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. TO A GOOSE. 1798. If thou didst feed on western plains of yore; Or love-sick poet's sounet, 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. FAREWELL my home, my home no longer now, The western sun beyond the utmost height, 1799. PORLOCK, thy verdant vale so fair to sight, Thy woody glens, the traveller with delight Here by the unwelcome summer rain confined; I MARVEL not, O sun! that unto thee In adoration man should bow the knee, 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, It boots not now to bode! Oh early friend! Assured, no distance e'er can wear away Esteem long rooted, and no change remove The dear remembrance of the friend we love. 1798. STATELY yon vessel sails adown the tide, And know no care beyond the present day. 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! 1799. O GOD have mercy in this dreadful hour The blast that rages with resistless power. What were it now to toss upon the waves,— The madden'd waves, and know no succour near; The howling of the storm alone to hear, And the wild sea that to the tempest raves, To gaze amid the horrors of the night 1799 SHE comes majestic with her swelling sails, Bark to the sailors' shouts! the rocks rebound, SHE held a Cup and Ball of Ivory white, Less white the Ivory than her snowy hand! 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 HEART! (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 dart IMPALES my BOSOM'S GEM? TO A PAINTER ATTEMPTING DELIA'S RASH Painter! canst thou give the ORB OF DAY The DIAMOND, that athwart the taper'd hall 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 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 I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels, For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF IS MINE. Keen hope shot tremulous through every vein, And when the finish'd deed removed my fear, Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain. What though the Eighth Commandment rose to mind, It only serv'd a moment's qualm to move; For thefts like this it could not be design'd, The Eighth Commandment was NOT MADE FOR LOVE! 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, She sings! the Nightingale with envy hears, The CHERUBIM bends from his starry throne, Cease, Delia, cease! for all the ANGEL THRONG, Cease, ere my senses are to madness driven 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, The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart ; Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads My captive heart has handcuff d in a chain, THAT BEARS BRITANNIA'S THUNDERS O'ER THE MAIN. The ringlets rob for FAERY FIDDLE-STRINGS. THE POET RELATES HOW HE STOLE A LOCK On! be the day accurst that gave me birth! Ye Seas, to swallow me in kindness rise! Let universal Chaos now return, Now let the central fires their prison burst, Oh! I could dare the fury of the fight, Where hostile MILLIONS Sought my single life; THE POET EXPATIATES ON THE BEAUTY OF Would I could tear thy memory DELIA'S HAIR. THE Comb between whose ivory teeth she strains But issues forth more pure, more milky white. Seize the CURST CURLS, ye Furies, as they fly! When the Evil Spirits seized thee, Thou sittest amongst us on thy mat, The bear-skin from thy shoulder hangs, Thy feet are sandal'd ready for the way. Those are the unfatiguable feet That traversed the forest track! And where is That which in thy voice The language of friendship spake? That gave the strength of thine arm? That fill'd thy limbs with life? It was not thou, for Thou art here, Thou art amongst us still, But the Life and the Feeling are gone. The Iroquois will learn 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! Rest with the dust of thy Sires! They placed their Cross in thy dying grasp;— They bore thee to their burial-place, And over thy breathless frame Their bloody and merciless Priest Mumbled his mystery words. Oh! could thy bones be at peace In the fields where the Strangers are laid?-Alone, in danger and in pain, My Father, I bring thee here: So may our God, in reward, Allow me one faithful friend To lay me beside thee when I am released! That my Spirit may join thee there, 1799. Hark! hark! in the howl of the wind The shout of the battle, the clang of their drums, The horsemen are met, and the shock of the fight Is the blast that disbranches the wood. Behold from the clouds of their power The lightning, the lightning is lanced at our sires! And the thunder that shakes the broad pavement of Heaven! And the darkness that quenches the day! Ye Souls of our Fathers, be brave! Ye shrunk not before the invaders on earth, Ye trembled not then at their weapons of fire, Brave Spirits, ye tremble not now! We gaze on your warfare in hope, We send up our shouts to encourage your arms! Remember the land was your own When the Sons of Destruction came over the seas; That the old fell asleep in the fullness of days, And their children wept over their graves, Till the Strangers came into the land With tongues of deceit and with weapons of fire: Then the strength of the people in youth was cut off, And the father wept over his son. 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 DURING A THUNDER STORM.' THE storm-cloud grows deeper above; Araucans! the tempest is ripe in the sky; Our forefathers come from their Islands of Bliss, They come to the war of the winds. 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 muskets and cannons.— When the wind drives the clouds towards the possessions of the Spaniards, they rejoice that the souls of their forefathers have repuised 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.--MEISER. 1799. SONG OF THE CHIKKASAH WIDOW. "T WAS 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,- I gazed on the bow of thy strength |