Poems (1828) | Page 3

unblest shall sigh;?His pocket tome hath drawn his pockets dry.?His tragedy expires in peals of laughter;?And that soul-thrilling wish--to live hereafter--?Gives way to one as hopeless quite, I fear,?And far more needful--how to live while here.?Where are ye now, divine illusions all;?Cheques, dinners, wines, admirers great and small!?Changed to two followers, terrible to see,?Who dog his walks, and whisper "That is he!"
Rhymesters attend! nor scorn & friendly hint,?Restrain your _caco?ths_ fierce to print.?But hark, my printer's devil's at the door,?My leisure cannot yield one moment more:?Nor matters it, advice can ne'er restrain?Madman or poet from his bent:--'tis vain?To strive to point out colours to the blind,?Or set men seeking what they will not find.
MATURE REFLECTIONS.
O Love! divinest dream of youth,?Thy day of ecstacy is o'er,?My bosom, touch'd by time and truth,?Thrills at thy dear deceits no more.
Nor thou, Ambition! e'er again,?With splendour dazzling to betray,?And aspirations fierce and vain,?Shall tempt my steps--away! away!
Alas! by stern Experience cleft,?When life's romance is turn'd to sport;?If man hath consolation left?On this side death--'tis good old port.
And thou, Advice! who glum and chill,?Do'st the third bottle still gainsay;?Smile, and partake it, if you will,?But if you wont--away! away!
THE GRAVE OF DIBDIN.
Lives there who, with unhallow'd hand, would tear,?One leaf from that immortal wreath which shades?The Hero's living brow, or decks his urn??Breathes there who does not triumph in the thought?That "Nelson's language is his mother tongue,"?And that St. Vincent's country is his own??Oh! these bright guerdons of renown are won?By means most palpable to sense and sight;?By days of peril and by nights of toil;?By Valour's long probation, closed at last?In Victory's arms--consummated and seal'd?In deathless Glory and immortal Fame.
Musing I stand upon his lowly grave,?Who, though he fought no battle--though he pour'd?No hostile thunders on his country's foes,?Achieved for Britain triumphs, less array'd?"In pomp and circumstance," nor visible?To vulgar gaze--the triumphs of the Mind.?He nursed the elements of courage--he?Supplied the aliment that feeds and guides?The daring spirit to its high emprise--?A nation's moral energies, by him?Directed, found a nobler end and aim.?He gave that high discriminating tone?That marks the Brave from mercenary tools--?Features that separate a British Crew?From hireling bravoes, and from pirate hordes.?And yet no marble marks the spot where lies?The dust of DIBDIN;--no inscription speaks?A Nation's gratitude--a Bard's desert.
The youthful Sailor on his midnight watch,?Fixing his gaze upon the tranquil moon,?Felt his heart soften as the thoughts of home?Rush'd on his faithful memory;--then it was?In language meet, and in appropriate strains--?Strains which thy lyre had taught him--he pour'd forth?The feelings of his soul, and all was calm.
Thy Spirit still presides in that carouse,?When to "the Far away" the toast is given,?And "absent Wives and Sweethearts" claim their right,?With Woman's constancy thy songs are rife;?And this pure creed still teaches Man t' endure?Privations, danger, and each form of death.
When not a breath responded to the call,?And Seamen whistled to the winds in vain;?When the loose canvass droop'd in lazy folds,?And idle pennants dangled from the mast;--?There, in that trying moment, thou wert found?To teach the hardest lesson man can learn--?Passive endurance--and the breeze has sprung,?As if obedient to the voice of Song:--?And yet unhonour'd here thy ashes lie!
A nobler lesson learn'd the gallant Tar?From his Orphean lyre--to temper right?The lion's courage with the attributes?That to the gentle and the meek belong;?O'er fallen foes to check the eye of fire--?O'er fallen foes to soften heart of oak.
He turn'd the Fatalist's rash eye to Him?In whom the issues are of life and death;?He taught to whom the battle is--to whom?The victory belongs. His cherub, that aloft?Kept sleepless watch, was Providence--not Chance.
And yet no honours are decreed for him--?Friend of the Brave, thy memory cannot die!?Th'inquiring voice, that eagerly demands?Where rest thy ashes?--shall preserve thy fame.?Thine immortality thyself hast wrought;--?Familiar as the terms of art, thy verse,?Thine own peculiar words are still the mode?In which the Seaman aptly would express?His honest passions and his manly thoughts;?His feelings kindle at thy burning words,?Which speak his duty in the battle's front;?His parting whisper to the maid he loves?Is breathed in eloquence he learned from thee;?Thou art his Oracle in every mood--?His trump of victory--his lyre of love!
A SKETCH FROM LIFE.
She sat in beauty, like some form of nymph?Or na?ad, on the mossy, purpled bank?Of her wild woodland stream, that at her feet?Linger'd, and play'd, and dimpled, as in love.?Or like those shapes that on the western clouds?Spread gold-dropp'd plumes, and sing to harps of pearl,?And teach the evening winds their melody:?How shall I tell her beauty?--for the eye,?Fix'd on the sun, is blinded by its beam.?One glance, and then no more, upon that brow?Brighter than marble shining through those curls,?Richer than hyacinths when they wave their bells?In the low breathing of the twilight wind.--?One glance upon that lip, beside whose hue?The morning rose would sicken and grow