Ye friends of my heart,
Ere from you I depart,
This hope to my breast is most near :
If again we shall meet
In this rural retreat,
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.
When my soul wings her flight
To the regions of night,
And my corse shall recline on its bier,
As ye pass by the tomb
Where my ashes consume,
Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.
May no marble bestow
The splendour of woe
Which the children of vanity rear;
No fiction of fame
Shall blazon my name,
All I ask, all I wish, is a Tear.
DELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF
FORTUNE," AT A PRIVATE THEATRE.
SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;
Since now to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence, though she find not fame.
Still, not for her alone we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect:
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
No Cook, no Kemble, can salute you here,
No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the début
Of embryo actors, to the drama new.
Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try;
Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly;
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more.
Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise
But all our Dramatis Persona wait,
In fond suspense, this crisis of their fate.
No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward;
For these, each Hero all his power displays,
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze :
Surely the last will some protection find,
None to the softer sex can prove unkind ;
Whilst Youth and Beauty form the female shield,
The sternest censor to the fair must yield.
Yet should our feeble efforts nought avail,
Should, after all, our best endeavours fail,
Still, let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.
The following illiberal Impromptu appeared in a Morning Paper
OUR nation's foes lament on Fox's death,
But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath;
These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,—
We give the palm where Justice points it due.
To which the Author of these Pieces sent the following Reply.
OH! factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth;
What, though our "nation's foes" lament the fate,
With generous feeling, of the good and great;
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name
Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame?
When Pitt expired in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscured his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits war not "with the dead."
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber'd in the
grave;
He sunk, an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state;
When, lo! a Hercules in Fox appear'd,
Who, for a time, the rain'd fabric rear'd.
He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied,
With him our fast-reviving hopes have died:
Not one great people only raise his urn,
All Europe's far-extended regions mourn.
"These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,
To give the palm where Justice points it due;"
Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail,
Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.
Fox, o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep,
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes alike his talents own ;
For shall in Britain's future annals shine,
Nor e'en to Pitt the patriot's palm resign,
Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask,
For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask.
WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH THE VELVET BAND WHICH BOUND HER TRESSES.
THIS Band, which bound thy yellow hair,
Is mine, sweet girl! thy pledge of love;
It claims my warmest, dearest care,
Like relics left of saints above.
'T will bind my soul in bonds to thee;
From me again 't will ne'er depart,
But mingle in the grave with me.
The dew I gather from thy lip
Is not so dear to me as this ;
That I but for a moment sip,
And banquet on a transient bliss:
This will recall each youthful scene,
E'en when our lives are on the wane;
The leaves of love will still be green
When Memory bids them bud again.
Oh! little lock of golden hue,
In gently waving ringlet curl'd,
By the dear head on which you grew,
I would not lose you for a world.
Not though a thousand more adorn
The polish'd brow where once you shone,
which gild a cloudless morn,
Beneath Columbia's fervid zone.
REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS.
For me, I adore
Some twenty or more,
And love them most dearly; but yet,
Though my heart they enthrall,
I'd abandon them all,
Did they act like your blooming coquette.
Ere quite with her snares you 're beset :
Lest your deep-wounded heart,
When incensed by the smart,
Should lead you to curse the coquette.
|