Inscription for Pope's Villa at Twickenham, in its sent "improved" state.
WRITTEN AFTER A VISIT TO IT.
Trav❜ller pass careless by; nor stop in hope,
Of viewing here the scene belov'd by Pope.
Years saw preserv'd his mansion and his grot,
All later worthies sought the sacred spot;
And adding still new rev'rence to its shade,
Time amply recompens'd the spoil it made.
Whether 'twas Avarice laid these gardens waste,
Or vulgar Foppery of affected taste,
Boots not to know.-Depart, content to think,
Those heartless minds that bade his relics sink,
May vainly labour till their final day
To touch the blooming honours of his lay.
With his immortal song shall live their shame,
Trite as his verse-conspicuous as his fame.
Oft as the great, the wise, the spot shall view,
For tho' despoil'd, some rev'rence still is due;
New scorn shall brand, from lips whence scorn is keen,
The want of feeling that could change the scene;
While friends, if even friends will urge defence,
Shall only dare to plead a want of sense.
Epigram to a Lady in a Thunder-Storm.
Well may'st thou dread in this sad hour
The lightning's livid flash to feel,
When to each strong, attractive power,
You add, fair maid, a heart of steel.
An Idea of Love.
BY A GREEK POET.
If Love be folly, as the schools would prove,
The man must lose his wits who falls in love;
Deny him Love, you doom the wretch to death,
And then it follows, he must lose his breath.
Good sooth! there is a young and dainty maid
I love, a minstrel she by trade;
What then, must I defer to pedant rule,
And own that Love transforms me to a fool
Not I, so help me! by the gods I swear
The Nymph I love is fairest of the fair;
Wise, witty, dearer to her Poet's sight
Than piles of money on an author's night.
Must I not love her then? Let the dull sot
Who made the law obey it—I will not!
Sent with a coloured drawing of a Tailor riding on his Goose, caparisoned with Cards of Patterns, to a young Lady, who said " that she would rather die, than marry a Tailor!"
Not borne like others on the wings of love,
Do I approach the shrine of all I prize, Borne on the pinions of my Goose, I move,
To brave once more the lightning of thine eyes,
Ah! can'st thou see, unmov'd, a faithful heart,'
Of which a pattern thus I hold to view
'Tis fill'd with islet-holes by Cupid's dart,
'Twas made for you, dear girl, and only you!
Did'st thou but know of half the love I bear,
No measure would suffice to tell its length;
You know not, dear, how long such love would wear,
No love could surely equal it in strength.
Two hearts how often in my dreams I view'd,
Congenial, fine-drawn, close, without a seam,
With all the gayest tints of love's imbu'd,
But still unfading in its brightest beam.
My humble board how would thy presence cheer !
What splendour cast upon a Tailor's rout!
Methinks I hear the world exclaim, Oh Dear!
Sure for each other they were just cut out!
But shouldst thou fair one prove to be unkind,
My suit unfitted to thy taste declare,
Of me may death no remnant leave behind,
But fell me, cut the thread of life, nor leave me to despair.
Would that breast were bared before thee,
Where thy head so oft hath lain.
While that placid sleep came o'er thee,
Which thou ne'er can'st know again;
Would that breast, by thee glanc'd over,
Every inmost thought could shew! Then thou would'st at last discover "Twas not well to spurn it so.
Though the world for this commend thee-
Though it smile upon the blow,
E'en its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe.
Though my many faults defaced me;
Could no other arm be found
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?
Yet-oh, yet-thyself deceive not--
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not,
Hearts can thus be torn away.
Still thine own its life retaineth
Still must mine-though bleeding-beat, And the undying thought which paineth Is-that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead,
Both shall live-but every morrow
Wake us from a widow'd bed.-
And when thou would'st solace gather-
When our child's first accents flow-
Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!"
Though his care she must forego?
When her little hands shall press thee-
When her lip to thine is prest-
Think of him whose prayers shall bless thee-
Think of him thy love had bless'd.-
Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more may'st see-
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults-perchance thou knowest-
my madness-none can know ;
All my hopes-where'er thou goest-
Wither-yet with thee thou go-
Every feeling hath been shaken,
Pride-which not a world could bow
Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,
my soul forsakes me now.
But 'tis done-all words are idle-
Words from me are vainer still ;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will—
Fare thee well!-thus disunited
Torn from every nearer tie
Sear'd in heart-and lone-and blighted-
More than this I scarce can die.
A Thought on the late Victories.
"The strife of nature, or the throng of war, "Shall not retard my long victorious car." So said th' Apostate Chief! Vain man! nor knew How near the day of retribution drew.
|