Poems by Sir John Carr Part 4

When Heav'n, sweet Laura! form'd thy mind, With genius and with taste refin'd, As if the union were too bright, It spread the veil of diffidence, That ev'ry ray, at first intense, Might s.h.i.+ne as soft as lunar light.

To frame a form then Nature strove, And call'd on Beauty and on Love, To lodge the mind they priz'd so well: Completed was the fair design; Thus blended dew-drops mildly s.h.i.+ne Within the lily's spotless bell!

LINES[A]

_Written in a beautiful Spot_,

THE FAVOURITE RETREAT OF DELIA.

Streams ever limpid, fresh, and clear, Where Delia's charms renew'd appear, Ye flow'rs that touch'd her snowy breast, Ye trees whereon she lov'd to rest, Ye scenes adorn'd where'er she flies, If grief shall close these woe-worn eyes, May some kind form, with hand benign, My body with this earth enshrine, That, when the fairest nymph shall deign To visit this delightful plain, That, when she views my silent shade, And marks the change her love has made, The tear may tremble down her face, As show'rs the lily's leaves embrace; Then, like the infant at the breast, That feels a sorrow unexprest, That pang shall gentle Delia know, And silent treasure up her woe.

[Footnote A: I am indebted to Petrarch for some of the imagery contained in these Lines.]

VALENTINE VERSES,

_Sent to my young Friend, Miss Emma Trevelyan_,

OF WALLINGTON-HOUSE, NORTHUMBERLAND.

Emma! 'tis early time for thee To hear the sounds of minstrelsy, That breathe around the rosy shrine Of honest old Saint Valentine.

Too young art thou for strains of love; 'Tis not thy pa.s.sion I would move; Instead of lover's strains, I send The cordial wishes of a friend.

n.o.bly has Nature done her duty, To give thee of thy mother's beauty So large a share--oh! then be thine The mental charms that in her s.h.i.+ne!

And may thy father's taste refin'd Still add new graces to thy mind; And may'st thou to each charm impart The gen'rous frankness of his heart.

Then, my sweet Emma! thou shall move In many a heart more genuine love Than ever warm'd poetic line, Or sigh'd in any Valentine.

LINES

WRITTEN UPON SEEING A BLIND YOUNG WOMAN IN NORTH WALES,

Who supports herself, and an aged and infirm Mother, by selling Stockings and Gloves of her own Knitting, which she offers to Travellers as they pa.s.s by; in doing which she has been known to run close by the Side of a Carriage for several Miles.

POOR BLIND BET.

The morning purple on the hill, The village spire, the ivy'd tow'r, The sparkling wheel of yonder mill, The grove, green field, and op'ning flow'r, Are lost to thee!

Dark child of Nature, as thou art!

Yet thy poor bosom heaves no sigh; E'en now thy dimpling cheeks impart Their knowledge of some pleasure nigh:-- 'Tis good for thee!

Thou seem'st to say "I've suns.h.i.+ne too; 'Tis beaming in a spotless breast; No shade of guilt obstructs the view, And there are many not so blest, Who day's blush see.

"Dear are those eyes, by mine ne'er seen, Which I protect from many a tear; Kind stranger! 'tis on yonder green A mother's aged form I rear: Oh! buy of me!"

LINES

UPON SEEING ----

_At one of the annual Banquets given in Guildhall_.

Gorgeous and splendid was the sight; From myriad lamps a fairy light Enshrin'd in wreaths the Gothic wall, And heav'nly music fill'd the hall!

But there was one--(alas! that I Had ever seen)--the melody Her voice surpa.s.sed, and brighter far Her eyes than ev'ry mimic star!

I gaz'd, until, oh! thought divine!

I fancied she I saw was mine; But soon the beauteous vision flew-- The stranger-form I lov'd withdrew.

Yet still she lives within my breast, There mem'ry has her form imprest:-- Thus, when some minstrel's strain is done, Sounds seem to breathe, for ever gone!

YARRIMORE.

[These Lines were written for a Lady who set them to Music.]

My poor heart flutters like the sea Now heaving on the sandy sh.o.r.e; It seems to tell me you shall be Never again near Yarrimore.

Far, far beyond the waves, I bend Mine eyes, if I can land explore; But o'er the waves I find no end,-- Yet there they say's my Yarrimore.

The hut he built is standing still, Deck'd with the sh.e.l.ls he cull'd from sh.o.r.e; Our bow'r is waving on the hill, But where, alas! is Yarrimore?

Within that bow'r I'll sit and sigh, From dawn of day till day is o'er; And, as the wild winds o'er me fly, I'll call on gentle Yarrimore!

LINES TO MISS ----,