Still as you charm, some flower we trace,
Some blossom of the mind or face.
Does Laura lead the courtly dance?
We hail the Flower of Elegance.
Does Fashion's wreath adorn her brow?
The Flower of Taste is Laura now.
In Laura's mien, in Laura's mind,
The twin-born Flowers of Grace we find;
And in her blushing cheek, we see
The Royal Rose of Dignity..
Yon Lily, symbol of her youth,
Blooms next her heart the. Flower of Truth.
Oh, might these violet buds express,
The opening Flower of Tenderness!
But not the brightest flower of Spring,
That Fancy paints, or poets sing;
Nor these, nor all the sweets that blow,
The Rose's blush, the Lily's snow,
With thee in excellence compare,
Or breathe so fresh, or bloom so fair.
For in thy bosom lives a flower,
Not Time shall spoil, nor Death devour,
A flower that no rude season fears,
And VIRTUE's sacred name it bears.
WHENEVER God, for his mysterious ends,
Press'd by all evils, destitute of friends,
Presents a Chatterton to human view,
The Devil conjures up a Walpole too!
my desolate dwelling, the cave of the hill, When the dim distant ocean rests awfully still, I pillow my child on my cold shivering breast, And the winds of the mountain, they lull him
They sing his night-song, viewless wanderers of air,
For my
voice would affright him-the voice of
Despair!
Then ope not, ye moon-beams, that play from on
The long silken lashes that shade his blue eye.
How calmly he slumbers, tho' bleak the night blows
That chills on his cheek the faint tinge of the rose;
Poor innocent exile-in dreams of the brain,
He revisits the scenes of enchantment again,
When playful he trod the green turf of the vale,
Ere his full coral lip quiver'd ghastly and pale;
When his light fairy step brushed the new fallen dew
From the soft pallid flower that scarce waved as
he flew.
Oh weave thy bright visions oblivious power,
And waft his pure soul to the opening bower,
Whose withering leaves fall round yon mouldering dome!
But tell not my child 'tis his ruined home!
When conscious existence his bosom informed,
And the first blush of life his dimpling cheek warmed,
When I kissed from his eyelid its first glistening tear,
Oh, Heaven! thought I then, I should cradle him
In that night of distraction, what horrors were mine,
As I gazed on the wave of the gore-mingled Seine? The wandering blood froze in my horror-shrunk
As Murder's loud shrieks smote the whirling brain;
The harsh sounds of Winter swept hollow and wild,
As I wrapp'd my torn robe round my trembling
child;
The far-flashing flame from the battlements height,
On my snow-covered path threw its dark lurid light,
In the fierce midnight blast of the startling sky,
'Mid the tumults of death rose the vestal's shrill cry,
Whose starting eye met the fixed gaze of the slain,
Ere she dash'd on the altar her maddening brain.
From the halls of my fathers an exile I fied,
To hide in this desart my storm-beaten head;
Yet Nature has form'd in this desolate wild,
From the haunts of Ambition and Terror exil'd,
The proud soaring mountain, the wide-spreading tree,
The deep sheltering cavern-for wretches like me.
Though my shuddering bosom is palsied and numb,
And my last lingering hope now sets in the tomb,
Like the pale lamp that dies in the piercing winds
breath,
That long, long, has gleamed in the charnels of death,
Yet my soul, unsubdued, o'er these horrors shall
And linger awhile from the gate of the skies,
My boy to inspire with the ardours of truth,
Or yield him her martyr in dawning of youth!
Though dear to my heart is that sweet cherub-form,
The last precious wreck that I saved from the storm,
Ere he bows to a tyrant the knee of a slave,
Oh shroud him, just Heaven, in the night of the grave,
Or bid me behold him in tortures expire,
On the scaffold yet red in the blood of his sire.
EDINBURGH, JULY 30, 1803.
O thou! whose stream of heavy prose
Unwearied and unvaried flows,
For Mercy's sake, no longer bore ;
Great Lecturer ! we can bear no more!
Dost thou not see how yawning, staring,
Fidgetting, groaning, almost swearing,
We sadly sit, and strive in vain
To listen to the eternal strain !
If thou art doom'd by Fate severe,
Sad curse! to seize on every ear,
No more your friends in torture keep,
But while you prattle let them sleep!
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