On reading the Poems of Hurdis, after a perusal of Sir Joshua Reynolds's Academic Discourse on Gainsbrough.
MUCH of thy semblance, CowPER, do we trace,
Much of thy tender and attractive air,
In moral Hurdis; though with equal grace
He thy poetic mantle might not wear.
Of GAINSBROUGH thus, whose pencil lent a charm
That vied with nature in her rustic state,
Dupont preserv❜d a glow and Hoppner, warm
With love for REYNOLDS gave his tints a date
Beyond their own recording.-Now the prey
All, all, of death!-the pupils like their peers
Set in dim night. And though but halos they,
Of orbs that still may shine for numerous years;
Yet was their lustre such, it leaves a sigh
That they are like to fade from thankless memory.
HAIL, gentle swallow, hail! when you appear
We deem it summer time, and pleas'd we view
Thy coming flight, which nature bids be true;
'Tis this, swift-winged bird, that makes thee dear:
And long we love to have thy presence here,
To watch thy sweeping course above the wave,
Or see thee stoop thy plumed wing to lave
In streams, that, like the sky they shew, are clear.
But when declining summer's beam grows faint,
You wing your way to lands unknown to gloom,
Where no cold blast shall give thy flight restraint,
Where winter dares not bring his bitter doom!
Thus still you live in ever blooming bow'rs,
Midst one unchanging round of gladsome summer hours!
To the late Honourable Alexander Frazer Tytler, Lord Woodhouselee, on his removal from the Civil to the Criminal Bench.
SWEET is the sound, when by Valclusa's cell,
Where Sorga's murmuring waters softly glide,
The sighing breeze now sweeps the rock's tall side,
Now faintly mingles with the river's swell.
Each mournful sound of Laura seems to tell,
Of Petrarch, constancy's and learning's pride!
And of that love so pure yet so decried,
Which woke to Laura's name his peerless shell.
Champion of Petrarch's vindicated fame,
Most deeply hast thou felt its melody-
Now sweeter dearer sounds thine ear shall claim,
When stainless innocence, from danger free,
When rescued penitence shall breathe thy name, And pour one trembling prayer for Woodhouselee.
To a Friend, on his asking me why I had not lately written any verse.
FLED is the Muse, who once, with magic power,
Her beams of orient light was wont to throw
O'er the dark cloud of many a lonely hour;
And warm my sinking heart with rapturous glow.
Fled is the muse! no longer, as I stray
At dawn or dusky eve the woods along,
She, heavenly partner of my devious way,
Inspires the wild, enthusiastic song.
No more, when night and silence hold their reign,
She hovers round my couch of care and pain,
And bids bright forms from starry realms appear:
Averse, she flies! my soul to woe she leaves;
Nor joy, nor hope, that drooping soul receives;
But all is cold, and desolate, and drear.
INSCRIPTION FOR THE MONUMENT OF THE
DEFENDERS OF SARAGOSSA.
BELOV'D and honour'd, here the relics rest
Of those in Saragossa's walls who fell,
What time the accurs'd Napoleon sought to quell
The flame that glow'd in each Iberian breast.
Death vainly frown'd, in direst horrors drest!
Nor sword, nor circling fires, nor rending shell,
Nor treacherous mine, nor all that aids to swell
The storm of war, their dauntless souls depress'd.
Bewail not thou with tears the glorious brave:
No! let thy heart with patriot thoughts beat high! Here kneel, and swear, upon their hallow'd grave, Like them, a tyrant's myriads to defy; Like them, to spurn the loathsome name of slave; Like them, to toil, to combat, and to die.
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