Poetry Part 10

Yes, I could love, could softly yield To pa.s.sion all my willing breast, And fondly listen to the voice That oft invites me to be blest;

That still, when Fancy, lost in bliss, Stands gazing on the form divine, So sweetly whispers to my soul, O make the heavenly Julia thine!

But hush, thou fascinating voice!

Hence visionary extacy!

Yes, I could love, but ah! I fear She would not deign to smile on me.

SONG TO BACCHUS.

Come along, jolly Bacchus! no longer delay; See'st thou not how the table with bottles is crown'd?

See'st thou not how thy votaries, impatient to pay Their devotion to thee, are all waiting around?

O come then, propitious to our invocation, To preside of thy rites at the solemnization.

Hark! the voice of Champagne, from its prison set free, And the music of gla.s.ses that merrily ring, Thy arrival announce, and invite us to glee; With what gladness we welcome thee, vine-crowned King!

To honour thee, Bacchus! we pour a libation, And the lofty roof echoes our loud salutation.

On that wine-loaded altar, erected to thee, Sherry, burgundy, claret, invitingly s.h.i.+ne; While all thy rich gifts thus collected we see, We greet thy munificence boundless, divine.

From these we already inhale animation, Our hearts and heads warmth, and our souls elevation.

As thy nectar, kind Bacchus! more copiously flows, We purge off the cold dregs that are earthy, profane; Each breast with thy own G.o.dlike character glows; There truth, generosity, happiness reign.

Hail Bacchus! we hail thee in high exultation; Thou hast blest us, kind G.o.d! with thy full inspiration.

ON SEEING THE APOLLO BELVIDERE.

What majesty! what elegance and grace!

The form how perfect! how divine the face!

In admiration rapt, I gazing stand:-- Is this a statue wrought by mortal hand?

No! 'tis Apollo's self, methinks I see; I feel the presence of the Deity.

INSCRIPTION FOR THE APOLLO BELVIDERE.

O all ye Sons of Taste! with raptured sight Behold this image of the G.o.d of light; Admire its whole, admire its every part; 'Tis sculpture's master-work, the boast of Art.

Not with more glory in his heavenly sphere The G.o.d appears, than in his Image here.

EPITAPH ON NELSON.

Lo! here are Nelson's honour'd relics laid;-- Britons! your Country's Genius calls you here, And bids you pay to your lost Hero's shade The n.o.ble homage of a patriot tear.

Against the fleets of Gallia, Denmark, Spain, Full oft Britannia's war-bolts he has hurl'd; Stretch'd forth her sceptre o'er the vanquish'd main, And with her glory fill'd the astonish'd world.

His matchless triumphs shall the voice of Fame, With loud applause, to latest ages tell; Still uttering with a sigh Trafalgar's name, Where last he conquer'd, where--alas! he fell.

EPITAPH ON HOWARD.

Ye! who this hallow'd ground with reverence tread, Where sleep in honour'd urns the ill.u.s.trious dead, To trace the achievements of the Sons of Fame, And pay just wors.h.i.+p to each G.o.dlike name; (If, blest with hearts that melt at human wo, And feel philanthropy's celestial glow,) Midst all the monuments that court your view, And claim the debt to buried merit due, Mark chiefly this;--on this with tearful eyes More fondly gaze;--beneath it Howard lies!

O'er other urns mere mortals only mourn; Celestial Beings honour Howard's urn; Benevolence sits weeping on his stone; Heaven's Angel still, though on her earthly throne.

EPITAPH ON VOLTAIRE.

Here lies interr'd Voltaire; no letter'd name Can boast more brilliant, more extensive fame.

On him what various gifts did heaven confer!-- Poet, historian, wit, philosopher; But ah!--peruse it, Christian, with a tear-- The chief of infidels lies buried here: Lament the abuse of such rare talents given; Lament such dire ingrat.i.tude to heaven.

EPITAPH ON NAPOLEON.

Lo! here, on this lone isle amid the deeps, From his proud height of conquest, greatness hurl'd, Buried in silent night, Napoleon sleeps!

Long Gallia's boast, the wonder of the world!

Though humbly born, Ambition claim'd her child; Fate urged him on, his great career to fill; On him, in war, in dangers, Fortune smiled; And on his eagles Victory waited still.

By battles won, by policy profound, Kings he dethroned, fill'd Europe with dismay: England alone, of all the nations round, His power opposed, disdaining to obey.

Forced by the flames of Moscow to retreat, Half his vast host by cold, by famine, dies.

Famed Waterloo beheld his last defeat;-- There sunk his glory's sun;--ne'er more to rise.

Briton! from this sad spot ere thou depart, Pause!--while his shade complains in Fancy's ear;-- 'Had generous feeling warm'd thy Sovereign's heart, Though Briton's foe, I had not perish'd here.'

EPITAPH ON LORD BYRON.

Lo! Byron's tomb!-- Here, deeply pensive, scan The greatness,--and the littleness of man.

In timeless death here Freedom's Martyr sleeps, Whom, her lost Champion, Greece, desponding, weeps.

The impa.s.sion'd Bard, whose Genius, wing'd with flame, Swept, like a comet, through the sphere of fame, Dazzling the astonish'd world, lies buried here.

Thus human Glory ends its bright career.

To Byron what high gifts did heaven impart!