"WH FABLE VII. THE WALL-FLOWER. HY loves my flower, the sweetest flower That swells the golden breast of May, Thrown rudely o'er this ruin'd tower, To waste her solitary day? "Why, when the mead, the spicy vale, The grove and genial garden call, To live in death's deserted shade! My banks for life and beauty made." A voice in hollow murmurs broke, The flower that crowns their former toil! "Nor deem that flower the garden's foe, Or fond to grace this barren shade; 'Tis Nature tells her to bestow Her honours on the lonely dead. "For this, obedient zephyrs bear Her light seeds round yon turret's mould, "Nor shall thy wonder wake to see Such desert scenes distinction crave; Oft have they been, and oft shall be Truth's, Honour's, Valour's, Beauty's grave. "Where longs to fall that rifted spire, As weary of th' insulting air; The poet's thought, the warrior's fire, The lover's sighs are sleeping there. "When that too shakes the trembling ground, Borne down by some tempestuous sky, And many a slumbering cottage round Startles how still their hearts will lie! "Of them who, wrapt in earth so cold, No more the smiling day shall view, For many a ter.der thought is due. And stop to pluck the frequent flower? To deck thy Nancy's honour'd shrine ! "'Tis Nature pleading in the breast, Fair memory of her works to find; And when to fate she yields the rest, She claims the monumental mind. "Why, else, the o'ergrown paths of time Would thus the letter'd sage explore, With pain these crumbling ruins climb, And on the doubtful sculpture pore? "Why seeks he with unwearied toil Through death's dim walks to urge his way, Reclaim his long-asserted spoil, And lead oblivion into day? "Tis Nature prompts, by toil or fear Unmov'd, to range through death's domain The tender parent loves to hear Her children's story told again. "Treat not with scorn his thoughtful hours, FABLE VIII. THE TULIP AND THE MYRTLE. 'TWAS WAS on the border of a stream A gaily-painted Tulip stood, And, gilded by the morning beam, And sure, more lovely to behold, In streaks of fairest symmetry. And thus in empty fancy swells: "O lustre of unrivall'd bloom! Fair painting of a hand divine! Superior far to mortal doom, The hues of Heav'n alone are mine! "Away, ye worthless, formless race! Ye weeds, that boast the name of flowers? No more my native bed disgrace, Unmeet for tribes so mean as yours! "Shall the bright daughter of the Sun Shall we thy moment's bloom adore? Shall last along the changing year; Blush on the snow of Winter's gloom, And bid the smiling Spring appear. "The violet, that, those banks beneath, Hides from thy scorn its modest bead, Shall fill the air with fragrant breath, When thou art in thy dusty bed. Shall bloom on many a lovely breast. That hides thee from the noon-tide ray, And mocks thy passion to be seen, Prolongs thy transitory day. "But kindly deeds with scorn repaid, And yield thee to thy darling Sun." With all its weight of glory feil; The flower exulting caught the gleam, And lent its leaves a bolder swell. Expanded by the searching fire, The curling leaves the breast disclos'd; The mantling bloom was painted higher, And every latent charm expos'd. But when the Sun was sliding low And ev❜ning came, with dews so cold; The wanton beauty ceas'd to blow, And sought her bending leaves to fold. Those leaves, alas! no more would close; Relax'd, exhausted, sick'ning, pale, They left her to a parent's woes, FABLE IX. THE BEE FLOWER'. COME, let us leave this painted plain; Shall please in plainer majesty. Through those fair scenes, where yet she owes 2 This is a species of the orchis, which is found in the barren and mountainous parts of Lincolnshire, Worcestershire, Kent, and Herefordshire. Nature has formed a bee apparently feeding on the breast of a flower with so much exactness, that it is impossible at a very small distance to distinguish the imposition. For this purpose she has observed an economy different from what is found in most other flowers, and has laid the petals horizontally. The genius of the orchis, or satyrion,she seems professedly to have made use of for her paintings, and on the different species has drawn the perfect forms of different insects, such as bees, flies, butterflies, &c. Through those fair scenes we'll wander wild, The Sun far-seen on distant towers, And clouding groves and peopled seas, And ruins pale of princely bowers On Beachb'rough's airy heights shall please. Nor lifeless there the lonely scene; The little labourer of the hive, See, on that flowret's velvet breast How close the busy vagrant lies! From thence we plan the rule of all; We rank, and these her sports we call. Th' unhallow'd term, the thought profane, As conscious that affection grows, She seems e'en with herself at strife, Still many a shining pebble bear, Where oft her studious hand engraves The perfect form, and leaves it there. O long, my Paxton3, boast her art; And long her laws of love fulfil : To thee she gave her hand and heart, To thee, her kindness and her skill! 2 The well-known fables of the Painter and the Statuary that fell in love with objects of their own creation, plainly arose from the idea of that attachment, which follows the imitation of agreeable objects, to the objects imitated. 3 An ingenious portrait-painter in Rathbone Place. t FABLE X. THE WILDING AND THE BROOM. IN yonder green wood blows the broom; Shepherds we'll trust our flocks to stray. And steal from care one summer-day. In characters that cannot fade; "What airy sounds invite Of death denies attention. Rous'd by her, Or swells on Summer's breast, or loads the lap Whatever charms the ear or eye, I know that Nature's charms can move FABLE XI. THE MISLETOE AND THE PASSIONFLOWER. IN this dim cave a druid sleeps, Where stops the passing gale to moan; The holy hermit's passion-flower. Pensive I laid, in thought profound. I hear it still-dost thou not hear? Unlike to living sounds it came, Unmix'd, unmelodis'd with breath; I hear it still" Depart," it cries; Who was not nurs'd at Nature's breast. "Associate he with demons dire, O'er human victims held the knife, And my heart died-I felt it die. I see him still-Dost thou not see The haggard eye-ball's hallow glare? And gleams of wild ferocity Dart through the sable shade of hair? What meagre form behind him moves, With eye that rues th' invading day; And wrinkled aspect wan, that proves The mind to pale remorse a prey? Untrue to Nature, Virtue, Sense. "Go, teach the drone of saintly haunts, "And bear them hence, the plant, the flower No symbols those of systems vain! They have the duties of their hour; THE COUNTRY JUSTICE. BY ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S JUSTICES OF THE PEACE FOR THE COUNTY OF SOMERSET. PART THE FIRST. TO RICHARD BURN, LL. D. ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S JUSTICES OF THE PEACE FOR THE COUNTIES OF WESTMORLAND AND CUMBERLAND. DEAR SIR, A POEM written professedly at your request, naturally addresses itself to you. The distinction you have acquired on the subject, and your taste for the arts, give that address every kind of propriety. If I have any particular satisfaction in this publication, beside what arises from my compliance with your commands, it must be in the idea of that testimony it bears to our friendship. If you believe that I am more concerned for the duration of that than of the Poem itself, you will not be mistaken; for I am, IN Richard's days, when lost his pastur'd plain, Lov'st thou that Freedom? By her holy shrine, share, By Saxon, Dane, or Norman, banish'd there! Despising still, their freeborn souls unbroke, Yet while the patriot's gen'rous rage we share, Her woods her mountains one wild scene of prey! Fair Peace from all her bounteous vallies fled, And Law beneath the barbed arrow bled. In happier days, with more auspicious fate, The far-fam'd Edward heal'd his wounded state; Dread of his foes, but to his subjects dear, These learn'd to love, as those are taught to fear, Their laurell'd prince with British pride obey, His glory shone their discontent away. With care the tender flower of love to save, And plant the olive on Disorder's grave, For civil storms fresh barriers to provide, He caught the fav'ring calm and falling tide. THE APPOINTMENT, AND ITS PURPOSES. The social laws from insult to protect; To cherish peace, to cultivate respect; The rich from wanton cruelty restrain, To smooth the bed of penury and pain; The hapless vagrant to his rest restore, The maze of fraud, the haunts of theft explore The thoughtless maiden, when subdu'd by art, To aid, and bring her rover to her heart; Wild riot's voice with dignity to quell, Forbid unpeaceful passions to rebel, Wrest from revenge the meditated harm, For this fair Justice rais'd her sacred arm; For this the rural magistrate, of yore, Thy honours, Edward, to his mansion bore. ANCIENT JUSTICE'S HALL Oft, where old Air in conscious glory sails, On silver waves that flow thro' smiling vales, In Harewood's groves, where long my youth was laid, Unseen beneath their ancient world of shade, With many a groupe of antique columns crown'd, In Gothic guise such mansion have I found. Nor lightly deem, ye apes of modern race, Ye cits that sore bedizen Nature's face, Of the more manly structures here ye view; They rose for greatness that ye never knew! With Venus, and the Graces on your green! Ye reptile cits, that oft have mov'd my spleen, Let Plutus, growling o'er his ill-got wealth, Let Mercury, the thriving god of stealth, The shopman, Janus, with his double looks, Rise on your mounts, and perch upon your books! But, spare my Venus, spare each sister Grace, Ye cits, that sore bedizen Nature's face. Would lay the reaims of Sense and Nature Ye royal architects, whose antic taste, waste; Forgot, whenever from her steps ye stray, For tho' no sight your childish fancy meets, Here shall ye sigh to see, with rust o'ergrown, Yet still some trophies hold their ancient place; rears The field-day triumphs of two hundred years. Hangs his grey brush, the felon of the fold. Here, where, of old, the festal ox has fed, Mark'd with his weight, the mighty horns are spread : Some ox, O Marshall, for a board like thine, These, and such antique tokens, that record CHARACTER OF A COUNTRY JUSTICE. Thro' these fair vallies, stranger, hast thou stray'd, By any chance to visit Harewood's shade, Justice, that, in the rigid paths of law, GENERAL MOTIVES FOR LENITY. Be this, ye rural Magistrates, your plan: Firm be your justice, but be friends to man. He whom the mighty master of this ball, We fondly deem, or farcically call, To own the patriarch's truth however loth, Holds but a mansion crush'd before the moth. Frail in his genius, in his heart, too, frail, . Born but to err, and erring to bewail; Shalt thou his faults with eye severe explore, And give to life one human weakness more? Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed; APOLOGY FOR VAGRANTS. For him, who, lost to ev'ry hope of life, Has long with fortune held unequal strife, Known to no human love, no human care, The friendless, homeless object of despair; For the poor vagrant, feel, while he complains, Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains. Alike, if folly or misfortune brought Those last of woes his evil days have wrought; Believe with social mercy and with me, Folly's misfortune in the first degree. Perhaps on some inhospitable shore The houseless wretch a widow'd parent bore, Who, then, no more by golden prospects led, Of the poor Indian begg'd a leafy bed, Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, Perhaps that parent mourn'd her soldier slain; Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolv'd in dew, The big drops mingling with the milk he drew, Gave the sad presage of his future years, The child of misery, baptiz'd in tears! APOSTROPHE TO EDWARD THE THIRD. O Edward, here thy fairest laurels fade! And thy long glories darken into shade; While yet the palms thy hardy veterans won, The deeds of valour that for thee were done, While yet the wreaths for which they bravely bled, Fir'd thy high soul, and flourish'd on thy head, Those veterans to their native shores return'd, Like exiles wander'd and like exiles mourn'd; Or, left at large no longer to bewail, Were vagrants deem'd and destin'd to a jail! Were there no royal, yet uncultur'd lands, No wastes that wanted such subduing hands? Were Cressy's heroes such abandon'd things? O fate of war and gratitude of kings! THE GYPSEY-LIFE. The gypsey-race my pity rarely move; For this in Norwood's patrimonial groves, Far other cares that wandering mother wait, But, ah! ye maids, beware the gypsey's lures! She opens not the womb of Time, but yours. Oft has her hands the hapless Marian wrung, Marian, whom Gay in sweetest strains has sung! |