Thy blossom spread, my tender flower, Where kings of old did dwell ; Where fame and beauty, arm'd with power, Held forth their magic-spell ; Where all, but angels, held their mirth;— Where mail-clad warriors trod ; Whose stately forms have sunk to earth ;Whose souls have soar'd to God! I gaze on thee, but while I gaze, Of strange costumes, and gladdening sights, Of wither'd hearts-the lot at last Of noblest human kind! For death lays all among the past, Whate'er their birth or mind ; All these are rushing through my brain, And other thoughts rise in their train, Too exquisite to write! I cannot keep thee-gentle flower! And as ye also felt my grief, O life is like thy lonely leaf,- TO JAMES HARRIS, Esq. Dublin. ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON GEORGE, A VERY AMIABLE AND TALENTED YOUTH. No pen can paint a father's grief;— He But, ah! he feels a mute despair, That cannot be removed by years! TO JAMES HARRIS, ESQ., ETC. If lingering sickness crush'd his child; The hectic spot of sorrow grow:- His pallid lips breathed more of heaven ; To see so young a heart dismay'd, Must oft the father's breast have riven! There may be those who cannot feel The treasures worshipp'd by the eye! Without one sympathetic tear Which nobler breasts in vain controul! But he of whom I fain would speak And not be more sincerely kind? The sprightly eye grows soonest dim, 225 226 TO JAMES HARRIS, ESQ., ETC. And when a dying child is loved, Oft will the parent pray for him! And well might he be touch'd with grief; With gratitude his heart did flow.- Since cruel death has laid him low! |