Was there some magic in the Elfin's dart? Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance? For straight so fair a Form did upwards start (No fairer decked the bowers of old Romance) That Sleep enamoured grew, nor moved from his sweet trance!
My Sara came, with gentlest look divine;
Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam:
I felt the pressure of her lip to mine!
Whispering we went, and Love was all our theme—
Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem,
He sprang from Heaven! Such joys with Sleep did 'bide,
That I the living image of my dream
Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd-
"O! how shall I behold my Love at even-tide!"
PUBLISHED ANONYMOUSLY AT BRISTOL, IN SEPTEMBER, 1795.
UNBOASTFUL Bard! whose verse concise yet clear
Tunes to smooth melody unconquered sense,
May your fame fadeless live, as never-sere"
The Ivy wreathes yon Oak, whose broad defence
Embowers me from Noon's sultry influence!
For like that nameless Rivulet stealing by,
Your modest verse to musing quiet dear,
Is rich with tints heaven-borrowed; the charmed eye
Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the softened sky.
Circling the base of the Poetic mount
A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow
Its coal-black waters from Oblivion's fount;
The vapour-poisoned Birds, that fly too low,
Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go.
Escaped that heavy stream on pinion fleet
Beneath the Mountain's lofty frowning brow,
Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet,
A mead of mildest charm delays the unlabouring feet.
Not there the cloud-climbed rock, sublime and vast,
That like some giant king o'erglooms the hill;
Nor there the Pine-grove to the midnight blast
Makes solemn music! But the unceasing rill
To the soft Wren or Lark's descending trill
Murmurs sweet under-song mid jasmine bowers.
In this same pleasant meadow, at your will
I ween, you wandered-there collecting flowers
Of sober tint, and herbs of med'cinable powers!
There for the monarch-murdered Soldier's tomb
You wove the unfinished wreath of saddest hues;
And to that holier chaplet added bloom
Besprinkling it with Jordan's cleansing dews.t
But lo! your Henderson awakes the Muse-
His Spirit beckoned from the Mountain's height!
You left the plain and soared 'mid richer views!
So Nature mourned, when sunk the First Day's light,
With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of night.
+ John the Baptist, a Poem.
Monody on John Henderson.
Still soar, my Friend, those richer views among,
Strong, rapid, fervent, flashing Fancy's beam!
Virtue and Truth shall love your gentler song,
But Poesy demands the impassioned theme;
Waked by Heaven's silent dews at Eve's mild gleam
What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around!
But if the vext air rush a stormy stream,
Or Autumn's shrill gust moan in plaintive sound,
With fruits and flowers she loads the tempest-honoured
ground.
WRITTEN AT SHURTON BARS, NEAR BRIDGEWATER, SEPTEMBER, 1795, IN ANSWER TO A LETTER FROM BRISTOL.
"Good verse most good, and bad verse then seems better,
Received from absent friend, by way of Letter,
For what so sweet can laboured lays impart
As one rude rhyme warm from a friendly heart."
Non travels my meandering eye
The starry wilderness on high;
Nor now with curious sight
I mark the glow-worm, as I pass,
Move with "green radiance" through the grass,
An emerald of light.
O ever present to my view!
My wafted spirit is with you,
And soothes your boding fears:
I see you all oppressed with gloom
Sit lonely in that cheerless room—
You are in tears!
Beloved Woman! did you fly
Chilled Friendship's dark disliking eye,
Or Mirth's untimely din?
With cruel weight these trifles press
A temper sore with tenderness,
When aches the Void within.
But why with sable wand unblest
Should Fancy rouse within my
Dim-visaged shapes of Dread?
Untenanting its beauteous clay
My Sara's soul has winged its way,
And hovers round my head!
I felt it prompt the tender dream,
When slowly sank the day's last gleam;
You roused each gentler sense,
As sighing o'er the blossom's bloom
Meek Evening wakes its soft perfume
With viewless influence.
And hark, my Love! The sea-breeze moans Through yon reft house! O'er rolling stones In bold ambitious sweep,
The onward-surging tides supply
The silence of the cloudless sky
With mimic thunders deep.
Dark reddening from the channelled Isle (Where stands one solitary pile
*The Holmes, in the Bristol Channel.
Unslated by the blast)
The watchfire, like a sullen star
Twinkles to many a dozing tar
Rude cradled on the mast.
Even there-beneath that light-house tower— In the tumultuous evil hour
Ere Peace with Sara came,
Time was, I should have thought it sweet
To count the echoings of my feet,
And watched the storm-vexed flame.
And there in black soul-jaundiced fit
A sad gloom-pampered Man to sit,
And listen to the roar:
When mountain surges bellowing deep
With an uncouth monster leap
Plunged foaming on the shore.
Then by the lightning's blaze to mark
Some toiling tempest-shattered bark;
Her vain distress-guns hear;
And when a second sheet of light
Flashed o'er the blackness of the night-
To see no vessel there!
But Fancy now more gaily sings;
Or if awhile she droop her wings,
As sky-lards 'mid the corn,
On summer fields she grounds her breast:
The oblivious poppy o'er her nest
Nods, till returning morn.
|