BEWARE a speedy friend, the Arabian said, And wisely was it he advised distrust: The flower that blossoms earliest fades the first. Look at yon Oak that lifts its stately head, And dallies with the autumnal storm, whose rage Tempests the ocean waves; slowly it rose, Slowly its strength increased through many an age, And timidly did its light leaves disclose, As doubtful of the spring, their palest green. They to the summer cautiously expand, And by the warmer sun and season bland Matured, their foliage in the grove is seen, When the bare forest by the wintry blast Is swept, still lingering on the boughs the last. 1798. FAREWELL my The western sun beyond the utmost height, TO A GOOSE. yore; Ir thou didst feed on western plains of Or love-sick poet's sonnet, sad and sweet, Departed goose! I neither know nor care. But this I know, that thou wert very fine, Season'd with and onions, and port wine. sage, 1797 I MARVEL not, O sun! that unto thee Beauty, and life, and joyance from above. No longer let these mists thy radiance shroud, Earth asks thy presence, saturate with showers! 1798. FAIR be thy fortunes in the distant land, See thee with affluence to thy native shore And what the changes Heaven to each may send, Assured, no distance e'er can wear away 1798. PORLOCK, thy verdant vale so fair to sight, Thy woody glens, the traveller with delight Here by the unwelcome summer rain confined; STATELY yon vessel sails adown the tide, And know no care beyond the present day. Who sorrows for a child or husband there? Who at the howling of the midnight wind Will wake and tremble in her boding prayer! So may her voice be heard, and Heaven be kind!Go, gallant ship, and be thy fortune fair! SHE comes majestic with her swelling sails,. Hark to the sailors' shouts! the rocks rebound, 1799. A WRINKLED, crabbed man they picture thee, Some merry jest or tale of murder dire, Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night, Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire, Or taste the old October brown and bright. 1799. THE AMATORY POEMS OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM. DELIA AT PLAY. SHE held a Cup and Ball of Ivory white, As now, intent, in innocent delight, Iler taper fingers twirl'd the giddy ball, Now tost it, following still with EAGLE sight, Now on the pointed end infix'd its fall. Marking her sport I mused, and musing sigh'd, Methought the BALL she play'd with was my BEART! (Alas! that Sport like that should be her pride!) And the keen point which stedfast still she eyed Wherewith to pierce it, that was CUPID's dart; Shall I not then the cruel Fair condemn Who on that durt IMPALES my BOSOM'S GEM? TO A PAINTER ATTEMPTING DELIA'S PORTRAIT. RASH Painter! canst thou give the ORB OF DAY In all its noontide glory? or portray The DIAMOND, that athwart the taper'd hall Flings the rich flashes of its dazzling light? Even if thine art could boast such magic might, Yet if it strove to paint my Angel's EYE, Here it perforce must fail. Cease! lest I call Heaven's vengeance on thy sin: Must thou be told The CRIME it is to paint DIVINITY? Rash Painter! should the world her charms behold, And bend before her form the pagan knee. HE PROVES THE EXISTENCE OF A SOUL FROM SOME have denied a soul! THEY NEVER LOVED. My Goddess-Maid, my OMNIPRESENT FAIR, The surge of music o'er my wavy brain. THE POET EXPRESSES HIS FEELINGS RESPECT- I WOULD I were that Reverend Gentleman Who hangs in Delia's parlour! For whene'er Lest the STRONG glance of those divinest charms When MARBLE MELTED in Pygmalion's arms. I would I were that Reverend Gentleman With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane. THE POET RELATES HOW HE OBTAINED 'Tis mine! what accents can my joy declare? For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF IS MINE. The Eighth Commandment WAS NOT MADE FOR LOVE! Here when she took the macaroons from me, She wiped her mouth to clean the crumbs so sweet! Dear napkin! yes, she wiped her lips in thee! Lips sweeter than the macaroons she eat. And when she took that pinch of Mocabaw, And thou art doubly dear for things like these. No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er, SWEET POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF! thy worth profane; For thou hast touch'd the rubies of my fair, And I will kiss thee o'er and o'er again. THE POET INVOKES THE SPIRITS OF THE YE SYLPHS, who banquet on my Delia's blush, Dip in her cheek your GOSSAMERY BRUSH, Hover around her lips on rainbow wing, Load from her honeyed breath your viewless feet, Bear thence a richer fragrance for the Spring, And make the lily and the violet sweet. Ye GNOMES, whose toil through many a dateless year And ye who bathe in Etna's lava springs, To wanton in my Delia's fiery glance. She weeps, she weeps! her eye with anguish swells, Some tale of sorrow melts my FEELING GIRL! NYMPHS! catch the tears, and in your lucid shells Enclose them, EMBRYOS OF THE ORIENT PEARL. She sings! the Nightingale with envy hears, Cease, Delia, cease! for all the ANGEL TERONG, Cease, ere my senses are to madness driven By the strong joy! cease, Delia, lest my soul Enrapt, already THINK ITSELF IN HEAVEN, The rose-pomatum that the FRISEUR spreads Happy the FRISEUR who in Delia's hair Oh could I hope that e'er my favour'd lays Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine, From Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads Its filmy web-work o'er the tangled mead. Yet with these tresses Cupid's power elate My captive heart has handcuff'd in a chain, Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate, THAT BEARS BRITANNIA'S THUNDERS O'ER THE MAIN. The SYLPHS that round her radiant locks repair, The ringlets rob for FAERY FIDDLE-STRINGS. THE POET RELATES HOW HE STOLE À LOCK On! be the day accurst that gave me birth! Let universal Chaos now return, Now let the central fires their prison burst, And EARTH and HEAVEN and AIR and OCEAN burnFor Delia FROWNS-SHE FROWNS, and I am curst! Oh! I could dare the fury of the fight, Where hostile MILLIONS Sought my single life; Would storm VOLCANO BATTERIES with delight, And grapple with GRIM DEATH in glorious strife. Oh! I could brave the bolts of angry Jove, What is his LIGHTNING to my DELIA'S EYES? Go, fatal lock! I cast thee to the wind; THE POET EXPATIATES ON THE BEAUTY OF Would I could tear thy memory from my mind, DELIA'S HAIR. THE Comb between whose ivory teeth she strains The straitening curls of gold so beamy bright, Not spotless merely from the touch remains, But issues forth more pure, more milky white. ACCURSED LOCK,-thou cause of all my woe! Seize the CURST CURLS, ye Furies, as they fly! Demons of darkness, guard the infernal roll, That thence your cruel vengeance when I die, May knit the KNOTS OF TORTURE for my SOUL. And where is That which in thy voice That thou hast ceased from war; "T will be a joy like victory, For thou wert the scourge of their nation. Brother, we sing thee the song of death; By bridges narrow-wall'd, Safely may our Brother pass! Safely may he reach the fields, Where the sound of the drum and the shell Shall be heard from the Country of Souls! The Spirits of thy Sires Shall come to welcome thee; The God of the Dead in his Bower Shall receive thee and bid thee join The dance of eternal joy. Brother, we pay thee the rites of death, Rest in the Bower of Delight! 1799. THE PERUVIAN'S DIRGE OVER THE BODY OF HIS FATHER. REST in peace, my Father, rest! With danger and toil have I borne thy corpse But didst thou not see my toil, Wretched, my Father, thy life! My Father! for then thou wert free. As all in the labour had shared, So justly they shared in the fruits. Thou visible Lord of the Earth, Thou God of my Fathers, thou God of my heart, O Giver of light and of life! When the Strangers came to our shores, Why didst thou not put forth thy power? Thy thunders should then have been hurl'd, Thy fires should in lightnings have flash'd!— Visible God of the Earth, The Strangers mock at thy might! To idols and beams of wood My Father, rest in peace! They placed their Cross in thy dying grasp;- Mumbled his mystery words. Allow me one faithful friend To lay me beside thee when I am released! That my Spirit may join thee there, 1799. It thickens-the tumult of fight! Louder and louder the blast of the battle is heard!— Remember the wrongs that your country endures! Remember the fields of your fame! Joy! joy! for the Strangers recoil,-They give way, they retreat to the land of their life! Pursue them! pursue them! remember your wrongs! Let your lances be drunk with their wounds. The Souls of your wives shall rejoice As they welcome you back to your Islands of Bliss; And the breeze that refreshes the toil-throbbing brow Waft thither the song of your praise. SONG OF THE ARAUCANS THE storm-cloud grows deeper above; The Souls of the Strangers are there, In their garments of darkness they ride through the heaven; Yon cloud that rolls luridly over the hill Is red with their weapons of fire. Respecting storms, the people of Chili are of opinion that, the departed souls are returning from their abode beyond the sea to assist their relations and friends. Accordingly, when it thunders over the mountains, they think that the souls of their forefathers are taken in an engagement with those of the Spaniards. The roaring of the winds they take to be the noise of horsemen attacking one another, the bowling of the tempest for the beating of drums, and the claps of thunder for the discharge of maskets and cannons. When the wind drives the clouds towards the possessions of the Spaniards, they rejoice that the souls of their forefathers have repulsed those of their enemies, and call out aloud to them to give them no quarter. When the contrary happens, they are troubled and dejected, and encourage the yielding souls to rally their forces, and summon up the last remains of their strength.--MEINER. 1799. SONG OF THE CHIKKASAH WIDOW. 'Twas the voice of my husband that came on the gale. The unappeased Spirit in anger complains! Rest, rest Ollanahta, be still! The day of revenge is at hand. The stake is made ready, the captives shall die; The knife and the fire;-be at rest! The vengeance of anguish shall soon have its course,- Will remember the days of our love. Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sat, I gazed on the bow of thy strength |