Poems by Sir John Carr Part 14

Go, little flutt'rer! seek thy feather'd loves, And leave a wretched mourner to his woe; Seek out the bow'rs of bliss, seek happier groves, Nor here unheeded let thy music flow.

Yet think me not ungrateful for thy song, If meant to cheer me in my lone retreat; Ah! not to thee, my little friend! belong The pow'rs to soothe the pangs of adverse fate.

Fly, then! the window of the wretched, fly!

And be thy harmless life for ever blest; I only can reward thee with a sigh, And wish that joys may crown thy peaceful nest.

EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.

By painful sickness long severely prest, Here sinks, on Nature's sacred lap of rest, A friend, who, in a life too short, display'd A mind in virtue bright, without one shade.

Hence with unusual grief is Fondness mov'd, Hence more than Pity's sighs for one belov'd; Unshaken Honour sheds a manly tear, And weeping Virtue stops, a mourner here.

LINES

TO THE MEMORY OF AN AMIABLE YOUTH,

OF GREAT PROMISE,

Whose afflicted Parents received the Intelligence of his having been drowned, at the very time when his Arrival was expected from abroad.

Dire were the horrors of that ruthless storm, That for young Lycid form'd a wat'ry grave; Oh! many wept to see his fainting form Unaided sink beneath th' o'erwhelming wave.

Ah! hapless youth! yet, tho' the billowy waste Has thus, with ruthless fury, s.n.a.t.c.h'd away Thy various charms, thy genius, wit, and taste, From those who fondly watch'd their rich display,--

Their cherish'd, lov'd, impression still shall last; Mem'ry shall ride triumphant o'er the storm, Shall shield thy gen'rous virtues from the blast, And Fancy animate again thy form.

Yes, gentle youth! to her, tho' little known, Save by the rich effusions of thy lyre, Th' admiring Muse shall breathe a mournful tone, And sounds of grief shall o'er the floods expire.

But, far more grateful to thy pensive shade, Parental Fondness mourns her Lycid gone, Lycid! who to her bosom oft convey'd The liveliest joys to tend'rest feelings known.

For her the l.u.s.tre of the dawning day, With all its charms, no longer yields delight; And silent sorrow marks its parting ray, And saddens ev'ry vision of the night.

Oh! what ecstatic joys inspir'd her breast, When, fast advancing to thy native sh.o.r.e, She thought she saw thee in the bay at rest, And now in fancy heard th' approaching oar.

Oh! sad reverse! The dire delusive wind, Which promis'd fair to bring thee to her breast, Thy youthful honours to the wave consign'd, And bore thy spirit to the realms of rest

Ah! had the song of ancient Bard been true, Had Genius still the pow'r to soothe the storm, Harmless had been each blast that round thee blew, And safe and sacred, 'midst its rage, thy form.

What tho' no marble urn thy relics hold, Where grief at midnight hour may sit and sigh, Like gem in amber, Fancy shall enfold Thy relics in each wave that murmurs by.

Still shall she listen to thy glowing song, And dwell with rapture on each vivid line, Shall round thy lyre, neglected and unstrung, Of sweetest flow'rs a fun'ral wreath entwine.

Ah! since thy tuneful song no more shall flow, Nor here again thy op'ning virtues shine, May those who, Lycid! lov'd thee living, know To bear the sorrows of a loss like thine!

And, while they linger yet another hour On life's extended, tempest-beaten, strand, Waiting the gale that shall convey them o'er, To hail their Lycid in a happier land,

Oh! may religion lull each sigh to rest, Teach them a G.o.d, in mercy rob'd, to praise, To know that ev'ry act of his is best, And, tho' mysterious, still to prize his ways!

EPIGRAM

ON THE AUTHOR AND ELIZA FREQUENTLY DIFFERING IN OPINION.

To such extremes were I and Bet Perpetually driven, We quarrell'd every time we met, To kiss, and be forgiven.

LINES

TO MY MOTHER,

_On her attaining her 70th Year_.

Oh! with what genuine pleasure do I trace Each line of that long-lov'd, accustom'd, face, Where Time, as if enchanted, and imprest With all the virtues of thy peaceful breast, Tho' sev'nty varied years have roll'd away, Still loves to linger, and, with soft decay, Permits thy cheek to wear a healthy bloom, In all the grace of age, without its gloom.

So on some sacred temple's mossy walls, With feath'ry force, the snow of winter falls!

Yes, venerable parent! may I long Thus happy hail thee with an annual song.

Till, having clos'd thine eyes in such soft rest As infants feel when to the bosom prest, Angels shall bear thy spotless soul away To realms of pure delight and endless day!

LINES TO SELINA

'Twas when the leaves were yellow turn'd, Selina, with the gentlest sigh, Exclaim'd, "For you I long have burn'd, For you alone, my love! I'll die."

Unthinking youth! I thought her true, And, when the trees grew white with snow, The wint'ry wind with music blew, So did her love upon me grow.

The Spring had scarce unlock'd her store, When lo! in much ungentle strain, She bade me think of her no more, She bade me never love again.

Then did my heart at once reply, "If you are false, who can be true?

There's nothing here deserves a sigh, Take this, the last, 'tis heav'd for you."

Ah! fickle fair! amid the scene That giddy pleasure may prepare, A pensive thought shall intervene, And touch your wand'ring heart with care.