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AD ALTRA VITA, ED A PIU BELLE IMPRESE."
PUBLISHED BY JAMES CAWTHORN,
BOOKSELLER TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS OP WALES,
IToXA>iv ri'fix, x* v -> $'*Â« ^povEOL/cr' Odvcrw,
Kjpro/xEo* t' Etfeann, KAI ESEPEOIÂ©' OTIS EIH. J/
Ol H. 15.
" Propitious Pallas, to secure her care,
Around him spread a veil of thicken'd air;
To shun th' encounter of the vulgar crowd,
Insulting still, inquisitive, and loud."
Pope. Odyss. VII. 20
W. WILSON, Printer,
4, OREVILLE-STREET, HATTON-GARDEN, LONDON,
Â±HE public may not feel much interested in the
history of the deceased friend from whose port-folio I
have drawn these "Few Verses;" but there is a kind
of communication which bespeaks good humour from
all gentle readers, and I have always thought better of
a book when it's author has previously condescended to
make himself my companion for a few pages.
I would have prefixed my friend's name to this little
volume, but it would have done no good. (i You did
not know him, sir â€” nor indeed did you, madam;"
they were not many whom he knew, and, from the bot-
tom of my heart, I do not think any body, but myself,
knew him. Not that he shunned society, or affected
reserve ; but there teas about him a certain constitu-
fional waywardness and irregularity, which distanced
common sense as effectually as solitude or artifice
could have done. From the time he was fifteen, tlie
wise shook their heads, and declared that " no good
would ever come of him."
He died too early to verify their kind opinion, but
perhaps he has left to me the fulfilment of their pro-
phecy. If he did no good, I, at least, never saw much
harm in him ; but then it is a sad thing that " young
men will not know their own interest, and be friends to
His tastes and pursuits may be gathered with more
precision from his verses, than from any tiling which I
can say of him. His friends sometimes believed that
nature had not been a harsh or sparing mother ; but
they always good-liumouredly added, that he managed
u to throw away wliat-ever talents he might possess :"
and for himself, he never cared to disprove their asser-
tio)i. They would allow Jiim playfulness, but it was a
pity he should be so " j'rivolous ;" he might have some
elegance, but he could not help being sadly deficient in
â– - sound acquirement :" for they would talk something
about the Corinthian column, which lost all its strength
and utility through excess of ornament. Once,
indeed, somebody did call him " erudite ;" but it was
plainly a mistake, and he laughed at it heartily,
I never knew him otherwise than " in love," as it u
called ; indeed it seemed the state of feverish being for
whichnature had expressly fashioned him. That he was
not very successful may be inferred from the plaintive
tone which rings through most of his amatory verses.
His life afforded no striking events, for his walk was
too humble, and too brief j yet he always told me that
he thought one season of it 7night afford groundwork
for a story of some interest : how far he would himself
have ventured to tell it, I know not ; and it is not for
me to revive what is now dead with him.
His Muse does not appear to have been very prolific :
I have published nearly all he wrote, excepting the
translation of a Latin poem of considerable length, which,
if these minor vwses get out of the bookseller's hands,
may perhaps succeed them . Though he finished so little,
I believe he was always writing, or at least thinking
poetically. The roof of a stage coach was his favourite
seat of composition, and an old gravel pit, in tlie glebe
of his father's vicarage, furnished many a stanza, till
tlie squire of the parish dug it down.
Among his papers I found a few copies of Latin
verses, in a different hand writing ; they certainly are
not his own, hut they are, in my opinion, too good to
he lost, and I have subjoined them, distinguished by an
asterisk. I suspect their author, and wish lie would
have given me more ; but it is one of the privileges- of
genius to be unjust to itself, under the mask of per-
verseness to others.
The Muse 1
The Far OfFLand 8
The Violet 11
Thames flows far sweeter than the Clyde 13
The Gentle Flower 16
The Anniversary 18
This is not Love 24
The Dream 30
An Apology for Loving Often 45
A Reason for Loving One Only 48
The Return 52
Ad Amicum 56
In Favonium Threnodia 58
Amor Perennis 60
Amicitiae Vis 61
Anacreontis ad Columbam 62
Academia Pr.ellaris 64
Carmen Anglicum Gualteri Scott Latine red-
Omall his reward for long and weary pain,
Save what himself can on himself bestow,
And little guerdon is the Poet's gain :
Few are the kindred breasts which seem to know
The holy raptures of the soul's full glow.
The freezing breath of cold and languid praise
Nips in their birth the fairest flowers that blow :
Vain task those plants to rear in wintry days,
Which scarce their buds unfold beneath Spring's
For gentle and retiring is the Muse,
Unfit the thorny path of life to tread ;
Nurs'd in the wanton sun and heav'n's own dews,
How shall she lift her sad and drooping head
Where the dim fogs of earth's chill desart spread ?
The silent plaudit of one willing smile,
Which from affection's anxious lip is shed,
The eye which chastens, yet approves the while, â€”
These seeks the timid Muse, and these her course
Such, dear inspirer of my early rhyme,
Such was the kindling praise I drew from thee :
Oft pass'd th' uncounted day in mingled chime
Of flowing undivided colloquy,
On all the lore of either poesy ;
While thou wouldst bid the Muse, who idly stray'd,
And pour'd her matin warblings listlessly,
Her scatter'd blossoms in one chaplet braid,
And draw the violet forth from the dark poppy shade.
Then what sweet hope would rush upon my sight !
What joyous visions my rapt sense illume !
Of everlasting fame, and promise bright
Of those immortal flow'rs which love to bloom,
Breathing rich odour round the Poet's tomb !
Oh ! may I from death's still and shadowy wing
Snatch half my being, and avoid the gloom
Which o'er forgotten names time hastes to fling !
Those not ignobly die, who not ignobly sing !
V a in is to me the low and mourning breeze,
Which swells the requiem of departed day,
Pouring sad music through the quiv'ring trees ;
Vain are the far off sounds which die away,
And round mine ear in ling'ring murmurs play.
Chaste, tranquil eve ! thy sweet and solemn rest
Alone could never wake the slumb'ring lay ;
Much nobler call, and far more high behest,
Must fan the secret flame, and rouse the heav'n-born
What shall I call thee ? thou, whose placid eye
First on the cradle of my boyhood fell,
And stamp'd my future doom in infancy !
Thou, who first shew'd me that aerial cell,
Where, far from mortal ken, the Muses dwell !
There, ever and anon, a wayward child,
I tried to build the rhyme I lov'd so well ;
With song the hours of idleness beguil'd,
Pour'd many an uncouth strain, and o'er its rudeness
For much of tourneys, and of barons bold,
Of spell-wrought feat, I knew, and mystic lore ;
Of Him who to th' accurs'd his being sold,
And Him, the matchless wizard, whom of yore
To the foul fiend an earthly mother bore;
Nor less could tell the wand'rings of that knight
Who from the monster's fangs his leman tore ;
Thrice sank the wond'ring day-star on their fight,
And thrice the charmed flood restor'd his fallen might.
Whence is thy secret power, sweet Poesy ;
The hidden spell that binds my soul so strong ?
Why 'mid my sorrows can I fly to thee,
And, rapt in holy mysteries of song,
Forget the cares which to dull earth belong r
It is not He, the bard of courtly ears,
Nurs'd 'mid the busy hum and flaunting throng.
That swells my hopes, and solaces my fears ;
What though he raise my smile, he cannot soothe my
The polish'd numbers of the * grotto shade
Touch no respondent string of grief or joy ;
At other founts, my weary course is stay'd,
t Where, 'neath her moss-grown cell, the Naiad coy
Wells forth the spring, unstain'd by art's alloy ;
* Since these lines were written, the grotto shade has ceased to exist
â€” Aniissam quaerimus invidi.
-j- Quanto prastantius esset
Numen aquae, viridi si iuargine cinxerat undas
Herba, nee ingenuuin violarant marmora tophum.
To other days the rhymes I love belong,
(Those lofty rhymes may no rude hand destroy)
Where truth is twin'd the faery wreath among,
Fierce wars and faithful loves, the moral and the song.
Still, e'en in dawning manhood's riper age,
These elder minstrels bid my bosom glow ;
Oft will they lure me to their magic page,
And viewless forms and airy fabrics show,
And teach me shapes of other worlds to know ;
And while I hear their inexpressive strain,
Far fly the charm-bound fiends of earthly woe :
Ah ! ne'er may reason stretch her chilling reign,
Unbind this " silken tye," or break this " silver
tfzx #ff aanti*
ERIT QVJE, SI PROPIUS STES,
TE CAPIET MAGIS ; ET QUjEDAM, SI LONGU'S ABSTEr
1 he rock, and wood, and field, and stream.
Are flickering 'neath the sunny beam ;
Above me is the heav'n of blue,
Beneath the boundless ocean's hue ;
O'er sea, and shore, and moss, and steep,
The pleasure-wafting breezes sweep ;
And onward nothing meets the eye,
Save yonder gallant argosy,
Stretching, scarce seen, its lingering way
Beyond the forkings of the bay.
How lovely all ! how passing fair !
Safely the travell'd man might swear
That nought his wand'ring eyes had seen
So mild, so tranquil, so serene.
And yet, with fond and eager view,
L turn, and other course pursue ;
Catching, beyond the sea-girt strand,
Dark glimmerings of a distant land,
Mountains which fancy scarce can shape,
Bold rock, and far projecting cape,
And earth so mingled with the sky,
'Twere hard to tell the boundary.
I know not if that far off land
Be some accurs'd and desart strand,
Where o'er the mountain's summit bleak
No sounds but of the tempest speak,
And the wild ocean's raving tide
Lashes its never trodden side ;
Perhaps that country of the storm
Ne'er view'd the port of human form ;
Perhaps it lies unsought, unknown,
Some burning or some frozen zone :
Yet 'mid the soft and tranquil scene
Of sea, and sky, and forest green,
I reck not these, but inly sigh
That unacquainted coast to try.
Oil ! if some cherish'd hopes destroy
The tenor of thy present joy,
And bid thee with inquiring view
The onward vale of life pursue,
Where on the shadowy distance move
Fair undistinguish'd forms of love,
And round the dim horizon press
Imagin'd shapes of happiness ;
Yet, stay awhile ! thine eye has stray'd
To scenes which, view'd more closely, fade ;
Take what thy pow'r may now command,
All onward is â€” the far off land !
1 he lengthen'd sand, the desart tract of life,
Which bears no landmark but a drear old age.
No waters but the troubled stream of strife
To cheer us on our weary pilgrimage,
And passion's fev'rish calenture assuage;
Ah ! who can look on this, and bless the day
Which bade him in these scenes of woe engage !
No, rather let him early steal away,
And stop his course ere yet he falls, misfortune's prey ]
And yet there are some thinly scatter'd flowers.
Which bud and blossom in this tainted air ;
Nurs'd by the milder gales and sorter showers,
The Violet rears her maiden honours there,
Far from the haunts to which rude steps repair.
Sweet flower ! I love thy modest secrecy,
And ever in my garland thee will bear ;
Still unregarded by the idler lie,
But still thy charms reveal to one adoring eye !
Oh ! let me find thy rich and purfled flower
There where thou liest, in some sequester'd vale ;
And I will shield thee from the wintry hour,
And bear thee to my garden's quiet pale,
And hide thy buds where no rude storms assail ;
Then round the moss-grown stone I'll bid thee twine,
Teach thee, at nightfall clos'd, the sun to hail,
And watch thy silent growth with careful eyne :
Oh ! come to me, sweet flower, and let me call thee
ifar stoeeter fyan fye CipDe,
1 wish my steps were southward bent,
And turn'd again to love and Thee;
For, doom'd to this drear banishment,
How can my struggling heart be free !
I count the hours, which on their way
For ever seem condemn'd to last ;
How slowly moves the coming day !
How long, how weary was the past !
The lasses shun me, they suppose
My heart is selfish, dull, and cold ;
They little see the flame which glows
For Her whose name is never told :
They do not hear the sigh which steals
In secret anguish from my breast ;
They cannot know the pang he feels,
Whose woe is to himself represt.
They lead me to the birks so fair,
They lead me to the hawthorn sheen :
Alas ! the meads, when Thou art there.
And only then, to me are green.
If down the tufted bank I stray,
Which overhangs the western tide.
An inward whisper seems to say,
" Thames flows far sweeter than the Clyde.
Oh ! wilt Thou, when we meet again,
Smile through thy tears of joy, and say,
" I too have borne my share of pain,
" And linger'd on through many a day :
" Since last thy tears were mix'd with mine,
" No glow this blushing cheek has known ;
" These eyes have caught no glance since thine,
" This breast has heav'd for thee alone."
Haste, haste, ye hours ! if thus meet,
Ye cannot fly too fast for love :
How dull and leaden are your feet !
How laggard is the pace ye move !
I count the moments on their way,
Which seem condemn'd for aye to last
How slow appears the rising day !
How long, how weary was the last !
When Summer skies are past, and gone
The early sun, and lengthen'd day ;
Then home again my steps shall turn,
And blithely to the south away.
For though the rose may then be fled,
The daisy wither'd on the lea ;
There blows, when all these flowers are dead,
A fairer flower than all for me.
By yonder distant stream it blows,
A gentle, wee, and modest flower ;
There's none so fair or sweet that grows
By any stream, in any bower.
The dew that sparkled on its stem,
When last I saw it drooping down,
Was lovelier than a monarch's gem,
Was richer than a monarch's crown.
For oh ! that flower, that gentle flower,
Is she that's dearest to my heart ;
And on it's stem that dewy shower,
The tears she shed when forc'd to part.
I would not waste its sweets, or tear
Its blossoms from the mourning spray ;
But I would fondly linger near,
And woo my lovely flower away.
TECUM, UTIKAM, LONG/E SOCIAREM TEMPORA VIT/E,
INQUE TUO CADERET NOSTRA SENECTA SINU !
\J h ! sacred is this hour to me,
And holy this returning day,
When first I saw the bonny ee
Of Her I love so far away !
The summer gale was passing by,
And meekly rose the star of e'en,
When first I heard the half-press'd sigh,
Which stole her timid lips between.
That star again has shed its light
On yonder high and western brae,
Though I have never heard this night
Of Her I love so far away !
And yet, in all his course, the sun
But few who bloom so fair can see ;
I know he cannot visit one,
Though fairer far, so dear to me !
How weary 'tis to watch his ray
Slow rising from the purpled sea,
And sigh to think another day
But lights a desart world to me !
How sad to waste life's sweetest prime
Still sickening for deferred joy,
To speed the lingering flight of Time,
And all the present hours destroy !
Too soon some fleeting years will tear
The blossoms from this youthful tree ;
Nip all the bloom which now I hear,
And I a wither'd trunk shall be.
But ere the pride of Spring is fled,
Were yon protectless ivy mine,
How pleas'd my willing boughs would spread,
How fond her circling arms entwine !
While yet the summer sun was high,
Her love would yield me borrow'd grace ;
And I, beneath the wintry sky,
Would court more fondly her embrace :
And when the last o'erwhelming shower
This torn and leafless stem shall beat,
Her tears would make life's closing hour
Than all in life itself more sweet !
Yes, some there are who fondly tell
With Hope what faerie pleasures dwell,
What visionary gleams of fear and joy ;
And Hope be theirs ; but grant to me
A fix'd and leaden certainty,
Which, though it gives no good, yet cannot good
For who is He that e'er has known
Contending Passion's nobler tone,
Or bask'd in Fancy's gay and varying beam ;
Who has not nurtur'd pleasing thought,
Grasp'd all Imagination taught,
Believ'd in Hope, and found that Hope was all a
Seductive fiend ! in angel dyes
Thy form is veil'd from searching eyes,
Thou only source of pain with shape untrue !
E'en Care his wrinkled front displays,
Her haggard form pale Fear betrays,
And Disappointment bares her wither'd arm to
With parting day these sink to rest,
Whilst thou, sole tenant of my breast,
Scowl'st thy delusive smile upon my sleep :
Why nightly thus my visions bless
With goodly shapes of happiness,
Pour pleasure on my dreams, and bid me wake to
Yet, faithless one, in many an hour
Fain would I woo thy soothing power,
And cull the wreath thy trembling hands dispense.
Grant me no future ill to know,
Still draw the veil o'er coming woe,
And steep in poppy dews sad-boding Prescience !
â‚¬%iÂ£ iÂ£ not WLtfot.
You ask me why unseen I stray,
And waste the solitary day ;
Why far my wandering path extends,
From mirth, and books, and home, and friends 5
You tell me Love alone can bind
Such fetters round the yielding mind :
Ah ! no ; this heart doth know
No joys like Love.
Far from the vulgar ken I fly,
To muse on Her averted eye ;
I turn from friends to think how She
Has turn'd her alter'd cheek from me ;
Mirth, books, and home â€” ah ! how can these
The bosom's secret pang appease !
Go, go; I do not show
One sign of Love.
It is not Love to chill and glow
Like wintry suns on beds of snow ;
To chase the stifled sigh with fear ;
To dry before it fall the tear ;
And, last sad victory of Pride,
In smiles this inward strife to hide.
Ah ! no ; this cannot flow
From any Love.
'Tis Love to loosen Rapture's rein,
And dream of all that might have been ;
Give Fancy's eye unbounded scope,
Outstrip the fleetest wings of hope ;
Still fail, and still the course pursue,
And deem each wish of Passion true.
If so, this heart would know
A genuine Love.
Mine is not Love ; this breast has bled
Till every finer sense is dead :
Mine is the craving bosom's void,
The joyless heart, and unenjoy'd,
Engross'd by selfishness alone,
As weeds o'ershade the desart stone.
Ah ! no ; full well I know
I cannot love.
W hen I am lullM in Death's long sleep,
As soon perhaps these eyes may be,
How very few will turn to weep,
Or cast one sorrowing thought on me !
Soon is the debt of outward mourning paid,
Soon springs the poppy 'neath the cypress shade.
The winds which hurtle o'er my grave
May breathe faint echoings of a sigh ;
Around my turf the flowers that wave
May shed their dew-drops where I lie ;
The plaintive bird, who waits upon the spring,
May swell my requiem chaunt, and nightly sing,
But hush'd for ever 'neath the clay
Are the fond words by Friendship spoken ;
And dim to me is Heaven's own ray,
The holy spell of Love is broken ;
I have not now the ONE who by my side
Would pour the tear which never can be dried !
Mysterious state ! I once had fear'd
To tempt thine unacquainted shade,
The couch where no man's voice is heard,
The cell no living steps invade !
I once had wish'd youth's opening scenes to try,
Not unknown live, nor unregarded die!
I did not wish this head should bow
So soon a nameless tomb beneath ; â€”
The myrtle leaf is wither'd now,
What care I for the laurel wreath !
Come, Thou dread Power, which ever tread'st more near,
Come when thou wilt, I hail thee without fear !
- ITovot xctvot \oywv,
opoiTTtyog re kui <7vv<cttk)$ /Stos,
vovg ng ev oc^oiv - - - â€”
^ta.!T>ceca<7Tat iravrcc, sppwrat xctuou,
ccvpoci (Pifovart rag Ttotkouccg eXTrt^aj.
W hat piercing shriek, what cry of wild affright
Chides the dull silence of unbroken night ?
Cold are the drops which these moist limbs bedew,
I wake to weep, I slept to dream of You.
Methought the well-known stream before me flow'd.
While languid breezes o'er its current rode ;
Slow-wheeling sank the sun's autumnal ray,
And twilight meekly stole on parting day ;
No sound was heard, save when the river side
Beat back the * minute ripplings of its tide ;
No light, save Hesper, glancing on the stream,
Pour'd the mild lustre of his dewy beam.
Thus oft before â€” ah ! no, how chang'd the view,
How varied now from that which once I knew !
I did not pause upon the pausing eye,
Meet look with look, or mingle sigh with sigh ;
I did not gaze on Fancy's glass to see
That all was Love, as Love was all to me.
Silent and slow by that wide-water'd green,
I wander'd forth to weep, alone, unseen : â€”
Alone ? ah ! no, my own sad thoughts were there ;
Unseen ? thine eye is never clos'd, Despair !
I saw, in Fancy's vivid colours warm,
E'en now again I see the much-lov'd form :
I heard once more the warblings of that tongue,
Ah ! who could fly them, while the syren sung !
Her cheek's warm glow, her sigh but half repress'd,
Her eye's soft lustre, seeming love confess'd :
* " With minute drops from off the eaves."
False, fleeting slumber ! why my tears renew ?
So lovely once she smil'd, and not more true.
Is there no dream which ceases to beguile ?
No sleep which wears not a delusive smile ?
No lasting slumber of unfeign'd repose ?
No couch on which the tear-drop never flows ?
Cease, cease, perturbed spirit, to repine ;
There is that couch, that sleep will soon be thine.
LE RAISOXNER TRISTEMENT S ACCREDITE ;
ON COURT, HELAS ! APRES LA VERITE :
AH ! CROYEZ MOI, L'ERREUR A SON MERITE,
1 do not woo thy power, dread Queen,
Stern mistress of the frowning mien ;
With busy step, and onward eye,
To those who bow before thee, fly ;
Nor let thy chilling influence bind
The high and uncontrolled mind.
* Srhiller has written a celebrated Ode on a similar subject,
Haste thee to those who love to trace
Mechanic laws for Time and Space,
And prove that undiscover'd force
Which guides the wandering planet's course :
O turn to those ; but leave to me
Unfetter'd Nature, wild and free,
High on her universal throne,
Distinctly seen, but dimly known.
Leave me those dreams which they of old
The wise of other days have told,
Pouring through all Creation's range
Mysterious form, and being strange.
Oh ! do not say yon glorious Sun
By Gravity's dull law can run ;
Or think a cold and lifeless ball
Sheds heat, and light, and life o'er all.
Saw ye the downward wheels of night
Fly fast before the dawning light ?
At first what silv'ry gleam it throws ;
It blushes now â€” and now it glows â€”
It rises higher â€” 'tis brighter still â€”
It tops yon golden-skirted hill â€”
And now it flings a certain ray â€”
It is, it is the Lord of Day !
How soon the gentle herald star
Grows pale before his gorgeous car ;
And bears to climes still veil'd in night
Glad tidings of approaching light !
How quickly o'er Heav'n's azure zone
The fiery-harness'd steeds have flown ;
And brooding o'er the twilight pale,
Snuff" freshness from the ocean gale !
So deem'd the Sage, till falling night
Pour'd other wonders on his sight :