« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
While tinkling soft the silver-tuning bell
Floats on the gale, or dies by fits away
from the day.
Man was not made to pine in solitude,
Him social duties call the tear to dry,
The savage broods that in the forest shroud,
A little while it decks the rugged stone,
For ye who, fill'd with fancy's wildest dreams,
Where you may muse from morn to eventide, Free from the taunts of contumely and scorn, From sights of woe—the power to soothe denied, Attend the song which in life's early morn
EL EGY Occasioned by the death of Mr. Gill, who was drowned in the river Trent, while bathing, 9th
HE sunk—the impetuous river roll'd along,
The sullen wave betray'd his dying breath; And rising sad the rustling sedge among,
The gale of evening touch'd the chords of death.
Nymph of the Trent! why didst not thou appear,
To snatch the victim from thy felon wave? Alas! too late thou camest to embalm his bier,
And deck with water-flags his early grave.
Triumphant, riding o’er its tumid prey,
Rolls the red stream in sanguinary pride; While anxious crowds, in vain, expectant stay, And ask the swoln corse from the murdering
The stealing tear-drop stagnates in the eye,
The sudden sigh by friendship's bosom proved,
I mark them rise-I mark the gen’ral sigh;
Unhappy youth! and wert thou so beloved ?
On thee, as lone I trace the Trent's green brink,
When the dim twilight slumbers on the glade, On thee my thoughts shall dwell, nor Fancy shrink
To hold mysterious converse with thy shade.
Of thee, as early I, with vagrant feet,
Hail the grey-sandal'd morn in Colwick's vale, Of thee my sylvan reed shall warble sweet,
And wild-wood echoes shall repeat the tale.
And oh! ye nymphs of Pæon! who preside
O'er running rill and salutary stream, Guard ye in future well the halcyon tide (scream.
From the rude death-shriek, and the dying
These lines were composed extempore soon after the publication
of “Clifton Grove,” in the presence of an acquaintance who doubted the author's ability to write poetry.
Thou base repiner at another's joy,
Whose eye turns green at merit not thine own, Oh, far away from generous Britons fly, And find in meaner climes a fitter throne. Away, away; it shall not be,
Thou shalt not dare defile our plains;
The truly generous heart disdains
Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while he Joys at another's joy, and smiles at others' jollity.
Triumphant monster! though thy schemes succeed;
Schemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night, Yet, but a little while, and nobly freed,
Thy happy victim will emerge to light; When o'er his head in silence that reposes,
Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear; Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses,
Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe; Then will thy baseness stand confest, and all [fall. Will curse the ungen'rous fate, that bade a Poet
Yet, ah! thy arrows are too keen, too sure:
Couldst thou not pitch upon another prey ? Alas! in robbing him thou robb'st the poor,
Who only boast what thou wouldst take away. See the lorn Bard at midnight-study sitting,
O’er his pale features streams his dying lamp; While o’er fond Fancy's pale perspective flitting,
Successive forms their fleet ideas stamp. Yet say, is bliss upon his brow imprest? [live?
Does jocund Health in thought's still mansion Lo, the cold dews that on his temples rest,
That short quick sigh—their sad responses give.
And canst thou rob a Poet of his song?
Snatch from the bard his trivial meed of praise ?
Small are his gains, nor does he hold them long :
Then leave, oh, leave him to enjoy his lays While yet he lives—for, to his merits just,
Though future ages join, his fame to raise, Will the loud trump awake his cold unheeding dust?
TO POES Y. ADDRESSED TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ., SEPT. 10, 1805.
Yes, my stray steps have wander'd, wander'd far