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.
CHILDREN of Affluence, hear a poor man's
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 amid 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!
An Elegy from Petrarch.
N this fair season, when the whispering gales
Drop showers of fragrance o'er the bloomy vales, From bower to bower the vernal warblers play; The skies are cloudless, and the meads are gay; The nightingale in many a melting strain Sings to the groves, 'Here Mirth and Beauty reign.' But me, for ever bath'd in gushing tears, No mirth enlivens, and no beauty cheers:
The birds that warble, and the flowers that bloom,
Relieve no more this solitary gloom.
I see where late the verdant meadow smil'd,
A joyless desert, and a dreary wild :-
For those dear eyes, that pierc'd my heart before,
Are clos'd in death, and charm the world no more:
Lost are those tresses, that outshone the morn,
And pale those cheeks, that might the skies adorn.
Ah, death! thy hand has cropp'd the fairest flower,
That shed its smiling rays in beauty's bower;
Thy dart has laid on yonder sable bier
All my soul lov'd, and all the world held dear;
Celestial sweetness, love-inspiring youth,
Soft-ey'd benevolence, and white-rob'd truth.
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!
Not far remov'd, yet hid from distant eyes, Low in her secret grot, a Naiad lies.
Steep arching rocks, with verdant moss o'ergrown,
Form her rude diadem, and native throne:
There, in a gloomy cave her waters sleep,
Clear as a brook, but as an ocean deep.
Yet, when the waking flowers of April blow,
And warmer sunbeams melt the gather'd snow;
Rich with the tribute of the vernal rains,
The nymph, exulting, bursts her silver chains;
Her living waves in sparkling columns rise,
And shine like rainbows to the sunny skies;
From cliff to cliff the falling waters roar ;
Then die in murmurs, and are heard no more.
Hence, softly flowing in a dimpled stream,
The crystal Sorga spreads a lively gleam ;-
From which a thousand rills in mazes glide,
And deck the banks with summer's gayest pride;
Brighten the verdure of the smiling plains;
And crown the labour of the joyful swains.
First, on these banks, (ah, dream of short delight')
The charms of Laura struck my dazzled sight;
Charms, that the bliss of Eden might restore,
That heaven might envy, and mankind adore.
I saw-and O! what heart could long rebel?
I saw, I lov'd, and bade the world farewell.
Where'er she mov'd, the meads were fresh and gay,
And every bower exhal'd the sweets of May;
Smooth flow'd the streams, and softly blew the gale;
The rising flowers impurpled every dale;
Calm was the ocean, and the sky serene;
An universal smile o'erspread the shining scene:
But when in Death's cold arms entranc'd she lay,
(Ah, ever dear, yet ever fatal day!)
O'er all the air a direful gloom was spread;
Pale were the meads, and all their blossoms dead; The clouds of April shed a baleful dew:
All nature wore a veil of deadly hue.
Go, plaintive breeze! to Laura's flowery bier, Heave the warm sigh, and shed the tender tear.,
There to the awful shade due homage pay,
And softly thus address the sacred clay :
'Say, envied earth! that dost those charms infold,
Where are those cheeks,and where those locks of gold?
Where are those eyes, which oft the Muse has sung?
Where those sweet lips, and that enchanting tongue?
Ye radiant tresses! and thou, nectar'd smile!
Ye looks that might the melting skies beguile !
You robb'd my soul of rest, my eyes of sleep:
You taught me how to love, and how to weep.'
No shrub o'erhangs the dew-bespangled vale,
No blossom trembles to the dying gale,
No floweret blushes in the morning rays,
No stream along the winding valley plays,
But knows what anguish thrills my tortur'd breast,
What pains consume me, and what cares infest.
At blush of dawn, and in the gloom of night,
Her pale-eyed phantom swims before my sight,
Sits on the border of each purling rill,
Crowns every bower, and glides o'er every hill.
Flows the loud rivulet down the mountain's brow,
Or pants the zephyr on the waving bough?
Or sips the labouring bee her balmy dews,
And with soft strains her fragrant toil pursues?
Or warbles from yon silver-blossom'd thorn
The wakeful bird, that hails the rising morn?
-My Laura's voice, in many a soothing note,
Floats through the yielding air, or seems to float:
"Why fill thy sighs (she says) this lonely bower?
Why down thy bosom flows this endless shower?
Complain no more: but hope ere long to meet
Thy much-lov'd Laura in a happier seat.
Here, fairer scenes detain my parted shade;
Suns that ne'er set, and flowers that never fade:
Through crystal skies I wing my joyous flight,
And revel in eternal blaze of light;
See all thy wanderings in that vale of tears,
And smile at all thy hopes, at all thy fears:
Death wak'd my soul, that slept in life before,
And op'd these brighten'd eyes, to sleep no more.'
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