Poems | Page 9

sand
become thy tomb!
O'er thee no willow drops its mourning dew,
Nor
spotless lilies o'er thy bosom bloom!
Oh! when we stood around our brother's bier,
And wept in life's full
bloom to see him torn,
Ah! little did ye think that such a tear
As
then ye shed so soon your fate would mourn.
Farewell, dear shades! accept this mournful song,
At once the tribute
of my grief and love;
Fain would it try your virtues to prolong,
Here
priz'd and honour'd, and now bless'd above.
[Footnote A: Mrs. Hodges, a sister of the author.]
[Footnote B: Mrs Fountaine, another sister of the author, who
accompanied her husband to Africa, and died at the Government-house,
in one of the British settlements on that coast, where she survived but a
short time the death of three of her children.]
ECHO.
Echo! thou sweet enchantress of the grove!
Oh! cease to answer to
the tones of love;
Or teach my Delia in thine art divine,
Thou
loveliest nymph! to hear and answer mine!
OCCASIONAL LINES

Repeated at an elegant Entertainment
GIVEN BY LIEUTENANT-COLONEL D---- TO HIS FRIENDS
IN THE RUINS OF BERRY CASTLE, DEVONSHIRE.[A]
By your permission, Ladies! I address ye,
And for the boon you grant,
my Muse shall bless ye.
I do not mean in solemn verse to tell
What
fate the race of Pomeroy befell;
To trace the castle-story of each year,

To learn how many owls have hooted here;
What was the weight of
stone, which form'd this pile,
Will on your lovely cheeks awake no
smile:
Such antiquarian sermons suit not me,
Nor any soul who
loves festivity.
Past times I heed not; be the present hour
In life,
while yet it blooms, my chosen flow'r,
For well I know, what Time
cannot disown,
Amidst this mossy pile of mould'ring stone,
That
Hospitality was never seen
To spread more social joy upon the green;

Or, when its noble and capacious hall
Rang with the gambol gay,
or graceful ball,
More beauty never charm'd its ancient beaux
Than
what its honour'd ruins now enclose.
Thanks to the clouds, which
from the soaking show'r
Preserve the vot'ries of the present hour;

For, strange to tell, beneath the chilling storm,
Lately the rose reclin'd
her frozen form;
Yet since, beneath the favour of the weather,
We
are (a laughing group) conven'd together,
Pray let the Muse pursue
her merry route,
To shew what pass'd before we all set out.
To
some fair damsel, who, intent to charm,
Declares she thinks the
weather fine and warm,
Such words as these address her trembling
ear--
"I really think we shall have rain, my dear;
Pray do not go, my
love," cries soft mama;
"You shall not go, that's flat," cries stern papa.

A lucky sunbeam shines on the discourse,
The parents soften, and
Miss mounts her horse.
Each tickled with some laugh-inspiring
notion,

Behold the jocund party all in motion:
Some by a rattling
buggy are befriended,
Some mount the cart--but not to be suspended.

The mourning-coach[B] is wisely counter-order'd
(The very
thought on impious rashness border'd),
Because the luckless vehicle,

one night,
Put all its merry mourners in a fright,
Who, to conduct
them to the masquerade,
Sought from its crazy wheels their moving
aid.
Us'd to a soleme pace, the creaking load
Bounded unwillingly
along the road;
Down came the whole--oh! what a sight was there!

O'er a blind Fiddler roll'd a Flow'r-Nymph fair;
A glitt'ring Spaniard,
who had lost his nose,
Roar'd out, "Oh! d--n it, take away your toes;"

A blooming Nun fell plump upon a Jew,
Still to the good old cause
of traffic true,
Buried in clothes, exclaim'd the son of barter,
"Got
blesh my shoul! you'll shell this pretty garter?"
Here let me
pause;--the Muse, in sad affright,
Turns from the dire disasters of that
night;
Quite panic-struck she drops her trembling plumes,
And thus
a moralizing theme assumes:--
Know, gentle Ladies, once these
shapeless walls,
O'er whose grey wreck the shading ivy crawls,

Compos'd a graceful mansion, whose fair mould
Led from the road
the trav'ller, to behold.
Oft, when the morning ting'd the redd'ning
skies,
Far off the spiral smoke was seen to rise;
At noon the
hospitable board was spread,
Then nappy ale made light the weary
head;
And when grey eve appear'd, in shadows damp,
Each
casement glitter'd with th' enliv'ning lamp;
Here the laugh titter'd,
there the lute of Love
Fill'd with its melody the moon-light grove:

All, all are fled!--Time ruthless stalks around,
And bends the
crumbling ruin to the ground:
Time, Ladies, too (I know you do not
like him,
And, if a fan could end him, you would strike him),
Will
with as little gallantry devour
From your fair faces their bewitching
pow'r;
Then, like these ruins, beauteous in decay,
Still shall you
charm, and men shall still obey:
Then, with remembrance soft, and
tender smile,
Perchance you'll think upon this mossy pile;

And,
with a starting tear of joy declare,
"Oh! how we laugh'd, how merry
were we there!"
[Footnote A: The manor of Berry was given by William the Conqueror
to one of his Normans, Ralph de la Pomerai, who built on it the castle
which still bears his name, and in whose family it continued till the
reign of Edward VI. when it was sold by Sir Thomas