TO HIS ELDEST SISTER ON HER BIRTHDAY.
VIRTUE (a nymph you well must know)
Met gently warbling Erato;
And after bows, and "how d'ye do's,"
She thus addressed the smiling Muse:
"How is it,-tell me, Erato,-
That you and I such strangers grow?
If at your Mount my foot I set,
Flat Not at home' is all I get:
When first you called a meeting there,
And Phoebus deigned to take the chair,
The sire of men, of gods the king,
Your patron, Jove,—he bade you sing
Not those who in false glory shine,
But those who bow to Virtue's shrine;
And scorn you Jove? For now I deem
That Virtue is your rarest theme!
Calliope, when war she sings,
Forgets the truth to flatter kings;
Euterpe thinks me low and mean,
Thalia drives me from her scene,
Melpomene like Folly rants,
Dishonest Clio scrawls romance;
E'en your own soft, enticing measure
Has left poor me, and flows for Pleasure."
"Cease your upbraidings!" cries the Muse:
"An ear at least you can't refuse:
I'll answer you for all the Nine;
The few who bow at Virtue's shrine
Are better pleased with artless praise
Than all the force of studied lays.
The page of silver-flowing rhyme
May hide a fault, or gild a crime;
But you, and those who choose your part,
Require the language of the heart;
And such will smile, and read with pleasure,
If 'tis sincere, a doggerel measure;
Though only on the page they view
Congratulation--and Adieu!"
LINES ON LEAVING OTTERTON.
SWEET spot, whose real joy excels
What Fancy's pencil ever drew,
Where Innocence with Pleasure dwells,
And Peace with Poverty--adieu !
If perfect bliss resides on earth,
Here lies the spot that gives it birth.
And you, whose presence throws a gleam
Of pleasure o'er the poor man's lot,
Who well to Fancy's eye might seem
The Genii of the peaceful spot,-
Fond Memory oft will bring to view
The welcome that we found with you.
It is not yours in hall or bower
The semblance of a smile to wear;
But yours it is, in sorrow's hour,
To stop the sufferer's falling tear:
Nor yours the fleeting, vain reward
That earthly power and pomp award.
From pomp and power men are riven
At every change of Fortune's will;
One purer bliss to you is given,
A heart that acts not, thinks not, ill.
The tyrant well for such a gem
Might quit his blood-bought diadem.
But we must part at length; 'tis sad Upon such scenes as these to dwell, Since scenes like these can only add New sorrow to our long farewell: Pure was our happiness--no more! We part; that happiness is o'er.
We go; but we shall not forget
Those symptoms of a friendly heart, The smile you wore because we met, The tear you shed because we part; And Hope already paints how sweet The hour when we again shall meet.
WHEN thy sad master's far away,
Go, happier far than he,-
Go, little flower, with her to stay
With whom he may not be;
There bid her mourn his wayward lot,
And whisper still, "Forget me not!”
Sweet as the gale of fate, that blew
To waft me to a spot like this,--
Frail as the hours, that quickly flew
To tear me from the transient bliss,--
Thy humble blossoms long shall prove
An emblem fit for parted love.
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