Зображення сторінки
PDF
ePub

TO G. ROMNEY, ESQ.

ROMNEY! expert, infallible to trace,
On chart or canvass, not the form alone,
And 'semblance, but, however faintly shewn,
The mind's impression too on every face,
With strokes that time ought never to erase:
Thou hast so pencilled mine, that though I own
The subject worthless, I have never known
The artist shining with superior grace.

But this I mark, that symptoms none of woe
In thy incomparable work appear:
Well ! I am satisfied, it should be so,
Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear;
For in my looks what sorrow could'st thou see,
While I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee?

TO H. COWPER, ESQ., ON HIS DELIVERY OF THE DEFENCE OF WARREN HASTINGS, ESQ. IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS.

CowPER, whose silver voice, tasked sometimes hard,
Legends prolix delivers in the ears

(Attentive when thou read'st) of England's peers,
Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward.
Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard,
Expending late on all that length of plea

Thy generous powers: but silence honoured thee,
Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard.

Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside

Both heart and head; and could'st with music sweet

Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone,

Like thy renowned forefathers, far and wide

Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet

Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.

THOMAS GRAY.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. RICHARD WEST.

In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,
And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire :
The birds in vain their amorous descant join ;
Or cheerful fields resume their green attire:
These ears, alas! for other notes repine,

A different object do these eyes require :
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire.
Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
And new-born pleasure brings to happier men:
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear:

To warm their little loves the birds complain : I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, And weep the more, because I

weep

in vain.

TO HOPE.

O, EVER skilled to wear the form we love!
To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart,
Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove
The lasting sadness of an aching heart:
Thy voice, benign Enchantress! let me hear;
Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom;
That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear,
Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's gloom.
But come not glowing in the dazzling ray
Which once with dear illusions charmed my eye!
O strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way
The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die.
Visions less fair will sooth my pensive breast,
That asks not happiness, but longs for rest!

TO TWILIGHT.

MEEK twilight! haste to shroud the solar ray,
And bring the hour my pensive spirit loves;
When o'er the hill is shed a paler day,
That gives to stillness, and to night, the groves.
Ah! let the gay the roseate morning hail,
When in the various blooms of light arrayed,
She bids fresh beauty live along the vale,
And rapture tremble in the vocal shade :
Sweet is the lurid morning's opening flower,
Her coral melodies benignly rise;

Yet dearer to my soul the shadowy hour,

At which her blossoms close, her music dies;

For then mild nature, while she droops her head, Wakes the soft tear 'tis luxury to shed.

SIR BROOKE BOOTHBY.

ON A LOCKET CONTAINING THE HAIR OF PENELOPE.

BRIGHT, crisped threads of pure translucent gold!
Ye, who were wont with zephyr's breath to play,
O'er the warm cheek and ivory forehead stray;
Or clasp her neck in many an amorous fold;
Now, motionless, this little Shrine must hold;
No more to wanton in the eye of day,

Or to the breeze your changeful hues display ;
For ever still, inanimate, and cold!

Poor, poor, last relic of an angel face!

Sad setting ray, no more thy orb is seen!

O, Beauty's pattern, miracle of grace,

Must this be all that tells what thou hast been! Come then, cold crystal, on this bosom lie,

Till love, and grief, and fond remembrance die!

Penelope, the only child of Sir Brooke and Dame Susanna Boothby, born April the 11th, 1785, died March the 13th, 1791. There is a beautiful and pathetic monument raised to her memory, executed with exquisite grace, by Banks, in Ashbourne Church, Derbyshire. There are four inscriptions round the monument, in Latin, Italian, French and English; on the English side are the following words.

"I was not in safety, neither had I rest, and the trouble came."-Job, iii., 26th verse.

She was in form and intellect most exquisite;

The unfortunate parents ventured their all On this frail bark, and the wreck was total! "Few (they say) who look upon this monument, will seek to know more than what the marble figure tells-it speaks all languages, and its words are, 'I died young and pure, and my spirit is with the blessed.""

TO HIS INFANT MARIA.

Ан! my dear Babe! thou smilest on the tear
That hangs upon thy Mother's fading cheek;
Eager, as thou wert wont, her voice to hear-

But her heart swells with grief too full to speak. 'Tis for thy brothers, in the same cold bed,

She weeps.-O'er one the wintry storm hath past; And there, another rests his little head

Fresh pillowed. But they feel not the keen blast! O'er their pale turf the whistling winds may sweep— Unconscious of the tempest, they repose:

There, undisturbed, sweet innocents! they sleep
From human passions free, from human woes.
Yes, dear Maria! they, my Babe, are free
From ills that wait, perhaps, in store for thee!

TO THE SAME.

YES! thou art doomed to meet full many a frown,
Perhaps from pride's rude offspring, who despise
The worth of tremulous diffidence, and crown
Each dazzling attribute with virtue's prize.
Yet, if amidst the stormy wilderness

Of life, some friend thy gentle spirit find,
Spite of the unfeeling million, he shall bless,
With warm sincerity, thy kindred mind.
But trust not the fond look, the specious smile:
Nor deem that o'er thy path the unsetting light
Of friendship beams.-Alas! if free from guile,
Thou wilt the poor, the timid caution slight!
How hard their lot, who feel its value most,
To shed the bitter tear for friendship lost!

« НазадПродовжити »