Chapter 1

Poems

by Sir John Carr

Non ulla Musis pagina gratior, Quam quae severis ludicra jungere Novit, fatigatamque nugis Utilibus recreare mentem.

1809.

POEMS.

DEDICATION.

TO LADY WARREN,

&c. &c. &c.

_MADAM_,

In dedicating the following Poems to your Ladyship, I cannot help regretting that they are not more worthy of such an honour; that I might consequently have used it as an humble mode of expressing my sense of the happy and enlightened hours which I have passed in your Ladyship’s society, and of the polite attentions which I have at various times received from you, and the gallant object of your connubial affection, particularly at the House of British Embassy at Petersburgh, where you afforded to the Ladies of the North a just representation of the dignified virtue, cultivated mind, and attractive beauty, of the higher order of females of your own country.

I have the honour to remain,

Madam,

Your Ladyship’s

Obedient faithful Servant,

JOHN CARR.

_Temple. June_ 1809

PREFACE.

This Volume is submitted to the Public with all that diffidence which ought to attend the publication of Verses, many of which were written in the gay and happy era of boyhood, and others in subsequent periods of maturer life, as a relief from more arduous pursuits.

They lay no pretensions to the depth and solidity of the effusions of the Muse in her elevated flights; they are the few wild notes of the simple shepherd, and do not even affect to imitate the rich cadence of the scientific musician.

If the Author might, without the imputation of vanity, select for them a place in the Temple of Poetry, he would endeavour to class them in that niche which is appropriated for the reception of the light and playful _Vers de Societé_.

Should the Reader find them but little worthy of his approval, he will not have reason at the same time to condemn their prolixity: their brevity will, at least in some degree, atone for their want of fire and fancy.

It is thought proper to state that some of the following Poems have appeared before at various times, in a fugitive shape; and that the Poetry in the Author’s Tours is here collected.

POEMS,

&c. &c.

VERSES

WRITTEN IN A GROTTO

_In a Wood on the Side of the River Dart_,

IN DEVONSHIRE.

Tell me, thou grotto! o’er whose brow are seen Projecting plumes, and shades of deep’ning green,— While not a sound disturbs thy stony hall, While all thy dewy drops forget to fall,— Why canst thou not thy soothing charms impart, And shed thy quiet o’er this beating heart? Tell me, thou richly-painted river! tell, That on thy mirror’d plane dost mimic well Each pendent tree and every distant hill, Tipp’d with red lustre, beauteous, bright, and still,— Can I not, gazing on thy tranquil tide, Shed ev’ry grief upon thy rocky side? Or must I rove thy margin, calm and clear, The only agitated object near? Oh! tell me, too, thou babbling cold cascade! Whose waters, falling thro’ successive shade, Unspangled by the brightness of the sky, Awake each echo to a soft reply,— Say, canst thou not my bosom-grief befriend, And bid one drop upon my heart descend? When all thy songsters soothe themselves to sleep. Ah! must these aching eyes for ever weep? And must their frequent waters, like thine own, Drop, idly drop, on unimpressive stone? Or, when my beauteous fair shall deign to grace The humid foliage of thy mossy base, Canst thou not tell how many a rock below Impedes to kiss thy waters as they flow? In _her_ mind canst thou not the feeling rear To stop, or thus caress, each genuine tear? Teach her, oh! teach her, then, thou cold cascade! Pour all thy lessons for the lovely maid! And thou, bless’d grotto! let thy silence prove Her mute consenting answer to my love! And thou, bright river! as thou roll’st along, Bear on thy wand’ring wave a lover’s song! Strong as thy current, as thy waters pure, Teach her to feel the passion I endure!

LINES TO THE MEMORY OF MY DEAR BROTHER,

W.T.P. CARR, ESQ.

—manibus date lilia plenis: Purpureos spargam flores.

_Aeneid_, lib. vi.

Tho’ no funereal grandeur swell my song, Nor genius, eagle-plum’d, the strain prolong,— Tho’ Grief and Nature here alone combine To weep, my William! o’er a fate like thine,— Yet thy fond pray’r, still ling’ring on my ear, Shall force its way thro’ many a gushing tear: The Muse, that saw thy op’ning beauties spread, That lov’d thee living, shall lament thee dead! Ye graceful Virtues! while the note I breathe, Of sweetest flow’rs entwine a fun’ral wreath,— Of virgin flow’rs, and place them round his tomb, To bud, like him, and perish in their bloom! Ah! when these eyes saw thee serenely wait The last long separating stroke of Fate,— When round thy bed a kindred weeping train Call’d on thy voice to greet them, but in vain,— When o’er thy lips we watch’d thy fault’ring breath— When louder grief proclaim’d th’approach of death,— Thro’ ev’ry vein an icy horror chill’d, Colder than marble ev’ry bosom thrill’d. Unsettled still, tho’ exercis’d to grieve, Scarce would my mind the alter’d sight believe; Familiar scenes a transient calm inspire, Poor flutt’ring Fancy fann’d the vain desire, ’Till with sad proof thy wasted relics rise, And restless Nature pours uncall’d-for sighs. Ah! long, my William! shall thy picture rest, Time shall not wear it, imag’d in my breast; Yes, thou shall live while fond remembrance lives, ’Till he who mourns thee asks the line he gives. No common joy, no fugitive delight, Regret like this could in my breast excite; For then my sorrow had been less severe, And tears less copious had bedew’d the bier. From the same breast our milky food we drew, Entwin’d affection strengthen’d as we grew; Why further trace? The flatt’ring dream is o’er— 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[1] 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!

[1] 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, Oh! what art thou in _mine_?

For she, who nurs’d thy drooping form When Winter pour’d her snowy storm, Has oft consol’d me too; For me a fost’ring tear has shed,— She has reviv’d my drooping head, And bade me bloom anew.

When adverse Fortune bade us part, And grief depress’d my aching heart, Like yon reviving ray, She from behind the cloud would move, And with a stolen look of love Would melt my cares away.

Sweet flow’r! supremely dear to me, Thy lovely mistress blooms in thee, For, tho’ the garden’s pride, In beauty’s grace and tint array’d, Thou seem’st to court the secret shade, Thy modest form to hide.

Oh! crown’d with many a roseate year, Bless’d may she be who plac’d thee here, Until the tear of love Shall tremble in the eye to find Her spirit, spotless and refin’d, Borne to the realms above!

And oft for thee, sweet child of spring! The Muse shall touch her tend’rest string; And, as thou rear’st thine head, She shall invoke the softest air, Or ask the chilling storm to spare, And bless thy humble bed.

LINES

TO LADY WARREN,

_On the Departure of Sir John Borlase Warren, K.B_.

TO TAKE THE COMMAND OF A SQUADRON.

Oh! why does sorrow shade thy face, Where mind and beauty vie with grace? Say, dost thou for thy hero weep, Who gallantly, upon the deep, Is gone to tell the madd’ning foe, Tho’ vict’ry laid our Nelson low, We still have chiefs as greatly brave, Proudly triumphant on the wave? Dear to thy Country shalt thou be, Fair mourner! and her sympathy Is thine; for, in the war’s alarms, Thou gav’st thine hero from thine arms; And only ask’d to sigh alone, To look to heav’n, and weep him gone. Oh! soon shall all thy sorrow cease, And, to thine aching bosom, peace Shall quick return;—another tear To love and joy, supremely dear, Shall give thy gen’rous mind relief— That tear shall gem the laurel leaf.

LINES

TO MISS ——, ACCOMPANIED BY A ROSE AND A LILY.

I look’d the fragrant garden round For what I thought would picture best Thy beauty and thy modesty; A lily and a rose I found,— With kisses on their leaves imprest, I send the beauteous pair to thee.

SONG.

Nature’s imperfect child, to whom The world is wrapt in viewless gloom, Can unresisted still impart The fondest wishes of his heart.

And he, to whose impervious ear The sweetest sounds no charms dispense, Can bid his inmost soul appear In clear, tho’ silent, eloquence.

But we, my Julia, not so blest, Are doom’d a diff’rent fate to prove,— To feel each joy and hope supprest That flow from pure, but hidden, love.

IMPROMPTU LINES,

UPON ANACREON MOORE’S SAYING THAT HE DISLIKED SINGING TO MEN.

By Beauty’s caresses, like Cupid, half-spoil’d, Thus Music’s and Poesy’s favourite child Exclaim’d,—“’Tis, by Heaven! a terrible thing Before a _he_-party to sit and to sing!” “By my shoul! Master Moore, you there may be right,” Said a son of green Erin; “tho’ dear to my sight Are all the sweet cratures, call’d women, I swear, Yet I think we can feel just as well as the fair: Tho’ you’d bribe us with songs, blood and ’ounds! let me say, I’d not be a woman for one in your way.”

LINES TO JULIA.

Tho’, Julia, we are doom’d to part, Tho’ unknown pangs invade this heart, For thee the light of love shall burn, To thee my soul in secret turn: Upon this bosom, swell’d with care, The thought of thee shall tremble there ’Till Time shall close these weeping eyes, And close the soothing source of sighs. So, in the silence of the night, Shines on the wave the lunar light; With its soft image, bright, imprest, It heaves, and seems to know no rest: Its agitation soon is o’er; It sighs, and dies along the shore!

LINES

_To the Memory of Mrs. A.H. Holdsworth_,

LATE OF MOUNT GALPIN, DEVONSHIRE.

Tyrant of all our loves and friendships here, Behold thy beauteous victim!—Ah! tis thine To rend fond hearts, and start the tend’rest tear Where joy should long in cloudless radiance shine.

Alas! the mourning Muse in vain would paint, Blest shade! how purely pass’d thy life away, Or, with the meekness of a favour’d saint, How rose thy spirit to the realms of day.

’Twas thine to fill each part that gladdens life, Such as approving angels smile upon;— The faultless daughter, parent, friend, and wife,— Virtues short-lived! they set just as they shone.

Thus, in the bosom of some winding grove, Where oft the pensive melodist retires, From his sweet instrument, the note of love, Charms the rapt ear, but, as it charms, expires.

Farewell, pure spirit! o’er thine early grave Oblivion ne’er shall spread her freezing shade; Nature shall bid her richest foliage wave Where her reposing fav’rite child is laid.

There widow’d fondness oft, when summers bloom. Shall with thy infant pledge of love repair; Oft shall they kneel beside thy mossy tomb, And tears shall dew the flow’rs that blossom there.

LINES

_Written upon a Watch-String_,

MADE AND PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ——.

Say, lovely Charlotte! will you let me prove What diff’rent thoughts thy taste and beauty move? This woven chain, which graceful skill displays, Leads me to think of time, and heave a sigh; But when on thee and on thy charms I gaze, Time unremember’d moves, or seems to die.

LINES

_Upon a Diamond Cross_,

WORN ON HER BOSOM BY MISS C.M.

Well on that neck, sweet Kitty! may you wear The sparkling cross, with hopes to soften Heaven; For trust me, tho’ so very young and fair, Thou hast some little sins to be forgiven:— For all the hopes which wit and grace can spread, For all the sighs which countless charms can move, Fall, lovely Kitty! on thy youthful head; Yet fall they gently—for the crime is love.

LINES TO FORTUNE,

Occasioned by a very amiable and generous Friend of mine munificently presenting Miss E.S. with a Donation of Fifteen Thousand Pounds.

Oh, Fortune! I have seen thee shed A plenteous show’r of treasure down On many a weak and worthless head, On those who but deserv’d thy frown.

And I have heard, in lonely shade, Her sorrows hapless Merit pour; And thou hast pass’d the drooping maid, To give some pamper’d fav’rite more.

But tho’ so cold, or strangely wild, It seems that worth can sometimes move; Thou hast on gentle Emma smil’d, And thou hast smil’d where all approve:—

For Nature form’d her gen’rous heart With ev’ry virtue, pure, refin’d; And wit and taste, and grace and art, United to illume her mind.

So dew-drops fall on some rare flow’r, That merits all their fost’ring care, As tho’ they knew that, by their pow’r, Grateful ’twould wider scent the air.

A SONG.

THE LOVER THE LUTE OF HIS DECEASED MISTRESS.

Alas! but like a summer’s dream All the delight I felt appears, While mis’ry’s weeping moments seem A ling’ring age of tears.

Then breathe my sorrows, plaintive lute! And pour thy soft consoling tone, While I, a list’ning mourner mute, Will call each tender grief my own.

LINES

WRITTEN IN A COTTAGE BY THE SEA-SIDE

(_In which the Author had taken Shelter during a violent Storm_),

UPON SEEING AN IDIOTIC YOUTH SEATED IN THE CHIMNEY-CORNER, CARESSING A BROOM.

’Twas on a night of wildest storms, When loudly roar’d the raving main,— When dark clouds shew’d their shapeless forms, And hail beat hard the cottage pane,—

Tom Fool sat by the chimney-side, With open mouth and staring eyes; A batter’d broom was all his pride,— It was his wife, his child, his prize!

Alike to him if tempests howl, Or summer beam its sweetest day; For still is pleas’d the silly soul, And still he laughs the hours away.

Alas! I could not stop the sigh, To see him thus so wildly stare,— To mark, in ruins, Reason lie, Callous alike to joy and care.

God bless thee, thoughtless soul! I cried; Yet are thy wants but very few: The world’s hard scenes thou ne’er hast tried; Its cares and crimes to thee are new.

The hoary hag[2], who cross’d thee so, Did not unkindly vex thy brain; Indeed she could not be thy foe, To snatch thee thus from grief and pain.

Deceit shall never wring thy heart, And baffled hope awake no sighs; And true love, harshly forc’d to part, Shall never swell with tears thine eyes.

Then long enjoy thy batter’d broom, Poor merry fool! and laugh away ’Till Fate shall bid thy reason bloom In blissful scenes of brighter day.

[2] It is generally believed by the peasants of Devonshire that idiotcy is produced by the influence of a witch.

LINES

_To a Laurel-Leaf_,

SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ——.

Tho’ unknown is the hand that bestow’d thee on me, Sweet leaf! ev’ry fibre I’ll warm with a kiss: With the fame of her beauty thou well dost agree, Whose presence shews conquest, whose triumph is bliss!

LINES

OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF LIEUTENANT J——,

_Who was killed by a Pistol-Shot_,

ACCIDENTALLY DISCHARGED BY HIS FRIEND, CAPTAIN B——.

With horror dumb, tho’ guiltless, stood Beside his dying friend, The hapless wretch who made the blood Sad from his side descend!

“Give me thy hand; lov’d friend, adieu!” The gen’rous suff’rer cried! “I do forgive and bless thee too;” And, having said it, died!

And Pity, who stood trembling near Knew not for which to shed, So claim’d by both, her saddest tear— The living or the dead!

LINES

TO AN ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY,

Whose Timidity frequently agitated her, when pressed to gratify her Friends by her Musical Talents.

’Tis said (and I believe it too) That genuine merit seeks the shade; Blushing to think what is her due, As of her own sweet pow’rs afraid:—

Thus, lovely maid! on fluttering wings, Thy pow’rs a thousand fears pursue, Which, like thy own harmonious strings, When press’d _enchant_, and _tremble_ too!

The pity, which we give, you owe, For mutual fears on both attend; While anxious thus you joy bestow, We fear too soon that joy will end!

LINES

TO MISS L—— D——.

When Heav’n, sweet Laura! form’d thy mind, With genius and with taste refin’d, As if the union were too bright, It spread the veil of diffidence, That ev’ry ray, at first intense, Might shine as soft as lunar light.

To frame a form then Nature strove, And call’d on Beauty and on Love, To lodge the mind they priz’d so well: Completed was the fair design; Thus blended dew-drops mildly shine Within the lily’s spotless bell!

LINES[3]

_Written in a beautiful Spot_,

THE FAVOURITE RETREAT OF DELIA.

Streams ever limpid, fresh, and clear, Where Delia’s charms renew’d appear, Ye flow’rs that touch’d her snowy breast, Ye trees whereon she lov’d to rest, Ye scenes adorn’d where’er she flies, If grief shall close these woe-worn eyes, May some kind form, with hand benign, My body with this earth enshrine, That, when the fairest nymph shall deign To visit this delightful plain, That, when she views my silent shade, And marks the change her love has made, The tear may tremble down her face, As show’rs the lily’s leaves embrace; Then, like the infant at the breast, That feels a sorrow unexprest, That pang shall gentle Delia know, And silent treasure up her woe.

[3] I am indebted to Petrarch for some of the imagery contained in these Lines.

VALENTINE VERSES,

_Sent to my young Friend, Miss Emma Trevelyan_,

OF WALLINGTON-HOUSE, NORTHUMBERLAND.

Emma! ’tis early time for thee To hear the sounds of minstrelsy, That breathe around the rosy shrine Of honest old Saint Valentine.