ON VISITING THE TOMB OF DERMODY,
STILL, Red Breast*, o'er the tuneful dead,
That sweetly-soothing dirge prolong;
For his, who owns this earthy bed,
His was as sad, as sweet a song!
Unhappy Bard! the scene is past;
At length, thy mortal struggle's o'er;
But, oh! with that untimely blast,
Thy raptur'd strains are heard no more,
Beside the turf that wraps thy clay,
Shall kindred memory fondly wake,
And, spite of all thy foes can say,
Shall love thee for the Muse's sake.
O! take from one, who knows to scan
The ardent soul, the dark career;
Who feels for erring, wretched man,
O! take this tributary tear.
These lines were composed, at the tomb of the poet, on the 8th of September, 1802. The apostrophe to the robin is not a fiction," conjured up to serve occasion of poetic pomp;" that sweet bird," most musical, most melancholy," was indeed warbling in a tree near the grave of poor DERMODY! Whether by accident or design I know not; but never were the remains of a bard deposited in a spot more calculated to inspire a contemplative mind with congenial and interesting feelings.
Here, where no more rude cares molest,
But earth's sad sufferer's calmly sleep;
Here, where the "
weary are at rest,"
Shall Genius oft her vigils keep.
And Pity, with a beaming eye,
-Forgot the faults that laid thee low-
O'er thy cold grave shall deeply sigh,
And mourn thy pilgrimage of woe.
Still, Red Breast, o'er the tuneful dead,
That sweetly-soothing dirge prolong;
For his, who owns this earthy bed,
His was as sad, as sweet a song.
ON THE DEATH OF THE POET DERMODY.
Is it for this the Muse her gifts bestows?
Is it for this the fire of Genius glows?—
O! who the brilliant stores of mind would boast,
Purchas'd, alas! at Peace and Comfort's cost?
To live the dupe of Hope, the drudge of Care-
Wild Passion's slave-the victim of Despair;
Then, whelm'd in woes frail nature fears to brave,
To sink, dejected, to a timeless grave?
Bend, letter'd Pride, o'er DERMODY'S sad urn—
Die! Envy die! eternal Pity mourn!
AWAKE, my Harp, some joyful measure!
No longer breathe a pensive strain ;
Be, like my soul, attun'd to pleasure,
And never mourn again.
Awake, my Harp, some joyful measure!
'Twas LovE that taught thy strings to move;
And Love now fills my soul with pleasure-
Then hymn the charms of Love!
O LOVE! Some call thy musings folly,
Some call thee cruel, base, and blind;
But thou, methinks, art pure and holy,
Exalted, rais'd, refin'd.
And some there are who can dissemble
The raptures of thy ardent flame;
And some poor maidens start and tremble,
If they but hear thy name.
Ah! tho' thy charms were all illusion,
Such dear deceits I still would seek!
Thy mantling blush, thy soft confusion,
Thy looks that more than speak.
*This, and the rest of the poems which the Editor has distinguished by the signature N. S. S. L. were originally published in a Novel little known, entitled the "Short Story," written by a Lady.
Thou know'st, O Love! how I have blest thee,
How oft for thee my heart hath beat;
How oft in sorrow I've carest thee,
And thought thy sorrow sweet.
O LOVE! Some call thy musings folly;
Some call thee cruel, base, and blind;
But thou, methinks, art pure and holy,
Exalted, rais'd, refin'd!
How seldom, friend! a good great man inherits.
Honour or wealth with all his worth and pains!
It sounds, like stories from the land of spirits,
If any man obtain that, which he merits,
any merits that, which he obtains.
REPLY TO THE ABOVE.
FOR shame, dear friend, renounce this canting strain!
What would'st thou have, a good great man obtain ?
Place? titles salary? a gilded chain?
Or throne of corses, which his sword had slain ?
Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends!
Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
The good great man? three treasures, LOVE, and LIGHT,
And CALM THOUGHTS, regular as infant's breath:
And three firm friends, more sure than day and night,
HIMSELF, his MAKER, and the ANGEL DEATH!
WHEN all the splendid pomp of pride declines,
In native lustre virtue brighter shines
My rising sun, meridian beams have crown'd,
And equal glory gilds its western bound;
For still, unconscious of ignoble stains,
High beats the purple tide through Hassan's veins;
Tho' far I fly from Zaura's fair domain,
Nor mine the camels on her sandy plain.
As, when corroding damps and dews impair
The sabre's temper'd edge, exposed and bare,
So now deserted by my friends, I stray
Thro' burning wastes of sand, and desarts grey;
No kind companion left to soothe my woe,
Or share my joy with sympathetic glow.
In the hot gale my quivering lances sigh,
My moaning camels piteously reply;
Harassed, fatigued, they sink with wasting pain,
While frail attendants querulous complain.
Bred in the desart sands, an Arab bold,
I keenly sallied forth in quest of gold;
And thought, when gold should all my dangers crown, From generous deeds to claim a just renown:
For riches bid the generous mind expand,
And copious bounty ope the liberal hand:
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