The Domestic Affections, and Other Poems

Front matter

POEMS.

THE

DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS,

Errata

ERRATA.

Page 20, l. 4, for from, r. fan. 52, 3, for tears, r. fears. 72, 9, for In yon, r. For you. 87, 3, for moon, r. morn, 92, 10, for charges, r. charger.

Page 109, l. 7, for lucid, r. lurid: 123, 4, for make, r. wake. 143, 19, for fame, r. fane. 168, 4, for Enjoys, r. In joy's,

Table of Contents

CONTENTS

Ode to Cheerfulness

P O E M S.

ODE TO CHEERFULNESS.

Lovely nymph! with eye serene, Dimpled smile and frolic mien; Come, with airy step advancing, Come, with blooming Hebe dancing; O'er the meads I see thee straying— Youth and sport around thee playing— Gay content, thy sister fair, Twines a garland round thy hair. Thine the lip of roseate dye; Thine the pleasure-sparkling eye; Thine the cheek that softly glows, Brighter than the blushing rose!

Guide me to thy fav'rite bow'rs, To deck thy rural shrine with flow'rs. In thy lowly, sylvan cell, Peace and virtue love to dwell; Ever let me own thy sway, Still to thee my tribute pay.

When Zephyr waves his balmy wing, To kiss the sweets of May; When the soft melodies of spring Resound from ev'ry spray; With thee, sweet maid! I'll rove along, And tread the morning dews; To hear the wood-lark's early song, To court the laughing muse.

With thee I'll rove, when summer pours Her treasures o'er the land; When fair Pomona sheds her stores, With kind, luxuriant hand;—

When Autumn, bearing golden sheaves, Delights the happy swain; And softly paints the fading leaves, And crowns the fertile plain.

And e'en in winter's hoary reign I'll wake my festive lays; Thy look shall prompt th' enliv'ning strain, And "brighten at the blaze!"

I court thee in the vernal hours Of life's enchanting morn; Thy hand shall strew my path with flow'rs And steal away the thorn:

But when the dawn of youth is fled, The spring of life so fair; Ah! wilt thou then benignly shed Thy placid beams around my head, And steal my thoughts from care?

Yes! gentle pow'r, thy heav'nly ray Shall cheer my morning bright; And e'en in life's declining day, Shall gild the dark and thorny way, With mild, celestial light!

Song.—The Smile

SONG.—THE SMILE.

Let others love the pearly tear, The blushing cheek adorning; And say, 'tis like the dew-drop clear, That gems the rose of morning.

Let others love to see the fair With pensive mien appearing; Be mine, to hail the sprightly air, The dimpled smile endearing.

It speaks good-humour's mild control, With magic fascination; It tells the feelings of the soul, With sportive animation.

Superior to the brightest eyes, Or cheek with roses blooming; A winning charm it still supplies, The lovely face illuming.

’Twas Hebe taught fair beauty's queen, The gay, bewitching wile; And still her glowing lips are seen, To wear a playful smile.

Moon-light

MOON-LIGHT.

Come, gentle muse! now all is calm, The dew descends, the air is balm; Unruffled is the glassy deep, While moon-beams o'er its bosom sleep; The gale of summer mildly blows, The wave in soothing murmur flows; Unclouded Vesper shines on high,And ev'ry flow'r has clos'd its tearful eye.

Oh! at this hour, this placid hour, Soft music, wake thy magic pow'r! Be mine to hear thy dulcet measure, Thy warbling strains, that whisper, pleasure; Thy heavenly airs, of cadence dying, And harp to every zephyr sighing; When roving by the shadowy beam,That gilds the fairy-bow'r and woodland-stream!

But all is still! no mellow sound Floats on the breeze of night around; Yet fancy, with some airy spell, Can wake "sweet Echo" from her cell; Can charm her pensive votary's ear, With plaintive numbers melting near; And bid celestial spirits rise,To pour their wild, enchanted melodies.

I love the rosy dawn of day, When Zephyr wakes the laughing May; I love the summer-evening's close, That lulls the mind in calm repose; But sweeter far the hour serene, When softer colours paint the scene; When Vesper sheds a dewy ray,And o'er the sleeping wave the moon-beams play.

Address to Music

ADDRESS TO MUSIC.

Oh thou! whose soft, bewitching lyre, Can lull the sting of pain to rest; Oh thou! whose warbling notes inspire, The pensive muse with visions blest; Sweet music! let thy melting airs Enhance my joys, and sooth my cares!

Is there enchantment in thy voice, Thy dulcet harp, thy moving measure; To bid the mournful mind rejoice, To raise the fairy form of pleasure? Yes, heav'nly maid! a charm is thine, A magic art, a spell divine!

Sweet music! when thy notes we hear, Some dear remembrance oft they bring, Of friends belov'd, no longer near, And days that flew on rapture's wing;

Hours of delight that long are past, And dreams of joy, too bright to last!

And oft 'tis thine the soul to fire, With glory's animating flame, Bid valor's noble sons aspire To win th' immortal wreath of fame; Thine too, the soft, expressive tones, That pity, tender pity owns!

Oh harmony! celestial pow'r! Thou syren of the melting soul! In sorrow's reign, in pleasure's hour, My heart shall own thy blest control; And ever let thy moving airs, Enhance my joys and sooth my cares!

"The Memory of Joys that are Past." Ossian

"THE MEMORY OF JOYS THAT ARE PAST."

OSSIAN.

There is an hour, a pensive hour; (And oh! how dear its soothing pow'r!) It is, when twilight spreads her veil, And steals along the silent dale; 'Tis when the fading blossoms close, When all is silence and repose; Then memory wakes, and loves to mourn, For days—that never shall return!

There is a strain, a plaintive strain, The source of joy and yet of pain; It is the song, whose dying measure, Some friend belov'd has heard with pleasure; Some friend—who ne'er again may hear, The melting lay, to memory dear; Ah! then, her magic spells restore, Visions of blissful days no more!

There is a tear of sweet relief, A tear—of rapture and of grief; The feeling heart alone can know What soft emotions bid it flow! It is when memory charms the mind, With tender images refin'd; 'Tis when her balmy spells restore, Departed friends, and joys no more!

The Emigrant

THE EMIGRANT.

Farewell, ah, happy shades! ah, scenes belov’d, Of infant sports and bright unclouded hours! Where oft in childhood's happy days I rov'd, Thro' forest-walks, and wild secluded bow'rs!

Far from your woods, and sweet romantic glades, A wand'ring emigrant I'm doom'd to roam, Yet oft will memory, lingering in your shades, Recal the dear, regretted charms of home!

Her magic pencil oft shall fondly trace The mournful pictures of departed joy; To ev'ry image give a pensive grace, Which time may soften—but can ne'er destroy.

Ah! scenes belov'd! again delightful spring In vernal beauty decks your smiling vales; With balmy odour scents the zephyr's wing, And wafts from heav'n the soft Favonian gales.

With transport once, to hail her blest return, I tun'd my artless reed, my numbers wild. Then all was new in life's bewitching morn, And hope—ah, fair enchantress! gaily smil'd.

Oh! then, what airy visions of delight, Beguil'd my youthful heart in ev'ry grove; Deluding fancy pictur'd to my sight The fairy-land of happiness and love!

But now, for me in vain the flow'rs expand, And leaves unfolding, dress the woods anew; I go, a wanderer, to some distant land, And bid my native hills—a last adieu!

Farewell the hermit-cell, the lov'd retreat, The cottage mantled o'er with clustering vine; Where mild content had found a tranquil seat, And peace and calm domestic joys were mine.

Dear, lovely scenes! how oft, at dawn of day, My pipe has wak'd your mountain-echoes sound; How oft at evening's hour I lov'd to stray, Beside the river's bank, with osiers crown'd.

Ye woodland-streams, ye peaceful, happy shades, Oft on your charms will pensive memory dwell; Ah, native vales! ah, sweet embow'ring glades, Scenes of my early youth!—a last farewell!

Sonnet, For my Mother’s Birth-day

SONNET,

FOR MY MOTHER'S BIRTH-DAY.

At thy approach, oh, sweet bewitching May! Through ev'ry wood soft melodies resound; On silken wings Favonian breezes play, And scatter bloom and fragrance all around!

Yet not for these I hail thy gentle reign, And rove enchanted through thy fairy bow'rs; Not for thy warbled songs, thy zephyr-train, Nor all the incense of thy glowing flow'rs.

For this to thee I pour the artless lay, Oh, lovely May! thou goddess of the grove! With thee returns the smiling natal day, Of her, who claims my fond, my filial love! Bright as thy sun-beams may it still appear, Calm as thy skies, unclouded with a tear!

Address to Fancy

ADDRESS TO FANCY.

Oh, queen of dreams! 'tis now the hour, Thy fav'rite hour of silence and of sleep; Come, bring thy wand, whose magic pow'r, Can wake the troubled spirits of the deep!

And while around, on ev'ry eye The "honey-dews of slumber" lie, Oh! guide me to the wild retreat, Where fays in nightly revel meet; And gaily sport in mystic ring, By lonely glen, or haunted spring! Now ev'ry sound has died away, The winds and waves are lull'd to rest; The sighing breeze forgets to play, And moon-beams tremble o'er the ocean's breast—

Come, Fancy! come, creative pow'r! That lov'st the tranquil reign of night: Perhaps in such a silent hour, Thy visions charm'd the bard of Avon's sight; Oh, poet blest! thy guiding hand Led him thro' scenes of fairy-land; To him, thy favor'd child, alone, Thy bright, Elysian worlds were shown!

Come, Fancy, come; with lov'd control, Bewitch thy votary's pensive soul! Come, sportive charmer! lovely maid! In rainbow-colored vest array'd; Invoke thy visionary train, The subjects of thy gentle reign.

If e'er ethereal spirits meet, On earth; to pour their dirges sweet; Now might they hover on the moon-beam pale, And breathe celestial music on the gale.

And hark! from yonder distant dell, I bear angelic numbers swell! Ah! sure some airy sylph is nigh, To wake such heavenly melody! Now soft the dulcet notes decay, Float on the breeze and melt away; Again they fall—again they rise, Ah! now the soft enchantment dies! The charm is o'er—the spell is past, The witching spell, too sweet to last! Hail, Fancy, hail! around thy hallow'd shrine, What sylphid bands, what radiant forms appear! Ah! bless thy votary with thy dreams divine, Ah! wave thy wand, and call thy visions dear!

Bear me, oh! bear me, to thy realms unknown, Enchantress! waft me in thy car sublime! To bend, entranc'd, before thy shadowy throne, To view the wonders of thy fairy-clime!

Sonnet.—To Italy

SONNET TO ITALY.

For thee, Ausonia! Nature's bounteous hand, Luxuriant spreads around her blooming stores: Profusion laughs o'er all the glowing land, And softest breezes fan thy myrtle-shores.

Yet though for thee, unclouded suns diffuse Their genial radiance o'er thy blushing plains; Though in thy fragrant groves the sportive muse Delights to pour her wild, enchanted strains;

Though airs that breathe of paradise are thine, Sweet as the Indian, or Arabian gales; Though fruitful olive and empurpling vine, Enrich, fair Italy! thy Alpine vales; Yet far from thee inspiring freedom flies, To Albion's coast and ever-varying skies!

The Laplander to his Rein-deer

THE LAPLANDER TO HIS REIN-DEER.

How long, oh, my faithful companion and guide! Thou hast wafted o'er deserts my car! How oft, oh, my rein-deer! thy speed has been tried, O'er mountains unknown and afar!

But thy youth is departed, thy fire is no more. And thy limbs all their vigor have lost; For age steals upon thee, relentless and hoar, And colder than winter his frost!

When friendship, or pleasure, invited away, Thou hast borne me o'er valleys and plains; Untir'd with the dangers, the toils of the day, While the road was beguil'd by my strains!

When love gave the word, o'er the landscape of snow, We flew like the wings of the wind! In this ice-cover'd region, his sun-beam may glow, To melt and to soften the mind!

But thy youth is departed, thy spirit and grace, And thy limbs all their vigor have lost; For age steals upon thee with lingering pace, And colder than winter his frost.

How oft has the summer, in mantle of green, Array'd the wild Tenglio's side; Since thou, oh, my rein-deer! my servant hast been, My faithful companion and guide!

When we journey'd together, and both in our prime, How fleet were thy steps o'er the waste; But fleeter than thee, oh, my rein-deer! is time, More swift, more unsparing in haste!

For thy youth is departed, thy spirit is fled, And thy limbs all their vigor have lost; Now age steals upon thee, unwelcome and dread, And colder than winter his frost!

Song - Oh! bear me to the groves of palm

SONG.

Oh! bear me to the groves of palm, Where perfum'd airs diffuse their balm! And when the noon-tide beams invade, Then lay me in the embow'ring shade; Where Bananas o'er my head, Mingling with the Tam'rind spread; Where the long liannes combining, Wild festoons of flow'rs entwining; Fragrant cassia, softly blowing, Lime and orange, ever glowing; All their spicy breath exhale, To scent the pleasure-fanning gale.

There her sweet ambrosial stores, Nature in profusion pours;

The cocoa's nectar let me sip. The citron's juice refresh my lip; While around me hovering play Birds, in radiant plumage gay; And amidst the foliage, raise Melodies, in varied lays. There, in aromatic bow'rs, Be mine to pass the summer-hours; Or by some clear cascade reclin'd; Whose dashing sound may lull the mind, Wake the lyre and tune the song, Scenes of paradise among!

Song - Success to the heroes of gallant Castile

SONG.

Success to the heroes of gallant Castile, Undaunted in danger, victorious in fight! May they teach proud oppressors and tyrants to feel, The patriot's arm of invincible might!

Live in memory eternal, the deeds of the brave! Be the warriors immortal, who fall on the field! The garlands of summer shall bloom on their grave, And the trophies of glory emblazon their shield!

Success to the heroes whom Albion has giv'n, In the cause of Iberia their aid to supply; May they wield the bright armour of Justice and Heav'n, And wave the proud banner of Freedom on high!

May Victory attend on the patriot-band! May the genius of Albion their bosoms inflame! Soon may they with laurels return to their land, Be welcom'd by Love and applauded by Fame!

To the Head-Ach

TO THE HEAD-ACH.

Thou tyrant of the ling'ring hour! Ah, why with me delight to rest? Hence far away, tormenting pow'r! Unwelcome guest!

With thee, sad visitant! I prove The long, the melancholy day; Ah! foe to peace! from me remove, Thy dreaded sway.

Oft when I'd court ideal themes, 'Tis then thy leaden wings o'erspread That seat of wild, fantastic dreams, My weary head.

And when in Fancy's fiery car, With her and with the muse I'd fly; To realms beyond the morning-star, The earth and sky;

Not long in these illusions blest, Through fairy-palaces I roam; Thy wand recals, unwelcome guest! My visions home.

Ah, foe to peace! when thou art nigh, Farewell the dew-balm of repose; Then slumber's fled—the languid eye Forgets to close.

I ne'er my midnight vigils keep, To ponder by the taper's light; Nor waste in downy arms of sleep, The morning bright.

’Tis mine to rove the hill, the dale, To wander through embow'ring trees; The soul of freshness to inhale, The mountain-breeze.

Then, tyrant of the ling'ring hour, Ah! why with me delight to rest? Hence far away, tormenting pow'r, Unwelcome guest!

To Resignation

TO RESIGNATION.

Maid of the placid smile and heav'nly mien, With beaming eye, tho' tearful yet serene; Teach me, like thee, in sorrow's ling'ring hour, To bless devotion's all-consoling pow'r; Teach me, like thee, when storms around me rise, And spreading glooms obscure the azure skies, On one unclouded light to fix my view, For ever brilliant and for ever true; The star of faith! whose mild, celestial ray, With steady lustre shall direct my way: Thy seraph-hand shall raise my drooping head; Angel of peace! thy wings around me spread; With hallow'd spells my fainting spirit cheer, Hush the sad murmur, dry the starting tear.

Thus when the halcyon broods upon the tides, The winds are lull'd, the mountain-wave subsides Soft rainbow-hues, reflected, tinge the deep, And balmy zephyrs on its bosom sleep— Maid of the placid smile! my troubled soul, Would own thy gentle reign, thy mild control; Though the pale cypress twine thy sainted brow, Eternal palms for thee, in heav'n shall blow.

Address to Thought

ADDRESS TO THOUGHT.

Oh thou! the musing, wakeful pow'r, That lov'st the silent, midnight hour, Thy lonely vigils then to keep, And banish far the angel, sleep, With all his lovely train; Come, pensive thought! with thee I'll rove, Through forest wild, sequestered grove, Or twilight plain.

The lone recluse, in hermit-cell, With thee, oh nymph! delights to dwell; Forsakes the world, and all its charms, Forsakes the syren pleasure's arms, In peaceful shades to rest; And oft with thee, entranc'd, may hear, Celestial voices warbling near, Of spirits blest!

When slow declines the rosy day And ev'ning smiles with parting ray, When twilight spreads her magic hues, When moon-beams tremble on the dews, Be mine to rove retir'd; By fairy bower, or dimpled stream, To muse with thee some heavenly theme, Oh! maid inspir'd!

'Tis thine on eagle-wings to soar, Unknown, unfathom'd realms explore; Below the deeps, above the sky, Beyond the starry orbs on high; (Can aught restrain thy flight?) To pierce the veil of future time, And rise, in Fancy's car sublime, To realms of light:

At midnight, to the guilty breast, Thou com'st, a fear'd, appalling guest;

While lightnings flash and thunders roll, Accusing conscience wakes the soul, And bids each fear increase; And, while benignant slumber flies, With awful voice, in whisper cries, Farewell to peace!

But oh, dread pow'r! how sweet thy reign, To Virtue's mild and hallow'd train! The storm around may wildly rave, And winter swell the mountain wave, Yet soft their calm repose! Their minds unruffled and serene, And guardian-seraphs watch unseen, Their eyes to close!

The Indian Lover. Morning Song

THE INDIAN LOVER.

MORNING SONG.

Oer flowery fields of waving maize, The breeze of morning lightly plays; Arise, my Zumia! let us rove, The cool and fragrant citron grove! Fair nature spreads her lavish bloom, And bids her zephyrs waft perfume; She breathes ambrosial odours rare; With cassia-fragrance fills the air, And calls thee forth her sweets to share, My lovely maid! We'll mark each aromatic flower, Expanding to the radiant hour; We'll seek the scented orange-bower, Or tam'rind shade;

Now, ere the fervid hours of day, Arise, my Zumia! haste away!

Hark! from yonder palmy grove, Swells the choral song of love! There, on every weeping spray, Warblers tune the melting lay: Morning's roseate hues are spreading; Balmy essence, flowers are shedding; Nature smiles, in green array, My Zumia rise! no more delay!

Now glitt'ring in the lucid rays, The humming-bird his wing displays; Floats on the sun-beam and the gale, From spicy wood, to myrtle-vale; Flutters on light, ethereal plume, In tints of orient beauty drest; Steals honey from the glowing bloom, And weaves the fairy-nest.

I'll climb each tall, aspiring tree, To seek nectareous fruits for thee; I'll cull the blossoms op'ning fair, In blushing wreaths to bind thy hair: For thee the streams in murmurs flow; For thee the buds empurpling glow; For thee the balmy zephyrs play; Arise, my Zumia! haste away!

War-Song of the Spanish Patriots

WAR-SONG

OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS.

Ye who burn with glory's flame! Ye who love the Patriot's fame; Ye who scorn oppressive might, Rise! in freedom's cause unite; Castilians rise! Hark! Iberia calls, ye brave! Haste! your bleeding country save: Be the palm of bright renown, Be th' unfading laurel-crown, The hero's prize!

High the crimson banner wave! Ours be conquest or the grave! Spirits of our noble sires, Lo! your sons, with kindred fires, Unconquer'd glow!

See them once again advance, Crush the pride of hostile France; See their hearts, with ardor warm, See them, with triumphant arm, Repel the foe!

By the Cid's immortal name, By Gonsalvo's deathless fame; By the chiefs of former time, By the valiant deeds sublime, Of ancient days; Brave Castilians! grasp the spear! Gallant Andalusians, hear! Glory calls you to the plain, Future bards, in lofty strain, Shall sing your praise!

Shades of mighty warriors dead, Ye who nobly fought and bled;

Ye whose valor could withstand, The savage Moor's invading band Untaught to yield; Bade victorious Charlemagne, Own the patriot-arms of Spain; Ye, in later times renown'd, Ye who fell with laurels crown'd, On Pavia's field!

Teach our hearts like yours to burn; Lawless pow'r like you to spurn; Teach us but like you to wield, Freedom's lance and Freedom's shield; With daring might: Tyrant! soon thy reign is o'er, Thou shalt waste mankind no more; Boast no more thy thousands slain, Jena's, or Marengo's plain; Lo! the sun that gilds thy day, Soon will veil its parting ray, In endless night!

Hymn - Oh, Thou! before whose radiant shrine

HYMN.

Oh, Thou! before whose radiant shrine, Entranc'd, adoring seraphs bend; Eternal source of light divine! Wilt Thou thy hallow'd ear incline! And mortal pray'r attend? Yes, Father! yes, benignant Pow'r! Around Thee beams fair Mercy's purest ray; No awful terrors round Thee low'r, Save when, in Judgment's dreaded hour, Thou bidst Creation tremble and obey!

Then, rob'd in darkness and in clouds, That solemn veil thy glory shrouds; Chaos and night thy dark pavilion form; Thy spirit on the whirlwind rides, Impels the unresisting tides, Glares in the lightning, rushes in the storm!

But Thou wilt meet the suppliant eye, And Thou wilt mark the lowly sigh; And Thou the holy tear wilt see, Which penitence devotes to Thee; That sigh thy breezes waft to heav'n, That holy tear is grateful incense giv'n! Low, humble, sad, to Thee I bend, Oh! listen from thy blest abode! And though celestial hymns ascend, Oh! deign a mortal's prayer attend, My Father and my GOD!

Teach me if hope, if joy, be mine, To bless thy bounteous hand divine; And still, with trembling homage, raise The grateful pæan of exalted praise!

When deep affliction wounds my soul, Still let me own thy mild control;

Teach me, submissive and resign'd, To calm the tempest of the mind; To lift the meek, adoring eye, Suppress the tear and hush the sigh; Gaze on one bright, unclouded star, And hail "the day-spring" from afar, Bid angel-faith dispel surrounding gloom, And soar, on cherub-wing—beyond the tomb.

To Experience

TO EXPERIENCE.

Thou awful sage! with locks of snow, With clouded mien and pensive brow; Whose drooping form is bent with years, Whose aged eye is dim with tears; I court thee not, thou guide severe! Ah! still avert thy frown austere! For, oh! as winter blights the flow'rs, Despoils the woodlands and the bow'rs; So can thy chilling pow'r destroy The dream of hope, the dream of joy. Oh! let me ever fondly stray, Thro' Fancy's bow'rs, thro' Fancy's way; And if her fairy-visions bright, Be but illusions of delight, Oh! let me, still deceiv'd, be blest, Lull'd, by her magic-song, to rest!

Ah! ne'er, Experience! let me learn Thy sadd'ning tale, thy precept stern! The rose upon thy cheek is dead, The lustre from thine eye is fled; Thy wither'd heart forgets to glow, To dance with joy, to melt at woe; Forgets to burn with glory's flame, To thrill with love, to pant for fame. Is life a scene of pain and care? Is there no bright Elysium there? Must Hope's enchanting scenes decay? Will Fancy's rainbow fade away? Shall pale Misfortune early blight The op'ning roses of delight? Then why, ah! why, so soon destroy, The dreams of love, and youth, and joy? Ah! ne'er, Experience! let me learn Thy sadd'ning tale, thy precept stern!

Lines to the Memory of a very amiable young Lady, who died at the age of eighteen

LINES

TO THE MEMORY OF A VERY AMIABLE YOUNG LADY, WHO DIED AT THE AGE OF EIGHTEEN.

At length, departed saint! thy pangs are o'er, And earthly suff'ring shall be thine no more; Like some young rose-bud, blighted in its May, Thy virtues bloom'd, to wither soon away! Around thy grave let Spring her off'ring strew, Her drooping lilies, bath'd in fragrant dew; Emblems of thee, thou sweet, lamented maid; Thou spotless lily, doom'd so soon to fade! Angelic sweetness, piety refin'd, Within thy gentle bosom were enshrin'd. Thy heav'nly mind display'd, in early youth, The fairest blossom of celestial truth— How oft, sweet girl! thy soothing tears would flow, In sacred sympathy with others' woe!

Yet Patience taught thee to sustain thy own, Suppress the sigh, and hush the rising moan; 'Midst anguish, still to wear the placid mien, Mild Resignation's smile and look serene! Ye who have watch'd beside the mournful bed, And rais'd, with anxious care, the languid head; Gaz'd on the pallid cheek, the faded eye, And heard the breathings of the parting sigh; Ye who have mourn'd a sister's early doom, Or bent in sorrow o'er a daughter's tomb; Oh! weep for those, who sadly now deplore, The fate, the virtues, of the maid no more. What pow'r can sooth a tender parent's grief, Or bring the friend's, the sister's woes relief? Religion pure, ineffably divine, Angel of peace, that heav'nly pow'r is thine, Though spreading glooms the beam of joy may shroud, Still, still thy rainbow brightens in the cloud; Dispels the mist of error and of night, Till fairer prospects open on the sight;

The blissful regions of eternal rest, The calm, Elysian mansions of the blest. —There too, each pang, each earthly suff'ring o'er, Her gentle spirit soars, to weep no more! "Mourn not for me," the happy seraph cries, "Exulting, lo! I gain my native skies! A golden harp enraptur'd now I bear, A wreath of bright, unfading palms I wear! Mourn not for me, escap'd from ev'ry woe! I gaze with pity, on the scenes below! And bless the hour, when, freed from mortal clay, My spirit mounted to the realms of day! Oh! think, when past, a few eventful years, Of toil and sorrow in the vale of tears; Then shall we meet, releas'd from ev'ry pain, Then shall we meet—nor ever part again!"

To my younger Brother, on his return from Spain, after the fatal retreat under Sir John Moore, and the Battle of Corunna.

TO MY YOUNGER BROTHER,

ON HIS RETURN FROM SPAIN, AFTER THE FATAL RETREAT UNDER SIR JOHN MOORE, AND THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA.

Tho' dark are the prospects and heavy the hours, Tho' life is a desert, and cheerless the way; Yet still shall affection adorn it with flow'rs, Whose fragrance shall never decay!

And, lo! to embrace thee, my brother! she flies, With artless delight, that no words can bespeak; With a sun-beam of transport illuming her eyes, With a smile and a glow on her cheek!

From the trophies of war, from the spear and the shield, From scenes of destruction, from perils unblest; Oh! welcome again to the grove and the field, To the vale of retirement and rest!

Then warble, sweet muse! with the lyre and the voice, Oh! gay be the measure and sportive the strain; For light is my heart, and my spirits rejoice, To meet thee, my brother! again.

When the heroes of Albion, still valiant and true, Were bleeding, were falling, with victory crown'd; How often would fancy present to my view, The horrors that waited thee round!

How constant, how fervent, how pure was my pray'r, That Heav'n would protect thee from danger and harm; That angels of mercy would shield thee with care, In the heat of the combat's alarm!

How sad and how often descended the tear, (Ah! long shall remembrance the image retain!) How mournful the sigh, when I trembled with fear, I might never behold thee again!

But the pray'r was accepted, the sorrow is o'er, And the tear-drop is fled, like the dew on the rose; Thy dangers, our fears, have endear'd thee the more, And my bosom with tenderness glows!

And, oh! when the dreams, the enchantments of youth, Bright and transient, have fled, like the rainbow, away; My affection for thee, still unfading in truth, Shall never, oh! never, decay!

No time can impair it, no change can destroy, Whate'er be the lot I am destin'd to share; It will smile in the sun-shine of hope and of joy, And beam thro' the cloud of despair!

To My Mother

TO MY MOTHER.

If e'er for human bliss or woe I feel the sympathetic glow; If e'er my heart has learn'd to know The gen'rous wish or pray'r; Who sow'd the germ, with tender hand? Who mark'd its infant-leaves expand? My mother's fost'ring care.

And if one flow'r of charms refin’d May grace the garden of my mind; 'Twas she who nurs'd it there: She lov'd to cherish and adorn Each blossom of the soil; To banish ev'ry weed and thorn, That oft oppos'd her toil!

And, oh! if e'er I've sigh'd to claim The palm, the living palm of fame, The glowing wreath of praise; If e'er I've wish'd the glitt'ring stores, That fortune on her fav'rite pours; 'Twas but, that wealth and fame, if mine, Round thee, with streaming rays might shine, And gild thy sun-bright days!

Yet not that splendor, pomp, and pow'r, Might then irradiate ev'ry hour; For these, my mother! well I know, On thee no raptures could bestow; But could thy bounty, warm and kind, Be, like thy wishes, unconfin'd; And fall, as manna from the skies, And bid a train of blessings rise, Diffusing joy and peace; The tear-drop, grateful, pure and bright, For thee would beam with softer light,

Than all the diamond's crystal rays, Than all the emerald's lucid blaze; And joys of heav'n would thrill thy heart, To bid one bosom-grief depart, One tear, one sorrow cease!

Then, oh! may heav'n, that loves to bless, Bestow the pow'r to cheer distress; Make thee its minister below, To light the cloudy path of woe; To visit the deserted cell, Where indigence is doom'd to dwell; To raise, when drooping to the earth, The blossoms of neglected worth; And round, with lib'ral hand dispense, The sunshine of beneficence!

But, ah! if fate should still deny Delights like these, too rich and high;