Poems (1786) Part 2

I.

As wand'ring late on Albion's sh.o.r.e That chains the rude tempestuous deep, I heard the hollow surges roar And vainly beat her guardian steep; I heard the rising sounds of woe Loud on the storm's wild pinion flow; And still they vibrate on the mournful lyre, That tunes to grief its sympathetic wire.

II.

From sh.o.r.es the wide Atlantic laves, The spirit of the ocean bears In moans, along his western waves, Afflicted nature's hopeless cares: Enchanting scenes of young delight, How chang'd since first ye rose to sight; Since first ye rose in infant glories drest Fresh from the wave, and rear'd your ample breast.

III.

Her crested serpents, discord throws O'er scenes which love with roses grac'd; The flow'ry chain his hands compose, She wildly scatters o'er the waste: Her glance his playful smile deforms, Her frantic voice awakes the storms, From land to land, her torches spread their fires, While love's pure flame in streams of blood expires.

IV.

Now burns the savage soul of war, While terror flashes from his eyes, Lo! waving o'er his fiery car Aloft his b.l.o.o.d.y banner flies: The battle wakes--with awful sound He thunders o'er the echoing ground, He grasps his reeking blade, while streams of blood Tinge the vast plain, and swell the purple flood.

V.

But softer sounds of sorrow flow; On drooping wing the murm'ring gales Have borne the deep complaints of woe That rose along the lonely vales-- Those breezes waft the orphan's cries, They tremble to parental sighs, And drink a tear for keener anguish shed, The tear of faithful love when hope is fled.

VI.

The object of her anxious fear Lies pale on earth, expiring, cold, Ere, wing'd by happy love, one year Too rapid in its course, has roll'd; In vain the dying hand she grasps, Hangs on the quiv'ring lip, and clasps The fainting form, that slowly sinks in death, To catch the parting glance, the fleeting breath.

VII.

Pale as the livid corse her cheek, Her tresses torn, her glances wild,-- How fearful was her frantic shriek!

She wept--and then in horrors smil'd: She gazes now with wild affright, Lo! bleeding phantoms rush in sight-- Hark! on yon mangled form the mourner calls, Then on the earth a senseless weight she falls.

VIII.

And see! o'er gentle Andre's tomb, The victim of his own despair, Who fell in life's exulting bloom, Nor deem'd that life deserv'd a care; O'er the cold earth his relicks prest, Lo! Britain's drooping legions rest; For him the swords they sternly grasp, appear Dim with a sigh, and sullied with a tear.

IX.

While Seward sweeps her plaintive strings, While pensive round his sable shrine, A radiant zone she graceful flings, Where full emblaz'd his virtues shine; The mournful loves that tremble nigh Shall catch her warm melodious sigh; The mournful loves shall drink the tears that flow From Pity's hov'ring soul, dissolv'd in woe.

X.

And hark, in Albion's flow'ry vale A parent's deep complaint I hear!

A sister calls the western gale To waft her soul-expressive tear; 'Tis Asgill claims that piercing sigh, That drop which dims the beauteous eye, While on the rack of Doubt Affection proves How strong the force which binds the ties she loves.

XI.

How oft in every dawning grace That blossom'd in his early hours, Her soul some comfort lov'd to trace, And deck'd futurity in flowers!

But lo! in Fancy's troubled sight The dear illusions sink in night; She views the murder'd form--the quiv'ring breath, The rising virtues chill'd in shades of death.

XII.

Cease, cease ye throbs of hopeless woe; He lives the future hours to bless, He lives, the purest joy to know, Parental transports fond excess; His sight a father's eye shall chear, A sister's drooping charms endear:-- The private pang was Albion's gen'rous care, For him she breath'd a warm accepted prayer.

XIII.

And lo! a radiant stream of light Defending, gilds the murky cloud, Where Desolation's gloomy night Retiring, folds her sable shroud; It flashes o'er the bright'ning deep, It softens Britain's frowning steep-- 'Tis mild benignant Peace, enchanting form!

That gilds the black abyss, that lulls the storm.

XIV.

So thro' the dark, impending sky, Where clouds, and fallen vapours roll'd, Their curling wreaths dissolving fly As the faint hues of light unfold-- The air with spreading azure streams, The sun now darts his orient beams-- And now the mountains glow--the woods are bright-- While nature hails the season of delight.

XV.

Mild Peace! from Albion's fairest bowers Pure spirit! cull with snowy hands, The buds that drink the morning showers, And bind the realms in flow'ry bands: Thy smiles the angry pa.s.sions chase, Thy glance is pleasure's native grace; Around thy form th' exulting virtues move, And thy soft call awakes the strain of love.

XVI.

Bless, all ye powers! the patriot name That courts fair Peace, thy gentle stay; Ah! gild with glory's light, his fame, And glad his life with pleasure's ray!

While, like th' affrighted dove, thy form Still shrinks, and fears some latent storm, His cares shall sooth thy panting soul to rest, And spread thy vernal couch on Albion's breast.

XVII.

Ye, who have mourn'd the parting hour, Which love in darker horrors drew, Ye, who have vainly tried to pour With falt'ring voice the last adieu!

When the pale cheek, the bursting sigh, The soul that hov'ring in the eye, Express'd the pains it felt, the pains it fear'd-- Ah! paint the youth's return, by grief endear'd.

XVIII.

Yon h.o.a.ry form, with aspect mild, Deserted kneels by anguish prest, And seeks from Heav'n his long-lost child, To smooth the path that leads to rest!-- He comes!--to close the sinking eye, To catch the faint, expiring sigh; A moment's transport stays the fleeting breath, And sooths the soul on the pale verge of death.

XIX.

No more the sanguine wreath shall twine On the lost hero's early tomb, But hung around thy simple shrine Fair Peace! shall milder glories bloom.

Lo! commerce lifts her drooping head Triumphal, Thames! from thy deep bed; And bears to Albion, on her sail sublime, The riches Nature gives each happier clime.