Poems by Sir John Carr Part 13

[Footnote B: Alluding to his dress, as described by Mr. Boswell.]

LINES

WRITTEN UPON A HILL,

_On leaving the Country_.

Ah! sweet romantic spot, adieu!

Ere your green fields again I view, These looks may change their youthful hue.

Dependence sternly bids me part From all that ye, lov'd scenes! impart, Far from my treasure and my heart.

Tho' winter shall your bloom invade, Fancy may visit ev'ry shade, Each bow'r shall kiss the wand'ring maid.

To busier scenes of life I fly, Where many smile, where many sigh, As Chance, not Worth, turns up the die.

BANKRUPTCY RENDERED EASY.

The Cit, relying on his trade, Which, like all other things, may fade, Longs for a curricle and villa: This Hatchet splendidly supplies, The other c.o.c.k'ril builds, or buys, To charm himself and Miss Hautilla.

Then swift, O London! he retires, To be, from all thy smoke and spires, From Sat.u.r.day till Sunday, merry: On Sunday crowds of friends attend; His house and garden some commend, And all admire his port and sherry.

His mistress urg'd him now to play, And cut to wealth a shorter way, Now as a bride she heads his table; But still our Cit observ'd his time.

Returning at St. Cripple's chime, At least as near as he was able.

But soon _she_ could not bear the sight Of town; for walls with bow'rs unite, As well as smoke with country breezes; Without the keenest grief and pride _He_ could not quit his _mares_, and _bride_: We yield as soon as pa.s.sion seizes.

The clock no more his herald prov'd; Tuesday, nay Wednesday, morn have mov'd, Ere trembling shopmen saw their master: Observing neighbours whisper'd round, That ease might do, with plenty crown'd; If not, that ruin came the faster.

His cash grew scarce, his business still, At variance were his books and till (For wolves devour when shepherds slumber); His creditors around him pour, Seize all his horses, household store, And only give him up the lumber!

LINES

_Written at the Sea-Side in Devonshire_,

IN THE MONTH OF NOVEMBER,

WHEN THE SHIPS FROM NEWFOUNDLAND RETURN.

Still Summer lingers on these peaceful sh.o.r.es, Nor yet she quits her rose-erected bow'r; Tho' oft in many a dew-drop she explores Her beauties fading in each pa.s.sing hour!

Tho' Winter's boist'rous child, November, strays Amid those scenes that wak'd the poet's lyre, Shakes his green canopy, and loves to raise, Of sapless leaves, an altar for his sire.

Soon shall his wild and stormy sway be o'er; These lovely scenes shall feel his shortest reign; And thou, sweet Summer! charming as before, Shall but retire to dress thyself again.

Yet Heaven guides, full provident and kind, With sweet economy, the source of joy, From grief extracts some comfort for the mind, And fresh hopes flatter ere the lost annoy.

See where Connubial Love yon rock ascends, To hail each sail, while fav'ring breezes blow; There many an hour she o'er the margin bends, Her bosom trembling like the floods below.

Nearer the ocean's graceful burden glides; Cleav'd by its prow, the lines of water yield: While adverse mountains, with protective sides, The Heav'n-directed wand'ring seaman shield.

The anchor dropp'd, he springs upon the sh.o.r.e, His wife and children press to meet his kiss; Half-told, a thousand things they prattle o'er, And, safe at home, renew their former bliss.

EPIGRAM,

ON WINNING A YOUNG LADY'S MONEY AT CARDS.

How fairly Fortune all her gifts imparts; We win your money, Ann, and you our hearts.

LINES

WRITTEN IN A FINE WINTER'S DAY,

_At the Shooting-Box of my Friend, W. Cope, Esq_.

NEAR ORPINGTON, KENT.

Tho' leafless are the woods, tho' flow'rs no more, In beauty blushing, spread their fragrant store, Yet still 'tis sweet to quit the crowded scene, And rove with Nature, tho' no longer green; For Winter bids her winds so softly blow, That, cold and famine scorning, even now The feather'd warblers still delight the ear, And all of Summer, but her leaves, is here.

Here, on this winding garden's sloping bound, 'Tis sweet to listen to each rustic sound, The distant dog-bark, and the rippling rill, Or catch the sparkling of the water-mill.

The tranquil scene each tender feeling moves; As the eye rests on Holwood's naked groves, A tear bedims the sight for Chatham's son, For him whose G.o.d-like eloquence could stun, Like some vast cat'ract, Faction's clam'rous tongue, Or by its sweetness charm, like Virgil's song, For him, whose mighty spirit rous'd afar Europe's plum'd legions to the hallow'd war; But who, ah! hapless tale! could not inspire Their recreant chiefs with his heroic fire; Who, as _they_ pa.s.s'd the tyrant Conqu'ror's yoke, Felt, as the bolt of Heav'n, the ruthless stroke; And having long, in vain, the tempest brav'd, Could breathe no longer in a world enslav'd.

LINES ON A LITTLE BIRD

_Singing at the Window of the Author_,

SOON AFTER THE DEATH OF A BELOVED SISTER.