Poems by Sir John Carr Part 19

Ah! hapless stranger! who, without a tear, Can this sad record of thy fate survey?

No angry tempest laid thee breathless here, Nor hostile sword, nor Nature's mild decay.

The fond companion of thy pilgrim feet, Who watch'd thee in thy sleep, who moan'd if miss'd, And sprung with such delight his Lord to greet, Imbu'd with death the hand he oft had kiss'd.

And here, remov'd from Love's lamenting eye, Far from thy native cat'racts' awful sound, Far from thy dusky forests' pensive sigh, Thy poor remains repose on alien ground; Yet Pity oft shall sit beside thy stone, And sigh as tho' she mourn'd a brother gone.

IMPROMPTU,

IN REPLY TO A LADY,

_Who asked the Author what Childhood resembled_.

How like is childhood to the lucid tide That calmly wanders thro' the mossy dell, Sweeps o'er the lily by the margin's side, And, as it kisses, murmurs out, Farewell!

LINES

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY IN GERMANY,

_Who, until her Sister, honoured the Author by walking with him in the Evening_.

Adieu! dear girl! if we are doom'd to part, Take with thee, take, the blessing of this heart, Due to thy gentle mind, and cultur'd sense; Perhaps 'twill please, but, sure, can't give offence.

Tho', when we met, the solar ray was gone, And on our steps the moon-beam only shone, Yet well I mark'd thy form and native grace, And all the sweet expression of thy face; And pleas'd I listen'd as thy accents fell, Accents that spoke a feeling mind so well Lo, when the birds repose at ev'ning hour, The sweetest of them carols from her bow'r!

So, when the dews the garden's fragrance close, The night-flow'r[A] blooms, the rival of the rose!

[Footnote A: One of the creeping cereuses, usually known by the name of the night-flower, is said to be as grand and as beautiful as any in the vegetable system. It begins to open in the evening, about seven o'clock; is in perfection about eleven, perfuming the air to a considerable distance, and fades about four in the morning.]

LINES TO STUDY.

O Study! while thy lovers raise Thy name with all the pow'r of praise, Frown not, thou nymph with piercing mind!

If in this bosom thou should'st find That all thy deep, thy brilliant, lore, Which charm'd it once, now charms no more: Frown not, if, on thy cla.s.sic line, One strange, uncall'd-for, tear should shine; Frown not, if, when a smile should start, A sigh should heave an aching heart: If Mem'ry, roving far away, Should an unmeaning homage pay, Should ask thee for thy golden fruit, And, when thou deign'st to hear her suit, Should turn her from the proffer'd food, To tread the shades of Solitude: Frown not, if, in the humble line, Ungrac'd by any thought of thine, Should but that gentle name appear, Fond cause of ev'ry joy and fear; I love, tho' rude, I love it more, Than all thy piles of letter'd lore: Frown not if ev'ry airy word, Which Beauty breathes, or Love has heard, More rich, more eloquently, flow, To Mem'ry gives a warmer glow, Than all by thee so much approv'd, The wit of age on age improv'd.

Go, then! and, since it is denied That thou shalt be my radiant guide!

Leave me to sigh, to weep, to prove How little Learning is to Love.

SONG.

Wilt thou, because thy Florio loves, Forsake the giddy glitt'ring throng, With him to dwell in peaceful groves, With him to hear the shepherd's song?

Can'st thou, without a sigh, resign The homage by thy charms inspir'd?

To one, oh! say, can'st thou confine What oft so many have admir'd?

Sweet maid! oh! bless'd shall be our love, Till time shall bid it cease to flow; With thee shall ev'ry moment prove A little heaven form'd below!

THE FURY OF DISCORD

In a chariot of fire, thro h.e.l.l's flaming arch, The Fury of Discord appear'd; A myriad of demons attended her march, And in Gallia her standard she rear'd.

Thy name, so enchanting, sweet Freedom! she took, But in vain did she try to a.s.sume Thy smile of content, thy enlivening look, And thy roseate mountainous bloom.

For wan was her visage, and phrensied her eye, At her girdle a poniard she wore; Her bosom and limbs were expos'd to the sky, And her robe was besprinkled with gore.

Nature shudder'd, and sigh'd as the wild rabble past, Each flow'r droop'd its beautiful head; The groves became dusky, and moan'd in the blast, And Virtue and Innocence fled.

She rose from her car 'midst the yell of her crew; Emblazon'd, a scroll she unfurl'd, And on it the dreams of Philosophy drew; "'Tis the Charter, she cried, of the World."

Plunder, keen-ey'd and lean, rang with plaudits the sky, Murder grinn'd as he whetted his steel; While Blasphemy swore the Redeemer on high Was the creature of Folly and Zeal.

The scaffold grew red with the blood of the brave, Kings turn'd pale on their thrones at her nod; While Loyalty fled to the gloom of the cave, And Piety knelt to her G.o.d.

At length, after changing her chiefs at her will, As their mischievous zeal grew remiss, She sought a fresh fav'rite, with dexterous skill, From Obscurity's darkest abyss.

The pow'rs of her monstrous adoption to try, 'Midst, Syria! thy waterless waste, She bade him the blast of thy desert outvie, And defile all thy relics of taste.

The chieftain obey'd: with a merciful air He wrung from thy natives a tear; But the justice and valour of Britain, e'en there, Shook his legions, recoiling with fear.

Well-pleas'd with his crimes, the Fury, with flight, To her empire safe wafted him o'er; Whilst the spectres of Jaffa, with ghastly delight, The murd'rer pursued to the sh.o.r.e.

Arriv'd, for his brow, lo! a turban she made, Bright with gems pluck'd from Gallia's crown; To give him a name, she Rome's hist'ry survey'd, In the days of her early renown.

To embellish his guilt, or to soften its shade, The Arts mournful captives she kept; And the plund'rer and plunder of Europe display'd To the wand'rer, who wonder'd and wept.

To support this apostate imperial shade, This impious mock'ry of good, She rais'd a banditti, to whom she convey'd His spirit for plunder and blood.

The chiefs of the earth in a panic beheld The flash of his sabre afar; They enter'd, but pensively mov'd from the field, And bow'd to this idol of war.

Till, fum'd with the incense of slavish applause, O'er the globe's fairest portion he trod; And, spurning its liberty, spirit, and laws, Conceiv'd himself rais'd to a G.o.d.

But England disdain'd to the Tyrant to bend; Still erect, undismay'd, she was found; Infuriate, he swore that "his bolt should descend,"

And her temples should fall to the ground.