SONNET. TO ISABEL M. L. DICKINSON, AS HYACINTH, IN Performed at the Lyceum Theatre in 1847. WELL art thou named, 'mongst Flora's lovely tribes, From the rich purple stream the fond earth drank, Coin'd from each grace of boyhood's fairest hour The loveliest of a doating mother's brood— Her boy her heart's dear pride-her idol boy Her bravest, wisest, yea, her soul's delight! WORDS OF COMPASSION AND SYMPATHY, TO CHRONICLE THE WRETCHED END OF PRIVATE FREDERICK WHITE. Suggested on reading Douglas Jerrold's Article, entitled "Death by the Cat," August 8, 1846. He has gone to the grave unadorn'd by the wreaths In her moments of conquest, when earth's bosom seethes By its vapour made drunken, the Spirits of War, In high festival humour, make scrambles for fame; When they, careless and aimless, throw garlands afar, 'Midst the soldier in heart and the soldier in name! WORDS OF COMPASSION AND SYMPATHY. Oh! not always they fall on the head of the brave; 75 Oh! not always the un-crown'd less wonders have wrought; There has many a Mars found an unnoted grave On the spot where, unflinching, he fell as he fought! And, alas! there are many like him whom we weep,With a spirit misused, broken-hearted, enraged―· With a soul full of noble emotions, too deep To be lightly reveal'd, or at pleasure assuaged!— There are many, like him, whom we know but in death- Oh! for one who can feel and can think, to endure By some arrogant upstart who hopes to secure The name of "smart serjeant," three-striped and beplumed, To be oft by a stroke of the rattan surprised, Just a pause in some movement with eclat to fillAll his higher pretensions, as soldier, despised Only moved at "March on!" or at "Halt!" standing still! Oh! he writhed, till his spirit no longer could brook With a quick thrill of frenzy his whole nature shook, Can we wonder, the passion that smoulder'd within Sun! O sun! hide thy beams! 'tis a brother they seize A loved son, the best hope of a mother's fond heart lEarth! O earth! lend no spot such fell tyrants to please, Lest thy breast and green verdure for ever should part ! Vain!-'tis done! and all gory, and writhing, and torn Is the form ye have loved, mother, sister, and wife!— And heart-broken, degraded, the ruin is borne, To be rear'd once again to a lash-branded life? No!-far better to die, while his Spartan-like heart Has claim'd, by its endurance, to rank with the brave ! Oh! far better to die, than live on but to smart 'Neath the lash that brought all his bright hopes to the grave! He is gone to his rest-as a conqueror gone! We'll destroy the red "Cat" at his funeral pile! |