Vignettes In Verse Part 4

Just then he saw a scornful sneer Upon Dan Cupid's face appear; While courtiers whispered with a grin, "Poor fellow, he'll be taken in!

The finest birds are always shy, The rarest at a distance fly, And Reason cannot soar so high."

"Aye, you may laugh, to prove her mind At once exalted and refined, I'll watch her skill in music's art; By ear and fingers judge the heart, And then it will not be believ'd I can be easily deceiv'd.

I only grieve that in my prime I've wasted so much precious time, For long ere this I might have married, Had I not so unwisely tarried, And vex'd my brains in looking round For that which never could be found."

"And would'st thou wish," the monarch cried, "To set our gentle laws aside?

Thou hast no friend in Common Sense, In such affairs she thinks it wisest, To stand aside without pretence, And sanction laws which thou despisest.

But try the plan, it merits praise, Success may crown its winning ways!

The lady must be blind indeed, With whom such offers of neglect, And cool, habitual disrespect Would not succeed.

But come no longer here to flout us, Since, truly, thou canst do without us; For dignity is lost in sport, An outlaw for contempt of court; We banish thee with all thy pride Until thy heart be rarified."

XIX.

ABSENCE.

_Written in Derbys.h.i.+re, by the same Friend._

When recollection brings to mind, The kindred ties I've left behind, The converse gentle and refin'd, I grieve!

Deep the regret, the pain extreme, And yet I fondly love the dream, And find the sad, delightful theme Relieve.

It bids all present forms decay, All present feelings fade away; Impeding distance, long delay Are o'er!

Fancy, so active in the gloom, Till some one enters in the room, Can all the images of home Restore.

Alas! when weeks, and months are past, Shall I that home behold at last, Which even the dark clouds overcast Endear?

Lest one of all the cares that dart Like arrows round each thoughtful heart, May pierce ere then some vital part I fear!

XX.

_On reading in Savary's Travels the death of Ali Bey, who, it is there represented, in the midst of enlightened and benevolent efforts to benefit his country, was repeatedly betrayed, and at length taken captive by his brother-in-law, whom he had advanced and loved, and who, till the very last, he could not believe to be his enemy_.

O generous Ali! while thy fate inspires Indignant pity, with a patriot's fires, I mourn for Egypt, and with equal zeal, For her, for thee, and ruin'd science feel: Admire the confidence my heart deplores And blame the weakness it almost adores!

Pride of thy race! before my mental eyes, I see thee, like another Alfred rise; See honour splendent on thy ample brow, While Thought and Genius fill the orbs below; Those beaming orbs! where lofty sweetness shone, And where the soul sate smiling on her throne: Depriv'd too soon of that benignant ray, Which impious Dahab shudder'd to survey.

Pale, bleeding, conquer'd, dying, and forlorn, I see thee view the wretch with silent scorn!

See thy cheek flush at the false tears he shed, And proudly turn away the languid head, With mingled anger, sorrow, and disdain, That he should dare to tempt thy love again!

Oh! yet within the tent I see thee lie, The victor, like a coward, crouching by; O'erawed, rebuked, and humbled in the hour, The plenitude of his success and power!

A pain the guilty never make us know, In all the miseries they cause below; A pain which they in every triumph feel, A humbling sense no glory yet could heal, The want of conscious worth, the poignant thought, That inwardly sets all pretence at naught!

That curbs all self-applause--tears all disguise-- When the subdued, the ruin'd can _despise_; And, in the arms of death, can yet be free, To say, "Let me be any thing but thee!"

Ambition! while thy zeal the good inflame, And make a n.o.ble nature sigh for fame, We deem thee of a more than royal line, For self-devotion tendeth to divine!

But when, like Dahab's demon, selfish, vain, It loosens Grat.i.tude's mysterious chain; When broken Faith aloud, but vainly calls; When the warm friend, the king, the brother falls; Instead of honours, and a conqueror's fame, Hatred shall haunt, and curses brand thy name!

XXI.

LINES.

_Written for a Young Gentleman to speak at the Audit at St. Saviour's School, Southwark, after the Battle of Trafalgar_.

While others, from the Greek and Roman page, Declare the prudent councils of the sage; Or, in recital of achievements bold, Retrace the motives and the deeds of old, I, in the accents of my native clime, And, at the moment, shaking hands with Time, I, whom our recent loss forbids to roam, Shall plant my mourning standard nearer home!

At the sad shrine where gallant Nelson sleeps, Where Britain bends her lofty head and weeps, Deeply lamenting that she cannot prove, The fond excess of dearly purchas'd love.

Is there a callous mind, that does not feel An anxious interest in the public weal!

Is there a heart that pities not the brave!

To whom luxuriant laurels hide the grave!

A grief unwing'd, yet unconsol'd by pride!

A tongue that said not, when our hero died, While bitter tears that glorious loss deplore, The man who _lov'd his country_ is no more?

No! in each eye the glowing trophies fade; Each sign of triumph seems a vain parade!

The aching sigh to conquering shouts succeeds, And Victory a.s.sumes a widow's weeds.

Some wily chieftain, building up a name, May fight for immortality and fame; Time may embalm his valour, or his art, And History shew the coldness of a heart, Which, emulous of grandeur and a throne, Acts for itself, "_its own low self_" alone; And, in the inner chambers of the mind, Broods over plans to subjugate mankind: There fondly bends each nation to his sway, That he may rule, and all beside obey.

Haply the mighty fabric may arise, Vast in its bulk, and aiming at the skies, Till Wisdom, viewing the enormous pile, Admires the madness of a man the while, Who labours with incessant toil and skill; To feed Ambition, discontented still; And for that serpent in his bosom curl'd, Erects a temple fit to hold the world!

Though such a chief a deathless wreath may crown, Though he may win a sterile, hard renown, His name shall ne'er a sudden glow impart, Nor make the tear of admiration start; Ne'er in his plaudits shall warm blessings join!

None cry, "The triumph of that man is mine!"

But, when his greatness crumbles in the dust, Coldly exclaim, "Lo! Providence is just!"

Far different is the patriot warrior's lot!

He may in Time's long journey be forgot; Though many generations shall decay, Ere England's love to Nelson wears away!

But if at length successive years should cast The mist of distance upon ages past, And fathers what themselves have witness'd tell, Of those who yet shall serve their country well-- Memory and Knowledge shall dispel the gloom, And shed strong light on every honour'd tomb-- To lift the spirit when our courage fail, When worth departed, future ages hail!

And ye, compeers, who in the cla.s.sic page, Do homage to the hero and the sage, Whose hearts at base and cruel actions bleed, But rise triumphant at a n.o.ble deed-- Forbear from Duty's anxious side to stray, But follow bravely when she leads the way; Follow with head and heart, as Nelson fought; Be vigilant like him in act and thought; Then, as the lark mounts upwards in the skies, Early in life's fair morning will you rise, Expand bold pinions nearest to the sun, And claim the meed of glory fairly won.

XXII.

TO THE HETMAN, PLATOFF.