Poems by Sir John Carr Part 2

SONG.

Nature's imperfect child, to whom The world is wrapt in viewless gloom, Can unresisted still impart The fondest wishes of his heart.

And he, to whose impervious ear The sweetest sounds no charms dispense, Can bid his inmost soul appear In clear, tho' silent, eloquence.

But we, my Julia, not so blest, Are doom'd a diff'rent fate to prove,-- To feel each joy and hope supprest That flow from pure, but hidden, love.

IMPROMPTU LINES,

UPON ANACREON MOORE'S SAYING THAT HE DISLIKED SINGING TO MEN.

By Beauty's caresses, like Cupid, half-spoil'd, Thus Music's and Poesy's favourite child Exclaim'd,--"'Tis, by Heaven! a terrible thing Before a _he_-party to sit and to sing!"

"By my shoul! Master Moore, you there may be right,"

Said a son of green Erin; "tho' dear to my sight Are all the sweet cratures, call'd women, I swear, Yet I think we can feel just as well as the fair: Tho' you'd bribe us with songs, blood and 'ounds! let me say, I'd not be a woman for one in your way."

LINES TO JULIA.

Tho', Julia, we are doom'd to part, Tho' unknown pangs invade this heart, For thee the light of love shall burn, To thee my soul in secret turn: Upon this bosom, swell'd with care, The thought of thee shall tremble there 'Till Time shall close these weeping eyes, And close the soothing source of sighs.

So, in the silence of the night, Shines on the wave the lunar light; With its soft image, bright, imprest, It heaves, and seems to know no rest: Its agitation soon is o'er; It sighs, and dies along the sh.o.r.e!

LINES

_To the Memory of Mrs. A.H. Holdsworth_,

LATE OF MOUNT GALPIN, DEVONSHIRE.

Tyrant of all our loves and friendships here, Behold thy beauteous victim!--Ah! tis thine To rend fond hearts, and start the tend'rest tear Where joy should long in cloudless radiance shine.

Alas! the mourning Muse in vain would paint, Blest shade! how purely pa.s.s'd thy life away, Or, with the meekness of a favour'd saint, How rose thy spirit to the realms of day.

'Twas thine to fill each part that gladdens life, Such as approving angels smile upon;-- The faultless daughter, parent, friend, and wife,-- Virtues short-lived! they set just as they shone.

Thus, in the bosom of some winding grove, Where oft the pensive melodist retires, From his sweet instrument, the note of love, Charms the rapt ear, but, as it charms, expires.

Farewell, pure spirit! o'er thine early grave Oblivion ne'er shall spread her freezing shade; Nature shall bid her richest foliage wave Where her reposing fav'rite child is laid.

There widow'd fondness oft, when summers bloom.

Shall with thy infant pledge of love repair; Oft shall they kneel beside thy mossy tomb, And tears shall dew the flow'rs that blossom there.

LINES

_Written upon a Watch-String_,

MADE AND PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ----.

Say, lovely Charlotte! will you let me prove What diff'rent thoughts thy taste and beauty move?

This woven chain, which graceful skill displays, Leads me to think of time, and heave a sigh; But when on thee and on thy charms I gaze, Time unremember'd moves, or seems to die.

LINES

_Upon a Diamond Cross_,

WORN ON HER BOSOM BY MISS C.M.

Well on that neck, sweet Kitty! may you wear The sparkling cross, with hopes to soften Heaven; For trust me, tho' so very young and fair, Thou hast some little sins to be forgiven:-- For all the hopes which wit and grace can spread, For all the sighs which countless charms can move, Fall, lovely Kitty! on thy youthful head; Yet fall they gently--for the crime is love.

LINES TO FORTUNE,

Occasioned by a very amiable and generous Friend of mine munificently presenting Miss E.S. with a Donation of Fifteen Thousand Pounds.

Oh, Fortune! I have seen thee shed A plenteous show'r of treasure down On many a weak and worthless head, On those who but deserv'd thy frown.

And I have heard, in lonely shade, Her sorrows hapless Merit pour; And thou hast pa.s.s'd the drooping maid, To give some pamper'd fav'rite more.

But tho' so cold, or strangely wild, It seems that worth can sometimes move; Thou hast on gentle Emma smil'd, And thou hast smil'd where all approve:--

For Nature form'd her gen'rous heart With ev'ry virtue, pure, refin'd; And wit and taste, and grace and art, United to illume her mind.

So dew-drops fall on some rare flow'r, That merits all their fost'ring care, As tho' they knew that, by their pow'r, Grateful 'twould wider scent the air.