Poems (1828) | Page 7

GEORGE BIRKBECK, M.D.
President of the London Mechanic's Institution, and of the Chemical
and Meteorological Societies. Founder and Patron of the
Glasgow
Mechanic's Institute, &c. &c. &c.
Lady unknown! a pilgrim from the shrine
Of Poesy's fair temple,
brings a wreath
Which fame and gratitude alike entwine,
Around a
name that charms the monster Death,
And bids him pause!--Amidst
despairing life
BIRKBECK's the harbinger of hope and health;

When sordid affluence was with man at strife,
He boldly stripp'd the
veil, and show'd the wealth
To aged ignorance, and ardent youth,


Of cultured minds--the freedom of the soul!
The sun of science, and
the light of truth,
The bliss of reason--mind without control.
Accept this tribute. Lady! and the praise,
As Consort and the soother
of his care!
His offspring's pride--his friend's commingled rays,

And every other grace that man has deem'd most rare!
THE CHAIN-PIER, BRIGHTON;
A SKETCH.
Hail, lovely morn! and thou, all-beauteous sea!
Sun-sparkling with
the diamond's countless rays:
Thy look, how tranquil, one eternal
calm,
Which seems to woo the troubled soul to peace!
Now, all is
sunshine, and thy boundless breast
Scarce heaves; unruffled, all thy
waves subside
(Light murmuring, like the baby sighs of rest)
Into a
gentle ripple on the shore.
All hail, dear Woman! saving-ark of man,
His surest solace in this
world of woe;
How cheering are thy smiles, which, like the breeze

Of health, play softly o'er the pallid cheek,
And turn its rigid
markings to a smile.
England may well be proud of scenes like this;

The beaming Beauty which adorns the PIER!
Hung like a fairy fabric o'er the sea,
The graceful wonder of this
wondrous age;
Intrepid Brown,[1] the future page shall tell
Thy
generous spirit's persevering aim,
That wrought so much, so well, thy
country's weal;
How fit for thee, the gallant seaman's life,
His
restless nights, and days of ceaseless toil;
Framed by thy mighty hand,
the giant work
Check'd the rude tempest, in its fearful way.
Thy
bold inventions gave new life to hope,
Steadied the wavering, and
confirm'd the brave,
And bade the timid smile, amidst the storm!
Spirit of Hogarth! had I but one ray
Of that vast sun which warm'd
thy varied mind;
How would I now describe the motley groups


Which crowd, in thoughtless ease, thy moving road.
Mark the young
Confidence of yesterday,
Offspring of pride, and fortune's blinded
fool,
(Engender'd like the vermin of an hour)
All would-be fashion,
elegance, and ease,
While, by his side, the weaker vessel smirks,
In
tawdry finery, with presuming gait,
As though the world were made
for them alone;
Their liveried Lacquey, half-conceal'd in lace,
The
vulgar wonder of an upstart race.
How heartlessly they pass that
mourner by,
The poor lone Widow, with her death-struck load.
In
speechless poverty, she courts the air,
To give its blessing to her
suff'ring babe;
Not asking it herself; for life, to her,
Has now no
charm--her refuge is the grave!
Here comes the moral Almanack of years--
The prim old maid, and,
by her side, her Niece,
Full of bewitching beauty, health, and love.

See, how the tabby watches Laura's eyes,
Lest they should smile upon
some pleasing spark,
And violate grim prudery's tyrant ties.
With
icy finger, she her charge directs,
To view the faithful dial of the sun,

Whose moral tells how tide and time pass on.
See, there--the fated
victim of mischance;
Read, in that hollow eye, and alter'd look,
The
deep anxiety which gnaws the heart,
Incessant struggling 'gainst a
tide of care,
Which wears his life away;--and there, again,
The
empty, lucky Fool, who never thought,
Nor ever will, yet lives and
smiles, and thrives!
Mark ye, that Ready-reckoner's figured face?

Cold calculation in his thoughtful step;
The heartless wretch, who
never trusts his land,
And never is deceived!--And, next him, comes

Laughing Good-nature, with ruddy cheeks,
And welcome look,
determined to be pleased.
He comes to ask--or go with friend to dine;

His labour but to dress--to eat, to sleep:
He knows no suffering
equal to bad wine.

There--the prig-Parson, with indented hat,
And
formal step--demanding your respect--
Yonder, the lovely
insect-chasing Child.
His is, indeed, a life of envious joy;
Hope and
anticipation, on the wing,
To him no sad realities e'er bring!

And now, the humble Quaker, plain and proud.
Humility, is this,
indeed, thy type?
(I know it is not, for I know the man.)
His lovely
Daughter bears an angel form
And mind, that glorifies her sex's
charms;
Meekness and charity her life employ--
A seraph sorrowing
for a suffering world!
Lo! too, the Matron, with her household gods,

The deities she worships night and day.
Affection has no bounds,
nor language words.
To tell a mother's tender ceaseless charge.

Children! can all your future lore repay
The nights of watchfulness,
and days of care,
Which a fond parent gives?--
See, last, sad sight!
the hardy British Tar,
Cutlass unsheath'd, unlike the truly brave.

Here, watching, night and day--degenerate lot!
To seize a fisherman,
or stop a cart,
Or "fright the wandering spirits from the shore."
His
"brief authority" has just detain'd
A boat of cockles and a quart of gin!

The smart Lieutenant's epaulette, methinks,
Blushes at this
degrading, pimping trade.--
For deeds like these--let objects be
employ'd,
Who never shared their country's high renown!
Adieu!
vast Ocean, cradle of the brave,
Tablet of England's glory, and her
shield!
To thee--and those dear friends who lured me here,
With