« PreviousContinue »
Written in Winter.
HILE in the sky black clouds impend,
And fogs arise, and rains descend,
While chill winds blow, and torrents roll,
Yet worse what polar climates share-
His frown the shivering-nations fly,
On summer seas to work their way, And wage the wat'ry war, and make the seals
their prey. Too Delicate! reproach no more The seasons of thy native shore There soon shall Spring descend the sky, With smiling brow and placid eye; A primrose-wreath surrounds her hair, Her green robe floats upon the air; And, scatter'd from her liberal hand, Fair blossoms deck the trees, fair flowers adorn the land.
# A Greenland fishing-boat.
SIR JOHN HENRY MOORE, BART.
The dew-drop hangs upon the moisten'd rose, Soft twilight thinly spreads her mantle grey,
And brings to patient poverty repose.
Peace or repose; while, banish'd from thy sight, I brood in silence o'er my secret woe,
And count the day's slow hours, and live-long night. But thou, for whose dear sake unheard I grieve,
Say, does my Delia deign one thought on me? That gentle softness sure could ne'er deceive
The faithful heart, that throbs alone for thee.No, my soul's treasure, thou art good as fair!
Forget, forgive thy lover's frantic fear;
Starts! and beholds some happier rival near. 0, dearer far than fortune, fame, or friends,
Dearer than life, than health, than liberty ; Reflect, that on thy will alone depends
All of my future bliss or misery. Believe these heartfelt sighs, these speaking tears,
Pity the pangs of maddening jealousy; And think, ah think! who never felt these fears
Has never lov'dor never lov'd like me. But oh! my Delia, will thy tender care
Dispel each doubt that clouds my anxious mind? Say, will my Delia's lips again declare,
That she is ever constant, ever kind? Yes, yes, they will :-Ev'n now, with kind concern,
She chides the slow-pac'd loitering hours away, And gently blames her lover's slow return,
And looks, and waits, and wonders at his stay.
350 SIR JOHN HENRY MOORE, BART. Each air-form'd spectre anxious absence drew,
When fondly musing on thy heavenly charms; Malicious fancy to my tortur'd view Gave those sweet beauties to another's arms.
-One smile from thee shall give them to the wind;My raptur'd heart, from storms of passion free, Again adore thee, lovely, good, and kind,
Nor own another wish, when bless'd with thee.
THE DEBTOR. CHII NHILDREN of Affluence, hear a poor man's
pray'r; O haste, and free me from this dungeon's gloom! Let not the hand of comfortless despair
Sink my grey hairs with sorrow to the tomb ! Unus'd Compassion's tribute to demand,
With clamorous din wake Charity's dull ear, Wring the slow aid from Pity's loitering hand,
Weave the feign'd tale, or drop the ready tear: Far different thoughts employ'd my early hours,
To views of bliss, to scenes of affluence born; The hand of pleasure strew'd my path with flow'rs,
And every blessing hail'd my youthful morn. But ah, how quick the change !--the morning gleam,
That cheer'd my fancy with her magic ray, Fled like the gairish pageant of a dream,
And sorrow clos'd the evening of my day. Such is the lot of human bliss below!
Fond hope awhile the trembling floweret rears; Till unforeseen descends the blight of woe,
And withers in an hour the pride of years. In evil hour, to specious wiles a prey,
I trusted :-(who from faults is always free?) And the short progress of one fatal day
Was all the space 'twixt wealth and poverty..
SIR JOHN HENRY MOORE, BART. 351 Where could I seek for comfort, or for aid ?
To whom the ruins of my state commend? Left to myself, abandon'd, and betray'd,
Too late I found, the wretched have no friend! E'en he aniid the rest, the favour'd youth,
Whose vows had met the tenderest warm return, Forgot his oaths of constancy and truth,
And left my child in solitude to mourn. Pity in vain stretch'd forth her feeble hand
To guard the sacred wreaths that Hymen wove, While pale-eyed Avarice, from his sordid stand,
Scowl'd o'er the ruins of neglected love. Though deeply hurt, yet, sway'd by decent pride,
She hush'd her sorrows with becoming art, And faintly strove with sickly smiles to hide
The canker-worm that prey'd upon her heart. Nor blam'd his cruelty-nor wish'd to hate
Whom once she lov'd-but pitied, and forgave : Then unrepining yielded to her fate,
And sunk in silent anguish to the grave.. Children of affluence, hear a poor man's pray'r!
O haste, and free me from this dungeon's gloom! Let not the hand of comfortless despair
Sink my grey hairs with sorrow to the tomb!
SIR WILLIAM JONES.
An Elegy from Petrarch.
Drop showers of fragrance o'er the bloomy vales,
Hard fate of man, on whom the heavens bestow A drop of pleasure for a sea of woe! Ah, life of care, in fears or hopes consum'd, Vain hopes, that wither ere they well have bloom'd! How oft, emerging from the shades of night, Laughs the gay morn, and spreads a purple light: But soon the gathering clouds o'ershade the skies, Red lightnings play, and thundering storms arise! How oft a day, that fair and mild appears, Grows dark with fate, and mars the toil of years !