Poetic Sketches Part 8

_SONNET_.

TO A LYRE.

Friend of the lonely hour, from thy lov'd strain The magic pow'r of pleasure have I known: Awhile I lose remembrance of my pain, And seem to taste of joys that long had flown.

When o'er my suffering soul reflection casts The gloom of sorrow's sable-shadowing veil, Recalling sad misfortunes chilling blasts-- How sweet to thee to tell the mournful tale!

And tho' denied to me the strings to move Like heavenly-gifted bards, to whom belong The power to melt the yielding soul to love, Or wake to war, with energetic song.

Yet thou, my Lyre, canst cheer the gloomy hour, When sullen grief a.s.serts her tyrant pow'r.

ADDRESS TO ALBION.

To thee, O Albion! be the tribute paid Which sympathy demands, the patriot tear; While echo'd forth to thy remotest shade, Rebellion's menace sounds in every ear.

Though Gallia's vaunts should fill the trembling skies, 'Till nature's undiscover'd regions start At the rude clamor;--yet, shouldst thou despise, While thy brave subjects own a common heart.

But lo! fresh streaming from the Hibernian[*] height Her own red torrent wild-eyed faction pours; While, 'mid her falling ranks, ign.o.bly great, Loud vengeance raves, and desperation scours.

Denouncing murderous strife, the rebel train Wave their red ensigns of inhuman hate O'er every hamlet, every peaceful plain; Rejecting reason, and despising fate.

Oh! that again our raptur'd eyes could see Their ripening crops bloom yellow o'er the land; Their happy shepherds, like their pasture, free-- No more a factious race, a ruffian band.

That albion, once again with concord blest, May still support that great, that glorious name, Which ardent glows in every patriot's breast, And crowns her h.o.a.ry cliffs with matchless fame.

Then, then, might foreign foes, around our sh.o.r.es, Pour the big tempest of their arms in vain; Then, might they learn that freedom still is ours, That Britons still control the subject main.

Oh! all ye kindred pow'rs, awake, arise!

On boundless glory's giant pinions soar; Let Gallia tremble! while the sounding skies Proclaim us free--'till time shall be no more!

[Footnote*: This piece was written when Ireland was in a most distracted state.]

_SONNET_.

ON THE DEATH OF TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.

His weary warfare done, his woes forgot, Freedom! thy son, oppress'd so long, is free: He seeks the realms where tyranny is not, And those shall hail him who have died for thee!

Immortal TELL! receive a soul like thine, Who scorn'd obedience to usurp'd command: Who rose a giant from a sphere indign, To tear the rod from proud oppression's hand.

Alas! no victor-wreaths enzon'd his brow, But freedom long his hapless fate shall mourn; Her holy tears shall nurse the laurel bough, Whose green leaves grace his consecrated urn.

Nurs'd by these tears, that bough shall rise sublime, And bloom triumphant 'mid the wrecks of time!

EPITAPH

ON MATILDA.

SACRED to pity! is uprais'd this stone, The humble tribute of a friend unknown; To grant the beauteous wreck its hallow'd claim, And add to misery's scroll another name.

Poor, lost Matilda! now in silence laid Within the early grave thy sorrows made, Sleep on!--his heart still holds thy image dear, Who view'd, thro' life, thy errors with a tear; Who ne'er, with stoic apathy, repress'd The heart-felt sigh for loveliness distress'd.

That sigh for thee shall ne'er forget to heave; 'Tis all he now can give, or thou receive.

When last I saw thee in thy envied bloom, That promis'd health and joy for years to come, Methought the lily, nature proudly gave, Would never wither in th'untimely grave.

Ah, sad reverse! too soon the fated hour Saw the dire tempest 'whelm th'expanding flow'r?

Then from thy tongue its music ceas'd to flow; Thine eye forgot to gleam with aught but woe; Peace fled thy breast; invincible despair Usurp'd her seat, and struck his daggers there.

Did not the unpitying world thy sorrows fly?

And ah, what then was left thee--but to die!

Yet not a friend beheld thy parting breath, Or mingled solace with the pangs of death: No priest proclaim'd the erring hour forgiv'n, Or sooth'd thy spirit to its native heav'n: But Heaven, more bounteous, bade the pilgrim come, And hovering angels hail'd their sister home.

I, where the marble swells not, to rehea.r.s.e Thy hapless fate; inscribe my simple verse.

Thy tale, dear shade, my heart essays to tell; Accept its offering, while it heaves--farewel!

_SONNET_.

TO PEACE.

Come long-lost blessing! heaven-lov'd seraph, haste, On pity's wings upborne, a world's wide woes Invoke thy smiles extatic, long effac'd, Beneath the tear which all corrosive flows; While reason shudders, let ambition weep, When wounding truth records what it has done: Records the hosts consign'd to death's cold sleep, Conspicuous 'mid the pomp of conflicts won!

Shall not the fiend relent, while groaning age Pours its deep sorrows o'er its offspring slain; While sire-robb'd infants mourn the deathful rage, In many a penury enfeebled strain?

Sweet maid, return! behold affliction's tear, And in my theme accept a nation's prayer.

LOVE.

Love! what is love? a mere machine, a spring For freaks fantastic, a convenient thing, A point to which each scribbling wight must steer, Or vainly hope for food or favor here, A summer's sigh, a winter's wistful tale, A sound at which th'untutor'd maid turns pale, Her soft eyes languish and her bosom heaves, And hope delights as fancy's dream deceives.

Thus speaks the heart, which cold disgust invades, When time instructs and hope's enchantment fades; Through life's wide stage, from sages down to kings, The puppets move, as art directs the strings; Imperious beauty bows to sordid gold, Her smiles, whence heaven flows emanent, are sold; And affectation swells the entrancing tones, Which nature subjugates, and truth disowns.

I love th'ingenuous maiden, practis'd not To pierce the heart with ambush'd glances, shot From eyelashes, whose shadowy length she knows To a hair's point, their high arch when to close Half o'er the swimming orb, and when to raise, Disclosing all the artificial blaze Of unfelt pa.s.sion, which alone can move Him, whom the genuine eloquence of love Affected never, won with wanton wiles, With soulless sighs and meretricious smiles, By nature unimpress'd, uncharm'd by thee.

Sweet G.o.ddess of my heart, Simplicity!

_SONNET_.

IN THE MANNER OF THE MODERNS.