Poetic Sketches Part 5

But soon from her smiles was he summon'd away, His fortunes at sea to pursue: And grav'd on their hearts was the sorrowful day That witness'd their final adieu.

They spoke not, ah, no; for they felt their hearts speak A language their tongues could not tell; As he kiss'd off the tears that fell fast on her cheek, As she sigh'd on his bosom, farewel.

Full oft, the sad season of absence to charm, To the rock or the dale she retir'd; Where he told her the story, impa.s.sion'd and warm That faithful affection inspir'd.

And now on the eve of his promis'd return, All anxious, she flies to the strand; But the night-shades descend ere her eye can discern The white-sail approaching the land.

With night comes the tempest, unaw'd by the blast She stood hem'd by ruin around; She saw a frail bark on the rugged rock cast, And heard its lasts signals resound.

My lover is lost! we shall never meet more!

She shriek'd with prophetic dismay, The morn seal'd her sorrows--the wreck on the sh.o.r.e Was the vessel that bore him away.

Each hope her young bosom had cherish'd before, Was consign'd with the youth to the grave: She madden'd, she smil'd, as her ringlets she tore, And buried her woes in the wave.

_SONNET_.

TO LYDIA, ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

Blest be the hour that gave my Lydia birth, The day be sacred 'mid each varying year; How oft the name recalls thy spotless worth, And joys departed, still to memory dear!

If matchless friends.h.i.+p, constancy, and love, Have power to charm, or one sad grief beguile.

'Tis thine the gloom of sorrow to remove, And on that tearful cheek imprint a smile.

May every after season to thee bring New joys; to cheer life's dark eventful way, 'Till time shall close thee in his pond'rous wing, And angels waft thee to eternal day!

Lov'd maid, farewel! thy name this heart shall fill 'Till memory sinks, and all its griefs are still!

STANZAS,

WRITTEN IMPROMTU ON THE LATE PEACE.

"Why, there's Peace, Jack, come damme let's push round the grog, And awhile altogether in good humor jog, For they say we shall soon go ash.o.r.e; Where the anchor of friends.h.i.+p may drift or be lost, As on life's troubled ocean at random we're tost, And, perhaps, we may never meet more."

Thus spoke Tom; while each messmate approvingly heard That the contest was ended, their courage ne'er fear'd, And soon Peace would restore them to love; And the hearts by wrongs rous'd, that no fear could a.s.suage, At Humanity's shrine dropt the thunder of rage, And the Lion resign'd to the Dove!

Heaven smil'd on the olive that Reason had rear'd, With her rich pearly tribute sweet Pity appear'd, And plac'd it on each brilliant eye; 'Twas the tear that Compa.s.sion had nurs'd in her breast, To bestow on the friend, or the foe, if distress'd.

Like dew-drops distill'd from the sky!

Next on friends lost in battle they mournfully dwelt 'Twas a theme that together the heart and eye felt, And a b.u.mper to valor they gave; While the liquor that flow'd in the bless'd circling bowl Was enrich'd by a tribute that flow'd from the soul, "A tear for the tomb of the brave!"

_SONNET_.

TO ............

ON HER RECOVERY FROM ILLNESS.

Fair flower! that fall'n beneath the angry blast, Which marks with wither'd sweets its fearful way, I grieve to see thee on the low earth cast, While beauty's trembling tints fade fast away.

But who is she, that from the mountain's head Comes gaily on, cheering the child of earth; The walks of woe bloom bright beneath her tread, And nature smiles with renovated mirth?

'Tis Health! she comes, and hark! the vallies ring.

And hark! the echoing hills repeat the sound; She sheds the new-blown blossoms of the spring, And all their fragrance floats her footsteps round.

And hark! she whispers in the zephyr's voice, Lift up thy head, fair flower! rejoice! rejoice!

A FRAGMENT

Oh, Youth! could dark futurity reveal Her hidden worlds, unlock her cloud-hung gates, Or s.n.a.t.c.h the keys of mystery from time, Your souls would madden at the piercing sight Of fortune, wielding high her woe-born arms To crush aspiring genius, seize the wreath Which fond imagination's hand had weav'd, Strip its bright beams, and give the wreck to air.

Forth from Cimmeria's nest of vipers, lo!

Pale envy trails its cherish'd form, and views, With eye of c.o.c.katrice, the little pile Which youthful merit had essay'd to raise; From shrouded night his blacker arm he draws, Replete with vigor from each heavenly blast, To cloud the glories of that infant sun, And hurl the fabric headlong to the ground.

How oft, alas! through that envenom'd blow, The youth is doom'd to leave his careful toils To slacken and decay, which might, perchance, Have borne him up on ardor's wing to fame.

And should we not, with equal pity, view The fair frail wanderer, doom'd, through perjur'd vows, To lurk beneath a rigid stoic's frown, 'Till that sweet moment comes, which her sad days Of infamy, of want, and pain have wing'd.

But here the reach of human thought is lost!

What, what must be the parent's heart-felt pangs, Who sees his child, perchance his only child!

Thus struggling in the abyss of despair, To sin indebted for a life of woe.

Still worse, if worse can be! the thought must sting (If e'er reflection calls it from the bed Of low oblivion) that ign.o.ble wretch, The cruel instrument of all their woe; Sure it must cut his adamantine heart More than ten thousand daggers onward plung'd, With all death's tortures quivering on their points.

Oh! that we could but pierce the siren guise, Spread out before the unsuspecting mind, Which, conscious of its innocence within, Treads on the rose-strew'd path, but finds, too late, That ruin opes its ponderous jaws beneath.

Lo! frantic grief succeeds the bitter fall, And pining anguish mourns the fatal step; 'Till that great Pow'r who, ever watchful stands, Shall give us grace from his eternal throne To feel the faithful tear of penitence, The only recompense for ill-spent life.

LINES,

TO THE MEMORY OF A LADY.

Bring the sad cypress wreath to grace the tomb, Where rests the liberal friend of human kind, Around its base let deathless flow'rets bloom, Wet with the off'rings of the grateful mind.

Firm was thy friends.h.i.+p, ardent, and sincere; Gen'rous thy soul, to ev'ry suff'rer prov'd: Rest, sainted shade! blest with the heart-felt tear, On earth lamented, and in heaven belov'd.

Now will the widow weep that thou art gone, Who oft her unprotected babes hast fed: While tottering age shall heave the sigh forlorn, As slow they move to beg their bitter bread.

Long shall the memory of thy worth survive, Grav'd on the heart, when sinks the trophied stone; Oh! may the plenty-bless'd as freely give, And from thy life of virtue form their own.