John Carr.

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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 pass 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 sunshine 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 surpassed, 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 shore;
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 shells he cull'd from shore;
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 - - ,

Upon her appearing at a Ball in an elegant Plaid Dress,

AND HAVING REPEATEDLY BEFORE EXPRESSED HER PREFERENCE
OF THE SCOTISH NATION.


Is it that plaided thus you wish to prove
How northern is the region of your love?
Ah, Mary! tho', within that far-fam'd clime,
Deeds have been done that mock the wreck of Time;
Tho' there the brave have bled, or, o'er the wave,
On distant shores have found a glorious grave;
Tho' there the mountain-nymph of song has pour'd
Her loftiest strain, to bless the hero's sword;
Still, lovely wand'rer, with a jealous eye,
O'er Scotia's hills we see thy fancy fly;
For _here_ the warrior oft has rais'd his sword,
The patriot too his noble blood has pour'd;
_Here_ too the sweet Recorder of the brave
Has sat and sung upon her hero's grave.
Then cease, romantic maid! ah, cease to rove;
The very wood-dove loves its native grove:
Oh! then, let Nature bid thy guileless heart
Here shed its love, and all its warmth impart;
And on the land that gave thee birth bestow
The fondness which it claims, and treasures too.


A SONG.

TO THE MOON.


Thou, lamp! the gods benignly gave,
To light a lover on his way;
Thou, Moon! along the silv'ry wave,
Ah! safe this flutt'ring heart convey: -

Sweet is thy light, and sweet thy shade,
The _guide_ and _guardian_ of our bliss,
A lover's panting lips to lead,
Or veil him in the ravish'd kiss.

Her white robe floats upon the air;
My Lyra hears the dashing oar:
Ye floods, oh! speed me to my fair!
My soul is with her long before.

Oh! lightly haste, thy lover view,
And ev'ry anxious fear resign;
Ye tow'rs, no longer fear'd, adieu!
The treasure which ye held is mine!


LINES

_Upon the Death of the Lady of Lieutenant-Colonel Adams_,

WHO LATELY DIED OF A DECLINE IN THE EAST INDIES.


When Time a mellowing tint has thrown
O'er many a scene to mem'ry dear.
It scatters round a charm, unknown
When first th' impression rested there.

But, oh! should distance intervene,
Should Ocean's wave, should changeful clime.
Divide - how sweeter far the scene!
How richer ev'ry tint of time!

E'en thus with those (a treasur'd few)
Who gladden'd life with many a smile,
Tho' long has pass'd the sad adieu,
In thought we love to dwell awhile.

Then with keen eye, and beating heart,
The anxious mind still seeks relief
From those who can the tale impart,
How pass their day, in joy or grief.

If haply health and fortune bless,
We feel as if on us they shone;
If sickness and if sorrow press,
Then feeling makes their woes our own.

'Twas thus of Mira oft I thought,
Oft dwelt upon the scenes she grac'd:
Her form in beauty's mould was wrought,
Her mind the seat of sense and taste.

Long, hov'ring o'er her fleeting breath,
Love kept his watch in silent gloom;
He saw her meekly yield to Death,
And knelt a mourner at her tomb.

When the night-breeze shall softly blow,
When the bright moon upon the flood
Shall spread her beams (a silv'ry show),
And dark be many a waving wood, -

When, dimly[A] seen, in robes of white,
A mournful train along the grove
Shall bear the lamp of sacred light,
To deck the turf of those they love, -

Then shall the wood-dove quit its bow'r,
And seek the spot were she is laid;
Its wild and mournful notes shall pour
A requiem to her hallow'd shade.

And Friendship oft shall raise the veil
Time shall have drawn o'er pleasures past,
And Fancy shall repeat the tale
Of happy hours, too sweet to last!

But when she mourns o'er Mira's bier,
And when the fond illusion ends,
Oh! then shall fall the genuine tear
That drops for dear departed friends!

[Footnote A: Mr. Hodges, in his Travels in India, page 28, mentions,
that between Banglepoor and Mobgheir, it is the custom of the women of
the family to attend the tombs of their friends after sun-set; and
observes, "it is both affecting and curious to see them proceeding in
groups, carrying lamps in their hands, which they place at the head of
the tomb."]


LINES

TO MISS C.

_On her leaving the Country_.


Since Friendship soon must bid a fond adieu,
And, parting, wish your charms she never knew,
Dear Laura hear one genuine thought express'd,
Warm from the heart, and to the heart address'd: -
Much do I wish you all your soul holds dear,
To sooth and sweeten ev'ry trouble here;
But heav'n has yielded such an ample store,
You cannot ask, nor can I wish you, more;
Bless'd with a sister's love, whose gentle mind,
Still pure tho' polish'd, virtuous and refin'd,
Will aid your tend'rer years and innocence
Beneath the shelter of her riper sense.
Charm'd with the bright example may you move,
And, loving, richly copy what you love.
Adieu! and blame not if an artless pray'r
Should, self-directed, ask one moment's care: -
When years and absence shall their shade extend,
Reflect who sighs adieu, and call him - friend.


LINES

TO A ROBIN.

_Written during a severe Winter_.


Why, trembling, silent, wand'rer! why,
From me and Pity do you fly?
Your little heart against your plumes
Beats hard - ah! dreary are these glooms!
Famine has chok'd the note of joy
That charm'd the roving shepherd-boy.
Why, wand'rer, do you look so shy?
And why, when I approach you, fly?
The crumbs which at your feet I strew
Are only meant to nourish you;
They are not thrown with base decoy,
To rob you of one hour of joy.
Come, follow to my silent mill,
That stands beneath yon snow-clad hill;
There will I house your trembling form,
There shall your shiv'ring breast be warm:
And, when your little heart grows strong,
I'll ask you for your simple song;
And, when you will not tarry more,
Open shall be my wicket-door;
And freely, when you chirp "adieu,"
I'll wish you well, sweet warbler! too;
I'll wish you many a summer-hour
On top of tree, or abbey-tow'r.
When Spring her wasted form retrieves,
And gives your little roof its leaves,
May you (a happy lover) find
A kindred partner to your mind:
And when, amid the tangled spray,
The sun shall shoot a parting ray,
May all within your mossy nest
Be safe, be merry, and be blest.


LINES TO DELIA,

ON HER WEARING A MUSLIN VEIL.


Say, Delia, why, in muslin shade,
Ah! say, dost thou conceal those eyes?
Such little stars were never made,
I'm sure, to shine thro' misty skies.

Say, are they wrapt in so much shade,
That they may more successful rise,
Starting from such soft ambuscade,
To catch and kill us by surprise?

Or, of their various pow'rs afraid,
Is it in mercy to our sighs,
Lest love, o'er many a heart betray'd,
Should sob "a faithful vot'ry dies"?

Then, oh! remove the envious shade;
Let others wear, who want, disguise:
We all had sooner die, sweet maid,
To see, than live without, those eyes.


VERSES

TO THE TOMB OF A FRIEND.


Dearer to me, thou pile of dust!
Tho' with the wild flow'r simply crown'd,
Than the vast dome or beauteous bust,
By genius form'd, by wit renown'd.

Wave, thou wild flow'r! for ever wave,
O'er my lov'd relic of delight;
My tears shall bathe her green-rob'd grave
More than the dews of heav'n by night.

Methinks my Delia bids me go,
Says, "Florio, dry that fruitless tear!
Feed not a wild flow'r with thy woe,
Thy long-lov'd Delia is not here.

"No drop of feeling from her eye
Now starts to hear thy sorrows speak;
And, did thy bosom know one joy,
No smile would bloom upon her cheek.

"Pale, wan, and torpid, droops that cheek,
Whereon thy lip impress'd its red;
Those eyes, which Florio taught to speak,
Unnotic'd close amid the dead!"

True, true, too idly mourns this heart;
Why, Mem'ry, dost thou paint the past?
Why say you saw my Delia part,
Still press'd, still lov'd her, to the last?

Then, thou wild flow'r, for ever wave!
To thee this parting tear is given;
The sigh I offer at her grave
Shall reach my sainted love in heaven!


TIME AND THE LOVER.


Oh, Time! thy merits who can know?
Thy real nature who discover?
The absent lover calls thee slow, -
"Too rapid," says the happy lover.

With bloom thy cheeks are now refin'd,
Now to thine eye the tear is given;
At once too cruel and too kind, -
A little hell, a little heaven.

Go then, thou charming myst'ry, go! -
Yes, tho' thou often dost amuse me,
Tho' many a joy to thee I owe,
At once I thank thee and abuse thee.


A ROUNDELAY.


Wide thro' the azure blue and bright
Serenely floats the lamp of night;
The sleeping waves forget to move,
And silent is the cedar grove;
Each breeze suspended seems to say -
"Now, Leline, for thy Roundelay!"

My Delia's lids are clos'd in rest;
Ah! were her pillow but my breast!
Go, dreams! one gentle word impart,
In whispers place me by her heart;
While near her door I'll fondly stray,
And sooth her with my Roundelay.

But, ah! the Night draws in her shade,
And glimm'ring stars reluctant fade:
Yet sleep, my love! nor may'st thou feel
The pangs which griefs like mine reveal:
Adieu! for Morning's on his way,
And bids me close my Roundelay.


FAREWELL LINES

TO

_BRISTOL HOT WELLS_.


Bristol! in vain thy rocks attempt the sky,
The wild woods waving on their giddy brow;
And vainly, devious Avon! vainly sigh
Thy waters, winding thro' the vales below; -

In vain, upon thy glassy bosom borne,
Th' expected vessel proudly glides along,
While, 'mid thy echoes, at the break of morn
Is heard the homeward ship-boy's happy song; -

For, ah! amid thy sweet romantic shade,
By Friendship led, fair drooping Beauty moves;
Thy hallow'd cup of health affords no aid,
Nor charm thy birds, that chant their woodland loves.

Each morn I view her thro' thy wave-girt grove,
Her white robe flutt'ring round her sinking form;
O'er the sweet ruin shine those eyes of love,
As bright stars beaming thro' a midnight storm.

Here sorrowing Love seeks a sequester'd bow'r.
Calls on thy spring to calm his troubled breast;
Bright Hope alights not on his pensive hour,
Nor can thy favour'd fountains yield him rest.

Despair across his joys now intervenes,
And sternly bids the little cherub fly;
While his eyes close amid thy beauteous scenes.
His last sighs bless the form that bids him die.

Farewell, then, Bristol! thou canst yield no joy,
Thy woods look darken'd with funereal gloom,
Sickness and Sorrow on thy green banks sigh,
And all thy form is but a beauteous tomb.

Ah! may each future suff'rer, hov'ring near,
Rais'd by thy genial wave, delighted view
Returning joy and health, supremely dear,
Long lost to him who sadly sighs adieu!


A SONG.


These shades were made for Love alone, -
Here only smiles and kisses sweet
Shall play around his flow'ry throne,
And doves shall sentinel the seat.

Come, Delia! 'tis a genial day;
It bids us to his bow'r repair: -
"But what will little Cupid say?" -
"Say! sweet? - why, give a welcome there."

There not a tell-tale beam shall peep
Upon thy beauty's rich display, -
There not a breeze shall dare to sweep
The leaves, to whisper what we say.


LINES

ON LADY W - - APPEARING AT THE EXHIBITION.


When lovely Delphine sought the crowded scene,
The painter's mimic pow'r no longer mov'd;
All turn'd to gaze upon her beauteous mien,
None envied her, for, as they look'd, they lov'd.

Amid the proud display of forms so fair,
Of each fine tint the pencil can impart,
Nature with rapture seem'd to lead her there,
To prove how she could triumph over Art.


LINES

WRITTEN AT BRIGHTON.


From Mirth's bright circle, from the giddy throng,
How sweet it is to steal away at eve,
To listen to the homeward fisher's song,
Whilst dark the waters of the ocean heave; -

And on the sloping beach to bear the spray
Dash 'gainst some hoary vessel's broken side;
Whilst, far illumin'd by the parting ray,
The distant sail is faintly seen to glide.

Yes, 'tis Reflection's chosen hour; for then,
With pensive pleasure mingling o'er the scene,
Th' erratic mind treads over life again,
And gazes on the past with eye serene.

Those stormy passions which bedimm'd the soul,
That oft have bid the joys it treasur'd fly,
Now, like th' unruffled waves of Ocean, roll
With gentle lapse - their only sound a sigh.

The galling wrong no longer knits the brow,
Ambition feels the folly of her aim;
And Pity, from the heart expanding, now
Pants to extend relief to ev'ry claim.

Thus, as I sit beside the murm'ring sea,
And o'er its darkness trace light's parting streak,
I feel, O Nature! that serenity
Which vainly poetry like mine can speak!

O'er the drear tract of Time, Remembrance views
Some dear, some long-departed, pleasure gleam; -
So o'er the dark expanse the eye pursues
Upon the wat'ry edge a transient beam.

The spot fraternal love has sacred made,
Solemn, yet sweet, like groves in twilight gloom,
Mem'ry revisits, and beneath its shade
Faintly it sees each faded joy re-bloom.

By Fancy led, from Death's cold bed of stone,
Lovely, tho' wan, what cherish'd form appears?
Oh! gentle Anna[A]! at thy name alone,
Genius, and Grace, and Virtue, smile in tears.

Half-wrapp'd in mist I see thy figure move,
O'er thy pale cheek appears its wonted smile;
With lunar lustre beam those looks of love,
That once could life of ev'ry care beguile:

Faintly I hear thy angel-voice again;
There's music in the sweet and dying sound;
Like Philomela's soft and echo'd strain,
It spreads a soothing consolation round.

Adieu, bless'd shade! - Imagination roves
To distant regions, o'er th' Atlantic wave;
Ah! not to genial skies, or fragrant groves,
To drop a tear upon a kindred grave.

Hard was thy fate, Eliza[B]! - It was thine,
Tho' wit thy mind, tho' beauty grac'd thy form,
Behind Affliction's weeping cloud to shine,
With star-like radiance, in a night of storm.

Fierce from the sun the fiery fever flew,
And bade the burning sand become thy tomb!
O'er thee no willow drops its mourning dew,
Nor spotless lilies o'er thy bosom bloom!

Oh! when we stood around our brother's bier,
And wept in life's full bloom to see him torn,
Ah! little did ye think that such a tear
As then ye shed so soon your fate would mourn.

Farewell, dear shades! accept this mournful song,
At once the tribute of my grief and love;
Fain would it try your virtues to prolong,
Here priz'd and honour'd, and now bless'd above.

[Footnote A: Mrs. Hodges, a sister of the author.]

[Footnote B: Mrs Fountaine, another sister of the author, who
accompanied her husband to Africa, and died at the Government-house,
in one of the British settlements on that coast, where she survived
but a short time the death of three of her children.]


ECHO.


Echo! thou sweet enchantress of the grove!
Oh! cease to answer to the tones of love;
Or teach my Delia in thine art divine,
Thou loveliest nymph! to hear and answer mine!


OCCASIONAL LINES

_Repeated at an elegant Entertainment_

GIVEN BY LIEUTENANT-COLONEL D - - TO HIS FRIENDS

IN THE RUINS OF BERRY CASTLE, DEVONSHIRE.[A]


By your permission, Ladies! I address ye,
And for the boon you grant, my Muse shall bless ye.
I do not mean in solemn verse to tell
What fate the race of Pomeroy befell;
To trace the castle-story of each year,
To learn how many owls have hooted here;
What was the weight of stone, which form'd this pile,
Will on your lovely cheeks awake no smile:
Such antiquarian sermons suit not me,
Nor any soul who loves festivity.
Past times I heed not; be the present hour
In life, while yet it blooms, my chosen flow'r,
For well I know, what Time cannot disown,
Amidst this mossy pile of mould'ring stone,
That Hospitality was never seen
To spread more social joy upon the green;
Or, when its noble and capacious hall
Rang with the gambol gay, or graceful ball,
More beauty never charm'd its ancient beaux
Than what its honour'd ruins now enclose.
Thanks to the clouds, which from the soaking show'r
Preserve the vot'ries of the present hour;
For, strange to tell, beneath the chilling storm,
Lately the rose reclin'd her frozen form;
Yet since, beneath the favour of the weather,
We are (a laughing group) conven'd together,
Pray let the Muse pursue her merry route,
To shew what pass'd before we all set out.
To some fair damsel, who, intent to charm,
Declares she thinks the weather fine and warm,
Such words as these address her trembling ear -
"I really think we shall have rain, my dear;
Pray do not go, my love," cries soft mama;
"You shall not go, that's flat," cries stern papa.
A lucky sunbeam shines on the discourse,
The parents soften, and Miss mounts her horse.
Each tickled with some laugh-inspiring notion,
Behold the jocund party all in motion:
Some by a rattling buggy are befriended,
Some mount the cart - but not to be suspended.
The mourning-coach[B] is wisely counter-order'd
(The very thought on impious rashness border'd),
Because the luckless vehicle, one night,
Put all its merry mourners in a fright,
Who, to conduct them to the masquerade,
Sought from its crazy wheels their moving aid.
Us'd to a soleme pace, the creaking load
Bounded unwillingly along the road;
Down came the whole - oh! what a sight was there!
O'er a blind Fiddler roll'd a Flow'r-Nymph fair;
A glitt'ring Spaniard, who had lost his nose,
Roar'd out, "Oh! d - n it, take away your toes;"
A blooming Nun fell plump upon a Jew,
Still to the good old cause of traffic true,
Buried in clothes, exclaim'd the son of barter,
"Got blesh my shoul! you'll shell this pretty garter?"
Here let me pause; - the Muse, in sad affright,
Turns from the dire disasters of that night;
Quite panic-struck she drops her trembling plumes,
And thus a moralizing theme assumes: -
Know, gentle Ladies, once these shapeless walls,
O'er whose grey wreck the shading ivy crawls,
Compos'd a graceful mansion, whose fair mould
Led from the road the trav'ller, to behold.
Oft, when the morning ting'd the redd'ning skies,
Far off the spiral smoke was seen to rise;
At noon the hospitable board was spread,
Then nappy ale made light the weary head;
And when grey eve appear'd, in shadows damp,
Each casement glitter'd with th' enliv'ning lamp;
Here the laugh titter'd, there the lute of Love
Fill'd with its melody the moon-light grove:
All, all are fled! - Time ruthless stalks around,
And bends the crumbling ruin to the ground:
Time, Ladies, too (I know you do not like him,
And, if a fan could end him, you would strike him),
Will with as little gallantry devour
From your fair faces their bewitching pow'r;
Then, like these ruins, beauteous in decay,
Still shall you charm, and men shall still obey:
Then, with remembrance soft, and tender smile,
Perchance you'll think upon this mossy pile;
And, with a starting tear of joy declare,
"Oh! how we laugh'd, how merry were we there!"

[Footnote A: The manor of Berry was given by William the Conqueror to
one of his Normans, Ralph de la Pomerai, who built on it the castle
which still bears his name, and in whose family it continued till the
reign of Edward VI. when it was sold by Sir Thomas Pomeroy to Edward
Seymour, Duke of Somerset, from whom it has descended to the present
Duke.

The castle is seated upon a rock, which rises almost perpendicularly
from a narrow valley; through this valley winds a small stream of
water, which drives the mill seen through the foliage of the
surrounding woods from the turrets of the castle.

In approaching the castle from the south, the path leads down the
side of a hill through a thick wood; and on the north side of the
valley, opposite the rock on which the castle stands, is a high ridge,
partly covered with oak: these hills completely shut in the ruins on
both sides. The valley stretches a considerable way both to the east
and west, and opens a view at either end into the adjacent country.

From the ivy-covered ruins of the fortress which now remain, it is
scarcely possible to say what was its ancient form; but it is most
generally supposed to have been quadrangular, having only one
entrance, a large double portcullis, at the west end of the southern
front, turreted and embattled, as was the whole of the front, with a
tower at its eastern end, corresponding with that on the west. This
front, with its gateway and turrets, are perhaps the only remains of
the original structure. Winding steps, now almost worn away, lead to
what once was a chapel, over the portcullis, and thence to the top of
the turrets.

In more modern times a magnificent building was erected within the
walls of the castle by the Seymour family; but, although upwards of
£20,000 were said to have been expended on it, it was never finished,
and now the whole forms one common ruin, which, as it totters on it
base, the spectator contemplates with awe, while he sighs over the
remains of fallen grandeur.]

[Footnote B: A party from Totness went to Lord Courtenay's masquerade
in this way, there being no other conveyance to be had, and met with
the ridiculous accident here alluded to.]


LINES

TO SIR ROBERT KER PORTER,

KNIGHT OF THE IMPERIAL ORDER OF ST. JOACHIM,

_Upon his approaching Nuptials with the Princess Shebatoff_.


To save the credit of the dame,
Poets and painters all agree
That Mistress Fortune cannot see,
And on her bandage cast the blame;

When honours on th' unworthy wait,
When riches to the wealthy flow,
When high desert, oppress'd by woe,
Is left to struggle on with Fate.

But, Porter! when on thee she smil'd,
The fillet from her eyes she mov'd,
To view the merit all approv'd -
A mind inform'd, a heart unsoil'd.

She saw thy virtues bright appear;
A son that mothers seldom know,
A brother with affection's glow,
The soldier brave[A], the friend sincere.

With honours then thy name she grac'd,
And call'd on Love to bless thy arms
With princely rank, with Virtue's charms,
And all the pow'rs of wit and taste.


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