warms, Vainly to him this faithful heart appealing, Which passion's tenderest truest flame still [feeling, Urges those oft pledged vows, each generous Though now forgot-which gave me to his arms. How can he thus forego the soft relations That bind with mutual ties his soul to me; How can he lose those ever dear sensations Which swell to rapture as I gaze on thee? Oft o'er thy lovely form while pensive musing, His smile, his features with delight I trace; Each pensive thought in melting fondness losing, I clasp his image in my child's embrace. O, may that Power who hears my sad lamenting, And guards my nursling with a parent's eye; Restore his heart, at Nature's voice relenting, To Faith's firm bands, and Love's forgiving sigh. Sleep on, dear babe! no thoughts like these oppress thee, Mild Innocence thy peaceful temples crowns; No anxious doubts, no keen regrets distress thee, No brooding care around thy cradle frowns. Those tranquil looks suspend a mother's anguish, Those artless smiles her drooping heart sustain; Victim of broken vows though doom'd to languish, She lives in thee to peace and hope again. MARIA RIDDELL. ELEGY. 'DARK gathering clouds involve the threatening skies, The sea heaves conscious of the' impending gloom; Deep hollow murmurs from the cliffs arise; They come !-the Spirits of the Tempest come! 'Oh! may such terrors mark the' approaching night As reign'd on that these streaming eyes deplore! Flash, ye red fires of heaven! with fatal light; And with conflicting winds, ye waters! roar. 'Loud, and more loud, ye foaming billows! burst; Thus with clasp'd hands, wild looks, and stream- Survey'd the threatening storm and desert beach': Then to the tomb where now the father slept Whose rugged nature bade her sorrows flow, Frantic she turn'd—and beat her breast and wept, Invoking vengeance on the dust below. 'Lo! rising there above each humbler heap, Yon cipher'd stones his name and wealth relate, Who gave his son-remorseless-to the deep, While I, his living victim, curse my fate. 'O! my lost love! no tomb is placed for thee, And fruitless call on him-" who cannot hear." 'Oh! might I fondly clasp him once again, While o'er my head the infuriate billows pour, Forget in death this agonizing pain, And feel his father's cruelty no more! 'Part, raging waters! part, and show beneath, In your dread caves, his pale and mangled form; Now, while the demons of Despair and Death Ride on the blast, and urge the howling storm! 'Lo! by the lightning's momentary blaze, I see him rise the whitening waves above, No longer such as when in happier days He gave the enchanted hours-to me and love. 'Such, as when daring the enchafed sea And courting dangerous toil, he often said That every peril, one soft smile from me, One sigh of speechless tenderness o'erpaid. 'But dead, disfigured, while between the roar Of the loud waves his accents pierce mine ear, And seem to say-Ah, wretch! delay no more, But come, unhappy mourner!-meet me here. 'Yet, powerful Fancy! bid the phantom stay, Still let me hear him!-'Tis already pass'd! Along the waves his shadow dies away, I lose his voice amid the deafening blast! "Ah! wild Illusion, born of frantic Pain! CHARLOTTE SMITH. THE FATE OF KINGS. WRITTEN ON VISITING A ROYAL MAUSOLEUM. Then happy low lie down! Uneasy rests the head that wears a crown. Shakspeare. PEACE to these aisles, through which I pensive stray, And press with reverent feet the time-worn stones, Led by yon glimmering lamp's sepulchral ray, Which marks the spot where rest a monarch's bones. Languid and cold, to light, but not to cheer, Falls the faint gleam upon the tomb below, Like Pity's voice on some lone widow's ear, Mocking the majesty of buried Woe! Here will I pause, our pious requiem pour, And greet his exit from Life's tragic stage; Nor ask what name the' exalted sufferer bore, Nor how 'tis blazon'd on the' historic page. Whether in Valour's lists he vainly toil'd, Or patriot subjects loved his mild command; Whether, fair Peace, he held thy olive dear, Or stretch'd his power o'er many a bleeding state; Whate'er his deeds, his station claims a tear; Treason's chief victim, Policy's prime tool, When right the nation's slave, the nation's curse when wrong; His crown, a burning brand which sears his brain; His power, a bubble the next hour may burst; His life a glittering web of pomp and pain, Gorgeously wretched, and supremely cursed; Of all their lots whose threads the sisters spin None sadder than a king's Reflection views : Life shows him nothing he can wish to win, And bids him only breathe to fear and lose! Low in the heavens may sink his star of Fate, But ne'er can hope in loftier course to move: His couch may shine the burning throne of Hate, But ne'er can bloom the roseate bower of Love. VOL. IV. U |