Poems (1828) | Page 3

no fair
enthusiast stirs,
Except his laundress--and who values her's?
None
but herself: for though the bard may burn
Her note, she still expects
one in return.
The luckless maiden, all 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
_cacoëths_ 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 naïad, 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