Good ISAAC ASHFORD too, approved the plan,
And Jane, with modest blushes, sweetly smil'd:
Her lover's company each eve beguil'd,
And often, seated by their cheerful fire,
ROBERT, who when a boy, on ocean wild,
Had sail'd to distant countries with his sire,
Would tell of marvels strange, which wonder might inspire.
Pass we the lover's raptures, and the fears
Which agitate the maiden's throbbing breast;
With beating heart the solemn rite she hears
The pastor's voice the wedded pair has blest :
How shall the trembling muse record the rest?
Scarce had they left the hymeneal fane
They meet a press-gang! ROBERT's eyes detest
Those well-known monsters of the foamy main;
Ah! lovely pair! your prayers, your tears, are vain!
The leader of that gang could hear unmov'd
The maiden's shriek, the bridegroom's wild despair,
"Seize him,' he cried; resistance fatal proved.--
JANE saw the blow of death with vacant stare;
Nor could her tongue the horrid truth declare,
Her brother struck the base, the murd'rous blow!
His was the gang which met the hapless pair,
His ruffian arm caused ROBERT's blood to flow;
O'twas a madd'ning thought! a dreadful tale of woe!
Yet sure remorse must touch the villain's heart,
When on his senses flash'd th' accursed truth;
One drop of deep compunction sure must start,
One bitter pang of agonizing ruth:
Surely the mem'ry of his early youth,
Before his feet had trod that winding road,
Which leads by gradual descent and smooth
To dark perdition's horrible abode,
Some memory of those days his tortur'd heart must goad.
But wherefore dwell upon the dreadful theme?
To paint its horrors language is denied ;
It seem'd a fearful and terrific dream:
TO JANE it left a never ending void.Her aged uncle, too severely tried,
Bequeath'd his blessing with his latest prayer; Heart-broken by that fatal stroke, he died :
JANE came once more her father's meal to share,
A prey to rooted grief, and speechless deep despair-
Afflicted maiden! round thy father's cot
The roses blossom, and the woodbines twine;
In vain they flourish, for thou heedst them not,
Though once to cultivate their charms was thine:
Still on the sabbath eve in converse join
The partners of thy joys in early years;
But thou no more amidst the group shall shine,
The voice of mirth now sickens on thine ears,
Conveys a keener pang, and calls forth bitt'rer tears.
Sweet maid! suppress thy sorrow, mourn no more,
Raise from these earthly scenes thy tearful eyes;
Soon shall thy day of anxious grief be o'er,
The grave's dark night shall hush thy struggling sighs:
Then, dawning forth in purer, happier skies,
To bid all conflict end, all anguish cease,
Thy cloudless sun, Eternity! shall rise,
Herald of joys immortal, endless peace,
Ineffable delight, and bliss beyond increase.
BY THE AUTHOR OF THE BATTLES OF THE DANUBE AND BARROSA.
(From a Volume of Poems to be published in a few weeks.)
OH! still, thou gentle Lyre! I feel
Thy numbers o'er my senses steal,
As when some sweet aërial sound
Breathes softly o'er the moonlight ground,
Beneath Venetian stars,
And all is wrapp'd in deathlike sleep,
Save where, upon the midnight deep,
The amorous girls of Venice sweep,
Their silvery-ton'd guitars,
Or in some lonely emerald bow'r,
Where love may best exert his pow'r,
And bathe his soul in bliss,
With many a warm endearing smile-
And many a sigh, and am'rous wile,
And joy-inspiring kiss.
But, gentle Lyre! be thine the lay
That calls the passions into play;
Hate, Jealousy, Revenge and Fear,
And Anger with his hideous leer,
Despair and Cheerfulness and Joy,
And Hope, whom time shall ne'er destroy;
Hope, whose triumphant torch shall burn
When Nature to the dust return,
To guide thro' Chaos' troubled night,
God's children to eternal light,
When Order from her sphere be hurl'd,
And clouds of fire invest the world-
And Love tho' last, not least, of all,
Love, whose entrancing visions call
The yielding soul away,
To deeds of arms and high emprise,
Where frown the hyperborean skies,
Or to the realms where Nature dies,
Beneath the solar ray.
Yes, be that gentle Lyre my own,
For much I venerate its tone;
Its mellow accents soft and clear,
Seem heavenly vespers to mine ear,
Or like the classic tones that fell,
From PEACOCK's rich harmonious shell,
Or Thames's fabled tide,
What time the evening spread her ray,
O'er Eton's towers and turrets gray,
And all the rural scenery lay,
In golden tincture dy'd.
Yes, be that gentle Lyre my own!
When every other friend be flown,
Oft
may it call me back to hours,
When first I felt its soothing pow'rs;
When in the breathless grove I lay,
And sigh'd my panting soul away,
Beneath her heavenly eye, that roll'd
With joy and rapture yet untold,
Whilst, ever and anon, her tongue
To its aërial sweetness sung,
And fondly own'd it yet wou'd claim,
The suffrage of immortal fame.
And be those hours of halcyon rest,
Still cherish'd in my glowing breast,
Still let me feel their influence reign
In every pulse-in every vein-
Fire all my thoughts-my genius sway,
And all my former toils repay,
Wing my soul back to other times,
To lovelier realms and softer climes,
Where, thro' the night, sublime and clear,
Soft music floats upon
the ear,
And, as each pause ensues, the oar
Is heard upon the moonlight shore,
To skim the waves that scarcely move-
And all are whisp'ring hymns of love;
All, save the wretch whose angry mood
Urges his hand to deeds of blood!
Oh! may those blooming hours once more
My soul's departed joy restore:
Blest be they, for they were to me
The promise of posterity;
They on my yielding spirit stole,
Like heaven upon a righteous soul,
That, weary of the world's low strife,
Bounds upward to the realms of life,
And feels its future bliss to be
In kingdoms of eternity!
But not for long my startled sight
Beheld those hours remain;
Soon, soon they took their rapid flight,
And for the hours of sweet delight,
What years were left of pain!
Hope beam'd sublime on every view—
Joy came with many a sigh;
And ere my bounding spirit knew,
How to retain the scenes she drew,
Swift from my frenzied eye,
Switter than lightning's speed, she fled
Down to the mansions of the dead,
Lost in oblivion there;
But Love, Love still remain'd my friend,
Tho' Nature's fires seemed at an end,
And taught my heart to bear,
Unmurm'ringly, the shock that stole
The loveliest treasure of my soul!
WRITTEN AFTER VISITING DOVE DALE-1809.
HOW beautiful the scene, where winding Dove,
Her waters echoing to the cliffs above,
Pours o'er a rocky bed her limpid stream,
Whose waters sparkle in the noontide beam.
Enchanting river! though thy scenes demand
A loftier song, a more experienc'd hand;
Yet will I strive from mem'ry to pourtray
The awful grandeur which thy banks display.
Thy huge grey rocks, with verdant foliage drest,
Whose forms grotesque the wond'ring eye arrest;
The low stone walls, the sheep-folds' simple bound;
The solemn stillness which presides around,
Save when the bleating sheep, or murm'ring stream,
Awake the traveller from his pleasing dream;
All, all conspire to soothe the troubled breast,
To banish care, and lull the mind to rest.
From morn to evening on thy banks I rov'd;
The more I saw, the more the scene I lov'd:
And when, behind the mountains' lofty head,
The sun descended, and bright day-light fled,
The solemn shades of evening, spreading slow,
Sublimely darken'd all the vale below,
Reluctant, then, I took a farewell view,
And bade a long, perhaps a last adieu:
Yet often stopt, by fond regret inclin'd,
'To cast one longing, lingering look behind.'
COMPOSED DURING A PERUSAL OF MADAME COTTIN'S INTEREST-
ING TALE OF ELIZABETH.
GO, duteous fair-one! on her lonely way,
Ye guardian seraphs of the sky, attend!
And, by the moon's pale beam, or solar ray,
In ceaseless watch, your hallow'd charge defend;
Lest the keen blast, that blows so bleak and cold,
Chilling the air with wintry breath around,
With rude embrace those polished limbs enfold,
And stretch them pale and lifeless on the ground!
As droop her lids, by sleep's soft dews oppress'd,
Let not grim Fear the genial balm destroy;
Light be her dreams, with happiest omens blest,
Cheering her soul with gleams of future joy!
Far be the gaunt wolf's long and dismal howl,
That 'mid these wilds his dreadful vigil keeps;
But wide aloof, remorseless savage! prowl,
Nor dare approach where awful virtue sleeps!
And when at length night's dusky shadow flies,
May she, refresh'd, her wayward track pursue;
And HOPE, low bending from the golden skies,
With choicest flow'rs her toilsome journey strew!
14th Aug. 1811.
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