IN ALLUSION TO SOME ILLIBERAL CRITICISMS.
WHY, let the stingless critic chide
With all that fume of vacant pride
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool,
Like vapour on a stagnant pool!
Oh! if the song, to feeling true,
Can please the elect, the sacred few,
Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught,
Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought-
If some fond feeling maid like thee,
The warm-eyed child of Sympathy,
Shall say, while o'er my simple theme
She languishes in Passion's dream,
"He was, indeed, a tender soul-
No critic law, no chill control,
Should ever freeze, by timid art,
The flowings of so fond a heart!"
Yes, soul of Nature! soul of Love!
That, hovering like a snow-wing'd dove,
Breathed o'er my cradle warblings wild,
And hail'd me Passion's warmest child!
Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye,
From Feeling's breast the votive sigh;
Oh! let my song, my memory, find
A shrine within the tender mind;
And I will scorn the critic's chide,
And I will scorn the fume of pride,
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool,
Like vapour on a stagnant pool!
TO A LADY, WITH SOME MANUSCRIPT
ON LEAVING THE COUNTRY.
WHEN, casting many a look behind,
I leave the friends I cherish here-
Perchance some other friends to find,
But surely finding none so dear—
Haply the little simple page,
Which votive thus I've traced for thee,
May now and then a look engage,
And steal a moment's thought for me.
But, oh! in pity let not those
Whose hearts are not of gentle mould,
Let not the eye that seldom flows
With feeling tear, my song behold.
For, trust me, they who never melt
With pity, never melt with love;
And they will frown at all I've felt,
And all my loving lays reprove.
But if, perhaps, some gentler mind,
Which rather loves to praise than blame,
Should in my page an interest find,
And linger kindly on my name;
Tell him,-or, oh! if, gentler still,
By female lips my name be blest:
Ah! where do all affections thrill
So sweetly as in woman's breast?—
Tell her, that he whose loving themes
Her eye indulgent wanders o'er,
Could sometimes wake from idle dreams,
And bolder flights of fancy soar;
That Glory oft would claim the lay,
And Friendship oft his numbers move;
But whisper then, that, “sooth to say,
His sweetest song was given to LOVE!"
TO THE LARGE AND BEAUTIFUL MISS
IN ALLUSION TO SOME PARTNERSHIP IN A LOTTERY SHARE.
IMPROMPTU.
-Ego pars.-Virg.
In wedlock a species of lottery lies,
Where in blanks and in prizes we deal;
But how comes it that you, such a capital prize,
Should so long have remain'd in the wheel?
If ever, by Fortune's indulgent decree,
To me such a ticket should roll,
A sixteenth, Heaven knows! were sufficient for me;
For what could I do with the whole?
AND do I then wonder that Julia deceives me,
When surely there's nothing in nature more common? She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves me— But could I expect any more from a woman?
O woman! your heart is a pitiful treasure;
And Mahomet's doctrine was not too severe, When he thought you were only materials of pleasure, And reason and thinking were out of your sphere. By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it, He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid;
But, oh! while he 's blest, let him die on the minuteIf he live but a day, he'll be surely betray'd.
Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire, &c.
CEASE the sighing fool to play;
Cease to trifle life away;
Nor vainly think those joys thine own,
Which all, alas! have falsely flown!
What hours, Catullus, once were thine!
How fairly seem'd thy day to shine,
When lightly thou didst fly to meet
The girl, who smiled so rosy sweet—
The girl thou lov'dst with fonder pain
Than e'er thy heart can feel again!
You met-your souls seem'd all in one-
Sweet little sports were said and done--
Thy heart was warm enough for both,
And hers, indeed, was nothing loath.
Such were the hours that once were thine;
But, ah! those hours no longer shine!
1 Few poets knew better than Catullus what a French writer calls
D'un voluptueux sentiment;
but his passions too often obscured his imagination.—ED.
For now the nymph delights no more
In what she loved so dear before;
And all Catullus now can do,
Is to be proud and frigid too;
Nor follow where the wanton flies,
Nor sue the bliss that she denies.
False maid he bids farewell to thee,
To love, and all love's misery.
The hey-day of his heart is o'er,
Nor will he court one favour more;
But soon he'll see thee droop thy head,
Doom'd to a lone and loveless bed,
When none will seek the happy night,
Or come to traffic in delight!
Fly, perjured girl!—but whither fly?
Who now will praise thy cheek and eye?
Who now will drink the syren tone,
Which tells him thou art all his own?
Who now will court thy wild delights,
Thy honey kiss, and turtle bites?
Oh! none. And he who loved before
Can never, never love thee more!
THOUGH Fate, my girl, may bid us part,
Our souls it cannot, shall not sever;
The heart will seek its kindred heart,
And cling to it as close as ever.
But must we, must we part indeed?
Is all our dream of rapture over?
And does not Julia's bosom bleed
To leave so dear, so fond a lover?
Does she too mourn?-Perhaps she may;
Perhaps she weeps our blisses fleeting:
But why is Julia's eye so gay,
If Julia's heart like mine is beating? I oft have loved the brilliant glow Of rapture in her blue eye streamingBut can the bosom bleed with woe, While joy is in the glances beaming? No, no!-Yet, love, I will not chide, Although your heart were fond of roving: Nor that, nor all the world beside,
Could keep your faithful boy from loving.
You'll soon be distant from his eye,
And, with you, all that's worth possessing.
Oh! then it will be sweet to die,
When life has lost its only blessing!
NATURE'S LABELS.
A FRAGMENT.
IN vain we fondly strive to trace
The soul's reflection in the face;
In vain we dwell on lines and crosses,
Crooked mouth, or short proboscis ;
Boobies have look'd as wise and bright
As Plato or the Stagirite:
And many a sage and learned skull
Has peep'd through windows dark and dull!
Since then, though art do all it can,
We ne'er can reach the inward man,
Nor inward woman, from without,
(Though, ma'am, you smile, as if in doubt,)
I think 'twere well if Nature could
(And Nature could, if Nature would)
Some pretty short descriptions write,
In tablets large, in black and white,
Which she might hang about our throttles,
Like labels upon physic-bottles.
There we might read of all-But stay-
As learned dialectics say,
The argument most apt and ample
For common use, is the example.
For instance, then, if Nature's care
Had not arranged those traits so fair,
Which speak the soul of Lucy L-nd-n,
This is the label she'd have pinn'd on.
Within this vase there lies enshrined
The purest, brightest gem of mind!
Though Feeling's hand may sometimes throw
Upon its charms the shade of woe,
The lustre of the gem, when veil'd,
Shall be but mellow'd, not conceal'd.
Now, sirs, imagine, if you're able,
That Nature wrote a second label,
They're her own words—at least suppose so―
And boldly pin it on Pomposo.
|