Poems by Sir John Carr Part 6

LINES TO DELIA,

ON HER WEARING A MUSLIN VEIL.

Say, Delia, why, in muslin shade, Ah! say, dost thou conceal those eyes?

Such little stars were never made, I'm sure, to s.h.i.+ne thro' misty skies.

Say, are they wrapt in so much shade, That they may more successful rise, Starting from such soft ambuscade, To catch and kill us by surprise?

Or, of their various pow'rs afraid, Is it in mercy to our sighs, Lest love, o'er many a heart betray'd, Should sob "a faithful vot'ry dies"?

Then, oh! remove the envious shade; Let others wear, who want, disguise: We all had sooner die, sweet maid, To see, than live without, those eyes.

VERSES

TO THE TOMB OF A FRIEND.

Dearer to me, thou pile of dust!

Tho' with the wild flow'r simply crown'd, Than the vast dome or beauteous bust, By genius form'd, by wit renown'd.

Wave, thou wild flow'r! for ever wave, O'er my lov'd relic of delight; My tears shall bathe her green-rob'd grave More than the dews of heav'n by night.

Methinks my Delia bids me go, Says, "Florio, dry that fruitless tear!

Feed not a wild flow'r with thy woe, Thy long-lov'd Delia is not here.

"No drop of feeling from her eye Now starts to hear thy sorrows speak; And, did thy bosom know one joy, No smile would bloom upon her cheek.

"Pale, wan, and torpid, droops that cheek, Whereon thy lip impress'd its red; Those eyes, which Florio taught to speak, Unnotic'd close amid the dead!"

True, true, too idly mourns this heart; Why, Mem'ry, dost thou paint the past?

Why say you saw my Delia part, Still press'd, still lov'd her, to the last?

Then, thou wild flow'r, for ever wave!

To thee this parting tear is given; The sigh I offer at her grave Shall reach my sainted love in heaven!

TIME AND THE LOVER.

Oh, Time! thy merits who can know?

Thy real nature who discover?

The absent lover calls thee slow,-- "Too rapid," says the happy lover.

With bloom thy cheeks are now refin'd, Now to thine eye the tear is given; At once too cruel and too kind,-- A little h.e.l.l, a little heaven.

Go then, thou charming myst'ry, go!-- Yes, tho' thou often dost amuse me, Tho' many a joy to thee I owe, At once I thank thee and abuse thee.

A ROUNDELAY.

Wide thro' the azure blue and bright Serenely floats the lamp of night; The sleeping waves forget to move, And silent is the cedar grove; Each breeze suspended seems to say-- "Now, Leline, for thy Roundelay!"

My Delia's lids are clos'd in rest; Ah! were her pillow but my breast!

Go, dreams! one gentle word impart, In whispers place me by her heart; While near her door I'll fondly stray, And sooth her with my Roundelay.

But, ah! the Night draws in her shade, And glimm'ring stars reluctant fade: Yet sleep, my love! nor may'st thou feel The pangs which griefs like mine reveal: Adieu! for Morning's on his way, And bids me close my Roundelay.

FAREWELL LINES

TO

_BRISTOL HOT WELLS_.

Bristol! in vain thy rocks attempt the sky, The wild woods waving on their giddy brow; And vainly, devious Avon! vainly sigh Thy waters, winding thro' the vales below;--

In vain, upon thy gla.s.sy bosom borne, Th' expected vessel proudly glides along, While, 'mid thy echoes, at the break of morn Is heard the homeward s.h.i.+p-boy's happy song;--

For, ah! amid thy sweet romantic shade, By Friends.h.i.+p led, fair drooping Beauty moves; Thy hallow'd cup of health affords no aid, Nor charm thy birds, that chant their woodland loves.

Each morn I view her thro' thy wave-girt grove, Her white robe flutt'ring round her sinking form; O'er the sweet ruin s.h.i.+ne those eyes of love, As bright stars beaming thro' a midnight storm.

Here sorrowing Love seeks a sequester'd bow'r.

Calls on thy spring to calm his troubled breast; Bright Hope alights not on his pensive hour, Nor can thy favour'd fountains yield him rest.

Despair across his joys now intervenes, And sternly bids the little cherub fly; While his eyes close amid thy beauteous scenes.

His last sighs bless the form that bids him die.

Farewell, then, Bristol! thou canst yield no joy, Thy woods look darken'd with funereal gloom, Sickness and Sorrow on thy green banks sigh, And all thy form is but a beauteous tomb.

Ah! may each future suff'rer, hov'ring near, Rais'd by thy genial wave, delighted view Returning joy and health, supremely dear, Long lost to him who sadly sighs adieu!