If, at that hour, by fortune led,
Forgetful JULIA should pass by thee;
May howling gusts, portentous, dread,
With saddest notes of grief supply thee!
Who knows, but from that plaintive sound,
Her heart some sympathy may borrow;
And, on that brow, where anger frowned,
Be seen some transient gleam of sorrow.
Yet, O my Lyre! if down that cheek
One soft, relenting tear be stealing,
In softest tones of pity speak,
And blunt each harsher, keener feeling!
For still, to me, her peace is dear,
Still this distracted brain' remembers
The hours when bright-eyed Hope was near,
And fans expiring passion's embers.
Nor can those embers ever die ;—
Though every dream of hope be ended,
Still, Julia, thou shalt prompt the sigh
Of tenderest love, and sorrow blended!
OF BISHOP LOWTH'S EPITAPH ON HIS DAUGHTER. FAREWELL, Maria! who didst most excel
In genius, goodness, modesty, farewell!
Farewell, Maria, till that happy day
When I shall meet thee freed from mortal clay,
And say, while heavenly joy my bosom warms,
Return, return, to thy fond parent's arms!
IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.
GLORY and Ease my heart between,
To this, and now to that, I lean;
To each I give my hand by turns:
For Glory's palm my bosom burns;
But oh! again, thy poppies, Ease,
How much my aching eyes they please!
Say, shall I mount the hero's car,
And seek the glittering ranks of war;
Or, emulous of lettered fame,
With wits desire a radiant name?
Or, rather, in sweet indolence,
Neglect ambition's wild pretence,
Recline me on the enchantress' breast,
And sink, on beds of flowers, to rest?
Divided thus, I wear my life,
For ever with myself at strife;
By Ease, from Glory still withdrawn ;
By Glory, Ease inspired to scorn;
And ah! meanwhile, thus bent on each,
My faithless steps can neither reach!
Slothful no more, my days shall roll!
To Glory I devote my soul!
Yes, for immortal life I'll live,
Life that 'tis, Glory thine to give !—
I spread the wing, prepare to fly,
And fix on future years my eye;
But, gentle Ease, slow-drawing near,
With dulcet voice arrests my ear;
Paints, as she can, the private lot,
Obscure retreat, and low-roofed cot;
The peaceful life, that steals along
At distance from the jarring throng;
Nor least, to gild the modest scene,
Paints Independence' stately mien ;
The love of Glory calls a jest ;
Glory, with toil and care opprest;
And bids me, wiser, seek to prove
The pleasures of a softer love;
Dear guide, (I murmur); I, with thee,
Will seek the best felicity!"
Seizing the proud historic pen,
Fain would I picture states and men;
Or lash, with Virtue's holy rage,
The vices of an iron age;
Or nobly venturous, touch the wire
That, Horace, strung thy happy lyre!
'Tis well,' cries Glory, dare be great!
Strike home, be bold, and conquer fate!'
Alas, the words are scarcely said—
Ease comes-in sleep, I droop my head!
Sluggard!'-that awful voice I hear,
That voice I love, that voice I fear:
Is't thus thy mispent minutes go?
Do men in sleep illustrious grow?
"Tis Glory speaks!'-I feel her charms,
And spring, impatient, to her arms.
I hear the warrior-trumpet blow;
I burn to meet the haughty foe:
Forth to the fight, in thought, I run!
Already on my brow I wear
The laurel that my arm has won :
Charge! charge! pursue!
'Hear Ease, and shun the wiles of Care!
Thy brow let fragrant myrtle bind,
Lo MARY gives; lo, MARY kind!
Be her thy conquest, this thy spoil;
And, oh! despise the wretched toil
Of those, who, in the maddening field,
'Desire what arms and blood can yield!
'Be blind no more, but joined confess
With MARY, Glory, Happiness!
Follow thou me.'-Convinced, I bow,
Wise grown at length, and fixed now:
Again, again, 'tis Glory cries,
Unblest, from me the wretch that flies!
'What, coward! shall the fair be thine?
To win the fair, fond fool, is mine!
'Shall thine the gentle MARY be?
Arise, deserve her, follow me!'
Ye powers, no longer let my mind
The right path vainly try to find;
But teach me where my vows to pay;
Teach me to choose, and where to stay!
Me Glory robs of Ease's calm;
Me Ease deprives of Glory's palm!
On a curious Chamber Stove in the Form of an Urn, contrived in such a Manner as to make the Flame descend, instead of rising from the Fire, invented by a celebrated American Philosopher.
LIKE a Newton, sublimely he soared,
To a summit before unattained,
New regions of science explor'd,
And the palm of Philosophy gained.
With a spark that he caught from the skies,
He displayed an unparalleled wonder,
And we saw, with delight and surprise,
That his rod would defend us from thunder.
Oh! had he been wise to pursue
The track for his talents designed,
What a tribute of praise had been due
To the teacher and friend of mankind!
But, to covet political fame
Was in him a degrading ambition;
A spark that from Lucifer came,
And kindled the blaze of sedition.
Let Candour then write on his urn,
Here lies the renowned inventor,
Whose Flame to the skies ought to turn,
But, inverted, descends to the centre.
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