Poems | Page 5

his
prize!
Alike to him if tempests howl,
Or summer beam its sweetest day;

For still is pleas'd the silly soul,
And still he laughs the hours away.
Alas! I could not stop the sigh,
To see him thus so wildly stare,--
To
mark, in ruins, Reason lie,
Callous alike to joy and care.
God bless thee, thoughtless soul! I cried;
Yet are thy wants but very
few:
The world's hard scenes thou ne'er hast tried;
Its cares and
crimes to thee are new.
The hoary hag[A], who cross'd thee so,
Did not unkindly vex thy
brain;
Indeed she could not be thy foe,
To snatch thee thus from
grief and pain.
Deceit shall never wring thy heart,
And baffled hope awake no sighs;

And true love, harshly forc'd to part,
Shall never swell with tears
thine eyes.
Then long enjoy thy batter'd broom,
Poor merry fool! and laugh away

'Till Fate shall bid thy reason bloom
In blissful scenes of brighter
day.
[Footnote A: It is generally believed by the peasants of Devonshire that
idiotcy is produced by the influence of a witch.]
LINES
To a Laurel-Leaf,
SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ----.
Tho' unknown is the hand that bestow'd thee on me,
Sweet leaf! ev'ry

fibre I'll warm with a kiss:
With the fame of her beauty thou well dost
agree,
Whose presence shews conquest, whose triumph is bliss!
LINES
OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF LIEUTENANT J----,
Who was killed by a Pistol-Shot,
ACCIDENTALLY DISCHARGED BY HIS FRIEND,
CAPTAIN B----.
With horror dumb, tho' guiltless, stood
Beside his dying friend,
The
hapless wretch who made the blood
Sad from his side descend!
"Give me thy hand; lov'd friend, adieu!"
The gen'rous suff'rer cried!

"I do forgive and bless thee too;"
And, having said it, died!
And Pity, who stood trembling near
Knew not for which to shed,
So
claim'd by both, her saddest tear--
The living or the dead!
LINES
TO AN ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY,
Whose Timidity frequently agitated her, when pressed to gratify her
Friends by her Musical Talents.
'Tis said (and I believe it too)
That genuine merit seeks the shade;

Blushing to think what is her due,
As of her own sweet pow'rs
afraid:--
Thus, lovely maid! on fluttering wings,
Thy pow'rs a thousand fears
pursue,
Which, like thy own harmonious strings,
When press'd
enchant_, and _tremble too!

The pity, which we give, you owe,
For mutual fears on both attend;

While anxious thus you joy bestow,
We fear too soon that joy will
end!
LINES
TO MISS L---- D----.
When Heav'n, sweet Laura! form'd thy mind,
With genius and with
taste refin'd,
As if the union were too bright,
It spread the veil of
diffidence,
That ev'ry ray, at first intense,
Might shine as soft as
lunar light.
To frame a form then Nature strove,
And call'd on Beauty and on
Love,
To lodge the mind they priz'd so well:
Completed was the
fair design;
Thus blended dew-drops mildly shine
Within the lily's
spotless bell!
LINES[A]
Written in a beautiful Spot,
THE FAVOURITE RETREAT OF DELIA.
Streams ever limpid, fresh, and clear,
Where Delia's charms renew'd
appear,
Ye flow'rs that touch'd her snowy breast,
Ye trees whereon
she lov'd to rest,
Ye scenes adorn'd where'er she flies,
If grief shall
close these woe-worn eyes,
May some kind form, with hand benign,

My body with this earth enshrine,
That, when the fairest nymph
shall deign
To visit this delightful plain,
That, when she views my
silent shade,
And marks the change her love has made,
The tear
may tremble down her face,
As show'rs the lily's leaves embrace;

Then, like the infant at the breast,
That feels a sorrow unexprest,

That pang shall gentle Delia know,
And silent treasure up her woe.
[Footnote A: I am indebted to Petrarch for some of the imagery

contained in these Lines.]
VALENTINE VERSES,
Sent to my young Friend, Miss Emma Trevelyan,
OF WALLINGTON-HOUSE, NORTHUMBERLAND.
Emma! 'tis early time for thee
To hear the sounds of minstrelsy,

That breathe around the rosy shrine
Of honest old Saint Valentine.
Too young art thou for strains of love;
'Tis not thy passion I would
move;
Instead of lover's strains, I send
The cordial wishes of a
friend.
Nobly has Nature done her duty,
To give thee of thy mother's beauty

So large a share--oh! then be thine
The mental charms that in her
shine!
And may thy father's taste refin'd
Still add new graces to thy mind;

And may'st thou to each charm impart
The gen'rous frankness of his
heart.
Then, my sweet Emma! thou shall move
In many a heart more
genuine love
Than ever warm'd poetic line,
Or sigh'd in any
Valentine.
LINES
WRITTEN UPON SEEING A BLIND YOUNG WOMAN IN
NORTH WALES,
Who supports herself, and an aged and infirm Mother, by selling
Stockings and Gloves of her own Knitting, which she offers to
Travellers as they pass by; in doing which she has been known to run
close by the Side of a Carriage for several Miles.

POOR BLIND BET.
The morning purple on the hill,
The village spire, the ivy'd tow'r,

The sparkling wheel of yonder mill,
The grove, green field, and
op'ning flow'r,
Are lost to thee!
Dark child of Nature, as thou art!
Yet thy poor bosom heaves no sigh;

E'en now thy