Poems (1828) | Page 5

eve,
O'er
its pale cheeks suffusive flushes fly,
And glossy damps its clust'ring
curls adorn,
Like dew-drops bright'ning on the brows of morn.

Through nerves that vibrate in unfolding chains,
Foams the warm
life-blood, excavating veins;
'Till all infused, and organized the whole,

The finish'd fabric hails the breathing soul!
Then waked
tumultuous in th' alarmed breast,
Contending passions claim th'
etherial guest;
And still, as each alternate empire proves,
She hopes,
she fears, she envies, and she loves;
Owns all sensations that deride
the span,
And eternize the little life of man!
ROSA'S GRAVE.
It is a mournful pleasure to remember the exquisite taste and delight
she evinced in the arrangement of a Bouquet; and how often she wished
that, hereafter, she might appear to me as a beautiful flower!
Oh! lay me where my Rosa lies,
And love shall o'er the moss-grown
bed,
When dew-drops leave the weeping skies.
His tenderest tear of
pity shed.
And sacred shall the willow be,
That shades the spot where virtue
sleeps;
And mournful memory weep to see
The hallow'd watch
affection keeps.
Yes, soul of love! this bleeding heart
Scarce beating, soon its griefs
shall cease;
Soon from his woes the sufferer part,
And hail thee at
the Throne of Peace
THE SIBYL.
A SKETCH.
So stood the Sibyl: stream'd her hoary hair
Wild as the blast, and with
a comet's glare
Glow'd her red eye-balls 'midst the sunken gloom

Of their wild orbs, like death-fires in a tomb.
Slow, like the rising

storm, in fitful moans,
Broke from her breast the deep prophetic tones.

Anon, with whirlwind rash, the Spirit came;
Then in dire splendour,
like imprison'd flame
Flashing through rifted domes or towns amazed,

Her voice in thunder burst; her arm she raised;
Outstretch'd her
hands, as with a Fury's force,
To grasp, and launch the slow
descending curse:
Still as she spoke, her stature seem'd to grow;

Still she denounced unmitigable woe:
Pain, want, and madness,
pestilence, and death,
Rode forth triumphant at her blasting breath:

Their march she marshall'd, taught their ire to fall--
And seem'd
herself the emblem of them all!
LOVE.
Love!--what is love? a mere machine, a spring
For freaks fantastic, a
convenient thing,
A point to which each scribbling wight most steer,

Or vainly hope for food or favour here;
A summer's sigh; a winter's
wistful tale:
A sound at which th' untutor'd maid turns pale;
Her soft
eyes languish, and her bosom heaves,
And Hope delights as Fancy's
dream deceives.
Thus speaks the heart which cold disgust invades,
When time
instructs, and Hope's enchantment fades;
Through life's wide stage,
from sages down to kings,
The puppets move, as art directs the
strings:
Imperious beauty bows to sordid gold,
Her smiles, whence
heaven flows emanent, are sold;
And affectation swells th' entrancing
tones,
Which nature subjugates, and truth disowns.
I love th' ingenuous maiden, practised not
To pierce the heart with
ambush'd glances, shot
From eyelashes, whose shadowy length she
knows
To a hair's point, their high arch when to close
Half o'er the
swimming orb, and when to raise,
Disclosing all the artificial blaze

Of unfelt passion, which alone can move
Him whom the genuine
eloquence of love
Affected never, won with wanton wiles,
With
soulless sighs, and meretricious smiles;
By nature unimpress'd,

uncharm'd by thee,
Sweet goddess of my heart, Simplicity!
ON A DELIGHTFUL DRAWING IN MY ALBUM,
By my friend, T. WOODWARD, ESQ., of a Group, consisting of a
Donkey, a Boy, and a Dog.
Welcome, my pretty Neddy--welcome too
Thy merry Rider with his
apron blue;
And thou, poor Dog, most patient thing of all,
Begging
for morsels that may never fall!
Oh! 'tis a faithful group--and it might
shame
Painters of bold pretence, and greater name--
To see how
nature triumphs, and how rare
Such matchless proofs of Nature's
triumphs are--
The smallest particle of sand may tell
With what rich
ore Pactolus' tide may swell:
And Woodward! this ingenious, chaste
design,
Proclaims what treasures lie within the mine--
Pupil of
Cooper--Nature's favorite son--
Whom, but to name, and to admire, is
one!
STANZAS.
Say, why is the stern eye averted with scorn
Of the stoic who passes
along?
And why frowns the maid, else as mild as the morn.
On the
victim of falsehood and wrong?
For the wretch sunk in sorrow, repentance, and shame,
The tear of
compassion is won:
And alone must she forfeit the wretch's sad claim,

Because she's deceived and undone?
Oh! recal the stern look, ere it reaches her heart,
To bid its wounds
rankle anew;
Oh! smile, or embalm with a tear the sad smart,
And
angels will smile upon you.
Time was, when she knew nor opprobrium nor pain,
And youth could
its pleasures impart,
Till some serpent distill'd through her bosom the
stain,
As he wound round the strings of her heart.

Poor girl! let thy tears through thy blandishments break,
Nor strive to
retrace them within;
For mine would I mingle with those on thy
cheek,
Nor think that such sorrow were sin.
When the low-trampled reed, and the pine in its pride,
Shall alike feel
the hand of decay,
May thy God grant that mercy the world has
denied,
And wipe all your sorrows away!
SHAKSPEARE.
Respectfully inscribed, with permission, to the Committee
(of which
His Majesty is the Patron) for the proposed Monuments to
SHAKSPEARE