Poems (1828) by Thomas Gent Part 15

WRITTEN

UNDER AN ELEGANT DRAWING OF A DEAD CANARY BIRD,

By Miss A.M. TURNER, Daughter of the Eminent Engraver.

_Death_ to the very _life!_ not the closed eye, Not those small paralytic limbs alone, But every feather tells so mournfully Thy fate, and that thy _little_ life has flown.

Manhood forbids that I should weep, and yet Sadness comes o'er my spirit, and I stand Gazing intensely, and with mute regret, Turn from the wonder of the artist's hand.

Exquisite artist! could I praise thee more Than by the silent admiration? no!

And now I try to praise I must deplore How feeble is the verse that tells thee so; But thou art gaining for thyself a fame Worthy thyself, thy s.e.x, and thy dear father's name!

LINES

SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF

THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

Genius of England! wherefore to the earth Is thy plumed helm, thy peerless sceptre cast?

Thy courts of late with minstrelsy and mirth Rang jubilant, and dazzling pageants past; Kings, heroes, martial triumphs, nuptial rites--

Now, like a cypress, shiver'd by the blast, Or mountain-cedar, which the lightning smites, In dust and darkness sinks thy head declined, Thy tresses streaming wild on ocean's reckless wind.

Art thou not glorious?--In that night of storms, When He, in Power's supremacy elate, Gaul's fierce Usurper! fulminating fate, The Goth's barbaric tyranny restored, And science, art, and all life's fairer forms, Sunk to the dark dominion of the sword: Didst thou not, champion of insulted man!

Confront this stern Destroyer in his pride?

Didst thou not crush him in the battle shock, While recent victory shouted in his van, And shrunk the nations, shadow'd by his stride?

Yea, chain him howling to yon desert rock, Where, thronging ghastly from uncounted graves, His victims murmur 'midst the groans of waves, And mock his soul's despair, his deep blaspheming ban!

Nor erst, in Liberty's avenging day, When, launching lightnings in her wrath divine, She rose, and gave to never-dying fame, Platae, Marathon, Thermopylae, Did each, did all, sublimer laurels twine Round Graecia's conquering brows, than Waterloo on thine!

Then, wherefore, Albion! terror-struck, subdued, Sitt'st thou, thy state foregone, thy banner furl'd?

What dire infliction shakes that fort.i.tude, Which propt the falling fortunes of the world?-- Hush! hark! portentous, like a withering spell From lips unblest--strange sounds mine ear appal; Now the dread omens more distinctly swell-- That thrilling shriek from Claremont's royal hall, The death-note peal'd from yon terrific bell, The deepening gale with lamentation swoln-- These, Albion! these, too eloquently tell, That from her radiant sphere, thy brightest star has fall'n!

And art thou gone?--graced vision of an hour!

Daughter of Monarchs! gem of England's crown!

Thou loveliest lily! fair imperial flower!

In beauty's vernal bloom to dust gone down; Gone when, dispers'd each inauspicious cloud, In blissful sunshine 'gan thy hopes to glow: From pain's fierce grasp, no refuge but the shroud, Destin'd a Mother's pangs, but not her joys, to know.

Lost excellence! what harp shall hymn thy worth, Nor wrong the theme? conspicuously in thee, Beyond the blind pre-eminence of birth, Shone Nature in her own regality!

Coerced, thy Spirit smiled, sedate in pride, Fixt as the pine, while circling storms contend; But, when in Life's serener duties tried, How sweetly did its gentle essence blend, All-beauteous in the wife, the daughter, and the friend!

Not lull'd in langours, indolent and weak, Nor winged by pleasure, fled thy early hours; But ceaseless vigils blanch'd thy virgin cheek, In silent Study's dim-sequester'd bowers: Propitious there, to thy admiring mind, With brow unveil'd, consenting Science came; There Taste awoke her sympathies refined; There Genius, kindling his etherial flame, Led thy young soul the Muse's heights to dare, And mount on Milton's wing, and breathe empyreal air!

But chiefly, conscious of thy promised throne, Intent to grace that destiny sublime; Thou sought'st to make the historic page thine own, And win the treasures of recorded time; The forms of polity, the springs of power, Exploring still with inexhausted zeal; Still, the pole-star which led thy studious hour Through Thought's unfolding tracts--thy Country's weal!

While Fancy, radiant with unearthly charms, Thus breathed the whisper Wisdom sanctified: "Eliza's, Anna's glories, arts, or arms, Beneath thy sway shall blaze revivified, And still prolonged, and still augmenting, shine Interminably bright in thy ill.u.s.trious line!"

'Tis past--thy name, with every charm it bore, Melts on our souls, like music heard no more, The dying minstrel's last ecstatic strain, Which mortal hand shall never wake again-- But, if, blest spirit! in thy shrine of light, Life's visions rise to thy celestial sight; If that bright sphere where raptured seraphs glow, Permit communion with this world of woe; And sore, if thus our fond affections deem, Hope mocks us not, for Heaven inspires the dream-- Benignant shade! the beatific kiss That seal'd thy welcome to the sh.o.r.es of bliss, No holier joy instill'd, than then wilt feel If thine the task thy kindred's woes to heal; If hovering yet, with viewless ministry, In scenes which Memory consecrates to thee, Thou soothe with binding balm which grief endears, A Sire's, a Husband's, and--a Mother's tears!--

Till Pity's self expire, a Nation's sighs, Spontaneous incense! o'er thy tomb shall rise: And, 'midst the dark vicissitudes that wait Earth's balanced empires in the scales of Fate, Be thou OUR angel-advocate the while, And gleam, a guardian saint, around thy native isle!

THE PRESUMPTUOUS FLY.

Sung by Mr. PYNE.--Composed by Mr. ROOKE.

Come away, come away, little fly!

Don't disturb the sweet calm of lore's nest; If you do, I protest you shall die, And your tomb be that beautiful breast.

Don't tickle the girl in her sleep, Don't cause so much beauty to sigh; If she frown, half the graces will weep, If she weep, all the graces will die.

Come away, little fly, &c.

Now she wakes! steal a kiss and be gone; Life is precious: away, little fly!

Should your rudeness provoke her to scorn, You'll meet death from the glance of her eye.

Were I ask'd by fair Chloe to say How I felt, as the flutterer I chid; I should own, as I drove it away, I wish'd to be there in its stead!

Come away, little fly, &c.

THE HEROES OF WATERLOO.

Address, written for a Benefit, at a Provincial Theatre, for the Wounded Survivors, Families, and Relatives, of the Heroes of Waterloo.

Once more Britannia sheathes her conqu'ring sword, And Peace returns, by Victory restored; Peace, that erewhile estranged, 'midst long alarms, Scarce welcomed home, was ravish'd from our arms; What time, fierce bounding from his broken chain, Gaul's banish'd Despot re-aspired to reign; Whilst at his call, prompt minions of his breath, Round his dire throne rush'd Havoc, Spoil, and Death; With wonted pomp his baleful ensign blazed, And Europe shrunk, and shudder'd as she gazed.

Insulted Liberty her tocsin rung; Again Britannia to the combat sprung: Star of the Nations! her auspicious form Led on their march, and foremost braved the storm.

Pent-in its clouds, ere yet the tempest flash'd, Ere peal on peal the mingling thunder crash'd; While Fate hung dubious o'er the marshall'd powers, What anxious fears, what trembling hopes, were ours!

For never yet from Gallia's confines came War's fell eruption with so fierce a flame: She sent a Chief, matur'd in martial strife, Who fought for fame, for empire, and for life; Whose Host had sworn, deep-stung with recent shame, To satiate vengeance, and retrieve their fame!

Each furious impulse, each hot throb, was there, That spurs Ambition, or inflames Despair.

Then Britain fix'd on her Unconquer'd Son, Her eye, her hope--immortal WELLINGTON!

He, skill'd to crash, with one collective blow Sustain'd sedate the fierce a.s.saulting foe.

How stood his squadrons like the steadfast rock, Frowning on Ocean's ineffectual shock!

Till forward summon'd to the fierce attack, They give to Gaul his furious onset back; Swift on its prey each fiery legion springs, As when Heaven's ire the vollied lightning wings!

Then Gallia's blood in expiation stream'd, Then trembling Europe saw her fate redeem'd; And England, radiant in her triumph past, Beheld them all transcended in the last: Yes, raptured Britons blest the gale that blew The tidings home--the tale of Waterloo!

But, oh! while joy tumultuous hail'd the day, Cold on the plain what gallant victims lay!

Deaf to the triumph of their sacred cause, Deaf to their country's shout, the world's applause!

Rear high the column, bid the marble breathe, Pour soft the verse, and twine the laureate wreath; From year to year let musing Memory shed Her tenderest tears, to grace the glorious dead.

'Tis ours with grateful ardour to sustain The wounded veteran on his bed of pain; To soothe the widow, sunk in anguish deep, Whose orphan weeps to see its mother weep.

Oh! when, outstretch'd on that triumphant field, The prostrate Warrior felt his labours seal'd; Felt, 'midst the shout of Victory pealing round, Life's eddying stream fast welling from his wound; Perchance Affection bade her visions rise-- Wife, children, floated o'er his closing eyes: For them alone he heaved the bitter sigh; Yet for his country glorying thus to die!

To her bequeath'd them with his parting breath, And sunk serene in unregretted death.--