Of

A LATE MAN OF QUALITY,

Well known for his Atheistical Principles.

Written at Thirteen.

Behold that man by Fortune’s fickle pow’r, The gilded fav’rite of the “varying hour;”-- The gallant lord, whom noble ladies love, Whom senates homage, and whom crowds approve.

For him, the bards attune their soften’d lays, In mellow notes, declare their patron’s praise;-- For him, soft luxury courts each distant shore, To tempt his palate with its varied store;-- For him, the goblet flows with Gallia’s wine, And wit, and beauty, all their pow’rs combine; His sov’reign’s smile illumes his pageant day; And thronging courtiers servile incense pay. Revers’d the scene!--behold him stript of all! Though great his height, yet greater still his fall! Ah! see him stretch’d upon his dying bed, His vain associates, num’rous flatt’rers fled: Dim are those eyes, once darting soul and fire-- Pallid that cheek, which ladies wont t’ admire;-- Clos’d are those lips, once eloquently gay, Whose fire of wit illum’d the festive day;-- Ah! see his wasted limbs convuls’d by death, Painful, and hard, he draws his quivering breath.

How different far, he views the face of things!-- How poor the comfort worldly wisdom brings!-- How deep he rues the fatal time that’s past, When each new day was guiltier than the last;-- How much regrets the tale of former years, The wide, black prospect, scarce a virtue cheers: Tremendous mem’ry, to his mind displays, The vice, the crimes, that stain’d his earlier days. Lo, he starts up;--his matted ringlets stare, Like dying lamps, his glazing eye-balls glare. Heard ye that scream?--and see ye not the fiend, Come hot from hell to warn him of his end? See ye him grin?--and wide display a scroll, The horrid records of the sable soul? Or is it Conscience all?--Again that cry, That mocks description in its agony. Peace!--peace!--upon that withering sound at last, To heav’n’s high Judgement-Seat th’ escaping spirit’s past.

TO LYRA.

Written at Fifteen Years Old.

By Idalia’s secret grove-- By the streams so dear to love-- By the beds, and fragrant bow’rs, Fram’d from Flora’s brightest flow’rs-- By the heart’s first hope, first fear, Tell me!--dost thou love me, dear?

By the transports of the lyre, Bursting forth in hallow’d fire-- By thy tongue’s celestial lay, Melting all the soul away-- By the heart’s first hope, first fear, Tell me!--dost thou love me, dear?

By the passion-breathing sigh, When youthful rapture rises high-- By the drop of glist’ning dew, In thine eye of violet blue-- By the heart’s first hope, first fear, Tell me!--dost thou love me, dear?

By thy bosom’s heaving snow-- By thine orb’s averted glow-- By this lovely hand of thine, Trembling, thrilling, now in mine-- By the heart’s first hope, first fear, Tell me!--dost thou love me, dear?

FAREWELL TO LYRA.

Written at Fifteen.

Farewell, oh farewell! though distance may sever The persons of lovers, their hearts it can never; And mine will still, Lyra, be tending on thee, As the bird of the night on his own fragrant tree. Can I think of the tear in thine orbit of blue, When I falt’ringly murmur’d, “My Lyra, adieu!”-- Can I think of that hand, as it trembled in mine, How pensive, yet sweet, was its exquisite thrill; While my pulse woke the motion of transport in thine, Like the balm of the gale on the breast of the rill. Can I think of the gift, when thou sigh’d, “we must part,” That thou cast o’er my bosom to lie on my heart; And as my keen anguish, thou sawest the while, Thou strove to look up with a soul-soothing smile; But when there, thou caught the wild glancing of pain, Thou burst into tears (oh, how heartfelt!) again:-- Can I think of that scene, which remembrance will show, As the sweetest, yet bitt’rest, it ever can know-- Can I think of that scene, and, oh! e’er can I be, E’en in thought, for a moment unfaithful to thee? And now, as thy gift to my bosom I’m pressing, Oh! dost thou not think, my belov’d, it will glow, Like the mariner’s star--like the pilgrim’s last blessing, To guide and to cheer through this desert of wo. And if ever my country should call to the field Of Honour’s thick slaughter, and Death’s scenes of gore, Oh, dost thou not think that my head it will shield, As the magical charms of the wizards of yore. As it rests on my heart, I shall think that thine eye Nerves mine arm, and enkindles the flame of my soul, It will soften that heart to the conquer’d’s weak cry-- It will blend with its courage, soft Mercy’s control. Or should Fate ever guide, in the patriot’s high cause, To the senate of wisdom, oh, think’st thou this token Will not cull to thy lover his country’s applause-- Will not keep the firm ties of the patriot unbroken? And if e’er, for a moment, his bosom should swerve From the dictates of Honour, he’s sworn to observe, As he feels thy lov’d gift on his bosom recline, Will not all there again straight be Virtue’s and thine?

Yes, my Lyra, while life in thy lover can dwell-- While remembrance can give that endearing farewell, He will carry this gift through life’s thorn-sprouting maze; ’Twill sublimate rapture--’twill soften despair-- ’Twill lead him from grief, to those bliss-beaming days, When each step was on roses,--for Lyra was there!

Yet, ah, can my lips e’er those hated words tell, “For ever, my Lyra, for ever farewell!”

It cannot be ever!--or else with the thought, (With feelings, with throes of such agony fraught,) This heart would be burst in its innermost core;-- Could it beat, and each throb of its beating not be Thine only!--Oh, no, every pulse must be o’er, Ere it once is forgetful of love and of thee. If on earth our fond hopings of passion are riv’n, Yet yonder, oh, gaze!--(where so often before We have pour’d our full sighs) on yon balm-breathing heav’n, There bliss will receive us--there grief be no more; Love will pour round our heads his bright halo divine, Sublim’d to a loftier, mellower glow, All celestial, all warm, like the Magi’s pure shrine, Such as Seraphs can feel--such as heav’n can bestow.

THE CASKET;

ADDRESSED TO A LADY.

Written at Fourteen.

As Cupid was roving one morning, he found A Casket emblazon’d in diamond and gold; The gems of the ocean embrac’d it around, And the handmaids of Venus had sculptured its mould.

“How transcendent must be the interior store “Of so bright an exterior,” the mirth-lover cries, As he hastens, in rapture, its depths to explore, With joy in his dimples, and hope in his eyes.

But, I would ye had seen how he alter’d his air, How he rag’d!--how to earth the gay bauble he cast, When the richness of splendour that promis’d so fair, Was empty of aught--save the æther that past.

Thus the beaming of beauty may dazzle the glance, Though void of the stores that beneath them should be; But when the gay casket is open’d--the trance Of hopefulness fades like the foam of the sea.

But, in thee, Queen of Loveliness, wond’ring we find, Not merely the time-searing bloom of the skin, But the grace of the form, and the wealth of the mind, The Casket of Beauty, the treasure within.