Poems by Sir John Carr Part 10

a.s.sociate Genius bids them flow With sounds that give a charm to woe; We weep as tho' it were our own, As if our hearts were play'd upon.

SONNET.

The leaves are flutter'd by no tell-tale gales, Clear melts the azure in the rosy west, Scarce heard, the river winds along the vales, And Eve has lull'd the vocal grove to rest.

To yon thick elms, my Delia! let us rove, As slow the glories of the day retire; There to thy lute breathe dulcet notes of love, While thro' the vale they linger and expire.

Those honey'd tones, that melt upon the tongue,-- Thy looks, serener than the scenes I sing,-- Thy chaste desires, which angels might have sung, Alone can quiet in this bosom bring, Which burns for thee, and, kindled by thine eyes, Bears a pure flame--the flame that never dies!

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WRITTEN AT KILKENNY,

ON THE THEATRICALS OF THAT CITY.

Amid the ruins of monastic gloom, Where Nore's meand'ring waters wind along, Genius and Wealth have rais'd the tasteful dome, Yet not alone for Fashion's brilliant throng;--

In Virtue's cause they take a n.o.ble aim; 'Tis theirs in sweetest harmony to blend Wit with Compa.s.sion, Sympathy with Fame, Pleasure the means, Beneficence the end[A].

There, if on Beauty's cheek the tear appears (Form'd by the mournful Muse's mimic sigh), Fast as it falls, a kindred drop it bears, More sadly shed from genuine Misery.

Nor, if the laughter-loving Nymph delight, Does the reviving transport perish there; Still, still, with Pity's radiance doubly bright, Its smiles shed sunshine on the cheek of Care.

So, if Pomona's golden fruit descend, Shook by some breeze, into the lake below, Quick will the dimple, which it forms, extend, Till all around the joyous circles flow.

Bless'd be the liberal mind, th' undaunted zeal, That bade loud Folly from the Stage retire; That teach us how to think, and how to feel, And once again our G.o.dlike Bard admire!

Thus aided, see his rescued genius spring; Again he pours the phrenzy of his song; With EV'RY FEATHER[B] in his eagle wing, Once more in majesty he soars along.

Oft, deck'd with smiles, his spirit shall explore, Erin! thy beauteous vales and cla.s.sic ground; And ev'ry ripple of thy winding Nore To him shall sweetly as his Avon's sound.

_22d Oct. 1805_.

[Footnote A: The theatricals of Kilkenny are supported by gentlemen of rank and fashion in Ireland, and the profits are applied to charitable purposes.]

[Footnote B: Alluding to several fine pa.s.sages of Shakspeare, which have been long omitted in representation, but restored at the theatricals of Kilkenny.]

EPIGRAM,

UPON SEEING THE DILAPIDATED STATE OF

_BETHLEM HOSPITAL_.

Well with the _purpose_ does the _place_ agree; For e'en the very house is _crack'd_, you see.

EPIGRAM

ON THE GRAVE OF ROBESPIERRE.

_ORIGINAL_.

Pa.s.sant, ne pleure point son sort; Car, s'il vivait, tu serais mort.

_TRANSLATION_.

Nay, pa.s.senger, don't mourn his lot; If he had liv'd, why you had not.

AN INDIAN Ma.s.sACRE-SONG.

See, the waves clasp the Sun, as he sinks from our sight, And Despair sullen rides on the wings of the night; Lo! he comes, and reproaches our arms with delay,-- Then arise, let us go where Revenge points the way!

In the deed should we fall, (since who'll e'er breathe a slave?) Our free souls shall repose in the realms of the brave; In the song we shall live, and fresh heroes inspire, While the son shall exult in the fate of his sire.

Then know, ye white race! ye too long shake the rod; By this arm ye shall soon be dismiss'd to your G.o.d!

Then demand, if he bade ye torment, why he gave All the soul of a man to the breast of a slave?

Then prepare; know our hatchets atone for our wrong, And our hearts, like our hatchets, are stubborn and strong: Sleep your last! ye no more shall the morning survey, Nor shall sorrow arise with the break of the day.

Yes, remember the lashes that pierc'd thro' our flesh!

See the wounds of our fathers; they open afresh!

In the winds, hark! blue Avrin attends to our call; I, your chief, will be first in your glories, or fall!

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