Chapter 3

TO SIR ROBERT KER PORTER, KNIGHT OF THE IMPERIAL ORDER OF ST. JOACHIM,

_Upon his approaching Nuptials with the Princess Shebatoff_.

To save the credit of the dame, Poets and painters all agree That Mistress Fortune cannot see, And on her bandage cast the blame;

When honours on th’ unworthy wait, When riches to the wealthy flow, When high desert, oppress’d by woe, Is left to struggle on with Fate.

But, Porter! when on thee she smil’d, The fillet from her eyes she mov’d, To view the merit all approv’d— A mind inform’d, a heart unsoil’d.

She saw thy virtues bright appear; A son that mothers seldom know, A brother with affection’s glow, The soldier brave[9], the friend sincere.

With honours then thy name she grac’d, And call’d on Love to bless thy arms With princely rank, with Virtue’s charms, And all the pow’rs of wit and taste.

[9] Sir R.K. Porter was attached to the staff in the late campaign in Spain, and was in nearly every engagement with the enemy.

THE FOLLOWING LINES IN FRENCH,

_Are inscribed upon the Pedestal of a Statue of Cupid_,

IN A GARDEN AT UTRECHT.

_ORIGINAL_.

N’offrant qu’un cœur à la Beauté, Nud comme la Verité, Sans armes comme l’Innocence, Sans aîles comme la Constance, Tel fut l’Amour dans le siecle d’or, On ne le trouve plus, quoiqu’on le cherche encore.

_TRANSLATION_.

To Beauty give your heart, your sighs, No other off’ring will she prize; As Truth should unadorn’d appear, Behold! the god is naked here! Like Innocence, he has no arms But those of sweet, of native, charms; No wish or pow’r has he to fly, Like thy pure spirit, Constancy! Such in the golden age was Love; But now, oh! whither does he rove?

THE RHINGAU SONG.

This is the favourite Song with the Inhabitants of the vine-covered Region of the Rhingau, an extensive District along the Banks of the Rhine, where the finest Wines are produced.

_ORIGINAL_.

Bekrantzt mit laub den liebe vollen becher, Und trinkt ihn frölich leer; In Gauz Europa ihr herren zecher, Ist solch, ein wein micht mehr.

Ihn bringt das vaterland aus seiner fulle, Wie wär er sonst so gut? Wie wär er sonst so edel, stille, Und doch voll kraft und muth?

Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsre reben: Gesegnet sey der Rhein! Da wachsen sie am ufer hin, und geben Uns diesen labe wein.

So trinkt ihn dann, und lasst uns alle wege Uns freun, und frölich seyn; Und wüsten wir, wo jemand traurig läge, Wir gaben ihm den wein.

_TRANSLATION_.

With wine-leaves crown the jovial cup, For, search all Europe round, You’ll say, as pleas’d you drink it up, Such wine was never found. Such wine, &c.

Our fathers’ land this vine supplies; What soil can e’er produce But this, tho’ warm’d with genial skies, Such mild, such gen’rous juice? Such mild, &c.

Then shall the Rhine our smiles receive, For on its banks alone Can e’er be found a wine to give The soul its proper tone. The soul, &c.

Come, put the jovial cup around, Our joys it will enhance, If any one is mournful found, One sip shall make him dance. One sip, &c.

LINES TO HEALTH,

_Upon the Recovery of a Friend from a dangerous Illness_.

Sweet guardian of the rosy cheek! Whene’er to thee I raise my hands Upon the mountain’s breezy peak, Or on the yellow winding sands,

If thou hast deign’d, by Pity mov’d, This fev’rish phantom to prolong, I’ve touch’d my lute, for ever lov’d, And bless’d thee with its earliest song!

And oh! if in thy gentle ear Its simple notes have sounded sweet, May the soft breeze, to thee so dear, Now bear them to thy rose-wreath’d seat!

For thou hast dried the dew of grief, And Friendship feels new ecstacy: To Pollio thou hast stretch’d relief, And, raising him, hast cherish’d me.

So, whilst some treasur’d plant receives Th’ admiring florist’s partial show’r, The drops that tremble from its leaves Oft feed some near uncultur’d flow’r.

For late connubial Fondness hung Mute o’er the couch where Pollio lay; Love, Hope, and Sorrow, fixed her tongue, Thro’ sable night till morning grey.

There, too, by drooping Pollio’s side, Stood Modesty, a mourner meek, Whilst Genius, mov’d by grief and pride, Increas’d the blush which grac’d her cheek;

For much the maiden he reprov’d For having spread her veil of snow Upon the mind he form’d and lov’d, Till she was seen to mourn it too.

O Health! when thou art fled, how vain The witchery of earth and skies, Love’s look, or music’s sweetest strain, Or Ocean’s softest lullabies!

Oh! ever hover near his bow’r, There let thy fav’rite sylphs repair; Fence it with ev’ry sweet-lipp’d flow’r, That Sickness find no entrance there.

So shall his lyre, untouch’d so long, The tone with which it charm’d regain; Sweet spirit! thou shall teach his song, With mine, to breathe the grateful strain.

AN IRISH SONG

Poor Molly O’Flannagan (Lord rest her soul!) Drank so deeply of whiskey, ’twas thought she would die; Her fond lover, Pat, from her _nate_ cabin stole, And stepp’d into Dublin to buy her a pie. Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan!

Tho’ chin-deep in sorrow, yet fun he lov’d well; A pie-man pass’d near, crying “Pies” at his _aise_; “Here are pies of all sorts.”—“Oh! if all sorts you sell, Then a _twopenny magpie_ for me, if you _plaise_!” Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan!

THE SONG OF GRIEF

By the walk of the willows I pour’d out my theme, The breath of the evening scarce dimpled the stream; By the waters I stood, like an image of Woe, And my tears, like the tide, seem’d to tremble and flow.

Ye green scatter’d reeds, that half lean to the wave, In your plaintive, your musical, sighs, could ye save But one note of my charmer, to soften my doom, I would stay till these willows should arch me a tomb!

For ye know, when I pour’d out my soul on the lute, How she hung down her head, so expressively mute! From my hand she would take it, still breathing my pain; She would touch it—return it—and smile at the strain.

Ye wild blooming flow’rs, that enamel this brink, Like me could ye feel, and like me could ye think, How sadly would droop ev’ry beautiful leaf! How soon would your sweetness be wasted with grief!

She is gone, in a cloud, like the star of the night! She has left me, heart-broken, to mourn at her flight,— To think of the hours she endear’d by her love. To sigh till again I shall join her above!

LINES

UPON HEARING MISS —— SING AT AN EVENING PARTY.

THE NIGHTINGALE’S COMPLAINT.

The Moon had bespangled the murmuring wave, The dew-drop had moisten’d the moss of the cave, The summer night-breeze, like a sigh, was just heard, When thus flow’d the strains of the dark-warbling bird:

“I hear a strange melody breathe thro’ the grove, Now swelling with joy, and now melting with love; Tho’ sweet is the sound, yet it should not invade, Unbidden, my lonely dominion of shade.

“As long as the stars that now twinkle shall shine, This willow’s my throne, and all nature is mine: Perchance ’tis the breeze on your desolate lute; Its strings are now sighing, so long that were mute.

“Ah! no, silly bird that I am! shall I grieve? Shall Envy alarm, and shall Folly deceive? ’Tis the voice of Eliza! I hear it again, Enraptur’d I hear it, nor envy the strain.” Then Philomel flutter’d with tremulous wing To Eliza—more happy to listen than sing!

LOVE AND THE SPRING-FLOWER.

’Tis pity, ev’ry maiden knows, Just as she cools, Love warmer grows; But, if the chill be too severe, Trust me, he’ll wither in a tear.

Thus will the spring-flow’r bud and blow, Wrapp’d round in many a fold of snow; But, if an ice-wind pierce the sky, ’Twill drop upon its bed, and die!

LINES

UPON THE REV. MR. C——’S IMPROMPTU COMPOSITIONS OF SOME OF BOWLES’S SONNETS.

No sweeter verse did e’er inspire A kindred Muse with all its fire; Nor sweeter strains could Music lend, To sooth the sorrows of her friend.

Associate Genius bids them flow With sounds that give a charm to woe; We weep as tho’ it were our own, As if our hearts were play’d upon.

SONNET.

The leaves are flutter’d by no tell-tale gales, Clear melts the azure in the rosy west, Scarce heard, the river winds along the vales, And Eve has lull’d the vocal grove to rest.

To yon thick elms, my Delia! let us rove, As slow the glories of the day retire; There to thy lute breathe dulcet notes of love, While thro’ the vale they linger and expire.

Those honey’d tones, that melt upon the tongue,— Thy looks, serener than the scenes I sing,— Thy chaste desires, which angels might have sung, Alone can quiet in this bosom bring, Which burns for thee, and, kindled by thine eyes, Bears a pure flame—the flame that never dies!

LINES

WRITTEN AT KILKENNY, ON THE THEATRICALS OF THAT CITY.

Amid the ruins of monastic gloom, Where Nore’s meand’ring waters wind along, Genius and Wealth have rais’d the tasteful dome, Yet not alone for Fashion’s brilliant throng;—

In Virtue’s cause they take a noble aim; ’Tis theirs in sweetest harmony to blend Wit with Compassion, Sympathy with Fame, Pleasure the means, Beneficence the end[10].

There, if on Beauty’s cheek the tear appears (Form’d by the mournful Muse’s mimic sigh), Fast as it falls, a kindred drop it bears, More sadly shed from genuine Misery.

Nor, if the laughter-loving Nymph delight, Does the reviving transport perish there; Still, still, with Pity’s radiance doubly bright, Its smiles shed sunshine on the cheek of Care.

So, if Pomona’s golden fruit descend, Shook by some breeze, into the lake below, Quick will the dimple, which it forms, extend, Till all around the joyous circles flow.

Bless’d be the liberal mind, th’ undaunted zeal, That bade loud Folly from the Stage retire; That teach us how to think, and how to feel, And once again our godlike Bard admire!

Thus aided, see his rescued genius spring; Again he pours the phrenzy of his song; With EV’RY FEATHER[11] in his eagle wing, Once more in majesty he soars along.

Oft, deck’d with smiles, his spirit shall explore, Erin! thy beauteous vales and classic ground; And ev’ry ripple of thy winding Nore To him shall sweetly as his Avon’s sound.

22_d Oct._ 1805.

[10] The theatricals of Kilkenny are supported by gentlemen of rank and fashion in Ireland, and the profits are applied to charitable purposes.

[11] Alluding to several fine passages of Shakspeare, which have been long omitted in representation, but restored at the theatricals of Kilkenny.

EPIGRAM,

UPON SEEING THE DILAPIDATED STATE OF _BETHLEM HOSPITAL_.

Well with the _purpose_ does the _place_ agree; For e’en the very house is _crack’d_, you see.

EPIGRAM

ON THE GRAVE OF ROBESPIERRE.

_ORIGINAL_.

Passant, ne pleure point son sort; Car, s’il vivait, tu serais mort.

_TRANSLATION_.

Nay, passenger, don’t mourn his lot; If he had liv’d, why you had not.

AN INDIAN MASSACRE-SONG.

See, the waves clasp the Sun, as he sinks from our sight, And Despair sullen rides on the wings of the night; Lo! he comes, and reproaches our arms with delay,— Then arise, let us go where Revenge points the way!

In the deed should we fall, (since who’ll e’er breathe a slave?) Our free souls shall repose in the realms of the brave; In the song we shall live, and fresh heroes inspire, While the son shall exult in the fate of his sire.

Then know, ye white race! ye too long shake the rod; By this arm ye shall soon be dismiss’d to your God! Then demand, if he bade ye torment, why he gave All the soul of a man to the breast of a slave?

Then prepare; know our hatchets atone for our wrong, And our hearts, like our hatchets, are stubborn and strong: Sleep your last! ye no more shall the morning survey, Nor shall sorrow arise with the break of the day.

Yes, remember the lashes that pierc’d thro’ our flesh! See the wounds of our fathers; they open afresh! In the winds, hark! blue Avrin attends to our call; I, your chief, will be first in your glories, or fall!

LINES

WRITTEN ON DELIA, LISTENING TO HER CANARY-BIRD.

When thoughtless Delia unconcern’d surveys Her plumy captive, as he leans to sing, Lo! while she smiles, the fascination stays The little heaven of its airy wing.

Ah! so she tastes the sorrows I impart, Smiles at the sound, but never feels my pain; And many a glance deludes my captive heart To sigh in numbers, tho’ I sigh in vain!

THE HECTIC.

Upon the breezy cliff’s impending brow, With trembling step, the Hectic paus’d awhile; As round his wasted form the sea-breeze blew, His flush’d cheek brighten’d with a transient smile:

Refresh’d and cherish’d by its balmy breath, He dreamt of future bliss, of years to come; Whilst, with a look of woe, the spectre, Death, Oft shook his head, and pointed to his tomb.

Such sounds as these escap’d his lab’ring breast:— “Sweet Health! thou wilt revisit this sad frame; Slumber shall bid these aching eyelids rest, And I shall live for love, perchance for fame.” Ah! poor enthusiast!—in the day’s decline A mournful knell was heard, and it was thine!

VERSES TO MISS M. G——,

ACCOMPANIED WITH A DRIED HELIOTROPE,

_Which she had presented to the Author a Year before_.

Time, since thou gav’st this flow’r to me, Has often turn’d his glass of sand; Perchance ’tis now unknown to thee That once its breath perfum’d thy hand.

Oh, lovely maid! that thou may’st see How much thy gifts my care engage, I’ve sent the cherish’d flow’r to thee Without a blemish, but from age.

Kiss but its leaves;—one kiss from thee, And all its sweetness ’twill regain; And, if I live in memory Thus honour’d, send it back again!

LINES

TO MRS. B——, AT BRISTOL HOT WELLS

Tho’ nought, amid these darkened groves, But various groups of death appear, Scar’d at the sight, tho’ fly the Loves, And Sickness saddens all the year,

Yet, Clara, where you deign to stay, Your sense and manners charm us so, E’en sick’ning Sorrow’s self looks gay, And smiles amid the wreck of woe.

LINES

TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH, UPON THE PRINTS

_From her beautiful Drawings of the Birth and Triumph of Cupid_.

Once, for a palace, Painting left her grove, And taught her royal fav’rite’s hand to trace A beauteous maiden’s tale of little Love, His silken wings, soft limbs, and laughing face!

Then Nature wept o’er each expressive line, To think the sweet creation so confin’d, That such a boy, so fair, and so divine, Was but the playful prattler of her mind;

And had he near the royal easel flown, And seen the features of this mimic brother, He would have known the portrait for his own, And claim’d the beauteous painter for his mother.

EPITAPH

TO THE MEMORY OF A WORTHY MAN, _THE REV. MR. SLEEP_, CURATE OF KINGSWEAR CHURCH, DEVON,

_Whose devotional Elocution was remarkably impregnated with soporific Qualities_.

Reader! since Parson Sleep is gone, And lies beneath yon humble stone, Whene’er to Kingswear Church we go, Holy the sabbath-day to keep (Indeed ’tis right it should be so), We never more shall go to _sleep_.

LINES,

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A FEMALE FRIEND,

_Upon an Infant recommended to her Care by its dying Mother_.

Bless’d be thy slumbers, little love! Unconscious of the ills so near; May no rude noise thy dreams remote, Or prompt the artless early tear;—

For she who gave thee life is gone, Whose trust it was thy life to rear, Now in the cold and mould’ring stone Calls for that artless early tear.

Sleep on, thou little dreamer! sleep; For, long as I shall tarry here, I’ll soothe thee; thou shalt never weep, Tho’ flows for thee the tend’rest tear.

Then be thy gentle visions blest, Nor e’er thy bosom know that fear, Which thro’ the night disturbs my rest, And prompts Affection’s trembling tear.

LINES

ON THE CALEDONIAN HARP BEING SUCCEEDED BY THE HIGHLAND BAGPIPES.

In days that long have glided by, Beneath keen Scotia’s weeping sky, On many a hill of purple heath, In many a gloomy glen beneath, The wand’ring Lyrist once was known To pour his harp’s entrancing tone. Then, when the castle’s rocky form Rose ’mid the dark surrounding storm, The Harper had a sacred seat, Whence he might breathe his wild notes sweet. Oh! then, when many a twinkling star Shone in the azure vault afar, And mute was ev’ry mountain-bird, Soft music from the harp was heard; And when the morning’s blushes shed On hill, or tow’r, their varying red, Oh! then the harp was heard to cheer, With earliest sound, th’ enraptur’d ear; Then many a lady fair was known, With snowy hand, to wake its tone; And infant fingers press’d the string, And back recoil’d, to hear it sing. Sweet instrument! such was thy pow’r, ’Twas thine to gladden ev’ry hour; The young and old then honour’d thee, And smil’d to hear thy melody.

Alas! as Time has turn’d to dust The temple fair, the beauteous bust, Thou too hast mark’d his frowning brow; No Highland echo knows thee now: A savage has usurp’d thy place, Once fill’d by thee with ev’ry grace; Th’ inflated Pipe, with swinish drone, Calls forth applauses once thine own.

A SONG.

When stormy show’rs from Heav’n descend, And with their weight the lily bend, The Sun will soon his aid bestow, And drink the drops that laid it low.

Oh! thus, when sorrow wrings the heart, A sigh may rise, a tear may start; Pity shall soon the face impress With all its looks of happiness.

VERSES

ON AN AUTUMNAL LEAF.

Think not, thou pride of Summer’s softest strain! Sweet dress of Nature, in her virgin bloom! That thou hast flutter’d to the breeze in vain, Or unlamented found thy native tomb.

The Muse, who sought thee in the whisp’ring shade, When scarce one roving breeze was on the wing, With tones of genuine grief beholds thee fade, And asks thy quick return in earliest Spring.

I mark’d the victim of the wintry hour, I heard the winds breathe sad a fun’ral sigh, When the lone warbler, from his fav’rite bow’r, Pour’d forth his pensive song to see thee die;—

When, in his little temple, colder grown, He saw its sides of green to yellow grow, And mourn’d his little roof, around him blown, Or toss’d in beauteous ruin on the snow;

And vow’d, throughout the dreary day to come, (More sad by far than summer’s gloomiest night), That not one note should charm the leafless gloom, But silent Sorrow should attend thy flight.

SONG.

THE WORDS ADAPTED TO “THE COSSAKA,”

_One of the most ancient of the Russ Airs_.

Has Time a changeling made of thee? Oh! no; and thou art all to me: He bares the forest, but his pow’rs Impair not love like ours.

Tho’ sever’d from each other’s sight, When once we meet we shall unite, As dew-drops down the lily run, And, touching, blend in one.

For thee this bosom learnt to grieve, Another never made it heave; When present, oh! it was thy throne, And, absent, thine alone.

Then may my trembling pilgrim feet In safety find thy lov’d retreat! And, if I’m doom’d to drop with care, Still let me perish there!

TO MISS ATKINSON,

ON THE EXTREME DIFFIDENCE WHICH SHE DISPLAYS TO STRANGERS.

Just as a fawn, in forest shade, Trembling to meet th’ admiring eye, I’ve seen thee try to hide, sweet maid! Thy charms behind thy modesty.

Thus too I’ve seen at midnight steal A fleecy cloud before the wind, And veil, tho’ it could not conceal, The brilliant light that shone behind.

LINES

Upon reading the Journal of a Friend’s Tour into Scotland, in which the picturesque Scenery and the Character of the People are fairly and liberally stated.

Much injur’d, Scotia! was thy genuine worth, When late the[12] surly Rambler wandered forth In brown[13] surtout, with ragged staff, Enough to make a savage laugh! And sent the faithless legend from his hand, That Want and Famine scour’d thy bladeless land,

That with thee Nature wore a wrinkled face, That not a leaf e’er shed its sylvan grace, But, harden’d by their northern wind, Rude, deceitful, and unkind, Thy half-cloth’d sons their oaten cake denied, Victims at once of penury and pride.

Happy for thee! a lib’ral Briton here, Gentle yet shrewd, tho’ learned not severe. Fairly thy merit dares impart, Asserts thy hospitable heart, Proves that luxuriance smiles upon thy plains, And wit and valour grace thy hardy swains.

[12] Dr. Johnson, author of the Rambler.

[13] Alluding to his dress, as described by Mr. Boswell.

LINES

WRITTEN UPON A HILL,

_On leaving the Country_.

Ah! sweet romantic spot, adieu! Ere your green fields again I view, These looks may change their youthful hue.

Dependence sternly bids me part From all that ye, lov’d scenes! impart, Far from my treasure and my heart.

Tho’ winter shall your bloom invade, Fancy may visit ev’ry shade, Each bow’r shall kiss the wand’ring maid.

To busier scenes of life I fly, Where many smile, where many sigh, As Chance, not Worth, turns up the die.

BANKRUPTCY RENDERED EASY.

The Cit, relying on his trade, Which, like all other things, may fade, Longs for a curricle and villa: This Hatchet splendidly supplies, The other Cock’ril builds, or buys, To charm himself and Miss Hautilla.

Then swift, O London! he retires, To be, from all thy smoke and spires, From Saturday till Sunday, merry: On Sunday crowds of friends attend; His house and garden some commend, And all admire his port and sherry.

His mistress urg’d him now to play, And cut to wealth a shorter way, Now as a bride she heads his table; But still our Cit observ’d his time. Returning at St. Cripple’s chime, At least as near as he was able.

But soon _she_ could not bear the sight Of town; for walls with bow’rs unite, As well as smoke with country breezes; Without the keenest grief and pride _He_ could not quit his _mares_, and _bride_: We yield as soon as passion seizes.

The clock no more his herald prov’d; Tuesday, nay Wednesday, morn have mov’d, Ere trembling shopmen saw their master: Observing neighbours whisper’d round, That ease might do, with plenty crown’d; If not, that ruin came the faster.

His cash grew scarce, his business still, At variance were his books and till (For wolves devour when shepherds slumber); His creditors around him pour, Seize all his horses, household store, And only give him up the lumber!

LINES

_Written at the Sea-Side in Devonshire_,

IN THE MONTH OF NOVEMBER, WHEN THE SHIPS FROM NEWFOUNDLAND RETURN.

Still Summer lingers on these peaceful shores, Nor yet she quits her rose-erected bow’r; Tho’ oft in many a dew-drop she explores Her beauties fading in each passing hour!

Tho’ Winter’s boist’rous child, November, strays Amid those scenes that wak’d the poet’s lyre, Shakes his green canopy, and loves to raise, Of sapless leaves, an altar for his sire.

Soon shall his wild and stormy sway be o’er; These lovely scenes shall feel his shortest reign; And thou, sweet Summer! charming as before, Shall but retire to dress thyself again.

Yet Heaven guides, full provident and kind, With sweet economy, the source of joy, From grief extracts some comfort for the mind, And fresh hopes flatter ere the lost annoy.

See where Connubial Love yon rock ascends, To hail each sail, while fav’ring breezes blow; There many an hour she o’er the margin bends, Her bosom trembling like the floods below.

Nearer the ocean’s graceful burden glides; Cleav’d by its prow, the lines of water yield: While adverse mountains, with protective sides, The Heav’n-directed wand’ring seaman shield.