She'd been to sea in a leaky sieve, And a jovial storm had brew'd. She call'd around the winged winds, And she laugh'd so loud, the peals were heard She said there was a little bark Upon the roaring wave, And there was a woman there who'd been And she had got a child in her arms, And oft its little infant pranks Her heavy heart beguiled. And there was too in that same bark, The lad was sickly, and the sire And when the tempest waxed strong, How the poor devils cried. The mother clasp'd her orphan child And sweetly folded in her arms The careless baby slept. And she told how, in the shape o' the wind, She twisted her hand in the infant's hair And to have seen the mother's pangs, The crew could scarcely hold her down The hag held a lock of the hair in her hand, It must have been a lovely child, To have had such lovely hair. And she said, the father in his arms And his dying throes they fast arose, And she throttled the youth with her sinewy And his father he tore his thin gray hair, And then she told, how she bored a hole In the bark, and it fill'd away: [hands, And 'twas rare to hear, how some did swear, The man and woman they soon were dead, She threw the infant's hair in the fire, And round about the cauldron stout The second begun : She said she had done Had never accomplish'd a better. he said, there was an aged woman, And she had a daughter fair, Whose evil habits fill'd her heart" With misery and care. The daughter had a paramour, And oft the woman him against Did murmur grievously. And the hag had work'd the daughter up To murder her old mother, That then she might seize on all her goods, And wanton with her lover. And one night as the old woman She heard her footstep on the floor, And said, My child, I'm very ill, Now kiss my cheek, that ere I die And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek, But prayers would nothing her avail, And though that she was sick, and old, And the hag she held the fingers up, And they all agreed a nobler deed And she threw the fingers in the fire, And round about the cauldron stout The third arose; She said she'd been And seen more blood in one short day, Now Gondoline, with fearful steps, The hag related then the sports When on the well-contested field There was a gallant-featured youth, And in a vassal's garb disguised, That three days ere she had embark'd, And to have seen how he did writhe. Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed, And from his smoking corse she tore The eyes were starting from their socks, And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss. Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime, The gaudes, and honours of the world appear! How vain ambition! Why has my wakeful lamp Outwatch'd the slow-paced night?-Why on the page, The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'd Say, foolish one-can that unbodied fame, Alas how vain are mortal man's desires! LINES WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS, In the Morning before Day-break. YE many twinkling stars, who yet do hold Of night's dominions!-Planets, and central orbs Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres The angelic hosts, in their inferior Heaven, Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now In fancy strikes upon my listening ear, And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile On the vain world, and all its bustling cares, LINES, SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY A LOVER AT THE GRAVE OF HIS MISTRESS. Occasioned by a Situation in a Romance. MARY, the moon is sleeping on thy grave, didst, When o'er the barren moors the night wind howl'd, Though on the lambent lightnings wild careering Spirit of her My only love!-O! now again arise, On the still air, the distant waterfall It is a night, when from their primrose beds, Mary, lo! Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave, Thy love will lay his pallid cheek to thine, MY STUDY, A Letter in Hudibrastic Verse. YOU bid me, Ned, describe the place Well, figure to your senses straight, With white-wash'd walls and plaster floor, To admit a single chair and table: And (lest the muse should die with cold) A smoky grate my fire to hold: So wondrous small, 'twould much it pose Full half the spacious room and more. A window vainly stuff'd about, That soon they mean to leave the frame. My furniture I sure may crack- A desk-of that I am not fervent, The work of, Sir, your humble servant; (Who, though I say't, am no such fumbler ;) A glass decanter and a tumbler, From which my night-parch'd throat I lave, A chest of drawers, in antique sections, So small, Sir, that whoever views 'em, Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em. To these, if you will add a store Of oddities upon the floor, A pair of globes, electric balls, Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler's awls, I think, dear Ned, you curious dog, And on the walls,-Good Heaven's! why there Of heads, and coins, and silver medals, And organ works, and broken pedals; But who it was the able master Nor think it aught of a misnomer To christen Chaucer's busto Homer, Then all around in just degree, With these fair dames, and heroes round, For though confined, t'will well contain Nor more may Heaven her blessings give, I shall not then be fit to live. ONCE more, O Trent! along thy pebbly marge Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat: And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail, How wildly novel on his senses float! It was on this that many a sleepless night, As lone, he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam, And at his casement heard, with wild affright, The owl's dull wing and melancholy scream, On this he thought, this, this his sole desire, Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir SONNET II. GIVE me a cottage on some Cambrian wild, Where, far from cities, I may spend my days, And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled, May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. While on the rock I mark the browsing goat, List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note, I shall not want the world's delusive joys; But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre, Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more; And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire, I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore, And lay me down to rest where the wild wave Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave. SONNET III. Supposed to have been addressed by a female lunatic to a Lady. LADY, thou weepest for the Maniac's wo, And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young; Oh! may thy bosom never, never know The pangs with which my wretched heart is wrung. I had a mother once-a brother too (Beneath yon yew my father rests his head: I had a lover once,-and kind, and true, But mother, brother, lover, all are fled! Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely eye? Oh! gentle lady-not for me thus weep, The green sod soon upon my breast will fie, And soft and sound will be my peaceful sleep. Go thou and pluck the roses while they bloom My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb. Will often ring appalling-I portend A dismal night-and on my wakeful bed Thoughts, Traveller, of thee will fill my head, And him who rides where winds and waves contend, And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide. SONNET VI. BY CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ. This Sonnet was addressed to the Author of this Volume, and was occasioned by several little Quatorzains, misnomered Sonnets, which he published in the Monthly Mirror. He begs leave to return his thanks to the much respected writer, for the permission so politely granted to insert it here, and for the good opinion he has been pleased to express of his productions. YE, whose aspirings court the muse of lays, Why shun the Sonnet's undulating maze? Of that distinguish'd import, lays, though sweet, O think! to vindicate its genuine praise [sways. Those it beseems, whose Lyre a favouring impulse SONNET IV. Supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody, in a Storm, while on board a Ship in his Majesty's Service. LO! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep, SONNET V. THE WINTER TRAVELLER. GOD help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far; This Quatorzain had its rise from an elegant Sonnet, occasioned by seeing a young Female Lunatic," written by Mrs. Lofft, and published in the Monthly Mirror. SONNET VIII. On hearing the Sounds of an Eolian Harp. So ravishingly soft upon the tide Of the infuriate gust, it did career, Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds, By unseen beings sung; or are these sounds Such, as 'tis said, at night are known to swell By startled shepherd on the lonely heat, Keeping his night-watch sad portending death? BE hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds, That wring with grief my aching breast. Oh! cruel was my faithless love, To triumph o'er an artless maid; Oh! cruel was my faithless love, To leave the breast by him betray'd. When exiled from my native home, He should have wiped the bitter tear; Nor left me faint and lone to roam, A heart-sick weary wanderer here. My child moans sadly in my arms, What makes its wretched mother weep! Now lie thee still, my infant dear, And never will he shelter thee. Oh, that I were but in my grave, Ánd winds were piping o'er me loud, And thou, my poor, my orphan babe, Were nestling in thy mother's shroud! THE LULLABY ОРА FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD, THE NIGHT PREVIOUS TO EXECUTION. SLEEP, baby mine, enkerchieft on my bosom, Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast; Sleep, baby mine, not long thou'lt have a mother To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest. Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining, Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled; Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning, And I would fain compose my aching head. Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy weeping, When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be: Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's sleeping In her low grave of shame and infamy! Sleep, baby mine-To-morrow I must leave thee, ODE, ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ. R. A On seeing Engravings from his Designs. MIGHTY magician! who on Torneo's brow, When sullen tempests, wrap the throne of night, Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light," That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below; And listen to the distant death-shriek long From lonely mariner foundering in the deep, Serenely chant the orbs on high, Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore,) That sweeps by fits the bending seas; The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell, Their night-watch on the treacherous deep, And there upon the rock reclined Him who grasp'd the gates of Hell, Genius of Horror and romantic awe, Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep, Mighty magician! long thy wand has lain Buried beneath the unfathomable deep; And oh! for ever must its efforts sleep, May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain? Oh yes, 'tis his!-Thy other son; He throws thy dark-wrought tunic on, Fuesslin waves thy wand,-again they rise, [eyes, Again thy wildering forms salute our ravish'd Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep [flung, Where round his head the vollied lightnings And the loud winds that round his pillow rung, Woo'd the stern infant to the arms of sleep; Or on the highest top of Teneriffe Seated the fearless boy, and bade him look Where far below the weather-beaten skiff On the gulf bottom of the ocean strook. Thou mark'dst him drink with ruthless ear The death-soo, and, disdaining rest, Thou saw'st how danger fired his breast, And in his young hand couch'd the visionary spear. Then, Superstition, at thy eall, She bore the boy to Odin's Hall, And set before his awe-struck sight The savage feast and spectred fight And summon'd from his mountain tomb The ghastly warrior son of gloom, Which on the mists of evening gleam, The following 17 Poems were written during, Sir Philip Sidney has a poem beginning," Sleep or shortly after, the publication of Clifton Grove. Baby mine. + Dante. |