Infirm of soul! who think'st to lift thy name
Upon the waxen wings of human fame,—
Who for a sound, articulated breath-
Gazest undaunted in the face of death!
What art thou but a Meteor's glaring light-
Blazing a moment and then sunk in night?
Caprice which rais'd thee high shall hurl thee low,
Or envy blast the laurels on thy brow.
To such poor joys could ancient Honor lead
When empty fame was toiling Merit's mead;
To Modern Honor other lays belong;
Profuse of joy and Lord of right and wrong,
Honor can game, drink, riot in the stew,
Cut a friend's throat ;-what can not Honor do?
Ah me-the storm within can Honor still
For Julio's death, whom Honor made me kill?
Or will this lordly Honor tell the way
To pay those debts, which Honor makes me pay?
Or if with pistol and terrific threats
I make some traveller pay my Honor's debts,
A med'cine for this wound can Honor give?
Ah, no! my Honor dies to make my Honor live.
But see! young Pleasure and her train advance,
And joy and laughter wake the inebriate dance;
Around my neck she throws her fair white arms,
I meet her loves, and madden at her charms.
For the gay grape can joys celestial move,
And what so sweet below as Woman's love?"
With such high transport every moment flies,
I curse experience, that he makes me wise;
For at his frown the dear deliriums flew,
And the chang'd scene now wears a gloomy hue.
A hideous hag th' Enchantress Pleasure seems,
And all her joys appear but feverous dreams
The vain Resolve still broken and still made,
Disease and loathing and remorse invade ;
The charm is vanish'd and the bubble's broke,—
A slave to pleasure is a slave to smoke!"
Such lays repentant did the Muse supply;
When as the Sun was hastening down the sky,
In glittering state twice fifty guineas come,
His Mother's plate antique had rais'd the sum.
Forth leap'd Philedon of new life possest :-
'Twas Brookes's all till two,—'twas Hackett's all the rest!
DEEP in the gulf of Vice and Woe
Leaps man at once with headlong throw?
Him inborn Truth and Virtue guide,
Whose guards are shame and conscious pride;
In some gay hour Vice steals into the breast;
Perchance she wears some softer Virtue's vest.
By unperceiv'd degrees she tempts to stray,
Till far from Virtue's path she leads the feet away..
Then swift the soul to disenthrall
Will Memory the past recall,
And fear before the Victim's eyes
Bid future ills and dangers rise.
But hark! the voice, the lyre, their charms combine
Gay sparkles in the cup the generous wine;
Th' inebriate dance-the fair frail nymph inspires,
And Virtue vanquish'd-scorn'd-with hasty flight retires.
But soon to tempt the pleasures cease;
Yet shame forbids return to peace,
And stern necessity will force
Still to urge on the desperate course.
The drear black paths of Vice the wretch must try,
Where Conscience flashes horror on each eye,
Where Hate-where Murder scowl-where starts Affright! Ah! close the scene,--ah! close-for dreadful is the sight.
WRITTEN AT THE KING'S ARMS, ROSS, FORMERLY THE HOUSE OF
RICHER than Miser o'er his countless hoards,
Nobler than Kings, or king-polluted Lords,
Here dwelt the Man of Ross ! O Traveller, hear!
Departed Merit claims a reverent tear.
Friend to the friendless, to the sick man health,
With generous joy he viewed his modest wealth;
He heard the widow's heaven-breathed prayer of praise,
He marked the sheltered orphan's tearful gaze,
Or where the sorrow shrivelled captive lay,
Pour'd the bright blaze of Freedom's noon-tide ray.
Beneath this roof if thy cheered moments pass,
Fill to the good man's name one grateful glass:
To higher zest shall Memory wake thy soul,
And Virtue mingle in the ennobled bowl.
But if, like me, through life's distressful scene
Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been;
And if thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught,
Thou journeyest onward tempest-tossed in thought;
Here cheat thy cares! in generous visions melt,
And dream of Goodness, thou hast never felt!
DESTRUCTION OF THE BASTILE.
HEARD'ST thou yon universal cry,
And dost thou linger still on Gallia's shore?
Go, Tyranny! beneath some barbarous sky
Thy terrors lost, and ruin'd power deplore!
What tho' through many a groaning age
Was felt thy keen suspicious rage,
Yet Freedom rous'd by fierce Disdain
Has wildly broke thy triple chain,
And like the storm which earth's deep entrails hide,
At length has burst its way and spread the ruins wide.
In sighs their sickly breath was spent; each gleam
Of Hope had ceas'd the long long day to cheer; Ör if delusive, in some flitting dream,
them to their friends and children dear
Awak'd by lordly Insult's sound
To all the doubled horrors round,
Oft shrunk they from Oppression's band
While anguish rais'd the desperate hand
For silent death; or lost the mind's control,
Thro' every burning vein would tides of Frenzy roll.
But cease, ye pitying bosoms, cease to bleed!
Such scenes no more demand the tear humane;
I see, I see! glad Liberty succeed
With every patriot virtue in her train !
And mark yon peasant's raptured eyes;
Secure he views his harvests rise;
No fetter vile the mind shall know,
And Eloquence shall fearless glow.
Yes! Liberty the soul of Life shall reign,
Shall throb in every pulse, shall flow thro' every vein !
Shall France alone a Despot spurn ?
Shall she alone, O Freedom, boast thy care?
Lo, round thy standard Belgia's heroes burn,
Tho' Power's blood-stain'd streamers fire the air,
And wider yet thy influence spread,
Nor e'er recline thy weary head,
Till every land from pole to pole
Shall boast one independent soul!
And still, as erst, let favor'd Britain be
First ever of the first and freest of the free!
TO A BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A VILLAGE.
ONCE more, sweet Stream! with slow foot wandering near,
I bless thy milky waters cold and clear.
Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours,
With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers
(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn)
My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy urn.
For not through pathless grove with murmur rude
Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Solitude;
Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well,
The hermit-fountain of some dripping cell!
Pride of the Vale! thy useful streams supply
The scattered cots and peaceful hamlet nigh.
The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks
With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks,
Released from school, their little hearts at rest,
Launch paper-navies on thy waveless breast.
The rustic here at eve with pensive look
Whistling lorn ditties leans upon his crook,
Or starting pauses with hope-mingled dread
To list the much-loved maid's accustomed tread :
She, vainly mindful of her dame's command,
Loiters, the long-filled pitcher in her hand.
Unboastful Stream! thy fount with pebbled falls
The faded form of past delight recalls,
What time the morning sun of Hope arose,
And all was joy; save when another's woes
A transient gloom upon my soul imprest,
Like passing clouds impictured on thy breast.
Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon,
Or silvery stole beneath the pensive Moon:
Ah! now it works rude brakes and thorns among,
Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along!
WHO DIED OF A FRENZY FEVER INDUCED BY CALUMNIOUS REPORTS.
EDMUND! thy grave with aching eye I
And inly groan for Heaven's poor outcast-Man!
'Tis tempest all or gloom: in early youth
If gifted with the Ithuriel lance of Truth
We force to start amid her feigned caress
Vice, siren-hag! in native ugliness;
A Brother's fate will haply rouse the tear,
And on we go in heaviness and fear!
But if our fond hearts call to Pleasure's bower
Some pigmy Folly in a careless hour,
The faithless guest shall stamp the enchanted ground,
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