And Seamen whistled to the winds in vain;
When the loose canvass droop'd in lazy folds,
And idle pennants dangled from the mast;—
There, in that trying moment, thou wert found
To teach the hardest lesson man can learn—
Passive endurance—and the breeze has sprung,
As if obedient to the voice of Song:—
And yet unhonour'd here thy ashes lie!

A nobler lesson learn'd the gallant Tar
From his Orphean lyre—to temper right
The lion's courage with the attributes
That to the gentle and the meek belong;
O'er fallen foes to check the eye of fire—
O'er fallen foes to soften heart of oak.

He turn'd the Fatalist's rash eye to Him
In whom the issues are of life and death;
He taught to whom the battle is—to whom
The victory belongs. His cherub, that aloft
Kept sleepless watch, was Providence—not Chance.

And yet no honours are decreed for him—
Friend of the Brave, thy memory cannot die!
Th'inquiring voice, that eagerly demands
Where rest thy ashes?—shall preserve thy fame.
Thine immortality thyself hast wrought;—
Familiar as the terms of art, thy verse,
Thine own peculiar words are still the mode
In which the Seaman aptly would express
His honest passions and his manly thoughts;
His feelings kindle at thy burning words,
Which speak his duty in the battle's front;
His parting whisper to the maid he loves
Is breathed in eloquence he learned from thee;
Thou art his Oracle in every mood—
His trump of victory—his lyre of love!

A SKETCH FROM LIFE.

She sat in beauty, like some form of nymph
Or naïad, on the mossy, purpled bank
Of her wild woodland stream, that at her feet
Linger'd, and play'd, and dimpled, as in love.
Or like those shapes that on the western clouds
Spread gold-dropp'd plumes, and sing to harps of pearl,
And teach the evening winds their melody:
How shall I tell her beauty?—for the eye,
Fix'd on the sun, is blinded by its beam.
One glance, and then no more, upon that brow
Brighter than marble shining through those curls,
Richer than hyacinths when they wave their bells
In the low breathing of the twilight wind.—
One glance upon that lip, beside whose hue
The morning rose would sicken and grow pale,
'Till it was waked again by the soft breath
That steals in music from those lips of love.
Wert thou a statue I could pine for thee,
But in thy living beauty there is awe;
The sacredness of modesty enshrines
The ruby lip, bright brow, and beaming eye;—
I dare but worship what I must not love.

ON THE PORTRAIT

OF THE SON OF J.G. LAMBTON, ESQ., M.P.

BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE, P.R.A.

Beautiful Boy—thy heavenward thoughts
  Are pictured in thine eyes,
Thou hast no taint of mortal birth,
Thy communing is not of earth,
  Thy holy musings rise:
Like incense kindled from on high,
Ascending to its native sky.

And such a head might once have graced
  The infant Samuel, when
Call'd by the favour of his God,
The youthful priest the Temple trod
  Beloved of Heaven and men!
The same devotion on his brow
As brightens in thy forehead now.

Or, thou may'st seem to Fancy's eye
  One borne by arms Divine;
One, whom on Earth a Saviour bless'd,
And on whose features left impress'd
  The Contact's holy sign:
A light, a halo, and a grace,
So pure th' expression of that face.

Or, has the Painter's skill alone
  Such grace and glory given?
Clothed thee with attributes which seem
Creations of an angel's dream,
  To raise the soul to Heaven?
No, as he found thee, he arrayed,
And Genius taught what God had made!

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM

OF THE LADY OF COUNSELLOR D. POLLOCK.

Joy to thee, Lady! many years of joy
  To thee—and thine—that springtide of the heart,
The bliss of virtuous love, without alloy.
  And all that health and gladsome life impart.
How gracefully hast thou thy task perform'd,
  The watchful tender mother, matchless wife;
All woman boasts—thou hast indeed adorn'd—
  Thine the high merit of an useful life.
For ever cheerful, though the Tragic Muse[1]
  May call thee Sister, both in form and mind;
Thou do'st to all those envied charms transfuse,
  Which shine so highly temper'd and refined.
Lady revered—the sunbeam and the rose
  Are poor in beauty to sweet woman's smiles:
'Tis the bright sunset of life's awful close,
  The Poet's deathless wreath! a spell all grief beguiles!

[Footnote 1: The Lady, to whom these lines are addressed has been greatly noticed for the strong resemblance she bears to Mrs. Siddons.]

THE HELIOTROPE.

There is a flower, whose modest eye
  Is turn'd with looks of light and love,
Who breathes her softest, sweetest sigh.
  Whene'er the sun is bright above.

Let clouds obscure, or darkness veil,
  Her fond idolatry is fled,
Her sighs no more their sweets exhale.
  The loving eye is cold—and dead.

Canst thou not trace a moral here,
  False flatterer of the prosperous hour?
Let but an adverse cloud appear,
  And Thou art faithless, as the Flower!

SONNET.

ON SEEING A YOUNG LADY,

I HAD PREVIOUSLY KNOWN, CONFINED IN A MADHOUSE.

Sweet wreck of loveliness! alas, how soon
  The sad brief summer of thy joys hath fled:
How sorrows Friendship for thy hapless doom,
  Thy beauty faded, and thy hopes all dead.
Oh! 'twas that beauty's power which first destroy'd
  Thy mind's serenity; its charms but led
The faithless friend, that thy pure love enjoy'd,
  To tear the beauteous blossom from its bed.
How reason shudders at thy frenzied air!
  To see thee smile, with fancy's dreams possess'd;
Or shrink, the frozen image of despair.
  Or, love-enraptured, chant thy griefs to rest:
Oh! cease that mournful voice, affliction's child,
  My heart but bleeds to hear thy musings wild.

PROMETHEUS.

What sovereign good shall satiate man's desires,
Propell'd by Hope's unconquerable fires?
Vain each bright bauble by ambition prized;
Unwon, 'tis worshipp'd—but possess'd, despised.
Yet all defect with virtue shines allied,
His mightiest impulse genius owes to pride.
From conquer'd science graced with glorious spoils,
He still dares on, demands sublimer toils;
And, had not Nature check'd his vent'rous wing,
His eye had pierced her at her primal spring.

Thus when, enwrapt, Prometheus strove to trace
Inspired perceptions of celestial grace,
Th' ideal spirit, fugitive as wind,
Art's forceful spells in adamant confined:
Curved with nice chisel floats the obsequious line;
From stone unconscious, beauty beams divine;
On magic poised, th' exulting structure swims,
And spurns attraction with elastic limbs.
While ravish'd fancy vivifies the