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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

Villula,
et pauper agelle,
Me tibi, et hos una mecum, et quos semper amavi
Commendo.

WHEN, with a REAUMUR's skill, thy curious mind

Has classed the insect-tribes of human-kind,
Each with its busy hum, or gilded wing,
Its subtle web-work, or its venomed sting;
Let me, to claim a few unvalued hours,
Point out the green lane rough with fern
and flowers;
The sheltered gate that opens to my field,
And the white front thro' mingling elms
revealed.

In vain, alas! a village-friend invites
To simple comforts, and domestic rites,
When the gay months of Carnival resume
Their annual round of glitter and perfume;
When London hails thee to its splendid mart,
Its hives of sweets, and cabinets of art;
And, lo, majestic, as thy manly song,
Flows the full tide of human life along.
Still must my partial pencil love to dwell
On the home-prospects of my hermit-cell;
The mossy pales that skirt the orchard-
green,

Here hid by shrub-wood, there by glimpses

seen;

And the brown path-way, that, with careless flow,

Sinks, and is lost among the trees below. Still must it trace (the flattering tints forgive) Each fleeting charm that bids the landscape live:

Oft o'er the mead, at pleasing distance, pass Browsing the hedge by fits the panniered ass; The idling shepherd-boy, with rude delight, Whistling his dog to mark the pebble's flight;

And in her kerchief blue the cottage-maid, With brimming pitcher from the shadowy glade.

Far to the south a mountain-vale retires,
Rich in its groves, and glens, and village-
spires;
Its upland lawns, and cliff's with foliage hung,
Its wizard-stream, nor nameless nor unsung:
And thro' the various year, the various day,
What scenes of glory burst, and melt away!
When April-verdure springs in Grosvenor
square,
And the furred Beauty comes to winter there,
She bids old Nature mar the plan no more;
Yet still the seasons circle as before.

Ah, still as soon the young Aurora plays, Though moons and flambeaux trail their broadest blaze;

As soon the sky-lark pours his matin-song, Though evening lingers at the mask so long.

There let her strike with momentary ray, As tapers shine their little lives away; There let her practise from herself to steal, And look the happiness she does not feel; The ready smile and bidden blush employ At Faro-routs that dazzle to destroy; Fan with affected ease the essenced air, And lisp of fashions with unmeaning stare. Be thine to meditate an humbler flight, When morning fills the fields with rosy light; Be thine to blend, nor thine a vulgar aim, Repose with dignity, with quiet fame.

Here no state - chambers in long line unfold,

Bright with broad mirrors, rough with fretted gold;

Yet modest ornament, with use combined,
Attracts the eye to exercise the mind.
Small change of scene, small space his home
requires,

Who leads a life of satisfied desires.
What tho' no marble breathes, no canvas
glows,

From every point a ray of genius flows! Be mine to bless the more mechanic skill, That stamps, renews, and multiplies at will; And cheaply circulates, thro' distant climes, The fairest relics of the purest times. | Here from the mould to conscious being start Those finer forms, the miracles of art; Here chosen gems, imprest on sulphur, shine, That slept for ages in a second mine; And here the faithful graver dares to trace A MICHAEL'S grandeur, and a RAPHAEL's grace!

Thy gallery, Florence,gilds my humble wails, And my low roof the Vatican recalls!

Soon as the morning - dream my pillow

flies, To waking sense what brighter visions rise! O mark! again the coursers of the Sun, At GUIDO's call, their round of glory run! Again the rosy Hours resume their flight, Obscured and lost in floods of golden light!

But could thine erring friend so long forget (Sweet source of pensive joy and fond regret) That here its warmest hues the pencil flings, Lo! here the lost restores, the absent brings; And still the Few best loved and most revered Rise round the board their social smile endeared?

Selected shelves shall claim thy studious hours; There shall thy ranging mind be fed on flowers!

There, while the shaded lamp's mild lustre streams,

Read ancient books, or dream inspiring
dreams;

And, when a sage's bust arrests thee there,
Pause, and his features with his thoughts

compare.

Ah, most that Art my grateful rapture calls,
Which breathes a soul into the silent walls;
Which gathers round the Wise of every
tongue,

All on whose words departed nations hung;
Still prompt to charm with many a converse
sweet;

Guides in the world, companions in retreat!
Tho' my thatched bath no rich Mosaic

knows,

A limpid spring with unfelt current flows;
Emblem of Life! which, still as we survey,
Seems motionless, yet ever glides away!
The shadowy walls record, with Attic art,
The strength and beauty that its waves
impart.

O come, and, rich in intellectual wealth, Blend thought with exercise, with knowledge health!

Long, in this sheltered scene of lettered talk,
With sober step repeat the pensive walk;
Nor scorn, when graver triflings fail to please,
The cheap amusements of a mind at ease;
Here every care in sweet oblivion cast,
And many an idle hour-not idly passed.
Not tuneful echoes, ambushed at my gate,
Catch the blest accents of the wise and
great.

Vain of its various page, no Album breathes
The sigh that Friendship or the Muse be-
queaths.

Yet some good Genii o'er my hearth preside,
Oft the far friend, with secret spell, to guide;
And there I trace, when the gray evening
lours,

A silent chronicle of happier hours!

When Christmas revels in a world of snow, And bids her berries blush, her carols flow; His spangling shower when Frost the wizard flings;

Or, borne in ether blue, on viewless wings, O'er the white pane his silvery foliage weaves, And gems with icicles the sheltering eaves; fears-Thy muffled friend his nectarine - wall pursues,

Here THETIS, bending with a mother's
Dips her dear boy, whose pride restrains
his tears.
There, VENUS, rising, shrinks with sweet
surprise,

As her fair self reflected seems to rise!
Far from the joyless glare, the maddening
strife,

And all the dull impertinence of life,
These eyelids open to the rising ray,
And close, whenNature bids, at close of day.
Here, at the dawn, the kindling landscape

glows;

There noon-day levees call from faint repose. Here the flushed wave flings back the parting light;

There glimmering lamps anticipate the night. When from his classic dreams the student steals,

;

Amid the buzz of crowds, the whirl of wheels,
To muse unnoticed-while around him press
The meteor-forms of equipage and dress:
Alone, in wonder lost, he seems to stand
A very stranger in his native land!
And (tho' perchance of current coin possest
And modern phrase by living lips exprest)
Like those blest Youths, forgive the fabling
page,

Whose blameless lives deceived a twilight-
age,

Spent in sweet slumbers; till the miner's spade

Unclosed the cavern, and the morning played. Ah, what their strange surprise, their wild delight!

New arts of life, new manners meet their
sight!

In a new world they wake, as from the dead;
Yet doubt the trance dissolved, the vision fled!

What time the sun the yellow crocus wooes,
Screened from the arrowy North; and duly
hies

To meet the morning-rumour as it flies;
To range the murmuring market-place, and

view

The motley groups that faithful TENIERS drew.

When Spring bursts forth in blossoms thro'
the vale,

And her wild music triumphs on the gale,
Oft with my book I muse from stile to stile;
Oft in my porch the listless noon beguile,
Framing loose numbers, till declining day
Thro' the green trellis shoots a crimson ray;
Till the West-wind leads on the twilight-
hours,

And shakes the fragrant bells of closing
flowers.

Nor boast, O Choisy! seat of soft delight,
The secret charm of thy voluptuous night.
Vain is the blaze of wealth, the pomp of
power!

Lo, here, attendant on the shadowy hour,
Thy closet-supper, served by hands unseen,
Sheds, like an evening-star, its ray serene,
To hail our coming. Not a step profane
Dares, with rude sound, the cheerful rite
restrain;

And, while the frugal banquet glows revealed,
Pure and unbought, the natives of my field;
While blushing fruits thro' scattered leaves
invite,

Still clad in bloom, and veiled in azure light!
With wine, as rich in years as HORACE
sings,

With water, clear as his own fountain flings,

The shifting side-board plays its humbler | To drop all metaphor, that little bell

part,

Beyond the triumphs of a Loriot's art. Thus, in this calm recess, so richly fraught With mental light, and luxury of thought, My life steals on; (0 could it blend with thine!)

Careless my course, yet not without design. So thro' the vales of Loire the bee-hives glide, The light raft dropping with the silent tide; So, till the laughing scenes are lost in night, The busy people wing their various flight, Culling unnumbered sweets from nameless flowers,

That scent the vineyard in its purple hours. Rise, ere the watch-relieving clarions play, Caught thro' St. James's groves at blush of day;

Ere its full voice the choral anthem flings Thro' trophied tombs of heroes and of kings. Haste to the tranquil shade of learned ease, Tho' skilled alike to dazzle and to please; Tho' each gay scene be searched with anxious

eye,

Nor thy shut door be passed without a sigh. If, when this roof shall know thy friend

no more,

Some, formed like thee, should once, like thee, explore;

Invoke the Lares of his loved retreat,
And his lone walks imprint with pilgrim-feet;
Then be it said, (as, vain of better days,
Some gray domestic prompts the partial
praise ;)

"Unknown he lived, unenvied, not unblest;
Reason his guide, and Happiness his guest.
In the clear mirror of his moral page,
We trace the manners of a purer age.
His soul, with thirst of genuine glory fraught,
Scorned the false lustre of licentious thought.
-One fair asylum from the world he knew,
One chosen seat, that charms with various
view!

Who boasts of more (believe the serious strain)

Sighs for a home, and sighs, alas! in vain. Thro' each he roves, the tenant of a day, And, with the swallow, wings the year away!"

VERSES

WRITTEN TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS. SIDDONS.

YES, 'tis the pulse of life! my fears were vain;

I wake, I breathe, and am myself again. Still in this nether world; no seraph yet! Nor walks my spirit, when the sun is set, With troubled step to haunt the fatal board, Where I died last-by poison or the sword; Blanching each honest cheek with deeds of night,

Called back reality, and broke the spell.
No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone;
A very woman-scarce restrains her own!
Can she, with fiction, charm the cheated mind,
When to be grateful is the part assigned?
Ah, no! she scorns the trappings of her Art;
No theme but truth, no prompter but the
heart!

But, Ladies, say, must I alone unmask? Is here no other actress? let me ask. Believe me, those, who best the heart dissect, Know every Woman studies stage-effect. She moulds her manners to the part she fills, As Instinct teaches, or as Humour wills; And, as the grave or gay her talent calls, Acts in the drama, till the curtain falls.

First, how her little breast with triumph

swells,

When the red coral rings its golden bells! To play in pantomime is then the rage, Along the carpet's many-coloured stage; Or lisp her merry thoughts with loud endeavour,

Now here, now there-in noise and mischief ever!

A school-girl next, she curls her hair in papers, And mimics father's gout, and mother's

vapours;

Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances; Playful at church, and serious when she dances;

Tramples alike on customs and on toes,
And whispers all she hears to all she knows;
Terror of caps, and wigs, and sober notions!
A romp! that longest of perpetual motions!
-Till tamed and tortured into foreign graces,
She sports her lovely face at public places;
And with blue, laughing eyes, behind her fan,
First acts her part with that great actor, MAN.

Too soon a flirt, approach her and she flies! Frowns when pursued, and, when entreated, sighs!

Plays with unhappy men as cats with mice; Till fading beauty hints the late advice. Her prudence dictates what her pride disdained,

And now she sues to slaves herself had chained!

Then comes that good old character, a Wife, With all the dear, distracting cares of life; A thousand cards a day at doors to leave, And, in return, a thousand cards receive; Rouge high, play deep, to lead the ton aspire, With nightly blaze set PORTLAND-place on fire;

Snatch half a glimpse at Concert, Opera, Ball,

A Meteor, traced by none, tho' seen by all; And, when her shattered nerves forbid to

roam,

In very spleen-rehearse the girls at home. Last the gray Dowager, in ancient flounces, Done here so oft by dim and doubtful light. | With snuff and spectacles the age denounces;

Boasts how the Sires of this degenerate Isle | Wont in. the night of woods to dwell,
Knelt for a look, and duelled for a smile. The holy Druid saw thee rise;
The scourge and ridicule of Goth and Vandal,
Her tea she sweetens, as she sips, with

scandal;

With modern Belles eternal warfare wages, Like her own birds that clamour from their

cages;

And shuffles round to bear her tale to all, Like some old Ruin, nodding to its fall! Thus WOMAN makes her entrance and her exit;

And, planting there the guardian-spell, Sung forth, the dreadful pomp to swell Of human sacrifice!

Thy singed top and branches bare
Now straggle in the evening-sky;
And the wan moon wheels round to glare
On the long corse that shivers there
Of him who came to die!

Not least an actress, when she least suspects it.
Yet Nature oft peeps out and mars the plot,
Each lesson lost, each poor pretence forgot;
Full oft, with energy that scorns controul,
At once lights up the features of the soul;
Unlocks each thought chained down by OH! that the Chemist's magic art

coward Art,

And to full day the latent passions start! —And she, whose first, best wish is your applause,

Herself exemplifies the truth she draws. Born on the stage-thro' every shifting scene, Obscure or bright, tempestuous or serene, Still has your smile her trembling spirit fired! And can she act, with thoughts like these inspired?

Thus from her mind all artifice she flings, All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things! To you, unchecked, each genuine feeling flows;

For all that life endears-to you she owes.

TO AN OLD OAK.

Immota manet; multosque nepotes,
Multa virum volvens durando sæcula, vincit.

ROUND thee, alas, no shadows move!
From thee no sacred murmurs breathe!
Yet within thee, thyself a grove,
Once did the eagle scream above,

And the wolf howl beneath.

There once the steel-clad knight reclined,
His sable plumage tempest-tossed;
And, as the death-bell smote the wind,
From towers long fled by humankind,

His brow the hero crossed!

Then Culture came, and days serene;
And village-sports, and garlands gay.
Full many a pathway crossed the green;
And maids and shepherd-youths were seen
To celebrate the May.

Father of many a forest deep,
Whence many a navy thunder-fraught!
Erst in thy acorn-cells asleep,
Soon destined o'er the world to sweep,
Opening new spheres of thought!

ON A TEAR.

Could crystallize this sacred treasure!
Long should it glitter near my heart,
A secret source of pensive pleasure.
The little brilliant, ere it fell,
Its lustre caught from CHLOE's eye;
Then, trembling, left its coral cell—
The spring of Sensibility!

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light!
In thee the rays of Virtue shine;
More calmly clear, more mildly bright,
Than any gem that gilds the mine.

Benign restorer of the soul!
Who ever fliest to bring relief,
When first we feel the rude controul
Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief.

The sage's and the poet's theme,
In every clime, in every age;
Thou charmst in Fancy's idle dream,
In Reason's philosophic page.

That very law which moulds a tear, And bids it trickle from its source, That law preserves the earth a sphere, And guides the planets in their course,

TO THE GNAT.

WHEN by the green-wood-side, at summer

eve,

Poetic visions charm my closing eye,
And fairy-scenes, that Fancy loves to weave,
Shift to wild notes of sweetest minstrelsy;
'Tis thine to range in busy quest of prey,
Thy feathery antlers quivering with delight,
Brush from my lids the hues of heaven away,
And all is Solitude, and all is Night!
-Ah now thy barbed shaft, relentless fly,
Unsheaths its terrors in the sultry air!
No guardian sylph, in golden panoply,
Lifts the broad shield, and points the glit
tering spear.

402

SAMUEL ROGERS MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

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The moving pomp along the shadowy isle,
That, like a darkness, filled the solemn pile;
The illustrious line, that in long order led,
Of those, that loved him living, mourned
him dead;

Of those, the few, that for their country
stood
Round him who dared be singularly good;
All, of all ranks, that claimed him for their
own;

And nothing wanting-but himself alone!
Oh say, of him now rests there but a name;
Wont, as he was, to breathe ethereal flame?
Friend of the absent, guardian of the dead!
Who but would here their sacred sorrows
shed?

(Such as he shed on NELSON's closing grave;
How soon to claim the sympathy he gave!)
In him, resentful of another's wrong,
The dumb were eloquent, the feeble strong.
Truth from his lips a charm celestial drew,-
Ah, who so mighty and so gentle too?

What tho' with war the madding nations
rung,
Peace, when he spoke, was ever on his
tongue!
Amidst the frowns of power, the tricks of
state,

Fearless, resolved, and negligently great!
In vain malignant vapours gathered round;
He walked, erect, on consecrated ground.
The clouds, that rise to quench the orb of
day,

Reflect its splendour, and dissolve away!
When in retreat he laid his thunder by,
For lettered ease and calm philosophy,

WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY. Blest were his hours within the silent grove,

OCTOBER 10, 1806.

JAMES FOX.

Where still his godlike spirit deigns to rove; Blest by the orphan's smile, the widow's prayer,

After the Funeral of the Right Hon. CHARLES For many a deed, long done in secret there. There shone his lamp on Homer's hallowed page,

WHOEVER thou art, approach, and, with a sigh,

Mark where the small remains of greatness

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There, listening, sate the hero and the sage;
And they, by virtue and by blood allied,
Whom most he loved, and in whose arms
he died.

Friend of all humankind! not here alone (The voice, that speaks, was not to thee unknown)

Wilt thou be missed.-O'er every land and

sea

And, tho' no more ascends the voice of prayer,
Tho' the last footsteps cease to linger there,
Still, like an awful dream that comes again,
Alas! at best, as transient and as vain,
Still do I see (while thro' the vaults of night
The funeral-song once more proclaims the Foes on thy grave shall meet, and mingle

Long, long shall England be revered in thee! And, when the storm is hushed-in distant years-

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