Poems (1828) | Page 9

own were fame.?The saving ark of friendship's power.
Or that, in future years, thy babes?Should o'er this frail memorial bend,?(For first affection rarely fades!)?And boast that I was once the friend
Whose wit, or worth, possess'd a charm,?By Parents loved, and them caress'd.?That spell would every sorrow calm,?And bid my anxious spirit rest!
HERE IN OUR FAIRY BOWERS WE DWELL.
A GLEE.
Sung by Messrs. GOULDEN, PYNE, and NELSON.--Composed by?Mr. ROOKE.
Here, in our fairy bowers, we dwell,?Women our idol, life's best treasure!?Echo enchanted joys to tell,?Our feast of laugh, of love, and pleasure.
Say, is not this then bliss divine,?Beauty's smiles and rosy wine?
Eternal mirth and sunshine reign,?For grief we cannot find the leisure;?Night's social gods have banish'd pain,?Morn lights us to increasing pleasure.
Say, is not this then bliss divine,?Beauty's smiles and rosy wine?
Here in our fairy bowers, &c.
HENRY AND ELIZA.
O'er the wide heath now moon-tide horrors hung,?And night's dark pencil dimm'd the tints of spring;?The boding minstrel now harsh omens sung,?And the bat spread his dark nocturnal wing.
At that still hour, pale Cynthia oft had seen?The fair Eliza (joyous once and gay),?With pensive step, and melancholy mien,?O'er the broad plain in love-born anguish stray.
Long had her heart with Henry's been entwined,?And love's soft voice had waked the sacred blaze?Of Hymen's altar; while, with him combined,?His cherub train prepared the torch to raise:
When, lo! his standard raging war uprear'd,?And honour call'd her Henry from her charms.?He fought, but ah! torn, mangled, blood-besmear'd,?Fell, nobly fell, amid his conquering arms!
In her sad bosom, a tumultuous world?Of hopes and fears on his dear mem'ry spread;?For fate had not the clouded roll unfurl'd,?Nor yet with baleful hemlock crown'd her head.
Reflection, oft to sad remembrance brought?The well known spot, where they so oft had stray'd;?While fond affection ten-fold ardour caught,?And smiling innocence around them play'd.
But these were past! and now the distant bell?(For deep and pensive thought had held her there)?Toll'd midnight out, with long resounding knell,?While dismal echoes quiver'd in the air.
Again 'twas silence--when from out the gloom?She saw, with awe-struck eye, a phantom glide:?'Twas Henry's form!--what pencil shall presume?To paint her horror!----HENRY AS HE DIED!
Enervate, long she stood--a sculptured dread,?Till waking sense dissolved amazement's chain;?Then home, with timid haste, distracted fled,?And sunk in dreadful agony of pain.
Not the deep sigh, which madden'd Sappho gave,?When from Leucate's craggy height she sprung,?Could equal that which gave her to the grave,?The last sad sound that echo'd from her tongue.
WRITTEN ON THE
DEATH OF GENERAL WASHINGTON.
Lamented Chief! at thy distinguish'd deeds?The world shall gaze with wonder and applause,?While, on fair History's page, the patriot reads?Thy matchless virtue in thy Country's cause.
Yes, it was thine, amid destructive war,?To shield it nobly from oppression's chain;?By justice arm'd, to brave each threat'ning jar,?Assert its freedom, and its rights maintain.
Much honour'd Statesman, Husband, Father, Friend,?A generous nation's grateful tears are thine;?E'en unborn ages shall thy worth commend,?And never-fading laurels deck thy shrine.
Illustrious Warrior! on the immortal base,?By Freedom rear'd, thy envied name shall stand;?And Fame, by Truth inspired, shall fondly trace?Thee, Pride and Guardian of thy Native Land!
To----.
In vain, sweet Maid! for me you bring?The first-blown blossoms of the spring;?My tearful cheek you wipe in vain,?And bid its pale rose bloom again.
In vain! unconscious, did I say??Oh! you alone these tears can stay;?Alone, the pale rose can renew,?Whose sunshine is a smile from you.
Yet not in friendship's smile it lives;?Too cold the gifts that friendship gives:?The beam that warms a winter's day,?Plays coldly in the lap of May.
You bid my sad heart cease to swell,?But will you, if its tale I tell,?Nor turn away, nor frown the while,?But smile, as you were wont to smile?
Then bring me not the blossoms young,?That erst on Flora's forehead hung;?But round thy radiant temples twine,?The flowers whose flaunting mocks at mine.
Give me--nor pinks, nor pansies gay,?Nor violets, fading fast away,?Nor myrtle, rue, nor rosemary,?But give, oh! give, thyself to me!
MONODY
TO THE MEMORY
OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.
PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION.
The very flattering success which attended the first Edition of this brief but affectionate Sketch, I must attribute to the interest of the subject, rather than the merit of the composition; and I cannot but feel grateful to those Writers who have honoured me by their notice and approbation.
I must not again go to press, without acknowledging how much I am indebted to a kind friend, who happened to be in Norfolk at the time I was printing the first Edition; with whom I had the happiness to pass many delightful hours, and to whose admirable taste and judgment I owe many valuable suggestions. In mentioning John Kemble with Sheridan, I associate two of the brightest stars that have illumined the Literature and Drama of the Country.
T.G.
Yarmouth, Norfolk, 1816.
SHERIDAN.
Embalm'd in fame, and sacred from decay,?What mighty name, in arms, in arts, or verse,?From England claims this consecrated day.?Her nobles crowding round the shadowy