Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

Son of the brave! no longer weep;
Still with affection true,
Along the wild disastrous deep,

Thy father's course pursue:
Full in his wake of glory steer,
His spirit prompts thy bold career,

His compass guides thee through;
So, while thy thunders awe the sea,
Britain shall find thy Sire in thee.

ON RECEIVING A BRANCH OF MEZEREON, WHICH FLOWERED AT WOODSTOCK, DECEMBER, 1809. Mrs. Tighe.

ODOURS of Spring, my sense ye charm

With fragrance premature;

And 'mid these days of dark alarm,

Almost to hope allure.

Methinks with purpose soft ye come
To tell of brighter hours,

Of May's blue skies, abundant bloom,
Her sunny gales and showers.

Alas! for me shall May in vain

The powers of life restore;

These eyes that weep and watch in pain
Shall see her charms no more.

No, no, this anguish cannot last!

Beloved friends, adieu!

The bitterness of death were past,

Could I resign but you.

But oh! in every mortal pang
That rends my soul from life,
That soul, which seems on you to hang
Through each convulsive strife,
Even now, with agonizing grasp
Of terror and regret,

To all in life its love would clasp
Clings close and closer yet.

Yet why, immortal, vital spark!
Thus mortally opprest?

Look up, my soul: through prospects dark,

And bid thy terrors rest;

Forget, forego thy earthly part,

Thine heavenly being trust:

Ah, vain attempt! my coward heart
Still shuddering clings to dust.

Oh ye! who sooth the pangs of death
With love's own patient care,
Still, still retain this fleeting breath,

Still pour the fervent prayer:

And ye, whose smile must greet my eye
No more, nor voice my ear,

Who breathe for me the tender sigh,

And shed the pitying tear

Whose kindness (though far far removed

My grateful thoughts perceive, Pride of my life, esteemed, beloved,

My last sad claim receive!

Oh! do not quite your friend forget,
Forget alone her faults;

And speak of her with fond regret

Who asks your lingering thoughts,

SONNET.

Mrs. Tighe.

As nearer I approach that fatal day

Which makes all mortal cares appear so light,
Time seems on swifter wing to speed his flight,
And Hope's fallacious visions fade away;
While to my fond desires, at length, I say,

Behold, how quickly melted from your sight
The promised objects you esteemed so bright,
When love was all your song, and life looked gay!
Now let us rest in peace! those hours are past,
And with them all the agitating train

By which Hope led the wandering cheated soul; Wearied, she seeks repose, and owns at last

How sighs, and tears, and youth, were spent in vain, While languishing she mourned in Folly's sad control.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN.

Anonymous.

YES, grief will have way—but the fast falling tear
Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those,
Who could bask in that Spirit's meridian career,
And leave it thus lonely and dark at its close:—

Whose vanity flew round him, only while fed

By the odour his fame in its summer-time gave ;— Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the dead, Like the Ghole of the East, comes to feed at his grave!

Oh! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow,
And spirits so mean in the great and high-born;
To think what a long line of titles may follow

The relics of him who died-friendless and lorn!

How proud they can press to the funʼral array

Of one, whom they shunn'd in his sickness and sorrow :— How bailiffs may seize his last blanket, to-day,

Whose pall shall be held up by nobles, to-morrow!

"Was this then the fate!

future ages will say,

When some names shall live but in history's curse; When Truth will be heard, and these Lords of a day Be forgotten as fools, or remember'd as worse;—

"Was this then the fate of that high-gifted man,
"The pride of the palace, the bower and the hall,
"The orator-dramatist-minstrel,-who ran

"Through each mode of the lyre, and was master of all !

"Whose mind was an essence, compounded with art
"From the finest and best of all other men's powers;-
"Who ruled, like a wizard, the world of the heart,

"And could call up its sunshine, or bring down its showers!

"Whose humour, as gay as the fire-fly's light,

"Play'd round every subject, and shone as it play'd ;— "Whose wit, in the combat, as gentle as bright, "Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade ;

"Whose eloquence-bright'ning whatever it tried,
"Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave,—
"Was as rapid, as deep, and as brilliant a tide,
"As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave!"

Yes--such was the man, and so wretched his fate ;-
And thus, sooner or later, shall all have to grieve,
Who waste their morn's dew in the beams of the Great,
And expect 'twill return to refresh them at eve!

« ZurückWeiter »