The legal ruler * now resumes the helm,
He guides through gentle seas the prow of state; Hope cheers with wonted smiles the peaceful realm, And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied hate.
The gloomy tenants, Newstead, of thy cells,
Howling resign their violated nest;
Again the master on his tenure dwells,
Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest.
Vassals, within thy hospitable pale,
Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return;
Culture again adorns the gladdening vale,
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn..
A thousand songs on tuneful echo float,
Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees;
And, hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note,
The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the breeze.
Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake :
What fears, what anxious hopes attend the chase!
The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake,
Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race.
Ah! happy days! too happy to endure !
Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew:
No splendid vices glitter'd to allure
Their joys were many as their cares were few.
From these descending, sons to sires succeed;
Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart;
Another chief impels the foaming steed,
Another crowd pursue the panting hart.
Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine! Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay;
The last and youngest of a noble line
Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway.
Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn towers—
Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep-
Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers-
These, these he views, and views them but to weep.
Yet are his tears no emblem of regret,
Cherish'd affection only bids them flow;
Pride, Hope, and Love forbid him to forget,
But warm his bosom with impassion'd glow.
Yet he prefers thee to the gilded domes,
Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great;
Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs,
Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate.
Haply thy sun emerging yet may shine,
Thee to irradiate with meridian ray;
Hours splendid as the past may still be thine,
And bless thy future as thy former day.
ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES,
SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COMPLAINING THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS RATHER TOO WARMLY DRAWN.
But if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician,
Should condemn me for printing a second edition;
If good Madam Squintum my work should abuse,
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse?
ANSTEY's New Bath Guide, p. 169.
CANDOUR compels me, Becher ! * to commend
The verse which blends the censor with the friend :
Your strong, yet just, reproof extorts applause
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause.
For this wild error which pervades my strain,
I sue for pardon,-must I sue in vain?
The wise sometimes from wisdom's ways depart ;
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart?
Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control,
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul.
When love's delirium haunts the glowing mind,
Limping decorum lingers far behind :
The Rev. John Becher, prebendary of Southwell, the well-known author of several philanthropic plans for the amelioration of the condition of the poor.
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace,
Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental chase.
The young,
the old, have worn the chains of love:
Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove;
Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing power,
Their censures on the hapless victim shower.
Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song,
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng,
Whose labour'd lines in chilling numbers flow,
To paint a pang the author ne'er can know!
The artless Helicon I boast is youth ;-
My lyre, the heart; my muse, the simple truth.
Far be 't from me the " virgin's mind" to "taint:"
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint.
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile,
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile,
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer,
Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe-
She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine,
Will ne'er be "tainted" by a strain of mine.
But for the nymph whose premature desires
Torment the bosom with unholy fires,
No net to snare her willing heart is spread;
She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read,
For me, I fain would please the chosen few,
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true,
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy
The light effusions of a heedless boy.
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd;
Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud:
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize,
Their sneers or censures I alike despise.
ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM,
WRITTEN BY MONTGOMERY, AUTHOR OF "THE WANDERER IN SWITZERLAND," &c. &c., ENTITLED 66 THE COMMON LOT."
MONTGOMERY! true, the common lot
Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave;
Yet some shall never be forgot―
Some shall exist beyond the grave.
"Unknown the region of his birth,"
The hero rolls the tide of war;
Yet not unknown his martial worth,
Which glares a meteor from afar.
His joy or grief, his weal or woe,
Perchance may 'scape the of fame;
Yet nations now unborn will know
The record of his deathless name.
The patriot's and the poet's frame
Must share the common tomb of all;
Their glory will not sleep the same;
That will arise though empires fall.
The lustre of a beauty's eye
Assumes the ghastly stare of death;
The fair, the brave, the good must die,
And sink the yawning grave beneath.
Once more the speaking eye revives,
Still beaming through the lover's strain
For Petrarch's Laura still survives:
She died, but ne'er will die again.
The rolling seasons pass away,
And Time, untiring, waves his wing;
Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay,
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring.
All, all must sleep in grim repose,
Collected in the silent tomb;
The old and young, with friends and foes,
Festering alike in shrouds, consume.
The mouldering marble lasts its day,
Yet falls at length a useless fane;
To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey,
The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain.
What though the sculpture be destroy'd,
From dark oblivion meant to guard,
A bright renown shall be enjoy'd
By those whose virtues claim reward.
'No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of Bayard, Nemours, Edward the Black Prince, and in more modern times the fame of Marlborough, Fre derick the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden, &c. are familiar to every historical reader, but the exact places of their birth are known to a very small proportion of their admirers.
Then do not say the common lot
Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave;
Some few, who ne'er will be forgot,
Shall burst the bondage of the grave.
TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER,
ON HIS ADVISING THE AUTHOR TO MIX MORE WITH SOCIETY.
DEAR Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind,—
I cannot deny such a precept is wise;
But retirement accords with the tone of my mind:
I will not descend to a world I despise.
Did the senate or camp my exertions require,
Ambition might prompt me at once to go forth;
When infancy's years of probation expire,
Perchance, I may strive to distinguish my birth.
The fire, in the cavern of Ætna conceal'd,
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess ;-
At length, in a volume terrific reveal'd,
No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.
Oh thus, the desire in my bosom for fame
Bids me live but to hope for posterity's praise; Could I soar, with the phoenix, on pinions of flame, With him I would wish to expire in the blaze.
For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death,
What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave! Their lives did not end when they yielded their breath,Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave!
Yet why should I mingle in fashion's full herd?
Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules?
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd?
Why search for delight in the friendship of fools?
I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love;
In friendship I early was taught to believe;
My passion the matrons of prudence reprove;
I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive.
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