WHEN Youth his faery reign began, Ere Sorrow had proclaim'd me man; While Peace the present hour beguil'd, And all the lovely prospect smil'd; Then, Mary! 'mid my lightsome glee I heav'd the painless sigh for thee.
And when, as toss'd on waves of woe, My harass'd heart was doom'd to know The frantic burst, the outrage keen, And the slow pang that gnaws unseen; Then shipwreck'd on Life's stormy sea, I heav'd an anguish'd sigh for thee.
But soon Reflection's power imprest
A stiller sadness on my breast;
And sickly Hope, with waning eye,
Was well content to droop and die :
I yielded to the stern decree,
Yet heav'd a languid sigh for thee!
And though in distant climes to roam,
A wanderer from my native home,
I fain would soothe the sense of Care,
And lull to sleep the Joys, that were!
Thy image may not banish'd be-
Still, Mary! still I sigh for thee.
NOT always should the tear's ambrosial dew Roll its soft anguish down thy furrow'd cheek! Not always heaven-breath'd tones of suppliance meek
Beseem thee, Mercy! Yon dark scowler view, Who with proud words of dear-lov'd freedom
More blasting than the mildew from the south!
And kiss'd his country with Iscariot mouth,
(Ah! foul apostate from his father's fame!)
Then fix'd her on the cross of deep distress,
And at safe distance marks the thirsty lance
Pierce her big side! But O! if some strange
The eye-lids of thy stern-brow'd sister press, Seize, Mercy! thou more terrible the brand, And hurl her thunderbolts with fiercer hand!
SISTER of love-lorn Poets, Philomel!
How many bards in city garret pent,
While at their window they with downward eye Mark the faint lamp beam on the kennell'd mud,
And listen to the drowsy cry of watchmen,
(Those hoarse unfeather'd nightingales of time!)
How many wretched bards address thy name,
And her's, the full-orb'd queen that shines above.
But I do hear thee, and the high bough mark,
Within whose mild moon-mellow'd foliage hid
Thou warblest sad thy pity-pleading strains.
O! I have listen'd, till my working soul,
Wak'd by those strains to thousand phantasies,
Absorb'd hath ceas'd to listen! Therefore oft,
I hymn thy name and with a proud delight
Oft will I tell thee, minstrel of the moon!
"Most musical, most melancholy" bird!
That all thy soft diversities of tone,
Tho' sweeter far than the delicious airs
That vibrate from a white-arm'd lady's harp,
What time the languishment of lonely love Melts in her eye, and heaves her breast of
Are not so sweet as is the voice of her,
My Sara-best belov'd of human kind!
When breathing the pure soul of tenderness
She thrills me with the husband's promis'd
name!
As late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale, With wetted cheek, and in a mourner's guise, I saw the sainted form of Freedom rise:
She spake not sadder moans the autumnal gale.
"Great son of genius! sweet to me thy name, Ere in an evil hour, with alter'd voice,
Thou bad'st oppression's hireling crew rejoice,
Blasting with wizard spell my laurell'd fame.
Yet never, Burke, thou drank'st corruption's
bowl!
Thee stormy pity, and the cherish'd lure
Of pomp, and proud precipitance of soul,
Wilder'd with meteor fires. Ah spirit pure!
That error's mist had left thy purged eye:
So might I clasp thee with a mother's joy!"
NOR travels my meand'ring eye
The starry wilderness on high;
Nor now with curious sight
I mark the glow-worm, as I pass,
Move with "green radiance" thro' the grass,
An emerald of light.
O ever-present to my view!
My wafted spirit is with you,
And soothes your boding fears;
I see you all opprest with gloom
Sit lonely in that cheerless room-
Ah me! you are in tears!
Beloved Woman! did you fly
Chill'd Friendship's dark disliking
Or Mirth's untimely din?
With cruel weight these trifles press
A temper sore with tenderness,
When aches the void within.
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