Poems by Sir John Carr Part 17

Ah! if my voice is heard in vain, This fond, this falling, tear May yet thy dire intent restrain, May yet dissolve my fear.

Th' unsparing wound that lays thee low Will bend thy Julia too: Could she survive the fatal blow Who only lives in you?

LINES

TO MRS. A. CLARKE.

Within his cold and cheerless cell, I heard the sighing Censor tell That ev'ry charm of life was gone, That ev'ry n.o.ble virtue long Had ceas'd to wake the Minstrel's song, And Vice triumphant stood alone.

"Poor gloomy reas'ner! come with me; Smooth each dark frown, and thou shall see Thy tale is but a mournful dream; I'll show thee scenes to yield delight, I'll show thee forms in Virtue bright, Illum'd by Heav'n's unclouded beam.

"See Clarke, with ev'ry goodness grac'd, Her mind the seat of Wit and Taste; Tho' Wealth invites to Pleasure's bow'r, See her the haunts of Woe descend; Of many a friendless wretch the friend, Pleas'd she exerts sweet Pity's pow'r.

"See her, with parent patriot care, The infant orphan-mind prepare, a.s.sur'd, without Instruction's aid, The proudest nation soon will show A wasted form, a hectic glow, A robb'd, diseas'd, revolting, shade.

"See her with Prince-like spirit pour On genuine worth her ample store[A]; See her, by ev'ry gentle art, Protect the plant she loves to rear, And, as she bathes it with a tear, Grateful it twines around her heart.

"And there are more, of kindred mind;"-- When, with a face more bland and kind, The Sage, in soften'd tone, replied: "'Twas Error made to me the den More grateful than the haunts of men; Henceforth mankind shall be my pride."

[Footnote A: This alludes to a munificent donation of a very handsome fortune, which this Lady presented, without any claim of consanguinity or connexion, to a young Lady of great merit.]

LINES

_To the Tune of "Oh! Lady fair! where art thou going_?"

Sing, bird of grief! still eve descending, And soothe a mind with sorrow rending; Ne'er may I see the blush of morrow, But close this night the sigh of sorrow;

Then, if some wand'rer here directed Shall find my mossy grave neglected, May he replace the weed that's growing With the nearest flow'r that's blowing!

IMPROMPTU LINES

UPON A VERY HANDSOME WOMAN

_Keeping the Hotel de Lion Blanc, at Dantzig_.

The sign of the house should be chang'd, I'll be sworn, Where enchanted we find so much beauty and grace; Then quick from the door let the _lion_ be torn, And an _angel_ expand her white wings in his place.

LINES

UPON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL INFANT SLEEPING ON THE BOSOM OF ITS MOTHER.

Upon its native pillow dear, The little slumb'rer finds repose; His fragrant breath eludes the ear-- A zephyr pa.s.sing o'er a rose.

Yet soon from that pure spot of rest (Love's little throne!) shalt thou be torn; Time hovers o'er thy downy nest, To crown thy baby-brow with thorn.

Ah! thoughtless! couldst thou now but see On what a world thou soon must move, Or taste the cup prepar'd for thee Of grief, lost hopes, or widow'd love,

Ne'er from that breast thou'd'st raise thine head, But thou would'st breathe to Heav'n a pray'r To let thee, ere thy blossom fade, In one fond sigh exhale thee there.

LINES

WRITTEN AT FREDENSBORG,

_The deserted Palace of the late Queen Dowager Juliana Maria_[A].

Bless'd are the steps of Virtue's queen!

Where'er she moves fresh roses bloom; And, when she droops, kind Nature pours Her genuine tears in gentle show'rs, That love to dew the willow green That over-canopies her tomb.

But, ah! no willing mourner here Attends to tell the tale of woe: Why is yon statue prostrate thrown?

Why has the gra.s.s green'd o'er the stone?

Why, 'gainst the spider'd cas.e.m.e.nt drear, So sullen seems the wind to blow?

How mournful was the lonely bird, Within yon dark neglected grove!

Say, was it fancy? From its throat Issu'd a strange and cheerless note; 'Twas not so sad as grief I heard, Nor yet so wildly sweet as love.

In the deep gloom of yonder dell Ambition's blood-stain'd victims sigh'd; While Time beholds, without a tear, Fell Desolation hov'ring near, Whose angry blushes seem to tell.

Here Juliana shudd'ring died!

[Footnote A: This palace, called the Mansion of Peace, is in the road and near to Elsineur; it was the retreat of the ambitious and remorseless Juliana Maria, the mother-in-law of Christian VII. whose intrigues and jealousy sent Brandt and Struensee to the scaffold, and drove the unhappy Matilda, the mother of the present King of Denmark, from her throne, and the arms of her royal husband. Juliana died here.

The palace and grounds, parts of which are beautiful, were, when I visited them in 1804, much neglected.]

SONG

Upon the Admiration of the Valour and amiable Qualities of Lord Nelson, expressed by Junot, now Duke of Abrantes, who, by the Chances of War, was for a short Time the British Hero's Prisoner.