ALAS! no morning Incense blooms!
Sweet Children of a Summer's day
Are wither'd in their earthy tombs,
Save Balm, that blossoms in decay.
Yet in my breast one Flow'ret blows;
One heav'n-blest Flower of fadeless blue!
FRIENDSHIP! more fair than Sharon's Rose;
And that, my Friend, shall bloom for You.
TO LADY MOSTYN,
ON HER PROPOSED JOURNEY TO CLIFTON.
IF aught which on Earth's surface grows,
Or which in beauteous Water flows;
If Clifton's air, or Bristol's spring,
The wish'd-for Health to MOSTYN bring,-
Each wholesome Breeze and salient Stream
(For, in her health, the Rich, the Poor,
The Young, the Aged, ye restore!)
Shall be the Muse's grateful Theme:
Oh! make her then your guardian Care,
Ye Gales, ye Springs,-and win my Prayer!
March 31, 1804.
SOURCE of the Stream, that from the gushing heart
Flows to the eye, and down the polish'd cheek
Of Youth and Beauty, as of furrow'd Age,
Takes its perturbed course! ah, cease to pour
Thy bitter waters on the gentle breast
Of sweet SOPHIA: dear, unhappy Maid!
Who, the grief-rounded Year, alas ! thrice told,
Has steep'd her Birth-day pillow in her tears;
Oh, think that 't was for Virtue's sake they flow'd!
A Daughter's duty, and a Sister's love.
With these, perchance, another potent cause
Mixed its soft drops! To love, and to resign
Love's fondest hope, that Virtue too is thine;
A bleeding Laurel of a Virgin heart!
The Conquerors of the World have rarely won!
Choose then, afflictive Power, some fitter mark
Of wholesome discipline; thy arrowy store
Point at the guilty breast; at his, who mocks
At sacred Chastisement, though sent from Heaven!
Or Gold's vile Slave, who, from his vacant heap,
Or thrift usurious, can from Famine's lip
Withhold the vital morsel; or false Friend;
Or those who laugh at others' miseries,
And weep their own.-These, and unnumber'd more,
Deserve, demand, thy vengeance-Then be these
Thy future Victims! But let milder Guests
Enter Sophia's dwelling; soft Content
And modest Happiness, and Love approved,
And the high conscious Sense of acting well,
And Honour tried-A smiling Family!
Lovelier when sent by Sorrow to the spot
Where, Heav'n-commission'd, she has prov'd the Soul.
Accord this boon!-So shall the latest tears
That fall from her bright eyes, be tears of joy!
ALTHOUGH of such-as Fancy and as Faith
Pourtray to Man-are Heav'n's Inhabitants-so shap❜d,
So featur'd; and, if fair as Thee,
Sweet one, scarce wanting Angel wings
To bear thee to thy Cherub Sisterhood-
Ah! in soft pity, aid with thy pure breath
Thy Poet's prayer! O fold thy seraph hands,
And to the Firmament lift thy mild eye
Of kindred blue, and raise thy tender voice
Of kindred harmony, to supplicate
The Power who made and owns Thee, yet to lend,
Ev'n as a Beam of his own Blessed Self,
Thy Graces to the Earth! Ah loveliest Babe!
Spirits there are too thrift in this bad world,
Spirits of Darkness! sprung from the foul Fiend,
Who fills them with the poisons of their Sire:
And oft assuming, infant Innocence !
Thy lilied robe and thy unspotted look,
They stain Life's fairest path, and from the Rose
Of Friendship, and of Love, and sacred Truth,
Tear ev'ry fragrant Leaf, wither the Branch,
And rend the holy Roots! and in their place
Set Slander's deadly Nightshade, Fraud and Strife,
The Mind's dire Hellebore.- -But thou, sweet Bud!
No secret worm, no canker nourishest
In thy pure folds; nor dare even Slander's self
Sully thy whiteness, or thy perfume blast
With her empoison'd breath. Tarry then,
Ah tarry, with thy fair ethereal Powers,
To cheer us and to bless. Petition Heaven;'
And how can Heaven refuse an Angel's Pray'r
WRITTEN MARCH TWENTY-FIFTH, 1804,
TOMB OF LADY CALDWELL,
Who was buried at Weston, near Bath, March 18th, 1796.
PARTNER of Him, who, from my early youth,
My soul had mark'd for Honour and for Truth;
Whose generous Sorrows, and whose tender Sighs,
Heav'd from a Heart where still thy Image lies;
Who, as he views thee in thy Daughters fair,
Still feels a Husband's love, a Father's care;
And, while more strongly swell'd the tide of grief,
Brought on the wish'd-for show'r of kind relief;
And 'midst the storm they caus'd, more fondly press'd
Thy beauteous Pledges to his aching breast;
Saw all their Mother in their forms survive,
And scarce, alas! could think them not alive.
Truc to thy Worth, tho' eight sad years have pass'd
Since near this sacred spot he look'd his last;
And many a dire event and distant scene,
With all that Chance or Change could intervene ;
His faithful Spirit to thy Tomb has flown,
And mark'd thy sacred Ashes for his own.
His faithful Spirit leaps the space between,
And summons thine to CALDWELL's once-lov'd scene.
⚫ Castle Caldwell, the beautiful seat of the family, near Ballyshannon in Ireland: a scene of the highest picturesque beauty.
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