vivid morn,
I gather'd, thoughtless of the cheat,
Nor knew the flow'r conceal'd a thorn.
The primrose pale, in sober vest,
Fit emblem seems of prudence rare;
Awhile I wore it on my breast,
But, ah! not long retain'd it there.
The hair-bell that with head reclin'd,
Courts not the passing stranger's care;
Calls modest merit to my mind,
Sweet as the flow'r that scents the air.
The lily gem'd with morning dew,
That seeks its spotless form to hide;
Thee, Chastity, presents to view,
Woman's chief charm—her noblest pride.
See round the elm the woodbines twine,
And deck it with their fragrant charms;
I am the elm, the woodbine's mine,
Clasp'd in my children's circling arms.
Vain then th' attempt to break my chain,
For while my breast thus warmly glows,
The Muse will o'er my reason reign,
Nor leave me till my life shall close.
OH! Poverty, relentless guest,
That long hast shar'd my humble meal;
Give to my wearied spirit rest,
Nor longer on my comforts steal.
Not for myself thy frowns I fear,
But when my smiling babes I see,
I feel the heavy chains I wear,
And feel that they are forg'd by thee.
Thy stern approach o'erspreads with care
Those scenes where joy was wont to dwell;
And hope is chang'd to keen despair,
Where'er thou lay'st thy baleful spell.
Then leave my cottage, and thy place
Let Competence and Virtue share;
And seek the sordid miser's face,
Who dreads thee when thou art not near.
How wilt thou e'er thy debt discharge,
And leave me, as I wish to be,
A friend to humankind at large,
And from thy rugged grasp set free?
Then, then in vain no woe shall stand,
And claim from me the long arrear;
But thou hast often check'd my hand,
And fruitless made the pitying tear.
Like the bleak North thy bitter blast
Has many a tender plant laid low;
But when the low'ring storm is past,
And soft the southern breezes blow;
Again the drooping plants revive,
Again their verdure charms the eye;
So may these infant scions thrive,
Foster'd by kind humanity.
Then hear a mother's fond request,
And ably plead their cause and mine,
When to the world, with fear opprest,
These humble verses I consign.
Oh! then with candid truth confess,
That what was meant for friendship's eye,
To make thy visit dreaded less,
Is offer'd with a tear—a sigh.
HAIL best of blessings here below,
Sweet peace, thou soother of our care!
From thee our surest comforts flow,
Thy presence shields us from despair.
Say, dost thou seek the lowly bow'r,
Where village hinds retire from toil;
Or dost thou dwell with rank and power,
And rest thee on the courtier's smile?
Or dost thou fly from gilded state,
And shun the glare of vain parade;
To dwell with those whose better fate
Has plac'd them in the tranquil shade?
From poverty's uneven road,
Too oft thy footsteps turn aside;
Nor is the palace thy abode,
For there dwell Luxury and Pride.
Yet, ah! forgive, celestial maid,
The wrong I offer to thy name;
Thy smile at once adorns the shade,
And fills the highest post of Fame.
Nor lowly cot, nor lofty dome,
Can claim thee as their owner's guest;
Unless the quiet happy home
Thy sister Innocence has blest.
Where she resides, thy home is there,
The virtuous heart thy regal throne;
The high, and low, alike thy care,
Who trust in God, and God alone.
CELESTIAL visitant! oh deign
To hear thy suppliant's pray'r;
If thou wilt o'er my cottage reign,
'Twill be a palace fair.
The rushy couch, at thy control,
Shall be a bed of down;
Touch'd by thy hand, the beechen bowl
Shall flowing nectar crown.
The little garden round my cot
Fresh fruits shall yield for thee;
And sweeter flowers shall deck the spot,
If thou wilt dwell with me.
THE rich and the gay after pleasure may run,
And in crouds may endeavour reflection to shun;
But in vain they true happiness hope to acquire;
Dissipation can never contentment inspire:
Less enjoyment they'll find, who for happiness roam,
Than the peasant whose happiness centres at home.
When wearied and faint with the toils of the day,
At eve he returns to his cottage of clay;
Should the friends of his heart from his bosom be torn,
Religion will teach him, 'tis folly to mourn;
Perhaps for a while he may like to repair
To bathe the lone spot where they rest, with a tear;
Yet he soon will rejoice that, no more doom'd to roam,
Their Maker has call'd them to Heav'n, their home.
IN the spring time of life after beauty I ran,
Resolv'd the fair prize at all hazards to gain;
But at twenty I ended just where I began,
Pursuing her 'semblance, but finding it vain.
One describ'd her as fair, another as brown,
With eyes black and sparkling, or languishing blue;
One, in shades, bid me seek her; another, in town;
Till I knew not which way the fair nymph to pursue.
At length by good fortune I met with a guide;
'Twas Love, who for ever makes beauty his care;
He laugh'd at my folly in choosing a bride,
As changeful as Iris, as fickle as air.
But if, rejoin'd he, you're determin'd to gain her,
With me to the region of Fancy repair;
By becoming my vassal alone you'll obtain her,
For none but my slaves have access to the fair.
Tho' hard the conditions, I willingly vow'd,
His yoke to accept, and my freedom resign'd;
Then borne on his pinions I flew thro' the crowd,
To the bower of Fancy, where beauty reclin'd.
With rapture I saw a fair bevy collected,
Of maidens more lovely than e'er I had seen;
But doubting, and changing, not one was selected,
And I sigh'd to discover of beauty the queen.
Love saw my dilemma, and pointed his dart,
His aim was so steady, his judgment so true;
Light flew the wing'd arrow, and pierc'd thro' my heart,
Whilst Fancy her mirror held up to my view.
This treasure, she cry'd, is a gift from above,
Where a lover sees beauty none else can descry;
But for this all mankind but one face would approve,
And all for one Helen would conquer, or die.
I look'd, and discover'd most justly pourtray'd,
The form of my Fanny, her dress and her air;
Delighted, I hasten'd in search of the maid,
And found her the fairest, where numbers were fair.
To the world I return'd, and presented my bride,
But none like myself could perfection discover;
I pity'd their blindness, exulting with pride,
At the taste and discernment bestow'd on a lover.
Then think not of symmetry, feature, complexion,
Oh ye who seek beauty bewilder'd like me;
But take Love for your leader, and trust his direction,
For none else can guide you, but Fancy, and he.
YE maidens fair, and beauteous dames,
The matchless boast of Britain's isle;
Oh lend the Muse a gracious ear,
Forgetting you are fair the while.
'Tis not the rose's glowing bloom,
Contrasted with the lily's hue;
'Tis not the faultless form can charm,
Unless the heart be faultless too.
When beauty fades (as fade it will),
In spite of all that art assumes;
'Tis then that Virtue lakes her place,
And fairer, longer too, she blooms.
Then pause awhile, ye young and gay,
Who dance in pleasure's giddy maze;
Nor think the splendid pride of dress
Can bid your beauty brighter blaze.
Look back at ancient Rome, and see
What jewels claim'd Cornelia's care;
They were indeed the "pearls of price,"
A British wife should proudly wear.
Such gems a brilliant lustre give,
If fairly set, and rightly worn;
Nor can they fail, if polish'd well,
The fairest female to adorn.
BRIGHT shone the sun, the morn was fair,
When Jenny turn'd the new-mown hay;
Young Henry labour'd by her side,
And swiftly pass'd the toilsome day.
Next morn again the task renew'd,
The sun was bright, the morn was gay;
Yet not like yesterday it seem'd,
And slower pass'd the ling'ring day.
No Henry in the field appear'd,
To share her toil or smooth the way;
Home to her cot at eve she went,
And sigh'd to think how long the day.
With joy next morn she heard him tell
What forc'd him from her side to stray;
So kind he seem'd, so full of care,
And quickly pass'd that happy day.
At eve his artless love he told,
The kindling blush did her's betray;
Soon Jenny was her Henry's bride,
And happier each succeeding day.
IN youth I ne'er Parnassus' height
With steps presumptuous sought to climb;
But pleas'd I wander'd round its base,
And pluck'd the pretty flowers of rhyme.
Charm'd with their sweets, a wreath I wove,
And plac'd it on my artless brow;
And, flatter'd by my partial friends,
I wear the chaplet even now.
No leaf of bay is there entwin'd,
But merely flow'rs of transient bloom;
Design'd to deck my walk thro' life,
Then fade, and wither on my tomb.
I OFT say to my laughing boy,
As round me, wild with joy, he plays;
Improve thy time, enjoy the hours,
In childhood are thy happiest days,
Mama, he cries, these flowers have thorns,
With which so prettily I play;
But when I grow a man, mama,
I'll throw these teazing thorns away,
Ah me! my love, in manhood's path
Will many a sharper thorn be thrown;
And much thy tender heart will feel
For others' woes, or for thy own.
Yet hope as now to pluck the thorn
From flowers of never-fading dyes;
But know, my child, 'tis worth alone
Can wear that wreath beyond the skies.
DEAR Julia, while these laughing girls
Are on thy night-cap jesting,
We'll moralize, and shew how well
The subject bears contesting.
We'll shew, that in this world of woe,
A night-cap is a treasure,
Which would, to many an aching head,
Give comfort without measure.
Full well we know, what small effects
Can cause our joy, or sorrow;
The heart which aches with grief to-day,
Some trifle sooths to-morrow.
Then let us, when the little cares
Of life we treat with blindness,
The night-cap to our minds recall,
And sooth the heart with kindness.
DELIGHTFUL charm that in my breast
With soothing influence reigns;
Which giv'st my wearied spirit rest,
And hope sustains.
Thy cheering light my path illumes,
And sheds so bright a ray,
That Poverty's unwelcome glooms
Are chas'd away.
When life was new, and wealth was mine,
Thou wast but little known;
But now in youth's and wealth's decline
Thou art my own.
Thy presence greets me in the smile
Each old associate wears;
And ever to reward my toil
Thy form appears.
Then let me hope, whilst sorrows spring,
Life's joys to intertwine,
Thy kindness still may comfort bring,
Still thou be mine.
And when the closing scene draws nigh,
And Death asserts his pow'r,
Do thou receive my parting sigh,
In life's last hour.
QUEEN of the silent hours of calm repose,
How much I love thy shadowy light to see,
When thy full orb its soften'd lustre throws
O'er hill or valley, shrub or lofty tree.
I love to watch thy quiv'ring beams that play,
Reflected in the stream's pellucid breast,
When Zephyr wafts the scent of new-mown hay,
And the lone nightingale forsakes her nest;
AH! why fair flow'ret dost thou fade so soon?
Why on my bosom hangs thy drooping head?
Alas! my erring hand in life's gay noon,
Relentless pluck'd thee from thy verdant bed.
Sweet moralist! methinks in thee pourtray'd
The transient bliss of human life I see;
Too soon the fairy scenes of pleasure fade,
And sorrow makes us droop, sweet flower like thee.
CAPRICIOUS Fortune, in my earliest years,
Wore expectation's young and sprightly air;
How different now her alter'd form appears,
The mien assuming of dejecting Care.
Tho' doom'd by her along life's vale to tread,
In narrow paths 'midst tangling briars be mine;
Tho' dark the clouds impending o'er my head,
And tho' to light those paths no sun shall shine;
THOU fair enchantress, that in life's gay spring,
Painted my prospects with thy vivid glow;
Lent to old Time the Cygnet's downy wing,
And gav'st my spirits all their happy flow;
Whither, ah! whither hast thou led me on,
Thro' deserts wild, 'mid storms and tempests drear;
And when thou saw'st my resolution gone,
Oft fled, and left me to the fiend Despair;
TELL me, intruder in the youthful breast,
What is the secret magic of thy chain?
That tho' thou robs th' enslaved heart of rest,
Thy captives seek not freedom to regain?
The sons of Britain, manly, generous, brave,
Who other bondage would disdain to bear;
Each yields himself to thee, a willing slave,
Nor breaks the fetters which thou bid'st him wear.
LET Bonaparte his legions boast,
We tremble not with coward fears;
Our tars shall keep the sea—our coast
Be guarded by our volunteers.
Then let the haughty tyrant try
What courage British bosoms bears;
He'll find those tars not apt to fly,
Nor yet to run those volunteers.
The hardy soldier, us'd to arms,
Whose breast the scars of honor wears;
More firmly train'd in war's alarms,
Shall lead our youthful volunteers.
This sea-girt-isle shall ne'er be won,
Whilst vet'ran troops hold freedom dear;
Whilst Neptune owns one gallant son,
Or Britain boasts a volunteer.
DID'ST thou not ask, when time should intervene,
And we no more thy mild farewell should hear,
That mem'ry still might linger on the scene,
And worthy hearts retain thee in their pray'r.
Tho', gentle pastor, thou art little known,
That little in our hearts gives friendship birth;
And when we raise our thoughts to Heavn's high throne,
And ask for blessings on the sons of earth,
STEP soft, ye youths; ye maidens hither bring
The earliest treasures of the blooming spring;
Let the blue vi'let, and the primrose pale,
Deck the green turf, and scent the passing gale;
For here at rest is laid, beneath this stone,
A gentle youth, belov'd as soon as known;
Heaven saw his virtues with a kind regard,
And call'd him early to his blest reward.
HOW chang'd to my fancy the spot,
Which once could such pleasures bestow;
Ah! why should I fly from my cot,
Unless I could fly from my woe?
No longer I join the gay throng,
As they sportively dance on the green;
No longer I carol the song,
But pensively stray from the scene.
On the rock that in majesty rude,
Has rear'd its proud summit on high;
Where no busy step can intrude,
I wander, to muse and to sigh.
Not a sound is there borne on the gale,
Save the wood-pigeon's accent of woe;
Or the river that glides thro' the vale,
And murmurs majestic and slow.
Congenial to me is the sound
Of the mournfully murmuring stream;
When the moon sheds refulgent around
Her soft lustre, in beauty supreme.
No more do the sweet warbling choir,
Their melody pour on my ear;
Nor the scene I was wont to admire,
Again in its beauty appear.
Yet when Time, the sure soother of grief,
Shall my mind of its sorrows beguile;
Resignation will yield me relief,
And nature again wear a smile.
SOCIETY, thy magic pow'r
Giv'st comfort in affliction's hour;
Thou can'st dispel the gloom of care,
And soothe the horrors of despair.
Languor and pain confess thy charms,
When pillow'd on thy friendly arms.
Health without thee would mere existence give,
And man in Eden's bow'rs repining live.
The captive, longing to be free,
Looks round his cell and sighs for thee;
And as the sentry walks his round,
He hears thy footsteps in the sound;
Thy form his very jailor wears;
He sees him move—his step he hears,
And feels a momentary gleam of joy,
When the mute savage brings his scant supply.
Then what unrivall'd charms are thine,
When Liberty and Friendship join;
To make thy presence doubly dear,
The mutual intercourse to share;
Oh come! and ever in my cot
Do thou reside. Then be my lot
To toil for bread from day to day,
Or pass the hours at ease away.
If thou, when wint'ry blasts blow keen,
Circling my little fire art seen,
Wealth may withhold her glittering stores from me,
Be mine the humble meal with thee, Society.
TELL me, delightful goddess, where
Thou hold'st thy gay and airy court?
Is it where fashion's votaries are;
Or where the rural train resort?
In either oft is heard the sound
Of noisy mirth, that mimics thee;
But not in either have I found
Thy lovely self, thou goddess free.
Methinks on yonder verdant plain,
The village school, releas'd to play,
Hail thee! their queen, and bid thee reign,
And crowns thy brows with flowers of May.
No anxious cares for future store,
Pain their young hearts, or damp their glee;
Soon as their little griefs are o'er,
They hail thee queen of infancy!
SWEET is the breeze that o'er the vale,
Wafts the perfume of new-mown hay;
And sweet to hear the nightingale,
Chaunting her tender plaintive lay.
Bright is the dew-drop on the rose,
That gems with pearls the blushing flow'r;
And bright the tints that Phœbus shows,
After the gentle April show'r.
But brighter far Compassion's tear,
That trembles in my Emma's eye;
And brighter tints her blushes are,
Than April suns can e'er supply.
And sweeter than the scent of hay,
By Zephyr borne, is Emma's sigh;
Sweeter than Philomela's lay,
Her soothing voice that whispers joy.
WHEN fair Eliza tempts my Muse,
Again to plume her idle wing;
The task were harder to refuse,
Than 'tis her worth and charms to sing.
If wit can please, if beauty warm;
If taste and sense the Muse inspire;
If ease and elegance can charm,
These tempt her to resume the lyre.
Sweet maid! as down the stream of time
Thy little bark shall float along,
Beware of Pleasure's tempting clime,
Nor list to Flatt'ry's syren song.
Let Prudence at the helm preside,
Let Judgment tend the swelling sail;
Then fear not every ebbing tide,
But trust to Providence the gale.
TO the mind, which delights its instruction to draw,
From the fair book of Nature, how ample her page;
The fields are a volume of order and law,
The guide of our conduct in youth or in age.
If the vi'let, perfuming the air unperceiv'd,
Or the daisy that humbly enamels the plain,
Are moralists worthy of being believ'd,
They bid us our modesty ever retain.
The bright blushing rose, that doth beauty pourtray,
Behold, lovely girl, how 'tis guarded with thorns;
From it we may learn, that whilst youthful and gay,
'Tis Prudence that beauty protects and adorns.
When the lily retiring, her snowy white vest
Half conceals in her mantle of green;
'Tis to shew, tho' fair Charity glows in the breast,
She should not in public be seen.
When we raise the bent flow'r o'ercharged with dew,
How careful and gently the hand is apply'd:
So whenever the tears of affliction we view,
'Tis with tenderness only they ought to be dry'd.
But how soon fade the flowers! how fragile their form!
The evergreen thrives when the summer is fled;
True emblem of Friendship, that lives in the storm,
And charms when the blossoms of beauty are shed.
THE Muse, my dear girl, which in life's early day,
Oft tempted me over Parnassus to stray,
I had long laid aside, as a fanciful toy,
Unworthy my matronly thoughts to employ.
But I find against Fate 'tis in vain to contend,
For Poverty ever was Poetry's friend;
And as Poverty still does my handmaid remain,
She brings back the wandering Muse in her train.
Too obscure to aspire to the laurel or bay,
She plucks the wild flowers that spring in her way.
DEAR nephew, being just in a scribbling cue,
I'm resolv'd to write nonsense to sister and you;
As the only excuse for ridiculous rhyme,
Believe me I do it to cheat father Time;
Leaden-footed he walks by my cottage at eve,
'Tis only when past, that his wings I perceive.
Since such are his tricks I'm determin'd to see,
If I can deceive him, as he has done me.
Retirement and cares, and the long winter's night,
Too often sad thoughts and reflections invite;
WHEN round the heart affection's tie
Too close is bound for time to free;
How oft is heav'd the painful sigh,
Relentless power, at thought of thee.
'Tis thy delight the cords to part,
Which Nature's hand has finely strung,
Around the plighted lover's heart,
On which his hope, his life is hung.
When Friendship's pure exalted name,
Two youthful mutual hearts have known;
If thou hast rais'd the phantom Fame,
To grasp the shadow, one has flown.
Yet tho' to burning sands convey'd,
Or doom'd to brave the northern pole,
Thy influence never can pervade,
Or change the temper of his soul.
And trust me, in the lover's breast,
More strong the cherish'd flame will burn;
And warmer be the wish exprest,
Fed by the hope of sweet return.
Then lay thy cruel arts aside,
Since vain and impotent they be;
No more the faithful pair divide,
Nor longer part my friend from me.
DARK was the night, the wind blew cold,
And fast came down the snow;
What was it urg'd young Henry o'er
The dreary moor to go.
Five ling'ring years were past away
Since Henry went to sea;
His anxious parents inly mourn'd
His unknown destiny.
Full well he knew his natal day
His tender mother kept;
He wish'd, as fast it wan'd away,
To see her ere she slept.
Cold blew the wind, the moor was wide,
And many a path was there;
And not a star his steps to guide,
His heart was chill'd with fear.
With courage oft he'd danger fac'd
In many a heavy gale;
But now on land a coward grown,
He felt his spirits fail.
Could I, he cry'd, but reach our cot,
And seat me by the fire;
How would my mother's heart rejoice,
How blest would be my sire!
The aged pair, with daughters two,
Around that fire were plac'd;
Fair were the maids, but fairer far,
Was one who both surpast.
Lucy was there, the village boast,
The love of every swain;
Whose modesty excell'd her charms,
Whom Henry hop'd to gain.
For ever, in his boyish years,
Was Lucy by his side;
An orphan, whose lost parents' care
His parents well supply'd.
And now his letters, treasures dear,
Were read with hope and pain;
For he had said, he hop'd, ere long,
To see them all again.
The time he fixt, when Autumn leaves
Before the gale should fly;
That time was past, and anxious fears
Embitter'd ev'ry joy.
Oh! may I live my boy to see,
His weeping mother cry'd.
Oh! that he were but with us now
Each echoing voice reply'd.
Sudden a rapping at the door
Fill'd ev'ry breast with fear;
Few cross'd at night that dreary moor,
By darkness made more drear.
Who comes in such a night as this?
Enquir'd the cautious sire.
A voice reply'd, a stranger lost,
Asks shelter at your fire.
Stranger or friend, whoe'er thou art,
Thou dost not ask in vain;
Such shelter as my cot affords
Be thine whilst night remain.
A graceful youth, to manhood grown,
In sailor's garb appears;
And whilst each maid with ready zeal
The homely meal prepares,
Surprise, fear, hope, alternate seiz'd
The anxious mother's breast;
Gazing she stood, yet dare not tell
The hope her heart confess.
Why dost not stir, the father cries,
And fetch a jug of ale;
Were it our Henry how shou'dst fly;
He saw the youth turn pale.
Fond nature could sustain no more,
He faulter'd out his name;
Too swift th' impetuous tide of joy
O'er each lov'd bosom came.
Clasp'd in her trembling Henry's arms
His fainting mother lay;
But soon returning life and joy
Chas'd fear and grief away.
The happy mother, sisters, sire,
By turns affection share;
Nor did the blushing Lucy find
Herself forgotten there.
Ye parents, who an absent child
Have hop'd again to view;
And ye who such delight have known,
I write this tale to you.
THY bread upon the waters cast,
And give a portion to the poor;
For after many days are past
It shall be found to bless thy store.
Give unto seven, and to eight,
The food which nature will sustain;
So when afflictions thee await,
Thou shalt find friends, nor ask in vain.
HAPPY the man who tastes the tranquil joys
Religious solitude alone supplies;
Where every charm society bestows,
More deeply rooted in his bosom glows;
And every hour the practice of some kind,
Some peaceful virtue occupies his mind.
When faint and languid on the bed of death,
And just preparing to resign his breath;
SHADE of my fav'rite bard! oh, that my Muse
Could catch the inspiration of thy song!
Painted by thee, the mild etherial spring;
To my enraptur'd mind appears more fair,
The glowing summer brighter beauty wears;
The mellow autumn richer tints assumes,
And even stern winter charms, describ'd by thee.
Oh! come, and with thy tender touching strain,
Teach me to sing; alike to me the theme.
Be it of love; that, with a master's hand,
AT this lone hour of undisturb'd repose,
How sweet are Meditation's sober charms!
"When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,"
Or breaks the stillness of the midnight air.
Silence, how awful, undisturb'd by ought,
Save by the gentle dashing of the wave,
In broken murmurs on the rocky beach.
Riding in peaceful majesty on high,
Behold the silver moon, night's radiant queen,
O'er the calm bosom of th' unruffled sea,
EXALTED stranger! may a Muse obscure
Pay thee the tribute of affection pure;
Thy virtues have endear'd thee to our isle,
And Innocence has blest thee with her smile.
Tho' Envy chose thee as a lofty mark,
And strove to pierce thy bosom in the dark,
Bright rose the Sun of Truth, his glorious ray
Chas'd Envy and her howling fiends away.
They fell—unable to sustain the light,
Like Milton's legions, to the shades of night;
Whilst Truth and Virtue, with their angel host,
Hail'd thee! their triumph, and the nation's boast.
Yes, my brave countrymen thy worth revere,
Their manly hearts to thee allegiance bear;
They see thee rise, try'd in affliction's fire,
And pitying of thy woes, thyself admire.
Else on that day when willing numbers meet,
His people's father, and thy own, to greet,
Why sprung from every tongue the glad acclaim?
Why kindled every bosom at thy name?
WHEN Nelson fell, each poet try'd his lays,
Each gave to valor the just meed of praise;
But why were left unsung the brave who died,
With equal courage fighting by his side?
Britannia's tears were to the hero due,
The nation mourn'd him, and I wept for you;
Ye all had friends, within whose little sphere,
Each was a Nelson to his country dear.
Oh! that my Muse could hold ye up to fame,
And from oblivion snatch each gallant name?
WHEN with rash hand, her needle thrown aside,
A female wields the pen with empty pride,
Whom shall she dare invoke to lend her aid?
Scorn'd by the poet, and th' industrious maid.
If independency, not love of fame,
Her only objects are, her only aim;
Her cause she pleads, and trusts for its defence
To female clemency, and manly sense.
Unus'd to roam, ne'er venturing on that sea,
Which Gallia parts (my native isle) from thee;
She to thy shores alone her verse confines,
Nor asks when Bonaparte sleeps or dines.
Yes, Britain, thou art blest with sterling worth,
Thy fame is justly sounded round the earth;
Nor shall thy sons the senate cease to grace,
Nor wholesome laws to anarchy give place.
Still shall thy authors wit and judgment guide;
Thy merchants stem for thee th' advent'rous tide;
Heav'n, to its creatures ever good and kind,
Allows amusement to unbend the mind;
And oft the stage instruction may impart,
And whilst it charms the fancy, mend the heart.
With diff'rent eyes the world each object sees,
And what disgusts the one, the next will please.
Some with delight on wond'rous Lambert gaze,
Whilst others join in graceful Norval's praise;
Some in sweet sounds, that o'er the senses steal,
Feel extacy no language can reveal;
Whilst others, list'ning with a leaden ear,
Gape, yawn, and wonder what it is they hear;
Alike to them the ass's hideous bray,
Or the sweet tone that melts the soul away.
Ye beaux, the butterflies of Britain's isle,
That like that insect flutter for a while;
And ye, fair belles, upon whose gentle breast,
Sweet as the opening rose, the insects rest;
Rouse, rouse, to arms, and round your idol stand,
Fashion is lash'd by cruel Satire's hand:
Oh! save your suff'ring queen, her rank restore,
Employment dies when Fashion's reign is o'er.
What tho' she ruin hurls on Folly's head,
Still thousands gain by her their daily bread.
For her are ply'd the labors of the loom;
For her the flower distils its sweet perfume;
Annual for her Siberia's desert shore,
And rich Golconda's mines, their treasures pour;
Nor is this all, where wide old ocean spreads,
And people wish to let their vacant beds,
Her fairy wand she waves: down flock the crowd,
The sick, the rich, the pretty, and the proud.
The first in search of health; the next of fame;
The third a lover; and the fourth a name.
Some will, perhaps, alledge that fashion rules,
Where charity presides o'er infant schools;
But why, my Muse, do tears bedim thy eye?
Why from thy bosom bursts th' indignant sigh?
What scenes of national disgrace abound,
For which no palliative can be found?
Compassion pleads (where death is made a sport)
For the poor brute, whose date of life is short.
From scenes like these the blushing Muse withdraws,
Asham'd to yield, asham'd to plead her cause.
Ye rich, ye noble, highly favor'd few,
Whose bounty fosters like the falling dew;
Whose title is the same your grandsires won,
Whose large domain descends from sire to son.
Rumour has whisper'd (but it is not true)
That scenes like these are patroniz'd by you.
Nor do the fair escape from Slander's tongue,
Even them she taxes with a charge of wrong;
Asserts that mothers lead unuseful lives,
And lays domestic miseries to wives.
This must be false; a mother's joy is home
She cannot leave her infant charge to roam:
Nor can a wife domestic woes create,
Herself involving in her husband's fate.
Oh ye to whom the sacred task's assign'd,
To cultivate and form the infant mind;
The tender plant with early virtue feed,
And round it sow religion's precious seed.
Then with its growth the sure support shall grow,
Shield from temptation, guard from misery's blow;
Yield its sure solace when the spirits fail,
Stem the rough tide, oppose the adverse gale;
Steer the poor shatter'd bark, when almost lost,
And fix its anchor on the Heavenly coast.
This is the source whence happiness must rise,
No matter whether in the head it lies,
Or whether in the heart supreme it reigns,
The search is little worth our thought or pain,
IN yonder cot that skirts the vale,
A lovely maiden once I knew;
But now her beauteous cheek is pale,
And dim her eyes of heavenly blue.
Light as the bounding roe, her feet
Were wont to trace the verdant plain;
Gay as the lark, with notes as sweet,
She carol'd forth the lively strain.
But now no more her wood-notes wild
Shall charm the list'ning stranger's ear;
No more she roves sweet nature's child,
Lovely as young, and good as fair.
Ill fated maid! thy bridal day,
Thy aged parents hop'd to greet;
When death thy lover snatch'd away,
And reason vacant left her seat.
One were their hearts—for grief or joy,
Nor either singly felt or knew;
Childhood had form'd the social tie,
And with their years affection grew.
'Twas on a fair September's morn,
With joy to seek his destin'd bride,
Young Allan rose at early dawn,
And join'd his faithful Emma's side.
Adieu! he cry'd, my gentle maid,
I go to tend my fleecy care;
At noon I'll seek the well known shade,
With thee my humble meal to share.
Sweet is to me the humble meal,
Dress'd by thy hand, and shar'd with thee;
And sweet from noontide heat to steal,
Beneath our fav'rite spreading tree.
Ah! hapless youth, thy race is run,
No more shalt thou thy Emma see;
Nor shelter more from noontide sun,
Beneath the well-known shady tree.
As o'er the field where lately grew
The full ear'd corn (a pleasing sight);
Alarm'd the whirring coveys flew,
The levell'd tube arrests their flight.
So Allan fell—the murd'rous hand
That laid him low was, Raymond, thine;
Yet friendship in her closest band,
With Allan's did thy heart entwine.
Oh! say then, why the fatal wrong,
Was thine to part the plighted pair?
But horror ties thy guiltless tongue,
And on thy lip sits mute despair.
Where yonder hedge-row parts the vale,
His much-lov'd friend young Allan spied;
Ran eagerly the bank to scale;
The slipp'ry bank his wish deny'd.
I cannot reach thy hand, he cry'd,
As high above him Raymond stood;
Hold out thy gun,—the youth comply'd,
And Allan welter'd in his blood.
Behind the parted bush conceal'd,
Lurk'd Death—with aim for ever true;
'Gainst whom th' unequal spear we wield,
Whom all must combat, none subdue.
Not in terrific pomp array'd,
As when on Egypt's hostile plain,
Britons amidst unnumber'd dead,
Saw gallant Abercrombie slain.
But as to shew mankind how vain
Were all their arts to 'scape his toils,
The sceptre of his powerful reign
Was the bent twig that back recoils.
This to the trigger he applies,
The loaded gun the touch obeys;
Young Allan falls, he bleeds, he dies,
Cropt in the dawn of manhood's days.
'Tis thus in life thro' every stage,
Death's never-failing agent, Time,
Stops not to cull the full of age,
But mows the flow'rs of youthful prime.
On his wan cheek the victor Death
Triumphant rear'd his standard pale;
Dim grew his eye, his short'ning breath,
And flutt'ring pulse, began to fail.
His frantic friend, with fear aghast,
To stanch the wound his garments tore;
The vital stream that flow'd so fast,
Was doom'd, alas! to ebb no more.
With falt'ring step and haggard eye,
The victim to his home he bears;
Where every art that skill could try,
Was join'd to unavailing prayers.
But hush; my Muse, let silence veil
The lover's, parents', friend's distress;
Words cannot paint the tragic tale,
Each feeling heart will better guess.
No tears have since down Emma's cheeks,
With kind relief been seen to flow;
But fixt she stands, with aspect meek,
Like statue o'er the tomb of woe.
In yonder cot that skirts the vale,
When first the lovely maid I knew;
Her beauteous cheek was never pale,
Nor dim her eyes of heavenly blue.
I LOVE to watch the kindling skies,
When Phœbus wakes the blushing morn;
To see the soaring lark arise,
Whilst dew-drops glitter on the thorn.
At noon to watch the wand'ring bee,
Upon the fragrant wild-thyme rest;
Or roving o'er the blossom'd tree,
Sip honey from each fair flowers breast.
I love at close of day to roam,
When evening paints the West with gold;
To hear the rooks returning home,
Or see the shepherd penn his fold.
At night to see the moon-beam pale,
Shed its soft light o'er dale and hill;
To hear the plaintive nightingale,
When ev'ry song, save her's, is still.
But chief of all I love to trace,
His hand divine who form'd the whole;
Morn, noon, eve, night, fair Nature's face,
His pow'r proclaim from pole to pole.
ALMIGHTY Lord! thy lib'ral hand,
Spreads plenty round this smiling land;
Thy voice divine the sun obeys,
And cheers all nature with his rays.
Thou giv'st the word, the fruitful soil,
Rewards the labourer's useful toil;
With joy the golden grain we see,
And raise our grateful hearts to thee.
What tho' our clime no olives yields,
Nor vines luxuriant deck our fields;
Yet o'er our hills and fruitful plains,
The corn, which chiefly life sustains,
On earth's maternal bosom thrown,
We hail! with transport, as our own;
And bless Thy bounteous hand, that gives
"A common feast to all that lives."
Continue, Lord, o'er us thy care;
Still raise our hearts in praise and pray'r:
In praise, for blessings we possess;
In pray'r, that Thou wilt always bless,
With vict'ry flush'd, with conquest vain,
Should th' Usurper cross the main;
Save, Lord, our country from the blow,
And make the haughty tyrant know,
The battle and the race belong
Not always to the swift or strong;
Britain may Fall at Thy decree,
But spare her, Lord, to worship thee.
OF all the various tides of human woe,
How few from industry or prudence flow;
Were we but less ambitious to be great;
Did we but shun the useless glare of state;
So many of our race would not in vain
Of want and chilling penury complain.
Whom Prudence guides may readily obtain,
Of what is useful, necessary, plain,
All things to comfort nature and sustain.
THY story is mournful, oh! son of the car,
Said Carril, the bard of the times that are gone;
Cuthullin, it sends my soul backward afar,
To ages of old, to the days that are flown.
The tale I've heard often of Comal, who slew
The friend whom he lov'd, whom he sorrow'd for sore;
Yet his steel was victorious, his enemies flew,
Consum'd was the battle his presence before.
A son of old Albion was Comal the brave,
And chief of an hundred green hills that rose high;
His deer in a thousand clear streams us'd to lave,
A thousand rocks echo'd his dogs to reply.
His face was the mildness of beautiful youth,
His hand was the death of the heroes his foes;
But one was his love—fair as virtue and truth,
The daughter of Conloch the mighty arose.
Like a sunbeam 'mongst women her beauty appear'd,
And black as the wing of the raven her hair;
Her dogs for the chase of the forest were rear'd,
The sound of her bow-string oft rung on the air.
Her soul fixt on Comal, and oft met their eyes;
Their course in the chase of the deer was but one:
And happy their words were when peace gave its joys,
And they saw not the gath'ring storm coming on.
But Gormal lov'd also the beautiful maid,
Dark chief of the deep gloomy Ardven was he;
He watch'd her lone steps o'er the heath as she stray'd,
Thy foe, gentle Comal, unhappy for thee.
One day, when fatigu'd with the chase of the deer,
The grey mist concealing their friends from their sight;
To Ronan's lone cave they for shelter repair,
The haunt of young Comal when tir'd from the fight.
Its sides all around with his armour were hung,
An hundred broad shields of the warrior were there;
An hundred steel helmets, which sounding had rung,
When far back recoil'd the death aimed spear.
Rest here, my Galvina, he said, without fear,
Thou light of the dark cave of Ronan remain;
On Mora's high brow I behold the wild deer,
I go, but will quickly be with thee again.
I fear to remain, said the white bosom'd maid,
This cave is the haunt of dark Gormal, my foe;
'Mongst the arms I will rest, lest my peace he invade
Return soon, oh Comal! my love, if thou go.
He went to the deer he on Mora beheld,
The daughter of Conloch his love thought to try;
She cloth'd her fair sides with his armour, his shield,
And strode from the cave with his helmet so high.
He thought her his foe, and his heart at the sight
Beat high with revenge, and his color swift fled;
O'er his eyes swam the dimness of darkness and night,
And swift from his bow-string an arrow he sped.
In blood fell Galvina, his aim was too true,
On the daughter of Conloch he call'd, but in vain;
With steps full of wildness and terror he flew,
The lonely rock answering his voice not again.
Where art thou, my love? oh, appear to my view!
At length he saw (all that fate left to him now)
Her heaving heart beat round the arrow he threw,
Oh! daughter of Conloch, he cry'd, is it thou?
He sunk on her breast—by the hunters were found
The pair, who so hapless, so constant did prove;
A while with slow pace he the hill walk'd around,
But many his steps to the tomb of his love.
The fleet of the ocean at length call'd the brave,
He fought, and the strangers gave way to his might;
O'er the field he sought death, he wish'd for the grave,
But who could slay Comal the valiant in fight?
His shield of dark brown from his bosom he threw,
No longer death strove the fond lovers to part;
An arrow swift wing'd at the hero there flew,
And deep was his manly breast pierc'd with the dart.
And now where the noise of the surges resound,
Which the mariner hears as he bounds o'er the wave;
Where blows the bleak north wind, the green tombs are found,
Where sleep fair Galvina and Comal the brave.
A SOLDIER's life, how full of care!
When call'd from all he holds most dear,
As I from thee by fate severe,
My lovely Betsy.
But yet the hope that thou art true,
Does every anxious thought subdue,
And future bliss presents to view,
With thee, my Betsy.
If doom'd the hostile foe to meet,
My heart with ardent hope shall beat,
To lay my laurels at thy feet,
My gentle Betsy.
For should the trumpet cease to sound,
And Peace be with her olive crown'd,
What joy to meet, on British ground,
My faithful Betsy.
WHEN an enemy seeks the possession
Of a fortress or city to gain;
He does not resort to oppression,
As the method his wish to obtain.
But viewing the out-works all over,
Tries where the attack may be made;
Attempts the weak side to discover,
Or bribes o'er some guard to his aid.
So you, my dear Mary, supposing
That to Pride was committed the keys,
Sent Flatt'ry, while Judgment was dozing,
And seiz'd on my treasures with ease.
Should Judgment be try'd by court-martial,
Not a word can in favor be said;
The court surely this verdict impartial.
Must give—"Lost through defect in the head."
But as when a fortress has yielded,
Some mercy the prisoners are shewn;
Be my works by your clemency shielded,
And not to the public made known.
OH! thou that wipes, with friendly hand,
The streaming tear from sorrow's eye;
That soothes despair with accents bland,
And bids the mourner cease to sigh.
Benevolence! meek Nature's child,
Thy silent step delights to stray,
Where the pale cheek, or aspect wild,
Would scare Indifference away.
In the low cot where drooping lies,
The widow with her orphan care;
'Tis thy delight to bid them rise
To brighter scenes and prospects fair.
E'en where the guilty suff'rer pleads,
If Penitence prepares the way,
Thy willing hand to comfort leads,
Teaching the sinner how to pray.
Soft as descends the fost'ring dew,
Thy ready aid relief bestows;
Yet ever screen'd from public view,
None but thyself thy bounty knows.
Conceal'd by delicacy's veil,
Thou would'st my trusty spies elade
;
But such disguise will nought avail,
Since not so blind is Gratitude.
She sees that tho' resolv'd to bless,
Thou would'st the noble deed disown;
And whil'st thou giv'st the wish'd success,
Impute it to desert alone.
Ah! vain attempt, each generous name,
With which this favor'd page is grac'd,
Shall gratitude aloud proclaim,
That thou alone hast in it plac'd.