And oft with gentle hand I give thee And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay! head. But what thy dulled spirits hath dismay'd, That never thou dost sport along the glade? And (most unlike the nature of things young) That earthward still thy moveless head is hung? Do thy prophetic fears anticipate, 'Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes'? Or is thy sad heart thrill'd with filial pain To see thy wretched mother's shortened chain? And truly, very piteous is her lotChained to a log within a narrow spot Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen, While sweet around her waves the tempt. That precipice three yards beyond your Lest some mad devil suddenly unhamp'r ing, Slap-dash the imp should fly off with the steeple, On revolutionary broom-stick scampering.— O ye soft-headed and soft-hearted people, If you can stay so long from slumber free, My muse shall make an effort to salute 'e: For lo! a very dainty simile TO A FRIEND [CHARLES LAMB] TOGETHER WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM [Religious Musings'] THUS far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme Elaborate and swelling: yet the heart Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers I ask not now, my friend! the aiding verse, Flash'd sudden through my brain, and Tedious to thee, and from thy anxious 'twill just suit 'e! thought Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know) From business wandering far and local cares, Thou creepest round a dear-loved Sister's bed With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look, Soothing each pang with fond solicitude, To her I pour'd forth all my puny sorrows, (As sick Patient in his Nurse's arms) And of the heart those hidden maladies That even from Friendship's eye will shrink ashamed. O! I have woke at midnight, and have wept, Because she was not!-Cheerily, dear Charles! Thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a year : Such warm presagings feel I of high Hope. For not uninterested the dear Maid I've view'd her soul affectionate yet wise, Her polish'd wit as mild as lambent glories That play around a sainted infant's head. He knows (the Spirit that in secret sees, 'MR. EDITOR-If, Sir, the following Poems Thy light shall shine: as sunk beneath will not disgrace your poetical department, I the West Thou badst Oppression's hireling crew rejoice Blasting with wizard spell my laurelled fame. 'Yet never, BURKE! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl! Thee stormy Pity and the cherish'd lure Of Pomp, and proud precipitance of soul Wildered with meteor fires. Ah Spirit pure! 'That error's mist had left thy purged eye: So might I clasp thee with a Mother's joy!' December 9, 1794. III PRIESTLEY THOUGH roused by that dark Vizir Riot rude Have driven our PRIESTLEY o'er the ocean swell; Though Superstition and her wolfish brood Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell; Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell! For lo! Religion at his strong behest Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell, And flings to Earth her tinsel-glittering vest, Her mitred state and cumbrous pomp unholy; And Justice wakes to bid th' Oppres sor wail Insulting aye the wrongs of patient And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won IV LA FAYETTE As when far off the warbled strains are heard That soar on Morning's wing the vales among; Within his cage the imprisoned matin bird Swells the full chorus with a generous song: He bathes no pinion in the dewy light, No Father's joy, no Lover's bliss he shares, Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight His fellows' freedom soothes the captive's cares ! Thou, FAYETTE! who didst wake with startling voice Life's better sun from that long wintry night, Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt rejoice And mock with raptures high the dungeon's might : For lo! the morning struggles into day, And Slavery's spectres shriek and vanish. from the ray! **The above beautiful sonnet was written antecedently to the joyful account of the Patriot's escape from the Tyrant's Dungeon. [Note in M. Ch.] December 15, 1794. V KOSKIUSKO O WHAT a loud and fearful shriek was there, As though a thousand souls one deathgroan poured! Ah me! they viewed beneath an hireling's sword Fallen Koskiusko! Through the burthened air Meek Nature/slowly lifts her matron veil Of Triumph) on the chill and midnight Seize, Mercy! thou more terrible the Not always heaven-breathed tones of suppliance meek Beseem thee, Mercy! Yon dark Scowler Who with proud words of dear-loved More blasting than the mildew from the South! And kiss'd his country with Iscariot mouth (Ah! foul apostate from his Father's fame !) 1 Then fix'd her on the cross of deep distress, Brooded the wavy and tumultuous mind, 1 Author of Sonnets and other Poems, published by Dilly. To Mr. Bowles's poetry I have always thought the following remarks from Maximus Tyrius peculiarly applicable :-'I am not now treating of that poetry which is estimated by the pleasure it affords to the ear-the ear having been corrupted, and the judgmentseat of the perceptions; but of that which proceeds from the intellectual Helicon, that which And at safe distance marks the thirsty is dignified, and appertaining to human feelings, lance Pierce her big side! But O! if some and entering into the soul.'-The 13th Sonnet for exquisite delicacy of painting; the 19th for tender simplicity; and the 25th for manly pathos, are compositions of, perhaps, unrivalled merit. Yet while I am selecting these, I almost accuse myself of causeless partiality; for surely never was a writer so equal in excellence !-S. T. C. |
