Poetic Sketches Part 7

Ah! this wild desolated spot, Calls forth the plaintive tear; Remembrance paints my little cot, Which once did flourish here.

No more the early lark and thrush Shall hail the rising day, Nor warble on their native bush, Nor charm me with their lay.

No more the foliage of the oak Shall spread its wonted shade; Now fell'd beneath the hostile stroke Of red destruction's blade.

Beneath its bloom when summer smil'd, How oft the rural train The lingering hours with tales beguil'd, Or danc'd to Colin's strain.

And, when Aurora with the dawn Dispell'd the midnight shade, Her flocks to the accustom'd lawn Would lovely Phillis lead.

Delusive grandeur never wreath'd Around Contentment's head, 'Till war its flaming sword unsheath'd, And wide destruction spread.

The daemon, rising from afar, His thunders loudly roll: And, dreadful in his blazing car, He shakes the shrinking soul.

His foaming coursers onward bend, And falling empires moan; One piercing cry the heavens ascend, One universal groan!

At length, my cottage (memory's tear Must here its tribute pay) Was crush'd beneath the victor's spear, And war's oppressive sway.

And what avail'd the tears, the woe Of peace--the hamlet's pride: She fell beneath the monster's blow, And in oblivion died!

Adieu! ye shades, adieu! ye groves, Now buried in your fall: Where'er my eye bewilder'd roves, Tis desolation all!

_SONNET_.

Ye fates! who sternly point on sorrow's chart The line of pain a wretch must still pursue, To end the struggles of a bleeding heart, And grace the triumph misery owes to you How poor your pow'r!--where fort.i.tude, serene, But smiling views the glimmering taper s.h.i.+ne; Time soon shall dim, and close the wearied scene, Bestowing solace e'en on woes like mine.

Ah! stop your course--too long I've felt your chain, Too long the feeble influence of its pow'r; The heir of grief may fall in love with pain, And worst-misfortune feel the tranquil hour.

Hail, fort.i.tude! blest friend life's ills to brave, All misery boasts, shall wither in the grave!

REFLECTIONS OF A POET,

ON BEING INVITED TO A GREAT DINNER.

Great epoch in the history of bards!

Important day to those who woo the nine; Better than fame, are visitation cards, And heaven on earth, at a great house to dine.

O cruel memory! do not conjure up The ghost of Sally Dab, the famous cook; Who gave me solid food, the cheering cup, And on her virtues, begg'd I'd write a book.

Rest, G.o.ddess, from all broils! I bless thy name Dear kitchen-nymph, as ever eyes did glut on!

I'd give thee all I have, my slice of fame, If thou, dear shade! could'st give one slice of mutton.

Yet hold--ten minutes more, and I am blest; Fly quick, ye seconds; quick ye moments, fly: Soon shall I put my hunger to the test, And all the host of miseries defy.

Thrice is he arm'd, who hath his dinner first, For well-fed valor always fights the best; And tho' he may of over-eating burst, His life is happy, and his death is blest.

To-day I dine--not on my usual fare; Not near the sacred mount with skinny nine; Not in the park upon a dish of air: But on real eatables, and rosy wine.

Delightful task! to cram the hungry maw, To teach the empty stomach how to fill, To pour red port adown the parched craw; Without one dread dessert--to pay the bill.

I'm off--methinks I smell the long-lost savor; Hail, platter sound! to poet, music sweet: Now grant me, Jove, if not too great a favor, Once in my life, as much as I can eat!

_SONNET_.

ON SEEING A YOUNG LADY, I HAD PREVIOUSLY KNOWN, CONFINED IN A MADHOUSE.

Sweet wreck of loveliness! alas, how soon The sad brief summer of thy joys hath fled; How sorrow's friends.h.i.+p for thy hapless doom, Thy beauty faded, and thy hopes all dead.

Oh! 'twas that beauty's pow'r which first destroy'd Thy mind's serenity; its charms but led The faithless friend, that thy pure love enjoy'd, To tear the blooming blossom from its bed.

How reason shudders at thy frenzied air!

To see thee smile, with fancy's dreams possess'd; Or shrink, the frozen image of despair, Or love-enraptur'd, chaunt thy griefs to rest, Oh! cease that mournful voice, poor suff'ring child!

My heart but bleeds to hear thy musings wild.

TO THADDEUS.[*]

Farewel! lov'd youth, for still I hold thee dear, Though thou hast left me friendless and alone; Still, still thy name recalls the heartfelt tear, That hastes Matilda to her wish'd-for home.

Why leave the wretch thy perfidy hath made.

To journey cheerless through the world's wide waste?

Say, why so soon does all thy kindness fade.

And doom me, thus, affliction's cup to taste?

Ungen'rous deed! to fly the faithful maid Who, for thy arms, abandoned every friend; Oh! cruel thought, that virtue, thus betray'd, Should feel a pang that death alone can end.

Yet, I'll not chide thee--and when hence you roam, Should my sad fate one tear of pity move, Ah! then return; this bosom's still thy home, And all thy failings I'll repay with love.

Believe me, dear, at midnight or at morn, In vain exhausted nature strives to rest, Thy absence plants my pillow with a thorn, And bids me hope no more, on earth, for rest.

But, if unkindly you refuse to hear, And from despair thy poor Matilda save; Ah! don't deny one tributary tear, To glisten sweetly o'er my early grave.

MATILDA.

[Footnote *: The above lines were written at the request of a Lady, and meant to describe the feelings of one, "who loved not wisely, but too well."]