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MISCELLANEOUS P O E M S.
AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.
Villnla, ct pauper agrllc,
Mi- libi, ct Iiob iiua imxiiiii, et quoa gejuper amavi Commendo.
t When, with n lltiniw's skill, thy curious
mind Han classed the insect-tribes of human-kind, Each with its busy hum, or gilded wing, Its subtle web-work, or its venomed sting; Let me, to claim a few unvalued hours, Point out the green lane rough with fern
and flowers; The sheltered gate that opens to my field, And the white front thro' mingling elms revealed. In vain, alas ! a village-friend invites To simple comforts, and domestic rites, When the gay months of Carnival resume Their annual round of glitter and perfume; When London bails thee to its splendid mart, Its hives of sweets, and cabinets of art; And, lo, majestic, as thy manly song. Flows the full tide of human life along.
Still must my partial pencil love to dwell On the home-prospects of my hermit-cell; The mossy pales that skirt the orchardgreen, Here hid by shrub-wood, there by glimpses
seen; And the brown path-way, that, with careless flow, Sinks, nnd is lost among the trees below. Still must it trace (the flattering tints forgive) Euch fleeting charm that bids the landscape
live: Oft o'er the mead, at pleasing distance, pass Browsing the hedge by fits the panniered ass; The idling shepherd-boy, with rude delight, Whistling his dog to mark the pebble's
flight; And in her kerchief blue the cottage-maid, With brimming pitcher from the shadowy
glade. Far to the south a mountain-vale retires, Rich in its groves, and glens, and villagespires; Its upland lawns, and clifl's with foliage hung, Its wizard-stream, nor nameless nor unsung: And thro'the various year, the various day, What scenes of glory burst, nnd melt away! When April-verdure springs in Grosvcnorsquare. Anil tlic furred Beauty comes to winter there, She bids old Mature mar the plan no more; [ Vet still the seasons circle as before.
Ah, still as soon the young Aurora plays. Though moons and flambeaux trail their
broadest blaze; As soon the sky-lark pours his matin-song. Though evening lingers at the mask so long.
There let her strike with momentary ray, As tapers shine their little lives away; There let her practise from herself to steal, And look the happiness she does not feci; The ready smite and bidden blush employ At Faro-routs that dazzle to destroy; Fan with affected ease the essenred air. And lisp of fashions with unmeaning stare. Be thine to meditate an humbler flight. When morning fills the fields with rosy light) Be thine to blend, nor thine a vulgar aim, Repose with dignity, with quiet fame.
Here no state - chambers in long line unfold, Bright with broad mirrors, rough with fretted gold; Yet modest ornament, with use combined. Attracts the eye to exercise the mind. Small change of scene, small space his home
requires. Who leads a life of satisfied desires. . W'hat tho' no marble breathes, no canvas
glows, From every point a ray of genius flows! Be mine to bless the more mechanic skill. That stamps, renews, and multiplies at will; And cheaply circulates, thro'distant climes, The fairest relics of the purest times. Here from the mould to conscious being start Those finer forms, the miracles of art; Here chosen gems, imprest on sulphur, shine, That slept for ages in a second mine; And here the faithful graver dares to trace A Michael's grandeur, and a Raphakl'*
grBce! Thy gallcry.Floreiirc.gilds my humble wails. And my low roof the Vatican recalls!
Soon as the morning-dream my pillow flies,
To waking sense what brighter visions rise!
Rut could thine erring friend so long forget (Sweet sou ice of pensile joy nnd fond regret) That here its warmest hues the pencil Hings, Lo! here the lost restores, the absent bring*; t\nd still the Few best loved and most revered Rise round the board their social smile endeared?
Selected shelves shall claim thy studious hours; There shall thy ranging mind hu fed on
flowers! There, while the shaded lamp's mild lustre
streams, Read ancient books, or dream inspiring
dreams; And, when a sage's bust arrests thee there, Panse, and his features with his thoughts
compare.' Ah, most that Art my grateful rapture calls. Which breathes a soul into the silent walU; Which gathers round the Wise of every
tongue, All on whose words departed nations hung; Still prompt to charm with many a convctse
sweet; Guides in the world, companions in retreat! Tho' ray thatched bath no rich Mosaic knows, A limpid spring with unfclt current flows; Emblem of Life! which, still as we survey, Seems motionless, yet ever glides away! The shadowy walls record, with Attic art, The strength and beauty that its waves
impart. Here Thetis, bending with a mother's fears Dips her dear boy, whose pride restrains
his tears. There, Vbkcs, rising, shrinks with sweet
surprise, As her fair self reflected seems to rise! Far from the joyless glare, the maddening strife, And all the dull impertinence of life, These eyelids open to the rising ray. And close, whcnNature bids, at close of day. Here, at the dawn, the kindling landscape
glows; There noon-day levees cnll from faint repose. Here the flushed wave flings back the parting
light; There glimmering lamps anticipate the night. When from his classic dreams the student
steals. Amid the buzz of crowds, the whirl of wheels. To muse unnotired—while around him press The meteor-forms of equipage and dress; Alone, in wonder lost, he seems to stand A very stranger in his nntive land! And (tho'perchance of current coin possest And modern phrase by living lips exprest") Like those blest Youths, forgive the fabling
page, Whose blameless lives deceived a twilight
nge. Spent in sweet slumbers; till the miner's
spade Inclosed the cavern, and the morning played. Ah, what their strange surprise, their wild
delight! New arts of life, new manners meet their
sight! In a new world they wake, as from the dead; Vet doubt the trance dissolved, the vision fled!
O come, and, rich in intellectual wealth, Blend thought with exercise, with knowledge
health! Long, in this sheltered scene of lettered talk, With sober step repeat the pensive walk; Norscorn,when graver triflings fail to please, The cheap amusements of a mind at ease; Here every care in sweet oblivion cast, And many an idle hour—not idly passed.
Not tuneful echoes, ambushed at my gate. Catch the blest accents of the wise and
great. Vain of its various page, no Album breathes The sigh that Friendship or the Muse bequeaths. Vet some good Genii o'er my hearth preside, Oft the far friend, with secretspell, to guide; And there I trace, when the gray evening
lours, A silent chronicle of happier hours!
When Christmas revels in a world of snow, And bids her berries blush, her carols flow; His spangling shower when Frost the wizard
flings; Or, borne in ether blue, on viewless wings, O'er the white pane his silvery foliage weaves, And gems with icicles the sheltering caves; —Thy muffled friend his nectarine - wall
pursues. What time the sun the yellow crocus wooes, Screened from the arrowy North; and duly
hies To meet the morning-rumour as it flies; To range the murmuring market-place, and
view The motley groups that faithful Tknikrs drew. When Spring bursts forth in blossoms thro' the vale, And her wild music triumphs on the gale, Oft with my book I muse from stile to stile; Oft in my porch the listless noon beguile, Framing loose numbers, till declining day Thro'the green trellis shoots a crimson ray; Till the West-wind leads on the twilighthours, And shakes the fragrant bells of closing flowers. Nor boast, O Choisy! seat of soft delight. The secret charm of thy voluptuous night. Vain is the blaze of wealth, the pomp of
power! Lo, here, attendant on the shadowy hour, Thy closet-supper, served by hands unseen. Sheds, like an evening-star, its ray serene, To hail our coming. Not a step profane Oarcs, with rude sound, the cheerful rite
restrain; And.whilr the frugal banquet glows revealed, Pure and iinhniight,—the natives of my field; While blushing fruits thro' scattered leaves
invite, Still clad in bloom, and veiled in azure light! With wine, as rich in years as Horace
sings, With water, clear as his own fountain flings, The shifting side-hoard plays its Jmmblcr
part, Beyond the triumphs nf a Loriot's art.
Thus, in this calm recess, sn richly fraught With mental light, and luxury of thought, My life steals on; (O could it blend with
thine!) Careless my course, yet not without design. So thro' the vales of Loire the bee-hives glide, The light raft dropping with the silent tide; So, till the laughing scenes arc lost in night, The busy people wing their various flight, Culling unnumbered sweets from nameless
That scent the vineyard in its purple hours. Rise, ere the watch-relieving clarions play, Caught thro1 St. James's groves at blush
of day; Ere its full voice the choral anthem flings Thro' trophied tombs of heroes and of kings. Haste to the tranquil shade of learned ease, Tho' skilled alike to dazzle and to please; Tho' each gay scene be searched with anxious
eye, Nor thy shut door be passed without a sigh. If, when this roof shall know thy friend
no more, Some, formed like thee, should once, like
thee, explore; Invoke the Lares of his loved retreat, And his lone walks imprint with pilgrim-feet; Then be it said, (as, vain of better days. Some gray domestic prompts the partial
praise;) "Unknown he lived, nnenvied, not unblest; Reason his guide, and Happiness his guest. In the clear mirror nf his moral page, We trace the manners of a purer age. His soul, with thirst of genuine glory fraught, Scorned the false lustre of licentious thought. —One fair asylum from the world he knew, One chosen sent, that charms with various
view! Who boasts of more (believe the serious
strain) Sighs for a home, and sighs, alas! in vain. Thro' each he roves, the tenant of a day, A ml, w i th the swallow, wings the year away!"
WRITTEN TO SB SPORRN »Y Mas. SlDDONS.
Yks, 'tis the pulse of life! my fears were
vain; I wake, I brcnthe, and am myself again. Still in this nether world; no seraph yet! Nor walks my spirit, when the sun is set. With troubled step to haunt the fatal board, Where 1 died last—by poison or the sword; Blanching each honest cheek with deeds of
night. Done here so oft by dim and doubtful light.
To drop all metaphor, that little bell
swells, When the red coral rings its golden bells! To play in pantomime is then the rage, Along the carpet's many-coloured stage; Or lisp her merry thoughts with loud endeavour, Now here, now there—in noise and mischief
ever! A school-girl next, she curls her hair in
papers, And mimics father's gout, and mother's
vapours; Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances; Playful at church, and serious when she
dances; Tramples alike on customs and on toes, And whispers all she hears to all she knows; Terror of raps, and wigs, and sober notions! A romp! that longest of perpetual motions! —Till tamed and tortured into foreign graces. She sports her lovely face at public- places; And with blue, laughing eyes, behind her fan. First arts her part with that great actor, Mak. Too soon a flirt, approach her and she flics! Frowns when pursued, and, when entreated.
sighs! Plays with unhappy men as cats with mice; Till fading beauty hints the late advice. Her prudence dictates what her pride disdained, And now she sues to slaves herself had
chained! Then comes that good old character, a
Wife, With all the dear, distracting cares of life; A thousand curds a day at doors to leave. And, in return, a thousand cards receive; Rouge high, play deep, to lead the ton aspire, With nightly blaze set Portla.nd-placb on
fire; Snatch half a glimpse at Concert, Opera,
Hall, A Meteor, traced by none, tho' seen by all; And, when her shattered nerves forbid to
roam. In very spleen—rehearse the girls at home. I-ast the gray Dowager, in ancient flounces. With snuff and spectacles the age denounces; Boasts how the Sires of this degenerate Isle Knelt for a look, and duelled for a smile. The scourge and ridicule of Goth and Vandal, Her tea she sweetens, as she sips, with
scandal; With modern Belles eternal warfare wages, Like her own birds that clamour from their
rages; And shuffles round to bear her tale to all, Like some old Kuin, nodding to its fall! Thus Woman makes her entrance and her
exit; Not least an actress,when she least suspects it. Yet Nature oft peeps out and mars the plot, Karli lesson lost, each poor pretence forgot; Fall oft, with energy that scorns enntroul. At once lights up the features of the soul; Unlocks each thought chained down by
coward Art, And to full day the latent passions start! —And she, -whose first, best wish is your
applause, Herself exemplifies the truth she draws. Born on the stage—thro' every shifting scene, Obscure or bright, tempestuous or serene, Still has your smile her trembling spirit fired! And can she act, with thoughts like these
inspired? Thus from her mind all artifice she flings, All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things! To you, unchecked, each genuine feeling
flows; For all that life endears—to you she owes.
TO AN OLD OAK.
Imraota manct; raultoaqtic ncpotee,
Malta virtim volvens ilurando t-u-cula, vinclt.
Roi-hd thee, alas, no shadows move!
There once the steel-clad knight reclined,
Then Culture came, and days serene;
Father of many a forest deep,
Wont in.the night of-woods to dwell,
Thy singed top and branches bare
ON A TEAR.
Oh! that the Chemist's magic art
The little brilliant, ere it fell,
Sweet drop of pure and pearly light!
Benign restorer of the soul!
The sage's and the poet's theme,
That very law which moulds a tear,
TO THE GNAT.
Wbin by the grecn-wood-side, at summereve, Poetic visions charm my closing eye, And fairy-scenes, that Fancy loves to weave. Shift to wild notes of sweetest minstrelsy; 'Tis thine to range in busy quest of prey, Thy feathery antlers quivering with delight. Brush from my lids the hues of heaven away, And all is Solitude, and all is Night! —Ah now thy barbed shaft, relentless fly, Unsheaths its terrors in the sultry air! No guardian sylph, in golden panoply, Lifts the broad shield, and points the glit tering sDPar, 51
SAMUEL ROGERS MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Now near and nearer rush thy whirring
wings, Tliy dragon-scales still wet with human gore. Hark, thy shrill horn its fearful larum flings! —I wake in horror, and dare sleep no more!
A W I S II.
Mine be a cot beside the hill,
The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,
Around my ivied porch shall spring
The village-church, among the trees,
WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.
OCTOBER 10, 1806.
After the Funeral of the Right Hon. Cmnrj James Fox.
Whoe'er thou art, approach, and, with a
sigh, Mark where the small remains of greatness
lie. There sleeps the dust of him for ever gone; How near the scene where late his glory
shone! And, tho' no more ascends the voice of prayer, Tim' the last footsteps cease to linger there, Still, like an awful dream that comes again, Alas! at best, as transient and as vain, Still do I sec (while thro' the vaults of nip-lit The funeral-song once more proclaims the
The moving pomp along the shadowy isle. That, like a darkness, filled the solemn pile; The illustrious line, that in long order led, Of those, that loved him living, mourned
him dead; Of those, the few, that for their country
stood Round him who dared be singularly good; All, of all ranks, that claimed him for their
own; And nothing wanting—but himself alone!
Oh say, of hiinnow rests there but a name; Wont, as he was, to breathe ethereal flame? Friend of the absent, guardian.of the dead! Who but would here their sacred sorrows
shed? (Such as he shed on Nelson's closing grave; How soon to claim the sympathy he gave!) In h in, resentful of another's wrong, The dumb wei*e eloquent, the feeble strong. Truth from his lips a charm celestial drew,— Ah. who so mighty and so gentle too? What tho' with war the madding nations
rung. Peace, when he spoke, was ever on his
tongue! Amidst the frowns of power, the tricks of
state, Fearless, resolved, and negligently great! In vain malignant vapours gathered round; He walked, erect, on consecrated ground. The clouds, that rise to quench the orb of
day, Reflect its splendour, and dissolve away!
When in retreat he laid his thunder by. For lettered ease and calm philosophy. Blest were his hours within the silent grove. Where still his godlike spirit deigns to rove; Blest by the orphan's smile, the widow's
prayer, For many a deed, long done in secret there. There shone his lamp on Homer's hallowed
P»ge, There, listening, sate the hero and the sage; And they, by virtue and by blood allied. Whom most he loved, and in whose anna
he died. Friend of all humankind! not here alone (The voice, that speaks, was not to thee
unknown) Wilt thou be missed.—O'er every land and
sea Long, long shall England be revered in thee! And, when the storm is hushed—in distant
years— Foes on thy grave shall meet, and mingle