Poems by Sir John Carr Part 20

Yes, here, if his banner is destin'd to wave, It shall float o'er her temples laid low, O'er piles of her children, who, loyal and brave, Such a victory never will know.

Oh! banish the thought; for, learn 'tis in vain, Thus, thou maniac Tyrant, to boast; As soon shall her base be remov'd by the main, As her empire by thee and thy host.

The sound is gone forth, 'tis recorded above, To the mountain it spread from the vale; "Our G.o.d, and our King, and our Country, we love, And for them we will die or prevail."

Then hasten the day, if thy threat be sincere, Let the winds blow thy myriads along; Then soon may thy boasted armada appear, And our rocks catch thy death-breathing song.

Thy guardian, foul deity! hideous with crime, Shall view, as she moves to our sh.o.r.e, The Genius of Britain, mild, brave, and sublime, And shall boast her achievements no more.

Oh! direful and strange will the contest appear, Big with freedom to nations afar; The good, who confide, and the guilty, who fear, Shall join in the conflict of war.

In Heaven, with smiles, shall the happy and blest Lean over its bright-beaming walls, To guide and support to the regions of rest The soul of the patriot who falls.

Britannia! thy Muse, on a rock high and steep, The fate of the fight shall proclaim; The strings of her lyre Inspiration shall sweep, Recording each hero by name.

The world to its centre shall shake with delight, As thus she announces their fall; "They sink! our invaders submit to our might, The ocean has buried them all!"

LINES TO ANNETTE.

Canst thou, Annette, thy lover see?

His trembling love unfolded hear?

And mark the while th' impa.s.sion'd tear, Th' impa.s.sion'd tear of agony?

Adown his anxious features steal, Nor then one burst of pity feel?

But, as bereav'd of ev'ry sense, Look on with cold indifference.

Go, then, Annette, in all thy charms, Go bless some gayer, happier, arms; Go, rest secure, thy fear give o'er, These eyes shall follow thee no more; And never shall these lips impart One thought of all that rends my heart.

Yet, since will burst the frequent sigh, And since the tear will ever fall, From thee and from the world I'll fly; Deserts shall hide, shall silence, all.

LINES

SENT WITH SOME INDIAN ROUGE TO MISS W----.

Go, faithless bloom! on Delia's cheek Your boasted captivations try; Alas! o'er Nature would you seek To gain one moment's victory?

Her softer tint, sweet look, and gentle air, Shall prove you're but a vain intruder there.

But go, display your charms and taste; Soon shall you blush a richer red, To find your mimic pow'r surpa.s.s'd; And, whilst upon her cheek you spread Your vermeil hue, tell her ingenuous heart, 'Tis the first time she ever practis'd art.

MISS W---- RETURNED THE ROUGE

_With the following elegant Lines_.

When men exert their utmost pow'rs, To while away the tedious hours, With soothing Flatt'ry's art, When ev'ry art and work well skill'd, And ev'ry look with poison fill'd, a.s.sail a woman's heart,

Tho' ardently she'd wish to be Proof 'gainst the charms of Flattery, The task is hard, I ween; Self-love will whisper "'Tis quite true, Who can there be more fair than you?

Who more admir'd, when seen?"

Then take this tempting gift of thine, Nor e'er again wish me to shine In any borrow'd bloom: Nor rouge, nor compliments, can charm; Full well I know they both will harm; Truth is my only plume.

LINES TO A YOUNG LADY,

OCCASIONED BY HER DECLINING AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE

_Made her by a very accomplished Friend of the Author_.

Oh! form'd to prompt the smile or tear, At once so sweet, yet so severe!

As much for you as him I grieve; Ah! thoughtless! if you thus can leave A mind with wit and learning bright, Where Temper sheds its cloudless light; Where manly honour, taste refin'd, With ev'ry virtue, are combin'd; If you can quit a heart so true, Which has so often throbb'd for you, I'll pity, tho' I can't reprove; And did I, such is Florio's love, Eager he'd fly to take thy part, E'en in a war against his heart.

THE MUSHROOM.

Awake, my Muse! awake each slumb'ring string, And (mighty subject!) of a Mushroom sing, Fair to the eye, and pleasant to the taste; Charm'd by the note, a pigmy group, in haste, Lay down their grainy loads, as slow they move Thro' lanes of reed and gra.s.s, to them a grove!

As if an Orpheus thou, they gather round, Erect their tiny ears, and drink the sound.

Gray was the sky, save where the eastern ray O'er fragrant hills proclaim'd th' approaching day; Rurilla, loveliest virgin of the plain, With spirits light, and mind without a stain, Rose from her simple bed, refresh'd with rest; Ah, Sleep! with marble finger had'st thou prest Her lovely eyelids till a later hour, And by a blissful vision's fairy pow'r Hadst thou impress'd her mind with forms of love, The walk at eve, the kiss, the murm'ring dove, The little nymph had never sought the plain, Nor fill'd with one romantic thought this brain.

In russet gown, with sweet and simple air, She issued forth, like Hebe, young and fair, To neighb'ring field, fresh as the rosy dawn; Nor stile oppos'd her; like a bounding fawn Graceful she sprang: so prankish was the air, Had but the love-sick Daphanel been there, He would have sigh'd: alas! poor love-sick fool!

Thou rather Zephyr dost inflame than cool!

And now, my Muse, the fatal spot disclose, Where, bath'd with dew, the modest Mushroom rose.

Less fair the swan, by Richmond's flow'ry side, That in the river views herself with pride, As, gazing on her, some their stay prolong, To see her sail in majesty along.

Ill-fated child of earth! thy charms so fair, As oft with youthful beauty, prove thy snare: Now, as with dewy-spangled feet is seen The lovely maid to trace each ringlet green, Not distant far thy skin of velvet white She views, and to thee presses with delight Oh! might some deity, with potent arm, Arrest her flight, and alter ev'ry charm; Like Niobe dissolve into a tear, Or like the Delian virgin, when with fear She fled!--See on each beauteous limb appear Soft leaves and flow'rs, the sweetest of the year; And, taking root, spread round her fragrant breath O'er the fair form that now she dooms to death: But, ah! in vain, the pray'r no G.o.ddess hears; } She bends--she plucks--and, bath'd in purple tears,} The much-priz'd victim in her lap she bears! } Tears that, preserv'd in crystal, will prolong, And paint its worth beyond this simple song.

LINES

Written _en badinage_, after visiting a Paper-Mill near Tunbridge-Wells, in consequence of the lovely Miss W----, who excels in Drawing, requesting the Author to describe the Process of making Paper, in Verse.

Reader! I do not wish to brag; But, to display Eliza's skill, I'd proudly be the vilest rag That ever went to paper-mill.