Poems by Sir John Carr Part 7

A SONG.

These shades were made for Love alone,-- Here only smiles and kisses sweet Shall play around his flow'ry throne, And doves shall sentinel the seat.

Come, Delia! 'tis a genial day; It bids us to his bow'r repair:-- "But what will little Cupid say?"-- "Say! sweet?--why, give a welcome there."

There not a tell-tale beam shall peep Upon thy beauty's rich display,-- There not a breeze shall dare to sweep The leaves, to whisper what we say.

LINES

ON LADY W---- APPEARING AT THE EXHIBITION.

When lovely Delphine sought the crowded scene, The painter's mimic pow'r no longer mov'd; All turn'd to gaze upon her beauteous mien, None envied her, for, as they look'd, they lov'd.

Amid the proud display of forms so fair, Of each fine tint the pencil can impart, Nature with rapture seem'd to lead her there, To prove how she could triumph over Art.

LINES

WRITTEN AT BRIGHTON.

From Mirth's bright circle, from the giddy throng, How sweet it is to steal away at eve, To listen to the homeward fisher's song, Whilst dark the waters of the ocean heave;--

And on the sloping beach to bear the spray Dash 'gainst some h.o.a.ry vessel's broken side; Whilst, far illumin'd by the parting ray, The distant sail is faintly seen to glide.

Yes, 'tis Reflection's chosen hour; for then, With pensive pleasure mingling o'er the scene, Th' erratic mind treads over life again, And gazes on the past with eye serene.

Those stormy pa.s.sions which bedimm'd the soul, That oft have bid the joys it treasur'd fly, Now, like th' unruffled waves of Ocean, roll With gentle lapse--their only sound a sigh.

The galling wrong no longer knits the brow, Ambition feels the folly of her aim; And Pity, from the heart expanding, now Pants to extend relief to ev'ry claim.

Thus, as I sit beside the murm'ring sea, And o'er its darkness trace light's parting streak, I feel, O Nature! that serenity Which vainly poetry like mine can speak!

O'er the drear tract of Time, Remembrance views Some dear, some long-departed, pleasure gleam;-- So o'er the dark expanse the eye pursues Upon the wat'ry edge a transient beam.

The spot fraternal love has sacred made, Solemn, yet sweet, like groves in twilight gloom, Mem'ry revisits, and beneath its shade Faintly it sees each faded joy re-bloom.

By Fancy led, from Death's cold bed of stone, Lovely, tho' wan, what cherish'd form appears?

Oh! gentle Anna[A]! at thy name alone, Genius, and Grace, and Virtue, smile in tears.

Half-wrapp'd in mist I see thy figure move, O'er thy pale cheek appears its wonted smile; With lunar l.u.s.tre beam those looks of love, That once could life of ev'ry care beguile:

Faintly I hear thy angel-voice again; There's music in the sweet and dying sound; Like Philomela's soft and echo'd strain, It spreads a soothing consolation round.

Adieu, bless'd shade!--Imagination roves To distant regions, o'er th' Atlantic wave; Ah! not to genial skies, or fragrant groves, To drop a tear upon a kindred grave.

Hard was thy fate, Eliza[B]!--It was thine, Tho' wit thy mind, tho' beauty grac'd thy form, Behind Affliction's weeping cloud to shine, With star-like radiance, in a night of storm.

Fierce from the sun the fiery fever flew, And bade the burning sand become thy tomb!

O'er thee no willow drops its mourning dew, Nor spotless lilies o'er thy bosom bloom!

Oh! when we stood around our brother's bier, And wept in life's full bloom to see him torn, Ah! little did ye think that such a tear As then ye shed so soon your fate would mourn.

Farewell, dear shades! accept this mournful song, At once the tribute of my grief and love; Fain would it try your virtues to prolong, Here priz'd and honour'd, and now bless'd above.

[Footnote A: Mrs. Hodges, a sister of the author.]

[Footnote B: Mrs Fountaine, another sister of the author, who accompanied her husband to Africa, and died at the Government-house, in one of the British settlements on that coast, where she survived but a short time the death of three of her children.]

ECHO.

Echo! thou sweet enchantress of the grove!

Oh! cease to answer to the tones of love; Or teach my Delia in thine art divine, Thou loveliest nymph! to hear and answer mine!

OCCASIONAL LINES

_Repeated at an elegant Entertainment_

GIVEN BY LIEUTENANT-COLONEL D---- TO HIS FRIENDS

IN THE RUINS OF BERRY CASTLE, DEVONSHIRE.[A]

By your permission, Ladies! I address ye, And for the boon you grant, my Muse shall bless ye.

I do not mean in solemn verse to tell What fate the race of Pomeroy befell; To trace the castle-story of each year, To learn how many owls have hooted here; What was the weight of stone, which form'd this pile, Will on your lovely cheeks awake no smile: Such antiquarian sermons suit not me, Nor any soul who loves festivity.

Past times I heed not; be the present hour In life, while yet it blooms, my chosen flow'r, For well I know, what Time cannot disown, Amidst this mossy pile of mould'ring stone, That Hospitality was never seen To spread more social joy upon the green; Or, when its n.o.ble and capacious hall Rang with the gambol gay, or graceful ball, More beauty never charm'd its ancient beaux Than what its honour'd ruins now enclose.

Thanks to the clouds, which from the soaking show'r Preserve the vot'ries of the present hour; For, strange to tell, beneath the chilling storm, Lately the rose reclin'd her frozen form; Yet since, beneath the favour of the weather, We are (a laughing group) conven'd together, Pray let the Muse pursue her merry route, To shew what pa.s.s'd before we all set out.

To some fair damsel, who, intent to charm, Declares she thinks the weather fine and warm, Such words as these address her trembling ear-- "I really think we shall have rain, my dear; Pray do not go, my love," cries soft mama; "You shall not go, that's flat," cries stern papa.

A lucky sunbeam shines on the discourse, The parents soften, and Miss mounts her horse.

Each tickled with some laugh-inspiring notion, Behold the jocund party all in motion: Some by a rattling buggy are befriended, Some mount the cart--but not to be suspended.

The mourning-coach[B] is wisely counter-order'd (The very thought on impious rashness border'd), Because the luckless vehicle, one night, Put all its merry mourners in a fright, Who, to conduct them to the masquerade, Sought from its crazy wheels their moving aid.

Us'd to a soleme pace, the creaking load Bounded unwillingly along the road; Down came the whole--oh! what a sight was there!

O'er a blind Fiddler roll'd a Flow'r-Nymph fair; A glitt'ring Spaniard, who had lost his nose, Roar'd out, "Oh! d--n it, take away your toes;"

A blooming Nun fell plump upon a Jew, Still to the good old cause of traffic true, Buried in clothes, exclaim'd the son of barter, "Got blesh my shoul! you'll sh.e.l.l this pretty garter?"