« AnteriorContinuar »
Mark him, how bis power
Clouds and utter glooms!
With uninjured plumes !"
“Stranger, 'tis no act of
courage Which aloft thou dost discern; No bold bird gone forth to forage
'Mid the tempest stern; But such mockery as the nations See, when public perturbations Lift men from their native stations, Like yon
TUFT OF FERN ;
Such it is; the aspiring creature
A dull helpless thing,
Its endeavouring !"
ON SEEING A NEEDLECASE IN THE FORM OF
THE WORK OF E.M.S.
FROWNS are on every Muse's face,
Reproaches from their lips are sent,
The noble Instrument.
A very Harp in all but size!
Needles for strings in apt gradation !
The unclassic profanation.
Even her own needle that subdued
Arachne's rival spirit,
Such honour could not merit.
And this, too, from the Laureate's Child,
A living lord of melody!
To the refined indignity ?
I spake, when whispered a low voice,
6 Bard! moderate your ire; Spirits of all degrees rejoice
In presence of the lyre.
ON SEEING A NEEDLECASE IN THE FORM OF A HARP. 37
The Minstrels of Pygmean bands,
Dwarf Genii, moonlight-loving Fays,
And suit their slender lays.
Some, still more delicate of ear,
Have lutes (believe my words)
While sunbeams are the chords.
Gay Sylphs this miniature will court,
Made vocal by their brushing wings,
Around its polished strings;
Whence strains to love-sick maiden dear,
While in her lonely bower she tries
By fanciful embroideries.
Trust, angry Bard! a knowing Sprite,
Nor think the Harp her lot deplores; Though ʼmid the stars the Lyre shine bright, Love stoops as fondly as he soars."
TO A LADY,
IN ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WOULD WRITE HER A POEM UPON SOME DRAWINGS THAT SHE HAD MADE OF
FLOWERS IN THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA.
Fair Lady! can I sing of flowers
That in Madeira bloom and fade,
Nor through their sunny lawns have strayed ? ?
By Shepherd-groom or May-day queen,
These eyes have never seen.
Yet tho' to me the pencil's art
No like remembrances can give,
And there for gentle pleasure live;
Shall on some lovely Alien set
To peace, or fond regret.
Some new resemblance we may trace ;
A Speedwell may not want its place.
Beholding what your skill has wrought,
A new Forget-me-not.
From earth to heaven with motion fleet
From heaven to earth our thoughts will pass, A Holy-thistle here we meet
And there a Shepherd's weather-glass ; And haply some familiar name
Shall grace the fairest, sweetest, plant Whose presence cheers the drooping frame
Of English Emigrant.
Gazing she feels its powers beguile
Sad thoughts, and breathes with easier breath; Alas! that meek that tender smile
Is but a harbinger of death : And pointing with a feeble hand
She says, in faint words by sighs broken, Bear for me to my native land
This precious Flower, true love's last token.
GLAD sight wherever new with old