Poetic Sketches Part 2

STANZAS.

Say why is the stern eye averted with scorn, Of the stoic, who pa.s.ses along?

And why frowns the maid, else as mild as the morn, On the victim of falshood and wrong?

For the wretch sunk in sorrow, repentance, and shame, The tear of compa.s.sion is won: And alone, must she forfeit the wretch's sad claim, Because she's deceiv'd and undone?

Oh! recall the stern look ere it reaches her heart, To bid its wounds rankle anew, Oh! smile, or embalm with a tear the sad smart, And angels will smile upon you.

Time was, when she knew nor opprobrium nor pain, And youth could its pleasures impart, Till some serpent distill'd through her bosom the stain, As he wound round the strings of her heart.

Poor girl! let thy tears through thy blandishments break, Nor strive to restrain them within; For mine would I mingle with those on thy cheek, Nor think that such sorrow were sin.

When the low-trampled reed, and the pine in its pride, Shall alike feel the hand of decay, May your G.o.d grant that mercy the world has deny'd, And wipe all your sorrows away.

_SONNET_.

TO HOPE.

How droops the wretch whom adverse fates pursue, While sad experience, from his aching sight, Sweeps the fair prospects of unprov'd delight Which flattering friends and flattering fancies drew.

When want a.s.sails his solitary shed, When dire distraction's horrent eye-ball glares, Seen 'mid the myriad of tumultuous cares That shower their shafts on his devoted head.

Then, ere despair usurp his vanquish'd heart, Is there a power, whose influence benign Can bid his head in pillow'd peace recline, And from his breast withdraw the barbed dart?

There is--sweet Hope! misfortune rests on thee-- Unswerving anchor of humanity!

THOUGHTS ON PEACE.

Still e'er that shrine defiance rears its head, Which rolls in sullen murmurs o'er the dead, That shrine which conquest, as it stems the flood.

Too often tinges deep with human blood; Still o'er the land stern devastation reigns, Its giant mountains, and its spreading plains, Where the dark pines, their heads all gloomy, wave, Or rushing cataracts, loud-sounding, lave The precipice, whose brow with awful pride Tow'rs high above, and scorns the foaming tide; The village sweet, the forest stretching far, Groan undistinguish'd, 'midst the shock of war.

There, the rack'd matron sees her son expire, There, clasps the infant son his murder'd sire, While the sad virgin on her lover's face, Weeps, with the last farewel, the last embrace, And the lone widow too, with frenzied cries, Amid the common wreck, unheeded dies.

O Peace, bright Seraph, heaven-lov'd maid, return!

And bid distracted nature cease to mourn!

O, let the ensign drear of war be furl'd, And pour thy blessings on a bleeding world; Then social order shall again expand, It's sovereign good again shall bless the land, Elate the simple villager shall see, Contentment's inoffensive revelry; Then, once again shall o'er the foaming tide, The swelling sail of commerce fearless ride, With bounteous hand shall plenty grace our sh.o.r.e, And cheerless want's complaint be known no more.

Then hear a nation's pray'r, lov'd G.o.ddess, hear!

Wipe the wan cheek, deep-lav'd by many a tear; Nature, the triumph foul of horror o'er, Shall raise her frame to scenes of blood no more; Pale recollection shall recall her woes, Again shall paint her agonizing throes: These, o'er the earth thine empire firm shall raise, Unaw'd by war's destructive storms, the bliss of future days.

_SONNET_

TO CHARITY.

Oh! best belov'd of heaven, on earth bestow'd To raise the pilgrim, sunk with ghastly fears, To cool his burning wounds, to wipe his tears, And strew with amaranths his th.o.r.n.y road.

Alas! how long has superst.i.tion hurl'd Thine altars down, thine attributes revil'd, The hearts of men with witchcrafts foul beguil'd, And spread his empire o'er the va.s.sal world?

But truth returns! she spreads resistless day; And mark, the monster's cloud-wrapt fabric falls-- He shrinks--he trembles 'mid his inmost halls, And all his d.a.m.n'd illusions melt away!

The charm dissolv'd--immortal, fair, and free, Thy holy fanes shall rise, celestial Charity!

PROLOGUE,

TO PUBLIC READINGS AT A YOUNG GENTLEMEN'S ACADEMY.

Once more we venture here, to prove our worth, And ask indulgence kind, to tempt us forth: Seek not perfection from our essays green, That, in man's n.o.blest works, has never been, Nor is, nor e'er will be; a work exempt From fault to form, as well might man attempt T'explore the vast infinity of s.p.a.ce, Or fix mechanic boundaries to grace.

Hard is the finish'd Speaker's task; what then Must be our danger, to pursue the pen Of the 'rapt Bard, through all his varied turns, Where joy extatic smiles, or sorrow mourns?

Where Richard's soul, red in the murtherous lave, Shrinks from the night-yawn'd tenants of the grave, While coward conscience still affrights his eye, Still groans the dagger'd sound, "despair and die."

And hapless Juliet's unextinguish'd flame, Gives to the tomb she mock'd, her beauteous frame; Yet diff'rent far, where Claudio sees return'd To life, and love, the maid too rashly spurn'd; Or Falstaff, in his sympathetic scroll, Forth to the Wives of Windsor pours his soul.

Again, forsaking mirth's fantastic rites, The Muse to follow, through her n.o.bler flights, Where Milton paints angelic hosts in arms, And Heaven's wide champaign rings with dire alarms, Till 'vengeful justice wings its dreadful way, And hurls the apostate from the face of day.

Immortal Bards! high o'er oblivion's shroud Their names shall live, pre-eminent and proud, Who s.n.a.t.c.h'd the keys of mystery from time, This world too little for their Muse sublime!

With Thomson, now, o'er sylvan scenes we stray, Or seek the lone church-yard, with pensive Gray: On Pope's refin'd, or Dryden's lofty strains, Dwell, while their fire the lightest heart enchains.

Through these and all our Bards to whom belong The pow'rs transcendent of immortal song, How difficult to steer t'avoid the cant Of polish'd phrase, and nerve-alarming rant; Each period with true elegance to round, And give the Poet's meaning in the sound.

But, wherefore should the Muse employ her verse, The peril of our labors to rehea.r.s.e?

Oft has your kind, your generous applause, E're now, convinc'd us, you approve our cause: Conscious it will again our task attend, The Critic stern, we ask not to commend, Who like inclement Winter's hostile frown Would beat th'infantine shrubs of Genius down.

By your kind sanction, spur'd to n.o.bler aims, Our country, now, the Muses' tribute claims: When o'er fair Albion war destructive lours, Oh! be those Patriot feelings ever ours, Which from the public mind spontaneous burst On that infuriate foe, by crimes accurst, Who'd o'er our envied isle his va.s.sals send, And all the land with dire convulsions rend.

Well! let their armies come, their locusts pour, Each British heart shall welcome them on sh.o.r.e, Each British hand is arm'd in Britain's cause, To guard their birth-right, liberty, and laws, Rise! Britons, rise! attend fair freedom's cry, The wretch who meanly fears deserves to die.

His kind protection 'gainst each latent foe, Still may that Pow'r Omnipotent bestow, Which first Britannia's sov'reign flag unfurl'd So high, it flames a beacon to the World!

THE BEGGAR.

Of late I saw him on his staff reclin'd, Bow'd down beneath a weary weight of woes, Without a roof to shelter from the wind His head, all h.o.a.r with many a winter's snows.

All tremb'ling he approach'd, he strove to speak; The voice of misery scarce my ear a.s.sail'd; A flood of sorrow swept his furrow'd cheek, Remembrance check'd him, and his utt'rance fail'd.

For he had known full many a better day; And when the poor-man at his threshold bent, He drove him not with aching heart away, But freely shar'd what Providence had sent.

How hard for him, the stranger's boon to crave, And live to want the mite his bounty gave!

TO .........