POSTHUMOUS AND FUGITIVE

POEMS.

SONNET.

TO BYRON.

BYRON! how sweetly sad thy melody!
Attuning still the soul to tenderness,
As if soft Pity, with unusual stress,

Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, being by,
Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die.
O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less
Delightful thou thy griefs dost dress

With a bright halo, shining beamily,
As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil,

Its sides are tinged with a resplendent glow,
Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail,
And like fair veins in sable marble flow.

Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale,

The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.

SONNET.

TO CHATTERTON.

O CHATTERTON! how very sad thy fate!
Dear child of sorrow-son of misery!

How soon the film of death obscured that eye,
Whence Genius mildly flash'd, and high debate.
How soon that voice, majestic and elate,

Melted in dying numbers! Oh! how nigh
Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die
A half-blown flow'ret which cold blasts amate.
But this is past thou art among the stars

Of highest Heaven: to thy rolling spheres
Thou sweetly singest: nought thy hymning mars,
Above the ingrate world and human fears.
On earth the good man base detraction bars
From thy fair name, and waters it with tears.

SONNET.

TO SPENSER.

SPENSER ! a jealous honourer of thine,

A forester deep in thy midmost trees,

Did last eve ask my promise to refine

Some English that might strive thine ear to please, But Elfin Poet 'tis impossible

For an inhabitant of wintry earth

To rise like Phoebus, with a golden quill, Fire-wing'd and make a morning in his mirth. It is impossible to escape from toil

O' the sudden and receive thy spiriting:

The flower must drink the nature of the soil
Before it can put forth its blossoming :
Be with me in the summer days and I
Will for thine honour and his pleasure try.

ODE TO APOLLO.

I.

IN thy western halls of gold
When thou sittest in thy state,
Bards, that erst sublimely told

Heroic deeds, and sang of fate,

With fervour seize their adamantine lyres, Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires.

II.

Here Homer with his nervous arms
Strikes the twanging harp of war,
And even the western splendour warms,
While the trumpets sound afar :

But, what creates the most intense surprise,
His soul looks out through renovated eyes.

III.

Then, through thy Temple wide, melodious swells The sweet majestic tone of Maro's lyre : The soul delighted on each accent dwells,— Enraptured dwells,—not daring to respire, The while he tells of grief around a funeral pyre.

IV.

'Tis awful silence then again;

Expectant stand the spheres ;
Breathless the laurell'd peers,

Nor move, till ends the lofty strain,

Nor move till Milton's tuneful thunders cease, And leave once more the ravish'd heavens in peace.

V.

Thou biddest Shakspeare wave his hand,

And quickly forward spring

The Passions-a terrific band

And each vibrates the string

That with its tyrant temper best accords,

While from their Master's lips pour forth the inspiring words.

VI.

A silver trumpet Spenser blows,

And, as its martial notes to silence flee,

From a virgin chorus flows

A hymn in praise of spotless Chastity.

'Tis still! Wild warblings from the Æolian lyre Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire.

VII.

Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers

Float along the pleased air,

Calling youth from idle slumbers,

Rousing them from Pleasure's lair :— Then o'er the strings his fingers gently move, And melt the soul to pity and to love.

VIII.

But when Thou joinest with the Nine,
And all the powers of song combine,
We listen here on earth:

The dying tones that fill the air,

And charm the ear of evening fair,

From thee, great God of Bards, receive their heavenly

birth.

HYMN TO APOLLO.

I.

GOD of the golden bow,
And of the golden lyre,

And of the golden hair,
And of the golden fire,
Charioteer

Of the patient year,

Where-where slept thine ire,