In sprightly numbers chants MARIA's* sway,
While WALLER'S + groves resound the amorous lay.
How pleas'd with mine to mix thy tuneful strain,
When Freedom's banner wav'd on GALLIA's plain!
There fervid § courage won thee early praise,
And, wing'd with pleasure, flew our happy days:
Never did Nature's bounteous hand impart
A nobler spirit, or a gentler heart.
How dear to all! by social love refin'd,
No selfish passion warp'd his generous mind!
When from my breast a sigh reluctant stole,
That spoke the boding sorrows of my soul;
He grasp'd my hand, the parting moment nigh,
A filial tear yet starting from his eye,
And sweetly strove the present gloom to cheer;
These words for ever vibrate on my ear:
Ah, why repine! the palm of honour won,, "Descends a bright incentive to thy son,
"To spurn at wealth in India's tempting clime,
"If stain'd by bribes, if sullied by a crime.
"O let my voice each anxious care dispel,
"I'll soon return to those I love so well."
That promis'd bliss-that vital beam is past,
Hope's genial shoots all wither'd at one blast;
He'll ne'er return, in shining talents blest,
With duteous zeal to glad a parent's breast.
Verses addressed to Miss M. L.
+ Written at Hail Barn, Beaconsfield.
The Republican and Nuns Song, published in the Poetical Epistles from France.
A very young soldier at the door of the National Convention menaced him with his pointed bayonet, which he instantly seized, and wrested the piece out of his hands. One of the Members was fortunately a witness of the transaction, and, after reprimanding the centinel, introduced my son into the Convention, and told me the fact, with high culogiums on his spirit.
Midst social joy, in festive pleasure gay,
A sudden corse * the blooming victim lay;
While here forlorn I yet exist to tell,
How in the glow of youth my darling fell.
Life's closing scenes no consolation lend,
I've lost my sweet companion and my friend.
That grief is vain but tempts me to repine,
Ev'n Fox's generous tears have flow'd with mine.
O shade benign, still at my couch arise,
Till low in earth thy once-lov'd father lies.
Ne'er from my mind can thy memorial part,
Thy picture's grav'd for ever on my heart:
But India's mould contains thy hallow'd shrine,
Vain my last wish to mix my dust with thine.
For thee sweet EMMA drops the tender tear,
Sighs o'er thy verse, and thy untimely bier;
For thee Sophia heaves her aching breast,
While plaintively she lulls her babe to rest.
For thee thy Mother's eyes incessant flow;
Thy fate alone could touch my heart with woe:
With flow'rs I'll strew thy urn, and clasp thy bust,
With my last numbers consecrate thy dust;
Captain Grey, to R. J. Esq.-" In answer to your note of yesterday, I am compelled to the painful task of communicating the melancholy account of Mr. C- -'s death. At a ball on the 14th of December, being over-heated with dancing, he impru dently drank a glass of lemonade, which proved alinost instantly fatal."
+ Extract of a letter:-" Cambridge, February 10, 1792: I am more obliged to you than I can express: grateful I am to my father, and ever shall remain : `passion may at times have led me astray, yet still did I ever remember his kindness and affection, admire his talents, respect him as a parent, love him as a protector, a companion, and a friend."
Mr. Fox, with generous and consoling attention, and with that sympathizing friendship which distinguishes him, gave me the first intimation of this fatal event.
Dwell on thy praise, and feel, while life remains,
The joy of grief from thy harmonious strains.
Still to thy shade each sacred honour pay,
And to thy grave devote the mournful lay.
'Tis Nature's charm to ease the troubled breast,
And sooth the anguish of the soul to rest;
We fondly hope, by dear delusion led,
To wake our own sensations in the dead,
By sympathy reverse the eternal doom,
Revive the clay and animate the tomb.
ON SOME FLOWERS PAINTED BY A LADY,
'TWIXT Art and Nature long has been the strife,
'Tis rare the copy pleases as the life;
But in MIRANDA's chaste designs we view
The pictur'd flower more beauteous than the true,
Her every touch can some new grace impart,
And Nature blushing yields the palm to Art!
-Yet Nature hold! for her soft cheek discloses
Still fairer lilies, and still brighter roses;
Art sees abash'd, nor more disputes the throne,
For those O Nature, those are all thy own!
ON A LATE CONNUBIAL RUPTURE IN
SIGH, fair injur'd stranger! for thy fate;
But what shall sighs avail thee? thy poor heart,
'Mid all the "pomp and circumstance" of state,
Shivers in nakedness. Unbidden, start
Sad recollections of Hope's garish dream,
That shap'd a seraph form, and nam'd it Love,
Its hues gay-varying, as the orient beam
Varies the neck of Cytherea's dove.
To one soft accent of domestic joy,
Poor are the shouts that shake the high-arch'd dome;
Those plaudits, that thy public path annoy,
Alas! they tell thee-Thou'rt a wretch at home!
O then retire, and weep! Their very woes
Solace the guiltless. Drop the pearly flood
On thy sweet infant, as the FULL-BLOWN rose,
Surcharg'd with dew, bends o'er its neighb'ring BUD.
And ah! that Truth some holy spell might lend
To lure thy wanderer from the syren's power;
Then bid your souls inseparably blend,
Like two bright dew-drops meeting in a flower.
ADDRESS TO THE BRITISH CHANNEL.
ROLL, roll thy white waves, and envelop'd in foam
Pour thy tides round the echoing shore,
Thou guard of Old England, my country, my home,
And my soul shall rejoice in the roar.
Though high-fronted valour may scowl at the foe,
And with eyes of defiance advance;
'Tis thou hast repell'd desolation and woe,
And the conquering legions of France.
"Tis good to exult in the strength of the land,
That the flow'r of her youth are in arms,
That her lightning is pointed, her jav'lin in hand,
And arous'd the rough spirit that warms;
But never may that day of horror be known,
When these hills and these vallies shall feel
The rush of the phalanx by phalanx o'erthrown,
And the bound of the thundering wheel.
The dread chance of battle, its blood, and its roar,
Who can wish in his senses to prove?
To plant the foul fiend on Britannia's own shore,
All sacred to peace and to love?
Hail glory of Albion! ye fleets, and ye hosts,
I breathe not the tones of dismay;
In valour unquestion'd still cover your coasts,
But may Heav'n keep the slaughter away!
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