POSTHUMOUS AND FUGITIVE POEMS. ON DEATH. I. CAN death be sleep, when life is but a dream, 2. How strange it is that man on earth should roam, SONNET. TO BYRON. BYRON! how sweetly sad thy melody! Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, being by, Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die. As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil, And like fair veins in sable marble flow; Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale, SONNET. TO CHATTERTON. O CHATTERTON! how very sad thy fate! Dear child of sorrow-son of misery! How soon the film of death obscur'd that eye, Whence Genius mildly flash'd, and high debate. How soon that voice, majestic and elate, Melted in dying numbers! Oh! how nigh Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die A half-blown flow'ret which cold biasts amate. But this is past: thou art among the stars Of highest Heaven: to the rolling spheres Thou sweetly singest: nought thy hymning mars, Above the ingrate world and human fears. On earth the good man base detraction bars From thy fair name, and waters it with tears. SONNET. TO SPENSER. SPENSER! a jealous honourer of thine, A forester deep in thy midmost trees, Did last eve ask my promise to refine Some English that might strive thine ear to please. But Elfin Poet 'tis impossible For an inhabitant of wintry earth To rise like Phoebus with a golden quill O' the sudden and receive thy spiriting: ODE TO APOLLO. I. IN thy western halls of gold When thou sittest in thy state, Bards, that erst sublimely told Heroic deeds, and sang of fate, With fervour seize their adamantine lyres, Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires. 2. Here Homer with his nervous arms But, what creates the most intense surprise, 3. Then, through thy Temple wide, melodious swells 4. 'Tis awful silence then again; Expectant stand the spheres; Nor move, till ends the lofty strain, Nor move till Milton's tuneful thunders cease, And leave once more the ravish'd heavens in peace. 5. Thou biddest Shakspeare wave his hand, And quickly forward spring The Passions-a terrific band And each vibrates the string That with its tyrant temper best accords, While from their Master's lips pour forth the inspiring words. 6. A silver trumpet Spenser blows, And, as its martial notes to silence flee, From a virgin chorus flows A hymn in praise of spotless Chastity. 'Tis still! Wild warblings from the Æolian lyre Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire. 7. Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers Calling youth from idle slumbers, Rousing them from Pleasure's lair: Then o'er the strings his fingers gently move, 8. But when Thou joinest with the Nine, The dying tones that fill the air, And charm the ear of evening fair, From thee, great God of Bards, receive their heavenly birth. Ν |