Poems by Sir John Carr Part 11

WRITTEN ON DELIA, LISTENING TO HER CANARY-BIRD.

When thoughtless Delia unconcern'd surveys Her plumy captive, as he leans to sing, Lo! while she smiles, the fascination stays The little heaven of its airy wing.

Ah! so she tastes the sorrows I impart, Smiles at the sound, but never feels my pain; And many a glance deludes my captive heart To sigh in numbers, tho' I sigh in vain!

THE HECTIC.

Upon the breezy cliff's impending brow, With trembling step, the Hectic paus'd awhile; As round his wasted form the sea-breeze blew, His flush'd cheek brighten'd with a transient smile:

Refresh'd and cherish'd by its balmy breath, He dreamt of future bliss, of years to come; Whilst, with a look of woe, the spectre, Death, Oft shook his head, and pointed to his tomb.

Such sounds as these escap'd his lab'ring breast:-- "Sweet Health! thou wilt revisit this sad frame; Slumber shall bid these aching eyelids rest, And I shall live for love, perchance for fame."

Ah! poor enthusiast!--in the day's decline A mournful knell was heard, and it was thine!

VERSES TO MISS M. G----,

ACCOMPANIED WITH A DRIED HELIOTROPE,

_Which she had presented to the Author a Year before_.

Time, since thou gav'st this flow'r to me, Has often turn'd his gla.s.s of sand; Perchance 'tis now unknown to thee That once its breath perfum'd thy hand.

Oh, lovely maid! that thou may'st see How much thy gifts my care engage, I've sent the cherish'd flow'r to thee Without a blemish, but from age.

Kiss but its leaves;--one kiss from thee, And all its sweetness 'twill regain; And, if I live in memory Thus honour'd, send it back again!

LINES

TO MRS. B----, AT BRISTOL HOT WELLS

Tho' nought, amid these darkened groves, But various groups of death appear, Scar'd at the sight, tho' fly the Loves, And Sickness saddens all the year,

Yet, Clara, where you deign to stay, Your sense and manners charm us so, E'en sick'ning Sorrow's self looks gay, And smiles amid the wreck of woe.

LINES

TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH,

UPON THE PRINTS

_From her beautiful Drawings of the Birth and Triumph of Cupid_.

Once, for a palace, Painting left her grove, And taught her royal fav'rite's hand to trace A beauteous maiden's tale of little Love, His silken wings, soft limbs, and laughing face!

Then Nature wept o'er each expressive line, To think the sweet creation so confin'd, That such a boy, so fair, and so divine, Was but the playful prattler of her mind;

And had he near the royal easel flown, And seen the features of this mimic brother, He would have known the portrait for his own, And claim'd the beauteous painter for his mother.

EPITAPH

TO THE MEMORY OF A WORTHY MAN,

_THE REV. MR. SLEEP_,

CURATE OF KINGSWEAR CHURCH, DEVON,

_Whose devotional Elocution was remarkably impregnated with soporific Qualities_.

Reader! since Parson Sleep is gone, And lies beneath yon humble stone, Whene'er to Kingswear Church we go, Holy the sabbath-day to keep (Indeed 'tis right it should be so), We never more shall go to _sleep_.

LINES,

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A FEMALE FRIEND,

_Upon an Infant recommended to her Care by its dying Mother_.

Bless'd be thy slumbers, little love!

Unconscious of the ills so near; May no rude noise thy dreams remote, Or prompt the artless early tear;--

For she who gave thee life is gone, Whose trust it was thy life to rear, Now in the cold and mould'ring stone Calls for that artless early tear.

Sleep on, thou little dreamer! sleep; For, long as I shall tarry here, I'll soothe thee; thou shalt never weep, Tho' flows for thee the tend'rest tear.

Then be thy gentle visions blest, Nor e'er thy bosom know that fear, Which thro' the night disturbs my rest, And prompts Affection's trembling tear.