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OH ! sweet the sad heart's pensive night !
Though Memory's star is clouded,
Dim as the pale moon’s misty light,
Or, rainbow half enshrouded !
Oh! sweet and sad, when dark and lone,
In life's most wintry hour,
To think of early pleasures flown,
And young hope's withered flower.
There is a charm 'tis sweet to borrow
From dreams of days departed,—
There is a thrill of tender sorrow,
Dear to the mournful hearted
OH ! come not, Passion, with the fiends of care,
And forms that haunt the midnight of the soul!
Raise not the fearful tempest of despair
Along my darken'd path ! Let Faith control
Rebellious thoughts and pangs that fiercely tear
The chords of life, There is a softer grief
The lone and weary heart may learn to bear,
Calm and resign'd, till quick tears yield relief
To voiceless feelings, and the bosom teems
With holy consolations. Such may be
Toss'd on the dark waves of life's stormy sea,
The good man's sorrow. Soon hope's cheerful beams
The trusting spirit from the strife shall free,
And gild the shadows of the mourner's dreams |
addressed to the British sepoys.
Oh! Warriors of India whose hearts are with ours,
The foe is around us—the battle-cloud lowers—
But the glory of England still gleameth afar,
And the darker the tempest, the brighter her star!
Oh! Warriors of India' o'er mountain and plain
Our bayonets and banners shall glitter again
Brave comrades, unparted by colour or creed,
Together we triumph, together we bleed .
Remember, remember, the deeds we have done,
The hosts we have vanquished, the name we have won,
Remember how long British glory endures,
Remember how much of that glory is yours!
Hurrah—then—hurrah! To the bright field of fame
The Persian we'll startle, the Muscovite tame,
The braggarts of Birmah, the hordes of Nepaul,
Once more shall be driven from mountain and wall ! July, 1838. WOL. II. Q
written IN A LADY’s ALBUM.
You know not, gentle Lady, what you ask
Nor what I have to give, or you would never
Have set me this unprofitable task,
Or thought me (strange delusion 1) half so clever:—
I blush, and almost on distraction border,
At calls like thine for verses “made to order.”
And yet ’tis strange that scarce a week elapses
But lo! some album bright, (with feminine letter)
Alarms my timid Muse. Each claim perhaps is
A compliment, and yet 'twould suit me better,
To waive it, and exchange the painful pleasure
For ease unbroken and unanxious leisure.
'Tis not so much that I dislike the trouble,
For really, if your subject bard may say so,
I'd toil until I grew both faint and double
To serve the fairer sex, could I but lay so
Flattering an unction to my weary spirit
As the proud consciousness of genuine merit.
But as I positively want the power
Even to please myself, and hate to prove it,
I pass what seems a very ill-spent hour
When my tried temper fails, and fair ones move it
To something like a state of mad vexation,
By urging me to such severe probation.
W. I find that several persons have a notion That I can write, as ancient maidens chatter, As easily as chemists mix a lotion, Or lawyers make a bill, or scolds a clatter: And if I humbly hint my incapacity They question both my will and my veracity.
WI. It is not till with suicidal kindness I grant their wishes (to my shame and sorrow), And prove beyond a doubt their partial blindness By rhymes the meanest plagiarist would not borrow To save his soul, that gentle maids and matrons Desert my ranks of literary patrons.
Though at the risk of changing the opinion
Implied in your request, these hurried stanzas
Shall stand as proof of feminine dominion,
That from Don Quixotes down to Sancha Panzas,
So sways our sex that touched with sweet insanity
We play the fool with infinite urbanity.
Who can refuse the fair Oh! I for one
Feel it impossible; you now must know it,
To your cost and to mine. The deed is done—
The page is blotted,—yet I pray you show it
To all who own an Album—all who ever
Have thought your rhyming friend unkind or clever.
[written on A visit to Devonshire.]
Thy pleasant valleys, groves, and verdant hills
Clothed in their summer beauty, all must own
Unrivalled in the land. But not alone
Thy rich domain, romantic Devon, thrills
Each breast with rapture and the fond eye fills
With nature’s fairest hues, a finer tone
Of fervid thought prevails, as prompt and prone
To share or kindle bliss, or brooded ills
Of darker moods to soothe, with that sweet art
Which pure and gentle spirits only know,
Thy matchless daughters hospitably smile
A welcome to the stranger—who shall throw
His farewell glance in pain, and find the while
A dear home-feeling lingering in his heart
How sadly moans the bleak Autumnal blast
O'er faded Summer's tomb : The drifting shower
Is pattering on the lone deserted bower,
While fitfully the sear leaves rustle past.
Along the troubled sky, lo! gathering fast
In fiercely-frowning hosts, the storm-clouds lower
And shroud the struggling sun . The fearful power
Of Desolation rules, and all is overcast !
Yet mourn not, Wanderer! Though so brief hath been
The green Earth's gentle smile; though thus depart
The light and bloom of this delusive scene,
And earthly visions mock the cheated heart,
There are celestial hopes, no fate may part,
And cloudless realms eternally serene !