Poems by Sir John Carr Part 5

Upon her appearing at a Ball in an elegant Plaid Dress,

AND HAVING REPEATEDLY BEFORE EXPRESSED HER PREFERENCE OF THE SCOTISH NATION.

Is it that plaided thus you wish to prove How northern is the region of your love?

Ah, Mary! tho', within that far-fam'd clime, Deeds have been done that mock the wreck of Time; Tho' there the brave have bled, or, o'er the wave, On distant sh.o.r.es have found a glorious grave; Tho' there the mountain-nymph of song has pour'd Her loftiest strain, to bless the hero's sword; Still, lovely wand'rer, with a jealous eye, O'er Scotia's hills we see thy fancy fly; For _here_ the warrior oft has rais'd his sword, The patriot too his n.o.ble blood has pour'd; _Here_ too the sweet Recorder of the brave Has sat and sung upon her hero's grave.

Then cease, romantic maid! ah, cease to rove; The very wood-dove loves its native grove: Oh! then, let Nature bid thy guileless heart Here shed its love, and all its warmth impart; And on the land that gave thee birth bestow The fondness which it claims, and treasures too.

A SONG.

TO THE MOON.

Thou, lamp! the G.o.ds benignly gave, To light a lover on his way; Thou, Moon! along the silv'ry wave, Ah! safe this flutt'ring heart convey:--

Sweet is thy light, and sweet thy shade, The _guide_ and _guardian_ of our bliss, A lover's panting lips to lead, Or veil him in the ravish'd kiss.

Her white robe floats upon the air; My Lyra hears the dashing oar: Ye floods, oh! speed me to my fair!

My soul is with her long before.

Oh! lightly haste, thy lover view, And ev'ry anxious fear resign; Ye tow'rs, no longer fear'd, adieu!

The treasure which ye held is mine!

LINES

_Upon the Death of the Lady of Lieutenant-Colonel Adams_,

WHO LATELY DIED OF A DECLINE IN THE EAST INDIES.

When Time a mellowing tint has thrown O'er many a scene to mem'ry dear.

It scatters round a charm, unknown When first th' impression rested there.

But, oh! should distance intervene, Should Ocean's wave, should changeful clime.

Divide--how sweeter far the scene!

How richer ev'ry tint of time!

E'en thus with those (a treasur'd few) Who gladden'd life with many a smile, Tho' long has pa.s.s'd the sad adieu, In thought we love to dwell awhile.

Then with keen eye, and beating heart, The anxious mind still seeks relief From those who can the tale impart, How pa.s.s their day, in joy or grief.

If haply health and fortune bless, We feel as if on us they shone; If sickness and if sorrow press, Then feeling makes their woes our own.

'Twas thus of Mira oft I thought, Oft dwelt upon the scenes she grac'd: Her form in beauty's mould was wrought, Her mind the seat of sense and taste.

Long, hov'ring o'er her fleeting breath, Love kept his watch in silent gloom; He saw her meekly yield to Death, And knelt a mourner at her tomb.

When the night-breeze shall softly blow, When the bright moon upon the flood Shall spread her beams (a silv'ry show), And dark be many a waving wood,--

When, dimly[A] seen, in robes of white, A mournful train along the grove Shall bear the lamp of sacred light, To deck the turf of those they love,--

Then shall the wood-dove quit its bow'r, And seek the spot were she is laid; Its wild and mournful notes shall pour A requiem to her hallow'd shade.

And Friendship oft shall raise the veil Time shall have drawn o'er pleasures past, And Fancy shall repeat the tale Of happy hours, too sweet to last!

But when she mourns o'er Mira's bier, And when the fond illusion ends, Oh! then shall fall the genuine tear That drops for dear departed friends!

[Footnote A: Mr. Hodges, in his Travels in India, page 28, mentions, that between Banglepoor and Mobgheir, it is the custom of the women of the family to attend the tombs of their friends after sun-set; and observes, "it is both affecting and curious to see them proceeding in groups, carrying lamps in their hands, which they place at the head of the tomb."]

LINES

TO MISS C.

_On her leaving the Country_.

Since Friendship soon must bid a fond adieu, And, parting, wish your charms she never knew, Dear Laura hear one genuine thought express'd, Warm from the heart, and to the heart address'd:-- Much do I wish you all your soul holds dear, To sooth and sweeten ev'ry trouble here; But heav'n has yielded such an ample store, You cannot ask, nor can I wish you, more; Bless'd with a sister's love, whose gentle mind, Still pure tho' polish'd, virtuous and refin'd, Will aid your tend'rer years and innocence Beneath the shelter of her riper sense.

Charm'd with the bright example may you move, And, loving, richly copy what you love.

Adieu! and blame not if an artless pray'r Should, self-directed, ask one moment's care:-- When years and absence shall their shade extend, Reflect who sighs adieu, and call him--friend.

LINES

TO A ROBIN.

_Written during a severe Winter_.

Why, trembling, silent, wand'rer! why, From me and Pity do you fly?

Your little heart against your plumes Beats hard--ah! dreary are these glooms!

Famine has chok'd the note of joy That charm'd the roving shepherd-boy.

Why, wand'rer, do you look so shy?

And why, when I approach you, fly?

The crumbs which at your feet I strew Are only meant to nourish you; They are not thrown with base decoy, To rob you of one hour of joy.

Come, follow to my silent mill, That stands beneath yon snow-clad hill; There will I house your trembling form, There shall your shiv'ring breast be warm: And, when your little heart grows strong, I'll ask you for your simple song; And, when you will not tarry more, Open shall be my wicket-door; And freely, when you chirp "adieu,"

I'll wish you well, sweet warbler! too; I'll wish you many a summer-hour On top of tree, or abbey-tow'r.

When Spring her wasted form retrieves, And gives your little roof its leaves, May you (a happy lover) find A kindred partner to your mind: And when, amid the tangled spray, The sun shall shoot a parting ray, May all within your mossy nest Be safe, be merry, and be blest.