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REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ.
Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below, Shows the soul from barbarity clear; Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is diffused in a Tear.
The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale,
Through billows Atlantic to steer, As he bends o'er the wave which may soon be his grave,
The green sparkles bright with a Tear.
The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath
In Glory's romantic career;
But he raises the foe when in battle laid low,
And bathes every wound with a Tear. 20 If with high-bounding pride he return to his bride,
Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear, All his toils are repaid when, embracing the maid,
From her eyelid he kisses the Tear.
Sweet scene of my youth! seat of Friendship and Truth,
Where love chased each fast-fleeting year, Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, for a last look I turn'd,
But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear.
Though my vows I can pour to my Mary
My Mary to Love once so dear,
In the shade of her bower I remember the
She rewarded those vows with a Tear.
By another possest, may she live ever blest!
Her name still my heart must revere: With a sigh I resign what I once thought was mine,
And forgive her deceit with a Tear.
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
To trust a passing wanton's sigh,
And melt beneath a wanton's tear!
And sickly Sensibility;
For any pangs excepting thine; Who turns aside from real woe,
To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine. Now join with sable Sympathy,
With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, Who heaves with thee her simple sigh,
Whose breast for every bosom bleeds; And call thy sylvan female choir,
To mourn a swain for ever gone, Who once could glow with equal fire, But bends not now before thy throne. Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears On all occasions swiftly flow, Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears, With fancied flames and phrensy glow; Say, will you mourn my absent name, Apostate from your gentle train? An infant bard at least may claim From you a sympathetic strain. Adieu, fond race! a long adieu !
The hour of fate is hovering nigh; E'en now the gulf appears in view,
Where unlamented you must lie: Oblivion's blackening lake is seen,
Convulsed by gales you cannot weather; Where you, and eke your gentle queen, Alas must perish altogether.
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, New Bath Guide. CANDOUR compels me, BECHER! to commend The verse which blends the censor with the friend.
ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY
'It is the voice of years that are gone! they roll before me with all their deeds.' - OSSIAN. NEWSTEAD! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome !
Religion's shrine! repentant HENRY'S pride!
Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb,
Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide,
Hail to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state; Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall, Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate.
No mail-clad serfs, obedient to their lord, In grim array the crimson cross demand;
gay assemble round the festive board Their chief's retainers, an immortal band:
Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye Retrace their progress through the lapse of time, Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die,
A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime.
But not from thee, dark pile! departs the chief;
His feudal realm in other regions lay: