Poems | Page 2

thy op'ning beauties spread,
That lov'd thee living,
shall lament thee dead!
Ye graceful Virtues! while the note I breathe,

Of sweetest flow'rs entwine a fun'ral wreath,--
Of virgin flow'rs,
and place them round his tomb,
To bud, like him, and perish in their
bloom!
Ah! when these eyes saw thee serenely wait
The last long

separating stroke of Fate,--
When round thy bed a kindred weeping
train
Call'd on thy voice to greet them, but in vain,--
When o'er thy
lips we watch'd thy fault'ring breath--
When louder grief proclaim'd
th'approach of death,--
Thro' ev'ry vein an icy horror chill'd,
Colder
than marble ev'ry bosom thrill'd.
Unsettled still, tho' exercis'd to
grieve,
Scarce would my mind the alter'd sight believe;
Familiar
scenes a transient calm inspire,
Poor flutt'ring Fancy fann'd the vain
desire,
'Till with sad proof thy wasted relics rise,
And restless
Nature pours uncall'd-for sighs.
Ah! long, my William! shall thy
picture rest,
Time shall not wear it, imag'd in my breast;
Yes, thou
shall live while fond remembrance lives,
'Till he who mourns thee
asks the line he gives.
No common joy, no fugitive delight,
Regret
like this could in my breast excite;
For then my sorrow had been less
severe,
And tears less copious had bedew'd the bier.
From the same
breast our milky food we drew,
Entwin'd affection strengthen'd as we
grew;
Why further trace? The flatt'ring dream is o'er--
Thy transient
joys and sorrows are no more!
All, all are fled!--And, ah! where'er I
turn,
Insulting Death directs me to thy urn,
Throws his cold
shadows round me while I sing.
Damps ev'ry nerve, and slackens
ev'ry string.
So, when the Moon trims up her waning fire,
Sweep
the night-breezes o'er th'Aeolian lyre;
Ling'ring, perchance, some
wild pathetic sound
Lulls the lorn ear, and dies along the ground.

Ye kindred train! who, o'er the parting grave,
Have mourn'd the
virtues which ye could not save.
Ye know how Mem'ry, with
excursive pow'r,
Extracts a sweet from ev'ry faded hour;--
From
scenes long past, regardless of repose,
She feeds her tears, and
treasures up her woes.
Thou tuneful, mute, companion[A] of my care!

Where now thy notes, that linger'd in the air?
That linger
still!--Vain thy harmonious store,--
Thy sweet persuasive triumphs
are no more.
Thy mournful image strikes my wand'ring eye;
Sad,
near thy silent strings, I sit and sigh.
Cold is that band which Music
form'd her own,
When ev'ry chord resign'd its sweetest tone.
Ah!
long, fair source of rapture, shall thou rest,
Silent and sad, neglected

and unprest,
'Till years, lov'd shade! superior pow'rs resign,
Or raise
one note more eloquent than thine.
Tho' with'ring Sickness mark'd
thee in the womb,
And form'd thy cradle but to form thy tomb,
Yet,
like a flow'r, she bade thee reach thy prime,
The fairer victim for the
stroke of Time.
When fond Invention vainly sought thine ease,
The
wave salubrious and the morning breeze,--
When even Sleep, sweet
Sleep! refus'd thy call,
Sleep! that with sweet refreshment smiles on
all,--
When, till the morn, thine eyes, unclos'd and damp,
Trac'd thy
sad semblance in the glimm'ring lamp,--
When from thy face Health's
latest relic fled,
Where Hope might flatter, with reluctant tread,--

Still, darting forward from the weight of woe,
Thy soul with all its
energy would glow;
Still with the purest passion wouldst thou prove

The glow of friendship and the warmth of love.
And ah! to sacred
Memory ever nigh,
Thy wit and humour claim the passing sigh:

When, thro' the hour, with unresisted skill,
I've seen thee mould each
feature to thy will,--
When friends drew round thee with attentive ear,

Pleas'd with the raill'ry which they could not fear.
Oh! how I've
heard thee, with concealing art,
Join in the song, tho' sorrow rent thy
heart;
How have I seen thee too, with venial guile,
O'er many an
anguish force the faithless smile,--
Seen suffering Nature check each
sigh, each fear,
To rob maternal fondness of a tear!
Alas! those
scenes are past!--Vain was the pray'r
That ask'd of Fate to soften and
to spare;
Ah! vain, if wit and virtue could not save
Thy youthful
honours from an early grave.
But yet, if here my warm fraternal love

May claim alliance with the realms above;
If kindred Nature, with
perpetual bloom,
Transplanted springs, and lives beyond the tomb;

Thy pitying soul shall smile upon my grief,
Shall feel a pang that
wishes not relief;
In visions still shall shield me as I go,
Along this
gloomy wilderness of woe;
Shall still regard me with peculiar pride,

On earth my brother, and in heav'n my guide!
Methinks I see thee
reach th' empyrean shore,
And heav'n's full chorus hails one angel
more;
While 'mid the seraph-forms that round thee fly,
Thy father
meets thee with ecstatic eye!
He springs exulting from his throne of

rest,
Extends his arms, and clasps thee to his breast!
[Footnote A: The piano-forte, on which he excelled.]
PARODY
ON
"The Golden Days of good Queen Bess."
To my Muse give attention, and deem it not a mystery
If I jumble up
together music, poetry, and history,
To sing of the vices of wicked
Queen Bess, sir,
Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess,
sir,
Detested be the memory of wicked Queen Bess, sir,
Whose memory
posterity with blushes shall confess, sir.
In saying she would die a maid, she, England! did amuse ye. But what