Thy transient joys and sorrows are no more!
All, all are fled!—And, ah! where'er I turn,
Insulting Death directs me to thy urn,
Throws his cold shadows round me while I sing.
Damps ev'ry nerve, and slackens ev'ry string.
So, when the Moon trims up her waning fire,
Sweep the night-breezes o'er th'Aeolian lyre;
Ling'ring, perchance, some wild pathetic sound
Lulls the lorn ear, and dies along the ground.
Ye kindred train! who, o'er the parting grave,
Have mourn'd the virtues which ye could not save.
Ye know how Mem'ry, with excursive pow'r,
Extracts a sweet from ev'ry faded hour;—
From scenes long past, regardless of repose,
She feeds her tears, and treasures up her woes.
Thou tuneful, mute, companion[A] of my care!
Where now thy notes, that linger'd in the air?
That linger still!—Vain thy harmonious store,—
Thy sweet persuasive triumphs are no more.
Thy mournful image strikes my wand'ring eye;
Sad, near thy silent strings, I sit and sigh.
Cold is that band which Music form'd her own,
When ev'ry chord resign'd its sweetest tone.
Ah! long, fair source of rapture, shall thou rest,
Silent and sad, neglected and unprest,
'Till years, lov'd shade! superior pow'rs resign,
Or raise one note more eloquent than thine.
Tho' with'ring Sickness mark'd thee in the womb,
And form'd thy cradle but to form thy tomb,
Yet, like a flow'r, she bade thee reach thy prime,
The fairer victim for the stroke of Time.
When fond Invention vainly sought thine ease,
The wave salubrious and the morning breeze,—
When even Sleep, sweet Sleep! refus'd thy call,
Sleep! that with sweet refreshment smiles on all,—
When, till the morn, thine eyes, unclos'd and damp,
Trac'd thy sad semblance in the glimm'ring lamp,—
When from thy face Health's latest relic fled,
Where Hope might flatter, with reluctant tread,—
Still, darting forward from the weight of woe,
Thy soul with all its energy would glow;
Still with the purest passion wouldst thou prove
The glow of friendship and the warmth of love.
And ah! to sacred Memory ever nigh,
Thy wit and humour claim the passing sigh:
When, thro' the hour, with unresisted skill,
I've seen thee mould each feature to thy will,—
When friends drew round thee with attentive ear,
Pleas'd with the raill'ry which they could not fear.
Oh! how I've heard thee, with concealing art,
Join in the song, tho' sorrow rent thy heart;
How have I seen thee too, with venial guile,
O'er many an anguish force the faithless smile,—
Seen suffering Nature check each sigh, each fear,
To rob maternal fondness of a tear!
Alas! those scenes are past!—Vain was the pray'r
That ask'd of Fate to soften and to spare;
Ah! vain, if wit and virtue could not save
Thy youthful honours from an early grave.
But yet, if here my warm fraternal love
May claim alliance with the realms above;
If kindred Nature, with perpetual bloom,
Transplanted springs, and lives beyond the tomb;
Thy pitying soul shall smile upon my grief,
Shall feel a pang that wishes not relief;
In visions still shall shield me as I go,
Along this gloomy wilderness of woe;
Shall still regard me with peculiar pride,
On earth my brother, and in heav'n my guide!
Methinks I see thee reach th' empyrean shore,
And heav'n's full chorus hails one angel more;
While 'mid the seraph-forms that round thee fly,
Thy father meets thee with ecstatic eye!
He springs exulting from his throne of rest,
Extends his arms, and clasps thee to his breast!

[Footnote A: The piano-forte, on which he excelled.]

PARODY

ON

"The Golden Days of good Queen Bess."

To my Muse give attention, and deem it not a mystery
If I jumble up together music, poetry, and history,
To sing of the vices of wicked Queen Bess, sir,
Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir,
    Detested be the memory of wicked Queen Bess, sir,
    Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir.

In saying she would die a maid, she, England! did amuse ye.
But what she did, and what she died—I hope you will excuse me:
A gallant Earl a miracle of passion for her fed, sir;
She kiss'd him, and she clos'd the scene by striking off his head, sir!
    Detested be, &c.

Oh! rude ungrateful Scotland! had thy desolated Queen, sir,
No blue eyes ever known, nor had she beauteous been, sir,
The envy of our old rival hag she might have baffled, sir,
Nor with her guiltless blood have crimson'd o'er the scaffold, sir.
    Detested be, &c.

She dress'd just like a porcupine, and din'd just like a pig, sir,
And an over-running butt of sack she swallow'd at a swig, sir!
Her brawny maids of honour ate and drank confounded hard, sir,
And droves of oxen daily bled within her palace-yard, sir!
    Detested be, &c.

In ruling she was wonderous tyrannical and surly;
If a patriot only touch'd on the Queen or Master Burleigh,
She'd send a file of soldiers in less than half an hour, sir,
Just to bid him make his speeches to the prisons of the Tow'r, sir!
    Detested be, &c.

REBECCA,

A Ballad.

Rebecca was the fairest maid
That on the Danube's borders play'd;
And many a handsome nobleman
For her in tilt and tourney ran;
While fair Rebecca wish'd to see
What youth her husband was to be.

Rebecca heard the gossips say,
"Alone from dusk till midnight stay
Within the church-porch drear and dark,
Upon the vigil of Saint Mark,
And, lovely maiden! you shall see
What youth your husband is to be."

Rebecca, when the night grew dark,
Upon the vigil of Saint Mark,
(Observ'd by Paul, a roguish scout,
Who guess'd the task she went about,)
Stepp'd to St Stephen's Church to see
What youth her husband was to be.

Rebecca heard the screech-owl cry,
And saw the black bat round her fly;
She sat, 'till, wild with fear, at last
Her blood ran cold, her pulse beat fast;
And yet, rash maid! she stopp'd to see
What youth her husband was to be.

Rebecca heard the midnight chime
Ring out the yawning peal of time,
When shrouded Paul, unlucky knave!
Rose like a spectre from the grave;
And cried, "Fair maiden, come with me.
For I your bridegroom am to be."

Rebecca turn'd her head aside,
Sent forth a hideous shriek, and died!
While Paul confess'd himself, in vain,
Rebecca never spoke again!
Ah! little, hapless maid! did she
Think Death her bridegroom was to be.

Rebecca! may thy story long
Instruct the giddy and the young.
Fright not, fond youths! the timid fair;
And you too, gentle maids! beware;
Nor seek by lawless arts to see
What youths your husbands are to be.

LINES

TO AN AURICULA, BELONGING TO ——.

Thou rear'st thy beauteous head, sweet flow'r
Gemm'd by the soft and vernal show'r;
    Its drops still round thee shine:
The florist views thee with delight;
And, if so precious in his sight,