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Bewane a speedy friend, the Arabian said,
And wisely was it he advised distrust:
The slower that blossoms earliest fades the first.
Look at yon Oak that lifts its stately head,
And dallies with the autumnal storm, whose rage
Tempests the ocean waves; slowly it rose,
Slowly its strength increased through many an age,
And timidly did its light leaves disclose,
As doubtful of the spring, their palest green.
They to the summer cautiously expand,
And by the warmer sun and season bland
Matured, their foliage in the grove is seen,
When the bare forest by the wintry blast
Is swept, still lingering on the boughs the last.
If thou didst feed on western plains of yore;
Or waddle wide with flat and slabby feet
Over some Cambrian mountain's plashy moor;
Or find in farmer's yard a safe retreat
From gypsey thieves, and foxes sly and fleet;
If thy grey quills, by lawyer guided, trace
Deeds big with ruin to some wretched race,
or love-sick poet's sounct, sad and sweet,
Wailing the rigour of his lady fair;
Or if, the drudge of housemaid ly toil,
Cobwebs and dust thy pinions white besoil,
Departed goose! I neither know nor care.
But this I know, that thou wert very fine,
Season'd with sage, and onions, and port wine.
I MArvel not, O sun' that unto thee
In adoration man should bow the knee,
And pour his prayers of mingled awe and love;
For like a God thou art, and on thy way
of glory sheddest with benignant ray,
Beauty, and life, and joyance from above.
No longer let these mists thy radiance shroud,
These cold raw mists that chill the comfortless day;
But shed thy splendour through the opening cloud
And cheer the earth once more. The languid flowers
Lie odourless, bent down with heavy rain,
Earth asks thy presence, saturate with showers!
O Lord of Light! put forth thy beams again,
For damp and cheerless are the gloomy hours.
Fain be thy fortunes in the distant land,
companion of my earlier years and friend!
Go to the Eastern world, and may the hand
of Heaven its blessing on thy labour send.
And may I, if we ever more should meet,
See thee with affluence to thy native shore
Return'd;—I need not pray that I inay greet
The same untainted goodness as before.
Long years must intervene before that day;
And what the changes Ileaven to each may send,
It boots not now to bode : Oli early friend
Assured, no distance e'er can wear away
Esteem long rooted, and no change remove
The dear remembrance of the friend we love.
FAREwell my home, my home no longer now,
Witness of many a calm and happy day;
And thou fair eminence, upon whose brow
Dwells the last sunshine of the evening ray,
Farewell! Mine eyes no longer shall pursue
The western sun beyond the utmost height,
When slowly he forsakes the fields of light.
No more the freshness of the falling dew,
Cool and delightful, here shall bathe my head,
As from this western window dear, I lean,
Listening, the while I watch the placid scene,
The martins twittering underneath the shed.
Farewell, my home! where many a day has past
In joys whose loved remembrance long shall last.
Ponlock, thy verdant vale so fair to sight,
Thy lofty hills with feru and furze so brown,
The waters that so musical roll down
Thy woody glens, the traveller with delight
Recalls to memory, and the channel grey
Circling its surges in thy level bay;-
Porlock, I also shall fortset thee uot,
Here by the unwelcome summer rain confined;
And often shall hereafter call to mind
Ilow here, a patient prisoner, 't was my lot
To wear the lonely, lingering close of day,
Making my Sonnet by the alehouse fire,
Whilst lileness and Solitude inspire
Dull rhymes to pass the duller hours away.
August 9, 1799.
STATELY yon vessel sails adown the tide,
To some far distant laud adventurous bound;
The sailors' busy cries from side to side
Pealing amont; the echoing rocks resound:
A patient, thoughtless, much-enduring band,
Joyful they enter on their ocean way,
With shouts exulting leave their native land,
And know no care beyond the present day.
But is there no poor mourner left behind,
Who sorrows for a child or husbaud there?
Who at the howling of the midnight wind
Will wake and tremble in her boding prayer!
So may her voice be heard, and Ileaven be kind!—
Go, gallant ship, and be thy fortune fair!
O God have mercy in this dreadful hour
On the poor mariner! in comfort here
Safe shelter'd as I am, I almost fear
The blast that rages with resistless power.
What were it now to toss upon the waves,
The maddend waves, and know no succour near;
The howling of the storm alone to hear,
And the wild sea that to the tempest raves,
To gaze amid the horrors of the night
And only see the billow's gleaming light;
And in the dread of death to think of her
Who, as she listens sleepless to the gale,
Puts up a silent prayer and waxes palet–
O God! have mercy on the mariner!
She comes majestic with her swelling sails,
The gallant bark! along her watery way
Homeward she drives before the favouring gales;
Now flirting at their length the streamers play,
And now they ripple with the rufiling breeze.
Hark to the sailors' shouts! the rocks rebound,
Thundering in echoes to the joyful sound.
Long have they voyaged o'er the distant seas,
And what a heart-delight they feel at last,
So many toils, so many dangers past,
To view the port desired, he only knows
Who on the stormy deep for many a day
Hath tost, a weary of his ocean way,
And watch'd, all anxious, every wind that blows.
A whinkled, crabbed man they picture thee,
Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey
As the long moss upon the apple-tree;
Blue lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp blue nose;
Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way,
Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.
ihey should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth,
Old Winter! seated in thy great-arm'd chair,
Watching the children at their Christmas mirth,
Or circled by them as thy lips declare
Some merry jest or tale of murder dire,
Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night,
Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering sire,
Or taste the old October brown and bright.
THE AMATORY POEMS OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM.
She held a Cup and Hall of Ivory white,
Less white the Ivory than her snowy hand
Enrapt I watch'd her from my secret stand,
As now, intent, in innocent delight,
Iler taper fingers twirld the giddy ball,
Now tost it, following still with Eagle sight,
Now on the pointed end infix'd its fall.
Marking her sport I mused, and musing sigh'd,
Methought the ball she play'd with was my heart!
(Alas! that Sport like that should be her pride!)
And the keen point which stedfast still she eyed
Wherewith to pierce it, that was Cupid's dart;
Shall I not then the cruel Fair condemn
Who on that dart impales my bosom's gem:
TO A PAiNTER ATTEMPTING DELIA’s PORTRAIT.
Rash Paiuter! canst thou give the orb of DAY
In all its noontide glory? or portray
The diamond, that athwart the taper'd hall
Flings the rich flashes of its dazzling light?
Even if thine art could boast such magic might,
Yet if it strove to paint my Angel's Eye,
Here it perforce must fail. Cease! lest I call
Far from my Delia now by fate removed,
At home, abroad, I view her every where;
Her only in the flood of Noon I see. |
My Goddess-Maid, my oxi Nipaesent FAIR,
For Love annihilates the world to me!
And when the weary Sol around his bed
Closes the sable curtains of the night,
SUN of My slumbens, on my dazzled sight
She shines confest. When every sound is dead,
The spin it of hea voice comes then to roll
The surge of music o'er my wavy brain.
Far, far from her my Body drags its chain,
But sure with Delia I exist A soul!
THE POET EXPRESSES HIS FEELINGS RESPECTING A PORTRAIT IN DELIA'S PARLOUR.
I would I were that Reverend Gentleman
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed canc,
Who hangs in Delia's parlour! For whene'er
From book or needlework her looks arise,
On him converge the sun-be AMs of her eyes,
And he unblamed may gaze upon MY FAin,
And oft My Fain his favour'd form surveys.
O happy pictus E! still on h ER to gaze
I envy him and jealous fear alarms, |
Lest the stao Ng glance of those divinest charms
WARM him to life, as in the ancient days,
When MAable Melred in Pygmalion's arms.
I would I were that Reverend Gentleman
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane.
THE POET INELATES HOW HE OBTAINED DELIAS POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF. T is mine! what accents can my joy declare? Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout! Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair, That left the tempting corner hanging out!
I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels,
After long travel to some distant shrine,
When at the relic of his saint he kneels,
For Delia's pock Er-HANDREachief is MINE.
When first with filching fingers I drew near, Keen hope shot tremulous through every vein,
And when the finish'd deed removed my fear, Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain.
What though the Eighth Commandment rose to mind,
It only serv'd a moment's qualm to move;
For thefts like this it could not be design'd,
The Eighth Commandment was Not MADE for love!
As all in the labour had shared, So justly they shared in the fruits.
Thou visible Lord of the Earth, Thou God of my Fathers, thou God of my heart, O Giver of light and of life! When the Strangers came to our shores, why didst thou not put forth thy power? Thy thunders should then have been hurl’d, Thy fires should in lightnings have flash'd 1– Visible God of the Earth, The Strangers mock at thy might! To idols and beams of wood They force us to bow the knee! They plunge us in caverns and dens, Where never thy blessed light Shines on our poisonous toil! But not in the caverns and dens, O Sun, are we mindless of thee! We pine for the want of thy beams, We adore thee with anguish and groans.
My Father, rest in peace! Rest with the dust of thy Sires! They placed their Cross in thy dying grasp;They bore thee to their burial-place, And over thy breathless frame Their bloody and merciless Priest Mumbled his mystery words. Oh! could thy bones be at peace In the fields where the Strangers are laid?— Alone, in danger and in pain, My Father, I bring thee here: So may our God, in reward, Allow me one faithful friend To lay me beside thee when I am released So may he release me soon, That my Spirit may join thee there, Where the Strangers never shall come! 1799.
SONG OF THE ARAUCANS During a tii UNDER ston M.”
The storm-cloud grows deeper above; Araucans! the tempest is ripe in the sky; Our forefathers come from their lslands of Bliss,
They come to the war of the winds.
The Souls of the Strangers are there, In their garments of darkness they ride through the heaven; Yon cloud that rolls luridly over the hill Is red with their weapons of fire.
* Respecting storms, the people of Chili are of opinion that, the departed souls are returning from their abode i.eyond the sea to assist their relations and friends. Accordingly, when it thunders over the mountains, they think that the souls of their forefathers are taken in an engagement with those of the Spaniards. The roaring of the wind, they take to be the noise of horsemen attacking one another, the bowling of the tempest for the beating of drums, and the claps of thunder for the discharge of m skets and cannons.— When the wind drives the clouds towards the possessions of the Spaniards, they rejoice that the souls of their forefathers have repulsed those of their enemies, and call out aloud to them to give them no quarter. When the contrary happens, they are troubled and dejected, and encourage the yielding souls to rally their forces, and summon up the last remains of their strength.-Meiser.