то THE CAMELLIA JAPONICA.
SAY, what impels me, pure and spotless flower,
To view thee with a secret sympathy?
-Is there some living spirit shrined in thee,
That, as thou bloom'st within my humble bower,
Endows thee with some strange mysterious power,
Waking high thoughts?-as there perchance might be
Some angel-form of truth and purity,
Whose hallowed presence shared my lonely hour!
-Yes, lovely flower, 'tis not thy virgin glow,
Thy petals whiter than surrounding snow,
Nor all the charms thy velvet folds display,-
'Tis the soft image of some beaming mind,
By grace adorned, by elegance refined,
That o'er my heart thus holds its silent sway.
SIR SAMUEL EGERTON BRYDGES.
I WISH I could have heard thy long-tried lore,
Thou virtuous Lord of Skipton! Thou couldst well
From sage Experience, that best teacher, tell,
How far within the Shepherd's humble door
Lives the sure happiness, that on the floor
Of gay Baronial Halls disdains to dwell,
Though decked with many a feast, and many a spell
Of gorgeous rhyme, and echoing with the roar
Of Pleasure, clamorous round the full-crowned bowl!
Thou hadst (and who had doubted thee?) exprest,
What empty baubles are the ermined stole,
Proud coronet, rich walls with tapestry drest,
And music lulling the sick frame to rest!
Bliss only haunts the pure contented soul!
Henry Clifford, tenth Lord of the Honour of Skipton, in 1485, in the thirty-second year of his age, was restored to the wealth and dignities of his forefathers, after having passed the previous twenty-five years of his life as a shepherd; while the estates were forfeited on account of his father having been attainted and convicted of high treason in the first year of Edward the Fourth. Wordsworth's beautiful poem, and Prior's "Henry and Emma," have made the name familiar to most; but the reader who desires to know more of "the good Lord Clifford," is referred to the elegant work, entitled "Mornings in Spring," by the late Dr. Drake.
MONTH after month, and year succeeding year,
When still the budding Spring, and yet again,
The eddying leaf upon the dingy plain,
Saw thee still happy in thy humble sphere,
But still at each return of foliage sere,
And still as on the warm banks of the lane,
Sheltered with covering wood, the primrose train
Began to ope their yellow buds, a tear
Would start unbidden from thy placid cheek,
And a deep pang would swell thy honest heart, At hopes so long deferred :-yet couldst thou speak, Wouldst thou not thus the precious truth impart ? "Dearer those scenes, though mixed with many a sigh Than all the joys that Grandeur can supply!"
YEARS pass away, the worthy die, and leave
No successors their virtues to replace:
We win our way by trouble and by care;
Yet when 'tis past, it seems an arrow's flight.
For friends departed we are left to grieve,
And would again the course they ran, retrace;
For much that once seemed rugged now seems fair,
When memory clothes it with a softened light.
We cannot hope again; whence chilling age
Runs cold and feeble in our palsied veins;
No new affections will our hearts engage;
No sound of joyance in the distance reigns;
And when the cloud of darkness is before,
The rays behind us but afflict us more.
SIR SAMUEL EGERTON BRYDGES.
IT is not fanciful that one excels
Another in essential gifts of mind
By positive and unvague certainty;
With the same toil two cannot do the same!
The want of power against the will rebels,
And no internal fountain we can find,
Thought, sentiment, idea to supply;
Nor through the bosom wake the buried flame.
E'en with our birth the confirmation nice
Of the quick movements of the brain is given; By many a morbid pang we pay the price
Of this rare beauty which descends from heaven. The strings that tremble only throw full notes, From every whisper that above us floats.
O LOVED October! still my vacant day
As thou returnest, in rural sweets shall fly!
'Mid yellow fields, 'mid woods of tawny dye,
Whose fragrant leaves about my pathway play;
By russet hedges all the morn I'll stray :
And round the cheerful fire in converse high
With choicest spirits meet when o'er the sky
Soft social Evening draws her mantle grey.
Nor will we cease, till midnight reign profound,
The sweet communion of the fleeting hour,
While blasts that yet but weakly whistle round,
Urge to enjoy the moments in our power,
Warning of Winter's days in tumult drowned,
Far from the quiet of the rural bower.
WRITTEN AT PENSHURST, 1795.
BEHOLD thy triumphs, Time !—what silence reigns
Along these lofty and majestic walls!
Ah! where are regal Sidney's* pompous trains?
Where Philip's tuneful lyre,† whose dying falls
Could melt the yielding nymphs and love-sick swains?
Ah! where the undaunted figure that appals
E'en heroes?-where the lute, that on the plains
The bending trees round Sacharissa calls?
And are they fled?-their day's for ever past!
Heroes and Poets mouldered in the earth!
No sound is heard but of the wailing blast,
Through the lone rooms, where echoed crowded mirth !
Yet on their semblance Melancholy pores,
And all the faded splendour soon restores!
In eddying course when leaves began to fly,
And Autumn in her lap the store to strew,
As 'mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo,
Through glens untrod and woods that frowned on high,
Two sleeping Nymphs with wonder mute I spy!——
And lo, she's gone!-in robe of dark-green hue,
"Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew :
For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky!
In shade affrighted Silence melts away.
Not so her sister!—hark, for onward still
With far-heard step she takes her listening way,
Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill!
Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play,
With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fills!
Sir Henry Sidney, Lord President of the marches.
+ Waller's lines written at Penshurst.
|