Look'd up to me for aid, though her clasped hands
Clung round my knees for safety. I beheld
Her livid cheek convulse-I felt her grasp
My knees, in life's last struggle—I beheld
Her starting eye-balls ;-calm, when thousands round
Rais'd one instinctive cry; when even the priest
Started, and shriek'd with horror-I was calm-
I only-I-her father!
Of Heaven lies heavy on the murderer now!
Earine! Androcles! look on me!
Behold me in the autumn of my days,
When, had I known to feel a father's love,
My daughter's care had smooth'd the path of age,
Behold me, withering like the blasted oak,
Struck by the wrath of Heaven. Nor ever night
Descends, but round my couch the furies throng,
Dreadful they smile, and in their red eyes glares
Horrible expectation!
Rush round my head-annihilate my woes!
Thou fearful spectre, wherefore dost thou come ?
Where dost thou beckon? Spirit of my child,
Why bare that bleeding breast? Earine,
Spare me! Earine! my murder'd child,
Spare thy poor father-tho' he spar'd not thee!
Thou pointest to the sword-this impious sword→→→→
There is no hope-no mercy: I obey
The dreadful call-accurst, abandon'd wretch,
Down to perdition !—(He stabs himself.)
Addressed to a beautiful young Lady, who had been a long time absent on the Continent.
THE morn was bright-the tempeft o'er,
The breeze blew lightly off the shore,
When CAROLINE, her lily hand
Wav'd as the left her native land.-
Still, with a tearful gaze, I mark,
Far off, the beauty-freighted bark,
Where melting from my aching view,
She proudly rides the billows blue.
Now dead appears each well-known scene,
The glassy brook, the meadow green,
The daisy'd lawn, the upland swell,
The shelt'ring cave, the mossy well;
The rofe hath lost her blushing bloom,
The lily shed her soft perfume;
And ev'ry shrub that decks the grove,
But tells me of my absent love.
Unheeded now the woodman's song,
Echoes the russet wilds among;
Yon shepherd, tenant of the plain,
Now fills for me his flute in vain ;
Aye, heav'n-ward may the sky-lark float,
And scatter wild the mellow note;
The wren may pipe his merry lay,
Perch'd viewless on the leafy spray,
Oft, gentle maid, my guideless feet
Pace round at eve thy fav'rite feat;
Where late, the lily-scented gale
Would love to loiter, and inhale
The sweets, that with a wishful care,
Thine infant hand had planted there;-
But now the thistle's armour'd head
Usurps the violet's lowly bed.
Can Mem'ry fail, my love, to trace
Yon lake's cloud-pictur'd, waveless face,
Where oft, along its willowy shore,
For thee I've urg'd the plashing oar?
Then was this arm with vigour strung;
No sorrow o'er this forehead hung;
And then thy soft benignant smile,
Could charm away the thought of toil.
Yon oak, whose summer-foliag'd arms, Have shelter'd oft thy fairy charms; Where stretch'd beneath his ample boughs, Affection urg'd her pious vows; Now in his sombre mantle drest, And robb'd of Spring's umbrageous vest, Seems the partaker of my grief, And sheds around the wither'd leaf.
Ah, CAROLINE! the foft'ring spring Shall o'er the oak her vesture fling;
Again shall breathe her genial power,
Expand the leaf, and paint the flower:
The zephyr shall again unclose
The embryo petals of the rose;
But will it waft thee, CAROLINE,
To bless this heart, for ever thine?
HAVE a silent sorrow here,
A grief I'll ne'er impart :
It breaths no sigh, it sheds no tear,
But it confumes my heart!
This cherish'd woe, this lov'd despair,
My lot for ever be;
So, my soul's lord, the pangs I bear
Be never known by thee!
And when pale characters of death
Shall mark this alter'd cheek;
When my poor wasted, trembling breath
My life's last hope would speak—
I shall not raise my eyes to Heav'n,
Nor mercy
ask for me;
My soul defpairs to be forgiv'n,
Unpardon'd, love, by thee.
WHY will dear Sabina find
Ills beyond the present hour?
Why torment her gentle mind
With malicious Fortune's pow'r ?
To Fate belongs to-morrow's dawn,
But let to-day be all our own.
While 'tis given to hear thy voice,
Breathe the softness of thy soul;
Let us, dearest maid! rejoice,
Let us fill the sprightly bowl;
And whisp'ring low the favour'd youth,
Commend his tenderness and truth.
Wherefore doth thy fading cheek
Speak the doubt, the tender fear?
Why that faint essay to speak?
Tell me, why that starting tear?
Does Damon slight thy gentle chain,
And sigh for Rhodopé again?
*Author of Julia Mandeville, Emily Montague, Rosina, &c. These Odes were written in early youth.
|