ADVERTISEMENT.

Some of the Pieces in this volume have been separately published, at different times; the indulgence, I may say favour, with which they were individually received, has encouraged me to collect and re-publish them. I have added many others, which are now first printed. I shall be well satisfied, if they find as favourable a reception as their precursors; and are thought not to have increased the size, without at all increasing the merit, of the book.

I cannot omit this opportunity of thanking those Critics, who have honoured me by reviewing my verses. I owe them my warm acknowledgments for candidly measuring my Poems by their pretensions. They have looked at them as they really were;—as the amusements of the leisure hours of a man whose fortune will not favour his inclination to devote himself to poetry; and conceiving a favourable opinion of them in that character, have kindly expressed it.

London, December, 1827.

During the progress of these pages through the press, it has pleased Providence to inflict upon me the severest calamity that domestic life can sustain. In the private sorrows of the humble candidate for literary fame, I am aware that the world will feel no interest, yet humanity will forgive the weakness that struggles under such a bereavement, and will pardon the tear that falls upon such a tomb. If, indeed, the Being who is lost to her family and society were endowed only with those gifts and graces, which are shared by thousands of her sex, I should have been silent at this moment. To those who knew her,[1] and to know her was to esteem and love, this tribute will be superfluous; but to those who knew her not, I would say, that, superadded to every natural advantage, to the charms of every polite accomplishment, and to a cheerful and sincere piety, she was deeply imbued with the love of literature and of science. In these, her Lectures on the Physiology of the External Senses exhibit a splendid proof of her acquirements in their highest walks, and

are an imperishable memorial of her patient and laborious research. They who were present at the delivery of these Lectures will not soon forget the effect of her impressive elocution, chastened as it was by as unaffected modesty as ever adorned and dignified a woman. I speak of that which she performed—that which her capacious mind had meditated I forbear to mention. For the advancement of her sex in pursuits that are intellectual she made many sacrifices, both of her feelings and her time; yet, in all she did, and in all she contemplated, usefulness was her end and aim—but I must not proceed; less than this I could not say—more than this might be deemed ostentatious.

What earthly tongue, and, oh! what human pen Can tell that scene of suffering, too severe. 'Tis ever present to my sight, oh! when Will the sound cease its torture on mine ear?

Oh! my lost love, thou patient Being, never! Thy dying look of love can I forget; The last fond pressure of thy hand, for ever! Thrills in my veins, I see thy struggles yet.

Thy sculptured beauty is before me now: In thy calm dignity, and sweet repose, Alas! sad memory re-invests thy brow, With death's stern agony, and pain's last throes.

Desolate heart be still—forgive, oh God! The cries of feeble nature stricken sore. Father! assuage the terrors of thy rod. Teach me to see thy wisdom—and adore!

[Footnote 1: I cannot resist the melancholy gratification of quoting from the Literary Gazette, of August 18, in which the death of Mrs. Gent was announced to the public.—"Science has, since our last, suffered a severe lost by the death of this accomplished lady; she was well known for her high attainments as a Lecturer, and her Course on the Physiology of the External Senses was a perfect model of elegant composition and refined oratory. Mrs. Gent died at the residence of her husband, Thomas Gent, Esq. Doctor's Commons, after a month of severe suffering, which she bore with singular fortitude, and the most pious resignation. There is a fine bust of her, by Behnes; it was in the Exhibition two years since, and, from its intrinsic simplicity and beauty alone, has had many casts made from it."

And one of the most distinguished Poets of the present day, will, I am sure, forgive me if I quote his beautiful words in writing to me on this subject—for his talents she had the highest admiration, and no one was better able than himself to appreciate the excellence of her character.—"As to condolence, I never condole—what condolence could any one offer for the loss of so estimable a being as has been lost to society in your accomplished wife? I had a very great respect and esteem for her, and it would have highly gratified me to have been able to lighten the least of her trials; but what avails writing or visiting on occasions of such real pain. She lived a most amiable being—and for such there is the highest hope in the Highest World. If I had conceived that her illness was at all serious, I should have gone to gather wisdom from her for my own hour—but now, that all her anxieties are past, I can invent no condolence."]

CONTENTS.

Poems Mature Reflections The Grave of Dibdin A Sketch from Life On the Portrait of the Son of J.G. Lambton, Esq. Written in the Album of the Lady of Counsellor D. Pollock The Heliotrope Sonnet On seeing a Young Lady I had previously known, confined in a Madhouse Prometheus Rosa's Grave The Sibyl. A Sketch Love On a delightful Drawing in my Album Stanzas Shakspeare Impromptu. To Oriana, on attending with her, as Sponsors, at a Christening To my Spaniel Fanny Widowed Love Written to the Lady of Dr. George Birkbeck The Chain-pier, Brighton. A Sketch Sonnet. Morning. On the Death of Dr. Abel Sonnet. Night. Constancy. To ——— Epistle to a Friend Here in our Fairy Bowers we Dwell. A Glee Henry and Eliza Written on the Death of General Washington To ——— Monody on the Right Hon. R.B. Sheridan On the beautiful Portrait of Mrs. Forman, as Pandora Sonnet. To ———, on her Recovery from Illness To Margaret Jane H———, on her Birth-day The Runaway On Reading the Poem of "Paris." On the Death of Gen. Sir R. Abercrombie Retaliation

Lines, written in a Copy of the Poem on the Princess Charlotte Sonnet To Robert Soothey, Esq. on reading his "Remains of Henry Kirke White" The State Secret. An Impromptu The Morning Call Sonnet On the Rupture of the Thames' Tunnel Anacreontic. "The Wisest Men are Fools in Wine." Lines, written in Hornsey Wood To Mary Black Eyes and Blue Epigram. Auri Sacra Fames Sonnet. To Faith On a Spirited Portrait, by E. Landaeer, Esq. Sonnet. To Hope Lines, written on the Sixth of September Sonnet. To Charity Hymn Reflections of a Poet on going to a great Dinner Sunday A Night-Storm On the Death of Nelson The Blue-eyed Maid Taking Orders. A Tale, founded on fact The Gipsy's Home. A Glee Sonnet. The Beggar To ——— Song. "The Recal of the Hero." To Eliza. Written in her Album Elegy on the Death of A. Goldsmid, Esq. Sonnet. On the Death of Mrs. Charlotte Smith Mister Punch. A Hasty Sketch Content Epitaph. On Matilda To ———. An Impromptu The Steam-Boat Sonnet To Lydia, on her Birth-day To Sarah, while Singing To Thaddeus Youth and Age Sent for the Album of the Rev. G——- C——-

Written under an elegant Drawing of a Dead Canary Bird Lines suggested by the Death of the Princess Charlotte The Presumptuous Fly The Heroes of Waterloo The Night-blowing Cereus 1827; or, the Poet's Last Poem To the Reviewers

POEMS.

Tis sweet in boyhood's visionary mood, When glowing Fancy, innocently gay, Flings forth, like motes, her bright aërial brood, To dance and shine in Hope's prolific ray; 'Tis sweet, unweeting how the flight of years May darkling roll in trials and in tears, To dress the future in what garb we list, And shape the thousand joys that never may exist. But he, sad wight! of all that feverish train, Fool'd by those phantoms of the wizard brain, Most wildly dotes, whom young ambition stings To trust his weight upon poetic wings; He, downward looking in his airy ride, Beholds Elysium bloom on every side; Unearthly bliss each thrilling nerve attunes, And thus the dreamer with himself communes. Yes! Earth shall witness, 'ere my star be set, That partial nature mark'd me for her pet; That Phoebus doom'd me, kind indulgent sire! To mount his car, and set the world on fire. Fame's steep ascent by easy flights to win, With a neat pocket volume I'll begin; And dirge, and sonnet, ode, and epigram, Shall show mankind how versatile I am. The buskin'd Muse shall next my pen descry:

The boxes from their inmost rows shall sigh; The pit shall weep, the galleries deplore Such moving woes as ne'er were heard before: Enough—I'll leave them in their soft hysterics, Mount, in a brighter blaze, and dazzle with Homerics.

Then, while my name runs ringing through Reviews, And maids, wives, widows, smitten with my Muse, Assail me with Platonic billet-doux. From this suburban attic I'll dismount, With Coutts or Barclays open an account; Ranged in my mirror, cards, with burnish'd ends, Shall show the whole nobility my friends; That happy host with whom I choose to dine, Shall make set-parties, give his-choicest wine; And age and infancy shall gape to see The lucky bard, and whisper "That is he!"

Poor youth! he print—and wakes, to sleep no more— The world goes on, indifferent, as before; And the first notice of his metric skill Comes in the likeness of—his printer's bill; To pen soft notes no fair enthusiast stirs, Except his laundress—and who values her's? None but herself: for though the bard may burn Her note, she still expects one in return. The luckless maiden, all unblest shall sigh; His pocket tome hath drawn his pockets dry. His tragedy expires in peals of laughter; And that soul-thrilling wish—to live hereafter— Gives way to one as hopeless quite, I fear, And far more needful—how to live while here. Where are ye now, divine illusions all; Cheques, dinners, wines, admirers great and small! Changed to two followers, terrible to see, Who dog his walks, and whisper "That is he!"

Rhymesters attend! nor scorn & friendly hint, Restrain your cacoëths fierce to print. But hark, my printer's devil's at the door, My leisure cannot yield one moment more: Nor matters it, advice can ne'er restrain Madman or poet from his bent:—'tis vain To strive to point out colours to the blind, Or set men seeking what they will not find.

MATURE REFLECTIONS.

O Love! divinest dream of youth, Thy day of ecstacy is o'er, My bosom, touch'd by time and truth, Thrills at thy dear deceits no more.

Nor thou, Ambition! e'er again, With splendour dazzling to betray, And aspirations fierce and vain, Shall tempt my steps—away! away!

Alas! by stern Experience cleft, When life's romance is turn'd to sport; If man hath consolation left On this side death—'tis good old port.

And thou, Advice! who glum and chill, Do'st the third bottle still gainsay; Smile, and partake it, if you will, But if you wont—away! away!

THE GRAVE OF DIBDIN.

Lives there who, with unhallow'd hand, would tear, One leaf from that immortal wreath which shades The Hero's living brow, or decks his urn? Breathes there who does not triumph in the thought That "Nelson's language is his mother tongue," And that St. Vincent's country is his own? Oh! these bright guerdons of renown are won By means most palpable to sense and sight; By days of peril and by nights of toil; By Valour's long probation, closed at last In Victory's arms—consummated and seal'd In deathless Glory and immortal Fame.

Musing I stand upon his lowly grave, Who, though he fought no battle—though he pour'd No hostile thunders on his country's foes, Achieved for Britain triumphs, less array'd "In pomp and circumstance," nor visible To vulgar gaze—the triumphs of the Mind. He nursed the elements of courage—he Supplied the aliment that feeds and guides The daring spirit to its high emprise— A nation's moral energies, by him Directed, found a nobler end and aim. He gave that high discriminating tone That marks the Brave from mercenary tools— Features that separate a British Crew From hireling bravoes, and from pirate hordes. And yet no marble marks the spot where lies The dust of DIBDIN;—no inscription speaks A Nation's gratitude—a Bard's desert.

The youthful Sailor on his midnight watch, Fixing his gaze upon the tranquil moon, Felt his heart soften as the thoughts of home Rush'd on his faithful memory;—then it was In language meet, and in appropriate strains— Strains which thy lyre had taught him—he pour'd forth The feelings of his soul, and all was calm.

Thy Spirit still presides in that carouse, When to "the Far away" the toast is given, And "absent Wives and Sweethearts" claim their right, With Woman's constancy thy songs are rife; And this pure creed still teaches Man t' endure Privations, danger, and each form of death.

When not a breath responded to the call, And Seamen whistled to the winds in vain; When the loose canvass droop'd in lazy folds, And idle pennants dangled from the mast;— There, in that trying moment, thou wert found To teach the hardest lesson man can learn— Passive endurance—and the breeze has sprung, As if obedient to the voice of Song:— And yet unhonour'd here thy ashes lie!

A nobler lesson learn'd the gallant Tar From his Orphean lyre—to temper right The lion's courage with the attributes That to the gentle and the meek belong; O'er fallen foes to check the eye of fire— O'er fallen foes to soften heart of oak.

He turn'd the Fatalist's rash eye to Him In whom the issues are of life and death; He taught to whom the battle is—to whom The victory belongs. His cherub, that aloft Kept sleepless watch, was Providence—not Chance.

And yet no honours are decreed for him— Friend of the Brave, thy memory cannot die! Th'inquiring voice, that eagerly demands Where rest thy ashes?—shall preserve thy fame. Thine immortality thyself hast wrought;— Familiar as the terms of art, thy verse, Thine own peculiar words are still the mode In which the Seaman aptly would express His honest passions and his manly thoughts; His feelings kindle at thy burning words, Which speak his duty in the battle's front; His parting whisper to the maid he loves Is breathed in eloquence he learned from thee; Thou art his Oracle in every mood— His trump of victory—his lyre of love!

A SKETCH FROM LIFE.

She sat in beauty, like some form of nymph Or naïad, on the mossy, purpled bank Of her wild woodland stream, that at her feet Linger'd, and play'd, and dimpled, as in love. Or like those shapes that on the western clouds Spread gold-dropp'd plumes, and sing to harps of pearl, And teach the evening winds their melody: How shall I tell her beauty?—for the eye, Fix'd on the sun, is blinded by its beam. One glance, and then no more, upon that brow Brighter than marble shining through those curls, Richer than hyacinths when they wave their bells In the low breathing of the twilight wind.— One glance upon that lip, beside whose hue The morning rose would sicken and grow pale, 'Till it was waked again by the soft breath That steals in music from those lips of love. Wert thou a statue I could pine for thee, But in thy living beauty there is awe; The sacredness of modesty enshrines The ruby lip, bright brow, and beaming eye;— I dare but worship what I must not love.

ON THE PORTRAIT

OF THE SON OF J.G. LAMBTON, ESQ., M.P.

BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE, P.R.A.

Beautiful Boy—thy heavenward thoughts Are pictured in thine eyes, Thou hast no taint of mortal birth, Thy communing is not of earth, Thy holy musings rise: Like incense kindled from on high, Ascending to its native sky.

And such a head might once have graced The infant Samuel, when Call'd by the favour of his God, The youthful priest the Temple trod Beloved of Heaven and men! The same devotion on his brow As brightens in thy forehead now.

Or, thou may'st seem to Fancy's eye One borne by arms Divine; One, whom on Earth a Saviour bless'd, And on whose features left impress'd The Contact's holy sign: A light, a halo, and a grace, So pure th' expression of that face.

Or, has the Painter's skill alone Such grace and glory given? Clothed thee with attributes which seem Creations of an angel's dream, To raise the soul to Heaven? No, as he found thee, he arrayed, And Genius taught what God had made!

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM

OF THE LADY OF COUNSELLOR D. POLLOCK.

Joy to thee, Lady! many years of joy To thee—and thine—that springtide of the heart, The bliss of virtuous love, without alloy. And all that health and gladsome life impart. How gracefully hast thou thy task perform'd, The watchful tender mother, matchless wife; All woman boasts—thou hast indeed adorn'd— Thine the high merit of an useful life. For ever cheerful, though the Tragic Muse[1] May call thee Sister, both in form and mind; Thou do'st to all those envied charms transfuse, Which shine so highly temper'd and refined. Lady revered—the sunbeam and the rose Are poor in beauty to sweet woman's smiles: 'Tis the bright sunset of life's awful close, The Poet's deathless wreath! a spell all grief beguiles!

[Footnote 1: The Lady, to whom these lines are addressed has been greatly noticed for the strong resemblance she bears to Mrs. Siddons.]

THE HELIOTROPE.

There is a flower, whose modest eye Is turn'd with looks of light and love, Who breathes her softest, sweetest sigh. Whene'er the sun is bright above.

Let clouds obscure, or darkness veil, Her fond idolatry is fled, Her sighs no more their sweets exhale. The loving eye is cold—and dead.

Canst thou not trace a moral here, False flatterer of the prosperous hour? Let but an adverse cloud appear, And Thou art faithless, as the Flower!

SONNET.

ON SEEING A YOUNG LADY,

I HAD PREVIOUSLY KNOWN, CONFINED IN A MADHOUSE.

Sweet wreck of loveliness! alas, how soon The sad brief summer of thy joys hath fled: How sorrows Friendship for thy hapless doom, Thy beauty faded, and thy hopes all dead. Oh! 'twas that beauty's power which first destroy'd Thy mind's serenity; its charms but led The faithless friend, that thy pure love enjoy'd, To tear the beauteous blossom from its bed. How reason shudders at thy frenzied air! To see thee smile, with fancy's dreams possess'd; Or shrink, the frozen image of despair. Or, love-enraptured, chant thy griefs to rest: Oh! cease that mournful voice, affliction's child, My heart but bleeds to hear thy musings wild.

PROMETHEUS.

What sovereign good shall satiate man's desires, Propell'd by Hope's unconquerable fires? Vain each bright bauble by ambition prized; Unwon, 'tis worshipp'd—but possess'd, despised. Yet all defect with virtue shines allied, His mightiest impulse genius owes to pride. From conquer'd science graced with glorious spoils, He still dares on, demands sublimer toils; And, had not Nature check'd his vent'rous wing, His eye had pierced her at her primal spring.

Thus when, enwrapt, Prometheus strove to trace Inspired perceptions of celestial grace, Th' ideal spirit, fugitive as wind, Art's forceful spells in adamant confined: Curved with nice chisel floats the obsequious line; From stone unconscious, beauty beams divine; On magic poised, th' exulting structure swims, And spurns attraction with elastic limbs. While ravish'd fancy vivifies the form; While judgment toils to analyze its charm; While admiration spreads her speaking hands; The lofty artist undelighted stands. He longs to ravish from the bless'd abodes The seal of heaven, the attribute of gods; To give his labour more than man can give, Breathe Jove's own breath, and bid the marble live!