MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. Villula, WHEN, with a REAUMUR's skill, thy curious mind Has classed the insect-tribes of human-kind, In vain, alas! a village-friend invites Here hid by shrub-wood, there by glimpses seen; And the brown path-way, that, with careless flow, Sinks, and is lost among the trees below. Still must it trace (the flattering tints forgive) Each fleeting charm that bids the landscape live: Oft o'er the mead, at pleasing distance, pass Browsing the hedge by fits the panniered ass; The idling shepherd-boy, with rude delight, Whistling his dog to mark the pebble's flight; And in her kerchief blue the cottage-maid, With brimming pitcher from the shadowy glade. Far to the south a mountain-vale retires, Ah, still as soon the young Aurora plays, Though moons and flambeaux trail their broadest blaze; As soon the sky-lark pours his matin-song, Though evening lingers at the mask so long. There let her strike with momentary ray, As tapers shine their little lives away; There let her practise from herself to steal, And look the happiness she does not feel; The ready smile and bidden blush employ At Faro-routs that dazzle to destroy; Fan with affected ease the essenced air, And lisp of fashions with unmeaning stare. Be thine to meditate an humbler flight, When morning fills the fields with rosy light; Be thine to blend, nor thine a vulgar aim, Repose with dignity, with quiet fame. Here no state - chambers in long line unfold, Bright with broad mirrors, rough with fretted gold; Yet modest ornament, with use combined, Who leads a life of satisfied desires. From every point a ray of genius flows! Be mine to bless the more mechanic skill, That stamps, renews, and multiplies at will; And cheaply circulates, thro' distant climes, The fairest relics of the purest times. | Here from the mould to conscious being start Those finer forms, the miracles of art; Here chosen gems, imprest on sulphur, shine, That slept for ages in a second mine; And here the faithful graver dares to trace A MICHAEL'S grandeur, and a RAPHAEL's grace! Thy gallery, Florence,gilds my humble wails, And my low roof the Vatican recalls! Soon as the morning - dream my pillow flies, To waking sense what brighter visions rise! O mark! again the coursers of the Sun, At GUIDO's call, their round of glory run! Again the rosy Hours resume their flight, Obscured and lost in floods of golden light! But could thine erring friend so long forget (Sweet source of pensive joy and fond regret) That here its warmest hues the pencil flings, Lo! here the lost restores, the absent brings; And still the Few best loved and most revered Rise round the board their social smile endeared? Selected shelves shall claim thy studious hours; There shall thy ranging mind be fed on flowers! There, while the shaded lamp's mild lustre streams, Read ancient books, or dream inspiring And, when a sage's bust arrests thee there, compare. Ah, most that Art my grateful rapture calls, All on whose words departed nations hung; Guides in the world, companions in retreat! knows, A limpid spring with unfelt current flows; O come, and, rich in intellectual wealth, Blend thought with exercise, with knowledge health! Long, in this sheltered scene of lettered talk, Vain of its various page, no Album breathes Yet some good Genii o'er my hearth preside, A silent chronicle of happier hours! When Christmas revels in a world of snow, And bids her berries blush, her carols flow; His spangling shower when Frost the wizard flings; Or, borne in ether blue, on viewless wings, O'er the white pane his silvery foliage weaves, And gems with icicles the sheltering eaves; fears-Thy muffled friend his nectarine - wall pursues, Here THETIS, bending with a mother's As her fair self reflected seems to rise! And all the dull impertinence of life, glows; There noon-day levees call from faint repose. Here the flushed wave flings back the parting light; There glimmering lamps anticipate the night. When from his classic dreams the student steals, ; Amid the buzz of crowds, the whirl of wheels, Whose blameless lives deceived a twilight- Spent in sweet slumbers; till the miner's spade Unclosed the cavern, and the morning played. Ah, what their strange surprise, their wild delight! New arts of life, new manners meet their In a new world they wake, as from the dead; What time the sun the yellow crocus wooes, To meet the morning-rumour as it flies; view The motley groups that faithful TENIERS drew. When Spring bursts forth in blossoms thro' And her wild music triumphs on the gale, And shakes the fragrant bells of closing Nor boast, O Choisy! seat of soft delight, Lo, here, attendant on the shadowy hour, And, while the frugal banquet glows revealed, Still clad in bloom, and veiled in azure light! With water, clear as his own fountain flings, The shifting side-board plays its humbler | To drop all metaphor, that little bell part, Beyond the triumphs of a Loriot's art. Thus, in this calm recess, so richly fraught With mental light, and luxury of thought, My life steals on; (0 could it blend with thine!) Careless my course, yet not without design. So thro' the vales of Loire the bee-hives glide, The light raft dropping with the silent tide; So, till the laughing scenes are lost in night, The busy people wing their various flight, Culling unnumbered sweets from nameless flowers, That scent the vineyard in its purple hours. Rise, ere the watch-relieving clarions play, Caught thro' St. James's groves at blush of day; Ere its full voice the choral anthem flings Thro' trophied tombs of heroes and of kings. Haste to the tranquil shade of learned ease, Tho' skilled alike to dazzle and to please; Tho' each gay scene be searched with anxious eye, Nor thy shut door be passed without a sigh. If, when this roof shall know thy friend no more, Some, formed like thee, should once, like thee, explore; Invoke the Lares of his loved retreat, "Unknown he lived, unenvied, not unblest; Who boasts of more (believe the serious strain) Sighs for a home, and sighs, alas! in vain. Thro' each he roves, the tenant of a day, And, with the swallow, wings the year away!" VERSES WRITTEN TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS. SIDDONS. YES, 'tis the pulse of life! my fears were vain; I wake, I breathe, and am myself again. Still in this nether world; no seraph yet! Nor walks my spirit, when the sun is set, With troubled step to haunt the fatal board, Where I died last-by poison or the sword; Blanching each honest cheek with deeds of night, Called back reality, and broke the spell. But, Ladies, say, must I alone unmask? Is here no other actress? let me ask. Believe me, those, who best the heart dissect, Know every Woman studies stage-effect. She moulds her manners to the part she fills, As Instinct teaches, or as Humour wills; And, as the grave or gay her talent calls, Acts in the drama, till the curtain falls. First, how her little breast with triumph swells, When the red coral rings its golden bells! To play in pantomime is then the rage, Along the carpet's many-coloured stage; Or lisp her merry thoughts with loud endeavour, Now here, now there-in noise and mischief ever! A school-girl next, she curls her hair in papers, And mimics father's gout, and mother's vapours; Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances; Playful at church, and serious when she dances; Tramples alike on customs and on toes, Too soon a flirt, approach her and she flies! Frowns when pursued, and, when entreated, sighs! Plays with unhappy men as cats with mice; Till fading beauty hints the late advice. Her prudence dictates what her pride disdained, And now she sues to slaves herself had chained! Then comes that good old character, a Wife, With all the dear, distracting cares of life; A thousand cards a day at doors to leave, And, in return, a thousand cards receive; Rouge high, play deep, to lead the ton aspire, With nightly blaze set PORTLAND-place on fire; Snatch half a glimpse at Concert, Opera, Ball, A Meteor, traced by none, tho' seen by all; And, when her shattered nerves forbid to roam, In very spleen-rehearse the girls at home. Last the gray Dowager, in ancient flounces, Done here so oft by dim and doubtful light. | With snuff and spectacles the age denounces; Boasts how the Sires of this degenerate Isle | Wont in. the night of woods to dwell, scandal; With modern Belles eternal warfare wages, Like her own birds that clamour from their cages; And shuffles round to bear her tale to all, Like some old Ruin, nodding to its fall! Thus WOMAN makes her entrance and her exit; And, planting there the guardian-spell, Sung forth, the dreadful pomp to swell Of human sacrifice! Thy singed top and branches bare Not least an actress, when she least suspects it. coward Art, And to full day the latent passions start! —And she, whose first, best wish is your applause, Herself exemplifies the truth she draws. Born on the stage-thro' every shifting scene, Obscure or bright, tempestuous or serene, Still has your smile her trembling spirit fired! And can she act, with thoughts like these inspired? Thus from her mind all artifice she flings, All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things! To you, unchecked, each genuine feeling flows; For all that life endears-to you she owes. TO AN OLD OAK. Immota manet; multosque nepotes, ROUND thee, alas, no shadows move! And the wolf howl beneath. There once the steel-clad knight reclined, His brow the hero crossed! Then Culture came, and days serene; Father of many a forest deep, ON A TEAR. Could crystallize this sacred treasure! Sweet drop of pure and pearly light! Benign restorer of the soul! The sage's and the poet's theme, That very law which moulds a tear, And bids it trickle from its source, That law preserves the earth a sphere, And guides the planets in their course, TO THE GNAT. WHEN by the green-wood-side, at summer eve, Poetic visions charm my closing eye, 402 SAMUEL ROGERS MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The moving pomp along the shadowy isle, Of those, the few, that for their country And nothing wanting-but himself alone! (Such as he shed on NELSON's closing grave; What tho' with war the madding nations Fearless, resolved, and negligently great! Reflect its splendour, and dissolve away! WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY. Blest were his hours within the silent grove, OCTOBER 10, 1806. JAMES FOX. Where still his godlike spirit deigns to rove; Blest by the orphan's smile, the widow's prayer, After the Funeral of the Right Hon. CHARLES For many a deed, long done in secret there. There shone his lamp on Homer's hallowed page, WHOEVER thou art, approach, and, with a sigh, Mark where the small remains of greatness There, listening, sate the hero and the sage; Friend of all humankind! not here alone (The voice, that speaks, was not to thee unknown) Wilt thou be missed.-O'er every land and sea And, tho' no more ascends the voice of prayer, Long, long shall England be revered in thee! And, when the storm is hushed-in distant years- |