Poems | Page 4

wishes of his heart.
And he, to whose impervious ear
The sweetest sounds no charms
dispense,
Can bid his inmost soul appear
In clear, tho' silent,
eloquence.
But we, my Julia, not so blest,
Are doom'd a diff'rent fate to prove,--

To feel each joy and hope supprest
That flow from pure, but
hidden, love.
IMPROMPTU LINES,
UPON ANACREON MOORE'S SAYING THAT HE DISLIKED

SINGING TO MEN.
By Beauty's caresses, like Cupid, half-spoil'd,
Thus Music's and
Poesy's favourite child
Exclaim'd,--"'Tis, by Heaven! a terrible thing

Before a he-party to sit and to sing!"
"By my shoul! Master Moore,
you there may be right,"
Said a son of green Erin; "tho' dear to my
sight
Are all the sweet cratures, call'd women, I swear,
Yet I think
we can feel just as well as the fair:
Tho' you'd bribe us with songs,
blood and 'ounds! let me say, I'd not be a woman for one in your way."
LINES TO JULIA.
Tho', Julia, we are doom'd to part,
Tho' unknown pangs invade this
heart,
For thee the light of love shall burn,
To thee my soul in secret
turn:
Upon this bosom, swell'd with care,
The thought of thee shall
tremble there
'Till Time shall close these weeping eyes,
And close

the soothing source of sighs.
So, in the silence of the night,
Shines
on the wave the lunar light;
With its soft image, bright, imprest,
It
heaves, and seems to know no rest:
Its agitation soon is o'er;
It sighs,
and dies along the shore!
LINES
To the Memory of Mrs. A.H. Holdsworth,
LATE OF MOUNT GALPIN, DEVONSHIRE.
Tyrant of all our loves and friendships here,
Behold thy beauteous
victim!--Ah! tis thine
To rend fond hearts, and start the tend'rest tear

Where joy should long in cloudless radiance shine.
Alas! the mourning Muse in vain would paint,
Blest shade! how
purely pass'd thy life away,
Or, with the meekness of a favour'd saint,

How rose thy spirit to the realms of day.
'Twas thine to fill each part that gladdens life,
Such as approving
angels smile upon;--
The faultless daughter, parent, friend, and
wife,--
Virtues short-lived! they set just as they shone.
Thus, in the bosom of some winding grove,
Where oft the pensive
melodist retires,
From his sweet instrument, the note of love,

Charms the rapt ear, but, as it charms, expires.
Farewell, pure spirit! o'er thine early grave
Oblivion ne'er shall spread
her freezing shade;
Nature shall bid her richest foliage wave
Where
her reposing fav'rite child is laid.
There widow'd fondness oft, when summers bloom.
Shall with thy
infant pledge of love repair;
Oft shall they kneel beside thy mossy
tomb,
And tears shall dew the flow'rs that blossom there.
LINES

Written upon a Watch-String,
MADE AND PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ----.
Say, lovely Charlotte! will you let me prove
What diff'rent thoughts
thy taste and beauty move?
This woven chain, which graceful skill
displays,
Leads me to think of time, and heave a sigh;
But when on
thee and on thy charms I gaze,
Time unremember'd moves, or seems
to die.
LINES
Upon a Diamond Cross,
WORN ON HER BOSOM BY MISS C.M.
Well on that neck, sweet Kitty! may you wear
The sparkling cross,
with hopes to soften Heaven;
For trust me, tho' so very young and fair,

Thou hast some little sins to be forgiven:--
For all the hopes which
wit and grace can spread,
For all the sighs which countless charms
can move,
Fall, lovely Kitty! on thy youthful head;
Yet fall they
gently--for the crime is love.
LINES TO FORTUNE,
Occasioned by a very amiable and generous Friend of mine

munificently presenting Miss E.S. with a Donation of
Fifteen
Thousand Pounds.
Oh, Fortune! I have seen thee shed
A plenteous show'r of treasure
down
On many a weak and worthless head,
On those who but
deserv'd thy frown.
And I have heard, in lonely shade,
Her sorrows hapless Merit pour;

And thou hast pass'd the drooping maid,
To give some pamper'd
fav'rite more.

But tho' so cold, or strangely wild,
It seems that worth can sometimes
move;
Thou hast on gentle Emma smil'd,
And thou hast smil'd
where all approve:--
For Nature form'd her gen'rous heart
With ev'ry virtue, pure, refin'd;

And wit and taste, and grace and art,
United to illume her mind.
So dew-drops fall on some rare flow'r,
That merits all their fost'ring
care,
As tho' they knew that, by their pow'r,
Grateful 'twould wider
scent the air.
A SONG.
THE LOVER
THE LUTE OF HIS DECEASED MISTRESS.
Alas! but like a summer's dream
All the delight I felt appears,

While mis'ry's weeping moments seem
A ling'ring age of tears.
Then breathe my sorrows, plaintive lute!
And pour thy soft consoling
tone,
While I, a list'ning mourner mute,
Will call each tender grief
my own.
LINES
WRITTEN IN A COTTAGE BY THE SEA-SIDE
(In which the Author had taken Shelter during a violent Storm),
UPON SEEING AN IDIOTIC YOUTH SEATED IN THE
CHIMNEY-CORNER, CARESSING A BROOM.
'Twas on a night of wildest storms,
When loudly roar'd the raving
main,--
When dark clouds shew'd their shapeless forms,
And hail
beat hard the cottage pane,--

Tom Fool sat by the chimney-side,
With open mouth and staring eyes;

A batter'd broom was all his pride,--
It was his wife, his child,