Vignettes In Verse Part 2

But if the destiny of Spain, Be once again to rise, Oh! grant me heaven, to read the tale, In Manuel's joyful eyes!

IX.

SONNET.

I am unskill'd in speech: my tongue is slow The graceful courtesies of life to pay; To deck kind meanings up in trim array, Keeping the mind's soft tone: words such as flow From Complaisance, when she alone inspires!

And Caution, with a care that never tires, Marshals each tribe of thoughts in such a way That all are ready for their needful task, The moment the occasion comes to ask, All prompt to hear, to answer and obey; When mine, undisciplin'd, their cause betray, By coward falterings, or rebellious zeal!-- And Art, though subtle, though sublime thy sway, I doubt if thou canst rule us, when we feel!

X.

ALL' AMICA.

And didst thou think that worldly art Would mould anew this shrinking heart?

No! as a bird, by storms opprest, Is sheltered in its silent nest, I nurse and soothe it in the strife, Screen from the bleakest airs of life, And bring it all that once you knew, As kind, as timid, and as true!

But how could I so foolish be, As not to feel a doubt of thee?-- This joy to find me still the same Takes from my lip the power to blame; Else, but forgive me, else I find A mist has stolen o'er thy mind, And veil'd my prospect; dimm'd that light Which once was warm, and clear, and bright.

XI.

TO THE SAME.

Go forth, my voice, through the wild air, In the lone stillness of the night, Beneath the cold moon's pale blue light; Seek Eugenia, and declare, As warmth and promise lurk below A waste of lifeless, drifted snow;

So, while my lips inertly move, While many heavy fetters bind, And press upon my languid mind, Oh! tell her not to doubt my love!

Affection still her hold shall keep, Although her weary servants sleep.

Friendship to me is like a flower, Yielding a balm for human woe, I less than ever could forego; More prized, more needed every hour!

Perchance it dies for want of care, But as it withers, I despair!

XII.

_To the late Lady Rouse Boughton_.

'Tis said, that jealous of a name We all would praise confine, And choke the leading path to fame In our peculiar line.

But vainly should detraction preach If once I made it known, The art of pleasing thou would'st teach Acknowledg'd for thy own.

XIII.

Yes! I can suffer, sink with pain, With anguish I can ill sustain; Till not a hope has strength to spring, Till scarce a prayer can lift its wing; Yet in my inmost heart there lies A living fount that will arise, And, of itself, diffuse a balm, A healing and refreshing calm, A pure delight, a cooling glow, Which Hate and Meanness cannot know!

Yes! I can faint, and I can fear, The power of petty creatures here, Who trick dark deeds in gay disguise, And weave their web of brooded lies, With so few threads made smooth and fair, All seems plain sense and reason there; And yet I would not learn their art, Nor have their paltry spells by heart, Their rankling blood within my veins, For all the treasure earth contains!

Oft, panic-struck, I sink, dismay'd, Call, with expiring faith, for aid; When all my efforts useless seem, Emptied of force as in a dream, My courage knows to persevere, Entwin'd, o'ergrown, o'ertowered by fear!

As he who summoned in the night, At sudden wreck, in wild affright, Once throws his arms around a mast, Continues still to hold it fast, When sight and strength and aim are flown, When cold, benumb'd, and senseless grown, My soul, by hurrying tempests driven, Though blinded from the light of Heaven, Clinging, all hope, all comfort o'er, Must yet awaken on the sh.o.r.e!

XIV.

TO MR. AND MRS. EVERARD,

_On their only Son's being in the Navy_, 1811.

Talent and beauty, and the heart's warm glow, Gilding with Heavenly light his path below, Few with such rare felicity have won, In that rich prize, a dear and only son; And fewer but those faculties would doom To the soft prison of a pamper'd home; Check his bold wishes when they soar'd on high, And see well-pleas'd each early vision die; But ye, enweaving, as to me appears, With his bright hopes, those of maturer years, Hallowing the web, with all that parents feel, The saintly trust in Heav'n, the patriot's zeal, The aching doubts, that still tenacious wind Around the lofty and the tender mind; Ye, with a more than Roman virtue, yield, To the proud strife of Albion's liquid field, This darling; and, in whispers, bid him wear The finest wreath that buds and blossoms there; And I could almost say I heard a strain p.r.o.nounce--the sacrifice should not be vain!

XV.

TO THE HON. LADY J----,

_With the Picture of her Grand-daughter, the present Lady Petre._

1813.

Behold the semblance of thy flower!

I could not fill its leaves with dew, Shew its tints varying with the hour, Its motion as the zephyrs blew.

And beauty too were more complete, Appearing on the native stem, In midst of buds and blossoms sweet, And catching graces, charms from them.

Or blooming under eyes like thine, Whose fond, soft gaze, whose tender tear, Must also, losing power divine, Awake no answering sweetness here.

For much of loveliness must sleep, E'en when inspir'd and led by truth; The faithful pencil aims to keep Mildness and innocence and youth.