Графични страници
PDF файл
ePub

Behold in Ætna's emblematic fires
The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires !

Faft by the stream, that bounds your juft domain,
And tells you were ye have a right to reign,
A nation dwells, not envious of your throne,
Studious of peace, their neighbours', and their own:
Ill-fated raee! how deeply must they rue
Their only erime, vicinity to you!
The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad,
Through the ripe harvest lies their deftined road;
At every step beneath their feet they tread
The life of multitudes, a nation's bread!
Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dress
Before them, and behind a wilderness.
Famine, and peftilence, her first-born son,
Attend to finish what the sword begun;
And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn,
And folly pays, resound at your return..
A calm succeeds—but plenty, with her train
Of heart felt joys, succeeds not foon again,
And years of pining indigence must show
What scourges are the gods that rule below.

Yet man, laborious man by flow degrees, (Such is his thirst of opulence and ease)

Plies all the finews of industrious toil,
Gleans up the refuse of the general spoil,
Rebuilds the towers, that smoked upon the plain,
And the fun gilds the shining spires again.

Increasing commerce and reviving art
Renew the quarrel on the conquerors part;
And the sad leffon must be learned once more,
That wealth within is ruin at the door.
What are ye, monarchs, laurelled heroes, say,
But Ætnas of the suffering world ye sway?
Sweet nature, stripped of her embroidered robe,
Deplores the wasted regions of her globe;
And stands a witness at truth's awful bar,
To prove you there, destroyers as ye are.

Oh place me in some heaven-protected isle, Where

peace, and equity, and freedom (mile; Where no volcano pours his fiery flood, No.crested warrior dips his plume in blood; Where power secures what industry has won; Where to succeed is not to be undone; A land that distant tyrants hate in vain, In Britain's ille, beneath a George's reign!,

ON THE RECEIPT OF

MY MOTHER'S PICTURE

OUT OF NORFOLK.

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAN.

Oh that those lips had languagel Life has paffed
With me but roughly since I heard thee laft.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smiles I fee,
The same, that oft in childhood folaced me;
Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say,
“ Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Bleft be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
Oh welcome gueft, though unexpected here!
Who biddeft me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother Joft so long.
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own:

And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall fteep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art fhe.

My mother! when I learned that thou waft dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unseen, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if fouls can weep in bliss
Ah that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse, that bore thee flow away,
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long figh, and wept a laft adieu!
But was it such?-It was.- Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting sound shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of a quick return.
What ardently I wished, I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived.

By disappointment every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant forrow spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot,
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dweltour name is heard no more,
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short lived poffeffion! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly viGts to my chamber made,
That thou mightest know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionary plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed:

1

« ПредишнаНапред »