"Content, as random Fancies might inspire, If his weak harp at times or lonely lyre He struck with desultory hand, and drew Some softened tones to Nature not untrue."
My heart has thanked thee, Bowles! for those soft
Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring Of wild-bees in the sunny showers of spring! For hence not callous to the mourner's pains Through Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I went: And when the mightier throes of mind began, And drove me forth, a thought-bewildered man, Their mild and manliest melancholy lent
A mingled charm, such as the pang consigned To slumber, though the big tear it renewed ; Bidding a strange mysterious Pleasure brood Over the wavy and tumultuous mind,
As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweep Moved on the darkness of the unformed deep.
As late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale, With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise, I saw the sainted form of Freedom rise:
She spake! not sadder moans the autumnal gale
"Great Son of Genius! sweet to me thy name, Ere in an evil hour with altered voice
Thou bad'st Oppression's hireling crew rejoice Blasting with wizard spell my laurelled fame. Yet never, Burke! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl! Thee stormy Pity and the cherished lure Of Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul Wildered with meteor fires. Ah Spirit pure! That error's mist had left thy purged eye: So might I clasp thee with a Mother's joy!"
Not always should the tear's ambrosial dew Roll its soft anguish down thy furrowed cheek! Not always heaven-breathed tones of suppliance meek Beseem thee, Mercy! Yon dark Scowler view, Who with proud words of dear-loved Freedom came— More blasting than the mildew from the South! And kissed his country with Iscariot mouth (Ah! foul apostate from his Father's fame!) Then fixed her on the cross of deep distress, And at safe distance marks the thirsty lance Pierce her big side! But O! if some strange trance The eyelids of thy stern-browed Sister press, Seize, Mercy! thou more terrible the brand, And hurl her thunderbolts with fiercer hand!
THOUGH roused by that dark Vizir Riot rude Have driven our Priestley o'er the ocean swell; Though Superstition and her wolfish brood Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell; Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell! For lo! Religion at his strong behest Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell, And flings to earth her tinsel-glittering vest, Her mitred state and cumbrous pomp unholy; And Justice wakes to bid the Oppressor wail Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly: And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron veil To smile with fondness on her gazing son!
WHEN British Freedom for a happier land Spread her broad wings, that fluttered with affright, Erskine thy voice she heard, and paused her flight Sublime of hope! For dreadless thou didst stand (Thy censer glowing with the hallowed flame) A hireless Priest before the insulted shrine, And at her altar pour the stream divine
Of unmatched eloquence. Therefore thy name
Her sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast With blessings heaven-ward breathed. And when the doom
Of Nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb
Thy light shall shine: as sunk beneath the West Though the great Summer Sun eludes our gaze, Still burns wide Heaven with his distended blaze.
It was some Spirit, Sheridan! that breathed O'er thy young mind such wildly various power! My soul hath marked thee in her shaping hour, Thy temples with Hymettian flow'rets wreathed: And sweet thy voice, as when o'er Laura's bier Sad music trembled through Vauclusa's glade; Sweet, as at dawn the love-lorn Serenade
That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's listening ear. Now patriot Rage and Indignation high
Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beams dance Meanings of Scorn and Wit's quaint revelry! Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance The Apostate by the brainless rout adored,
As erst that elder Fiend beneath great Michael's sword.
O WHAT a loud and fearful shriek was there, As though a thousand souls one death-groan poured! Ah me! they saw beneath a hireling's sword Their Kosciusko fall! Through the swart air (As pauses the tired Cossac's barbarous yell Of triumph) on the chill and midnight gale Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell The dirge of murdered Hope! while Freedom pale Bends in such anguish o'er her destined bier, As if from eldest time some Spirit meek Had gathered in a mystic urn each tear That ever on a Patriot's furrowed cheek
Fit channel found, and she had drained the bowl In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul!
As when far off the warbled strains are heard That soar on Morning's wing the vales among, Within his cage the imprisoned matin bird Swells the full chorus with a generous song: He bathes no pinion in the dewy light, No Father's joy, no Lover's bliss he shares, Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight: His fellows' freedom soothes the captive's cares!
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