With ardent thirst the muse's victim drew
Full draughts of inspiration pure and true;
Then plumed his wings, and urged his upward flight
To move a poet in the worldling's sight:
How recompensed those worldlings little know
Who saw but his not him engulph'd in woe;
Small care had they to draw the veil aside
Which hid the man,-the poet they descried,
And satisfied with that, no further went
To learn the little form'd his poor content;
Nor further sought to cherish, whilst they praised
The being genius had so boldly raised;
But left him, when his glory had pass'd by,
To lean despair and cold obscurity.
Oh shame! inglorious age, to think the muse
But needs the pay of words, howe'er he sues,
By all the eloquence of verse and tears,
To gain a palliative for age's fears;
Ye part the poet from the man, and deem
The former all,-the latter but a dream;
But all is past, and he, the Bard, hath fled
To find repose among the lowly dead;
The heart that glow'd with feelings all his own,
Is still and senseless as the tablet stone;
His hands, that labour'd for his daily bread,
When verse and ease forsook his simple shed,
Are nerveless in their rest; whilst, unconfined,
To purer realms has flown his heavenly mind;
Leaving behind but perishable clay,
What Bloomfield was in life's eventful day.
Then strew, ob, strew his grave, ye maids of song,
With every tender blossom of the year;
Weave your wild roses cypress wreaths among,
And o'er your Minstrel drop the bitter tear.
Hither let Innocence her footsteps bend,
To sanctify the spot where genius lies,
And meek Devotion by her side attend,
To point him triumphing in happier skies.
His task was o'er-he panted to be gone,
In other realms to seek his Maker's face
To bow before the just, the Holy One,
Reposing firmly on the promised grace.
Then strew, oh strew this hallow'd spot around,
And o'er his mem'ry drop the silent tear;
While from the stillness of the deep profound,
A whisper breathes in sad and solemn sound,
Your Bloomfield sleeps within his mansion here.
Woodbridge.
BY WILLIAM BECKFORD, ESQ.
LIKE the low murmur of the secret stream
Which through dark alders winds its shaded way,
My suppliant voice is heard :-Ah! do not deem
That on vain toys I throw my hours away.
In the recesses of the forest vale,
On the wild mountain, on the verdant sod,
Where the fresh breezes of the morn prevail,
I wander lonely, communing with God.
When the faint sickness of a wounded heart
Creeps in cold shudderings through my sinking frame, I turn to thee-that holy peace impart
Which soothes the invokers of thy awful name.
O all-pervading Spirit!-sac ed beam!
Parent of life and light!-Eternal Power!
Grant me through obvious clouds one transient gleam
Of thy bright essence in my dying hour!
* From Mr Britton's Illustrations of Fonthill.
BY WILLIAM BECKFORD, ESQ.
HARK! heard ye not that deep, appalling sound?
Tremble for lo, the vex'd affrighted ground
Heaves strong in dread convulsion-streams of fire
Burst from the vengeful sky-a voice of ire
Proclaims, "Ye guilty, wait your final doom:
No more the silent refuge of the tomb
Shall screen your crimes, your frailties. Conscience reigns,—
Earth needs no other sceptre ;-what remains
Beyond her fated limits dare not tell ;-
Eternal Justice! Judgment! Heaven! Hell!"
TO THE TRAGEDY OF CAIUS GRACCHUS.
WHERE is the man, who, as his thoughts survey
The days of Roman grandeur pass'd away-
Whose memory loves in reverence to dwell,
O'er minds that held the world within their spell,—
Calls up the mighty shadows from the tomb,
Whose names give immortality to Rome,-
But feels his mind in virtue's scale ascend,
Improved as patriot, husband, father, friend?
Sound but the name of everlasting Rome,
What glorious visions o'er the fancy come!
At their high deeds to gain a deathless name,
The dullest heart will wake, and pant for fame:
Their sacrifice of self, in virtue's cause,
From sternest eyes the tear of manhood draws;
And Rome has form'd, in many an after age,
The Hero, Poet, Orator, and Sage.
O'er ancient Rome, the Muse once more this night Plumes her wild pinions for a daring flight,
Depicts the self-devotion-noble strife
By which her sons maintain'd their country's life,
And shews how beautiful the holy zeal
That hearts which beat for freedom only feel.
The Bard, who drew, with such success, of late,
Virginius madd'ning o'er a daughter's fate,
To soothe his terrors, here has bid me come-
The delegate of Gracchus and of Rome :
That if, with hands made feeble by his fear,
He strike the chords that freemen love to hear-
Humbly to ask, what modern bard may hope
With strength commensurate with such theme to cope?
Then o'er his efforts let no coldness lour,
But, with your kindness, help his want of power.
TO THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
WRITTEN BY JOHN TAYLOR, ESQ.
SAD is the story we to-night relate,
Among the dire vicissitudes of fate;
A truth recorded in the historic page,
To shew the perils of tyrannic rage;
To aim, in Freedom's cause, the patriot stroke,
And at her call to spurn a foreign yokc.
In such a cause each British heart must feel,
And hail the scene with sympathizing zeal;
A cause, like air, expanding unconfined,
To breathe its vital spirit o'er mankind.
If, with the public ills that mark the tale,
The softer cares of hapless love prevail,
Know 'tis a female Bard supplies the theme,
And Love o'er female bosoms reigns supreme.
A female Bard, who, not unknown to Fame,
To patriot laurels boasts a rightful claim.
Warm'd by the fire that blazed in ancient days,
Oft has her harp been tuned to Cambria's lays;
That Bards had sung their freedom to maintain,
While every mountain echo'd with the strain.
LADIES, for your support we need not sue,
Assured you all will render honours due;
With fond indulgence you our play will scan,
Proud that your sex can rival haughty Man.
BEAUX, if 'mid modern manners, Beaux remain,
The gallantry of former days sustain ;
Beaux then by female favour held their breath,
A smile was paradise, a frown was death!
CRITICS, to-night assume a gentle brow,
With fost'ring smiles receive a female now;
To honest DRYDEN's just remark adhere:-
"It is not to be wise to be severe."
WHO has not heard of the Sale at Fonthill,
With its bijoux the brightest that earth ever gave;
Its pictures and books-and its knights of the quill,
Who of all its "attractions" so ceaselessly rave.
Oh! to see it at mid-day, when warm o'er the HALL
Its full gather'd splendour an autumn sun throws;
Ere the smug auctioneer to his seat in his stall
"Like a bride full of blushes," so smilingly goes; And punctual to Time, without stoppage or stammer, Reads his list of " Conditions" and raises his hammer.
When gems, bronzes, and paintings, are gleaming half shewn, (Mr Beckford's we mean-t'other half would not please, sir,) From tables of ebony-rosewood-and one,
Which they tell us belonged to the Prince de Borghese, sir; But geese we should be all we hear thus to hug,
Since we know many come from the Prince of HUMBUG!
Then to see all the china from Nankin and Dresden,
The "rare Oriental" and "famed Japanese,"
Mix'd with all kinds of trumpery, but recently press'd in,
Our judgments to dupe and our pockets to ease!
With bronzes and boxes,-chef d'œuvres of skill,-
Made "to order," they say, for the sale at Fonthill!
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