Poetic Sketches Part 4

"Haply, shalt thou, his scorn subdue, Thy helpless innocence to save; But if unmov'd, he turns from you, I'll lead him to my mother's grave

"Sure, waken'd there, remorse shall rise, And bid his perjur'd bosom shed, That tender tear, my heart denies, Cold, icy cold, congeal'd, and dead."

Then, wildly through each well-known way Again she fled, the youth to seek: Nor paus'd, 'till Cynthia's mournful ray, Play'd paly, on her paler cheek.

Once more she sought the river's side, The goal of her accomplish'd way, Where, 'whelm'd beneath the rising tide, Her heart's dissever'd treasure lay!

Amaz'd! convuls'd! she shriek'd! she sprung!

She clasp'd it in its wat'ry bed!

The dirge of death the night-blasts sung; The morn, in tears, beheld them dead.

Their pale remains with pious care, Beneath the vernal turf we laid; Remembrance loves to linger there, And weep beneath the willow shade.

And oft, the fairest flowers of spring, What time the hours of toil are spent, The village youths and virgins bring, To grace her moss-clad monument.

INVOCATION TO SLEEP.

Come, gentle sleep! thou soft restorer, come, And close these wearied eyes, by grief oppress'd; For one short hour, be this thy peaceful home, And bid the sighs that rend my bosom rest.

Depriv'd of thee, at midnight's awful hour, Oft have I listen'd to the angry wind; While busy memory, with tyrant pow'r, Would picture faded joys, or friends unkind.

Or tell of her who rear'd my helpless years, But torn away, ere yet I knew her worth; How oft, tho' nature still the thought endears, Has my worn bosom heav'd its tribute forth.

Come, then, soft pow'r, whose balmy roses fall As heavenly manna sweet, or morning dew; Beneath thy wings, my troubled thoughts recall, And, haply, lend them some serener hue.

_SONNET_.

TO MUSIC.

Hail! Heavenly Maid, my pensive mind, Invokes thy woe-subduing strain; For there a s.h.i.+eld my soul can find, Which subjugates each dagger'd pain.

When beauty spurns the lover's sighs, 'Tis thine soft pity to inspire; And cold indifference vanquish'd lies, Beneath thy myrtle-vested lyre.

Oh! could contention's demon hear Thy seraph voice, his blood-lav'd spear He'd drop, and own thy power; That smiling o'er each hapless land, Sweet peace might call her hallow'd band, To crown the festive hour.

TO ******

0 Nymph! with cheeks of roseate hue, Whose eyes are violets bath'd in dew, So liquid, languis.h.i.+ng, and blue, How they bewitch me!

Thy bosom hath a magic spell, For when its full orbs heave and swell, I feel--but, oh! I must not tell, Lord! how they twitch me!

ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL WAs.h.i.+NGTON.

Lamented Chief! at thy distinguish'd deeds The world shall gaze with wonder and applause, While, on fair hist'ry's page, the patriot reads Thy matchless valor in thy country's cause.

Yes, it was thine amid destructive war, To s.h.i.+eld it n.o.bly from oppression's chain; By justice arm'd, to brave each threat'ning jar, a.s.sert its freedom, and its rights maintain.

Much-honor'd Statesman, Husband, Father, Friend, A generous nation's grateful tears are thine; E'en unborn ages shall thy worth commend, And never-fading laurels deck thy shrine.

Ill.u.s.trious Warrior! on the immortal base, By Freedom rear'd, thy envied name shall stand; And Fame, by Truth inspir'd, shall fondly trace Thee, Pride and Guardian of thy Native Land!

_SONG_.

Oh! never will I leave my love, My captive soul would sigh to stray, Tho' seraph-songs its truth to prove, Call it from earth to heaven to away.

For heaven has deign'd on earth to send As rich a gift as it can give; Alas! that mortal bliss must end, For mortal man must cease to live.

Yet transient would my sorrows be Should Delia first her breath resign; Sweet Maid! my soul would follow thee, For never can it part from thine.

_BURLESQUE SONNET_.

TO A BEE.

Sweet Insect! that on two small wings doth fly, And, flying, carry on those wings yourself; Methinks I see you, looking from your eye, As tho' you thought the world a wicked elf.

Offspring of summer! brimstone is thy foe; And when it kills ye, soon you lose your breath: They rob your honey; but don't let you go, Thou harmless victim of ambitious death!

How sweet is honey! coming from the Bee; Sweeter than sugar, in the lump or not: And, as we get this honey all from thee, Child of the hive! thou shalt not be forgot.

So when I catch, I'll take thee home with me, And thou shall be my friend, oh! Bee! Bee! Bee!

MARY.

How oft have I seen her upon the sea-sh.o.r.e, While tearful, her face, she would hide, In sad silence the loss of the Sailor deplore Who from infancy call'd her his bride,

The Sailor she lov'd was a Fisherman's son, All dangers he triumph'd to meet; Well repaid, if a smile from his Mary he won, As he proffer'd his spoils at her feet.