- That I—should wish the same! Fortune invites→ Already Fancy wafts me to the shores
Of rich Hindustan, and around I view
The richest products bounteous Nature gives.
*The reader will peruse the foregoing lines with indulgence, while he considers the youth of the writer, and with interest and sympathy when he reflects on his early and heroic death. They were written immediately before the embarkation of the author for India. After remaining there four years, and surmounting all the effects of a climate fatal to so many, he fell in action, in the battle of Delhi, under General Lake, on the 11th of September, 1803, in the twenty-first year of his age. The only consolation remaining to the afflicted father of this gallant and accomplished young man, is the reflection, that if his career was short, it was unstained by erine, and closed in glory.
On the lamented and untimely Death of his Son, William Preston the Younger, who was killed at the Battle of Delhi, in the Twenty-first Year of his Age.
νεω ω τε παν' ἐσεοικεν Αρηι κλαμένω δε δαιγμενω ὄξει χαλκω.
WITH every tide, with every wind,
I watch'd the tardy sail from Ind;
While, still reviving, still delay'd,
Hope on the sicken'd spirit prey'd,
I caught, with fond impatience wild,
At every rumour of my Child.—
At length it comes-the tardy sail
With news of carnage loads the gale.
Oh stroke, that I must long deplore!-
My Son, my William, is no more-
Among th' heroic slain he lies—
And who has heard his parting sighs ?
As, sinking on the plain, he bled,
What hand sustain'd his drooping head?
What pious accents chear'd his death?
What Friend receiv'd his parting breath?
In pomp decay'd, where Delhi's wall
Appears to mourn an Empire's fall,
Where Palaces, their splendor gone,
Are tottering o'er th' imperial Throne,
And Monuments of Timur's race
Are mouldering thro' the dreary space.
Oh, welt'ring to the torrid sky,
How many youthful corses lie,
So late the gallant and the brave,
Now, wretched earth denied a grave!
Where Jumna, spreading o'er the plain,
Beholds his current choak'd with slain,
The fatal field with gore is red.—
What tongue laments the valiant dead?
What eyelids pour the pitying tear?
What hands the funeral pile uprear?
The Vulture's scream, and Eagle's cries-
Are these, my Son, thy obsequies ?—
Oh, far remote, unheard, and low,
From drooping eyes the sorrows flow.
While rapine wild and faithless deed
Ordain the victim Host to bleed,
The gentle Sister, constant Wife,
The parent fond must mourn the strife.
What airy phantoms had I chac'd!
What fond delusions fancy trac'd!
For ever hid in chearless gloom!
Subsided all within the tomb!
To heights ideal I pursu'd
The fair endowments that I view'd,
And saw them win the virtuous praise,
Too rarely sought in modern days.
And sure, the talents of my Son,
In arts and arms the palm had won,
Had Heav'n enlarg'd his narrow span,
To full maturity of man.—
With judgment ripe beyond his age
He turn'd each bright immortal page.
In early youth, the classic hoard
His mind with high conceptions stor❜d,
From precept and example brought
By Sages, and by Heroes taught―
He felt the pow'r of lofty rhyme,
To waken thoughts, and aims sublime,
The kindling eye, the conscious breast,
The forms of good and fair confest.
The produce of his youthful vein
Gave earnest of poetic strain,
And true to symmetry and grace,
His eye could just proportion trace
With glance, as rapid as his mind,
While Fancy all he saw combin'd,
And bade his artist hand pourtray
The charms that Nature's works display.
Oh, how unlike the youth we meet,
That croud the theatre and street!
The vain, luxurious, heartless brood,
Without a mark, or likelihood-
By folly harness'd to her car,
The bane of Peace, unapt for War:
He scorn'd the poor pursuits and plays,
The trivial aims of boyish days,
To feel the high heroic flame,
A manly rank with men to claim.
To feel each energy of thought,
For well he wrote, and bravely fought.
He did not live, his course to guide,
By precepts, classic lore supplied;
Yet, nobly prodigal of breath,
He learn'd from them contempt of death.
Scarce conscious where, I listless
In change of place, to find no change,
While every smiling cheek I view,
Bids all my sorrows rise anew;
And every face, that happy shows,
Appears to triumph in my woes.
Ev'n objects dearest to my heart,
With ev'ry charm, a pang impart.
Oft as I see the sun arise
The tear shall glisten in my eyes,
For him, that sought an orient clime,
To perish in the youthful prinie,
And fancy still behold thy fall,
And still thy youthful form recall.-
Has life prolong'd her listless dream,
My Son, to make thy death my theme,
Το
pour the weak enervate verse,
Unworthy off'ring, on thy hearse?
For me remains the mournful pride,
To think my Son has bravely died,
That if he fell in youthful prime,
His name was never stain'd with crime.
And happier sure the parent's doom,
Whose Son is honour'd in the tomb,
Than his who mourns a worthless race,
In life continued, for disgrace,
To link dishonour with a name,
And tinge a Father's cheek with shame.
ON HER APPEARING TO RETIRE FROM A WINDOW.
LADY, a little while remain;
Unworthier eyes may gaze on thee:
And know, 'twill soothe the heart's sad pain,
Though but awhile thy charms to see.
Alas! what scenes of bliss have fled,
Since first thy peerless smiles I saw ;
Reviving else, those scenes are dead,
If thou, ô Once-Belov'd! withdraw.
Like hope, thou beamest from afar
A bright though intermitting ray: I hail thee, beauteous as the star That softly gilds the setting day!
|