Chapter 5

Which o'er the cares of home has thrown A thousand blessings, deep engraved, For every heart she makes her own, And every friend is free-enslaved.

No Inspiration o'er my pen Glows with the lightning's vivid spell; My soul is sad--forgive me then, My heart's too full the tale to tell!

Yet, if the humblest poet's theme Be welcome in Eliza's name; Then, angel, give the cheering gleam, For thy approving smile is fame!

ELEGY

On THE DEATH OF

ABRAHAM GOLDSMID, ESQ.

When stern Misfortune, monitress severe! Dissolves Prosperity's enchanting dreams, And, chased from Man's probationary sphere, Fair Hope withdraws her vivifying beams.

If then, untaught to bend at Heaven's high will, The desp'rate mortal dares the dread unknown, To future fate appeals from present ill, And stands, uncall'd, before th' Eternal throne!

Shall justice there _immutably_ decide? Dread thought! which Reason trembles to explore, She feels, be mercy granted or denied, 'Tis her's in dumb submission to adore.

Yet, could the self-doom'd victim be forgiven His final error, for his merits past; Could virtuous life, propitiating Heaven With former deeds, extenuate the last:

Then GOLDSMID! Mercy, to thy humble shrine, Angel of heaven beloved, should wing her flight, Should in her bosom bid thy head recline, And waft thee onward to the realms of light.

And, oh! could human intercession plead, Breathed ardent to'ards that undiscover'd shore, What hearts unnumber'd for thy fate that bleed, Would warm oblations for thy pardon pour.

Misfortune's various tribes thy worth should tell, Whose acts to no peculiar sect confined; Impartial, with expansive bounty fell, Like heaven's refreshing dews on all mankind.

Where stern Disease his rankling arrows sped, While Want, with hard inexorable band, Strew'd keener thorns on Pain's afflictive bed, And urged the flight of life's diminish'd sand.

By hostile stars oppress'd, where Talent toil'd, Encountering fate with perseverance vain; The Merchant's hopes, when War's dire arm despoil'd, Or tempests 'whelm'd in the remorseless main.

GOLDSMID! thy hand benign assuagement spread, Sustain'd pale sickness, drooping o'er the tomb; Raised modest Merit from his lowly shed, And gave Misfortune's blasted hopes to bloom.

Yet wealth, too oft perverted from its end, Suspends the noblest functions of the soul; Where, chill'd as Apathy's cold frosts, extends, Compassion's sacred stream forgets to roll.

And oft, where seeming Pity moves the mind, From self's mean source the liberal current flows; While Ostentation, insolently kind, Wounds while he soothes, insults while he bestows.

But thy free bounty, undebased by pride, Prompt to anticipate the meek request, Unask'd the wants of modest Worth supplied, And spared the pang that shook the suppliant's breast.

Yet say! on Fortune's orb, which o'er thy head Blazed forth erewhile pre-eminently bright, When dark Adversity her eclipse spread, And veil'd its splendours in petrific night!

Did those, thy benefits had placed on high, Who revell'd still in wealth's meridian ray; Did those impatient to thy succour fly, Anxious the debt of gratitude to pay?

Or, thy fall'n fortunes coldly whispering round, Scowl'd they aloof in that disastrous hour? On keen Misfortune's agonizing wound Did foul Ingratitude her poisons pour?

If thy distress such aggravation knew, Thy first reverse could such perdition wait; Well might Despair thy generous heart subdue, And Desperation close the scene of fate.

Yet while Distraction urged her purpose dire, Rose not, at Nature's interposed command, The sacred claims of Brother, Husband, Sire, To win the weapon from thy lifted hand?

Ah, yes! and ere that agony was o'er, Ere yet thy soul its last resolve embraced, What pangs could equal those thy breast that tore, Thy breast with Nature's tenderest feelings graced?

Those only which, at thy accomplish'd fate, That home display'd, thy smiles were wont to bless; That dreadful scene what language can relate, What words describe that exquisite distress.

The Muse recedes--in Grief's domestic scene Th' intrusive gaze prophanes the tears that flow: Drop, Pity! there thy hallowed veil between; Guard, Silence! there the sacredness of woe.

Nor let the sectarist, whose faith austere Pretends alone to point th' eternal road; Proud of his creed, pronounce with voice severe, All else excluded from the blest abode.

If error thine, not GOLDSMID! thine the fault, Since first thy infant years instruction drew; From youth's gradations up to manhood taught That faith to reverence which thy fathers knew.

In Retribution's last tremendous hour, When its pale captives, long in dust declined, The grave shall yield, and time shall death devour, When He who saved, shall come to judge mankind.

While Christian-infidels shall tremble round, Who call'd HIM Master! whom their acts denied: Imputed faith may in _thy_ deeds be found, And thy eternal doom those deeds decide.

SONNET.

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH.

Sweet songstress! whom the melancholy Muse With more than fondness loved, for thee she strung The lyre, on which herself enraptured hung, And bade thee through the world its sweets diffuse. Oft hath my childhood's tributary tear Paid homage to the sad harmonious strain, That told, alas! too true, the grief and pain Which thy afflicted mind was doom'd to bear. Rest, sainted spirit! from a life of woe, And though no friendly hand on thee bestow The stately marble, or emblazon'd name, To tell a thoughtless world who sleeps below: Yet o'er thy narrow bed a wreath shall blow. Deriving vigour from the breath of fame!

MISTER PUNCH.

A HASTY SKETCH.

Who stops the Minister of State, When hurrying to the Lords' debate? Who, spite of gravity beguiles, The solemn Bishop of his smiles? See from the window, "burly big," The Judge pops out his awful wig, Yet, seems to love a bit of gig!--While _both_ the Sheriffs and the Mayor Forget the "Address"--and stop to stare--And who detains the Husband true, Running to Doctor Doode-Doo, To save his Wife "in greatest danger;" While e'en the Doctor keeps the stranger Another hour from life and light, To gape at the bewitching sight. The Bard, in debt, whom Bailiffs ferret, Despite his poetry and merit, Stops in his quick retreat awhile, And tries the long-forgotten smile; E'en the pursuing _Bum_ forgets His business, and the man of Debts; The one neglecting "Caption"--"Bail"-- The other "thoughts of gyves and Jail"-- So wondrous are the spells that bind The noble and ignoble mind. The Paviour halts in mid-grunt--stands With rammer in his idle hands; And quite refined, and at his ease, Forgetting onions, bread, and cheese, The hungry Drayman leaves his lunch, To take a peep at _Mister Punch_.

Delightful thy effects to see, Thou charm of age and infancy! The old Man clears his rheumy eye, The six months' Babe forgets to cry; No passers by--all fondly gloat, So welcome is thy cheering note, Which time nor taste has ever changed; And after every clime we've ranged, Return to thee--our childhood's joy, And, spite of age, still play the boy!

Yon pious Thing who walks by rule, Unconscious laughs, and plays the fool, And by his side the prim old Maid _Looks_ "welcome fun" and "who's afraid." Behold, that happy ruddy face, In which there seems no vacant place, That could another joy impart, For one laugh more would break his heart. And, lo, behind! his sober Brother, Striving in vain the laugh to smother. That giggling Girl must burst outright, For _Punch_ has now possess'd her quite. While She, who ran to Chemist's shop For life or death--here finds a stop: Forgets for whom--for what--she ran, And leaves to Heaven the bleeding man! The Parish Beadle, gilded calf, Lays by his terror, joins the laugh, Permits poor souls, without offence, To sell their fruit and count their pence, And, as by humour grown insane, Allows the boys to touch his cane! Poor little Sweep true comfort quaffs, Ceases to cry--and loudly laughs. See! what a wondrous powerful spell _Punch_ holds o'er Dustman and his bell; And scolding Wife with clapper still-- The Landlord quits awhile his till, While Pot-boy, busiest of the bunch, Steals pence for self, and beer for _Punch_. Look at that window, you may trace At every pane a laughing face. Yon graceful Girl and her smart Lover, And in the story just above her, The Housemaid, with her hair in papers, All finding _Punch_ a cure for vapours. E'en the pale Dandy, fresh from France, Throws on the group an eye askance; Twirls his moustache, and seems to fear That some gay friend may catch him here. The Widowed wretch, who only fed, On bitter thoughts and tear-wash'd bread, Forgets her cares, and seems to smile To see friend _Punch_ her babe beguile. Magician of the wounded heart, Oh! there thy wonted aid impart: Long be the merryman of our Isle, And win the universal smile!

CONTENT.

In some lone hamlet it were better far To live unknown amid Contentment's isle, Than court the bauble of an air-blown star, Or barter honour for a prince's smile!

Hail! tranquil-brow'd Content, forth sylvan god, Who lov'st to sit beside some cottage fire, Where the brown presence of the blazing clod Regales the aspect of the aged sire.

There, when the Winter's children, bleak and cold, Are through December's gloomy regions led; The church-yard tale of sheeted ghost is told, While fix'd attention dares not turn its head.

Or if the tale of ghost, or pigmy sprite, Is stripp'd by theme more cheerful of its power, The song employs the early dim of night, Till village-curfew counts a later hour.

And oft the welcome neighbour loves to stop, To tell the market news, to laugh, and sing, O'er the loved circling jug, whose old brown top Is wet with kisses from the florid ring!

There, whilst the cricket chirps its chimney song, Within some crumbling chink, with moss embrown'd, The lighted stick diverts the infant throng, And fans are waved, and ribbands twirl'd around.

Entwine for me the wreath of rural mirth, And blast the murm'ring fiend, from chaos sent; Then, while the house-dog snores upon the hearth, I'll sit, and hail thy sacred name, CONTENT!

EPITAPH.

ON MATILDA.

Sacred to Pity! is upraised this stone, The humble tribute of a friend unknown; To grant the beauteous wreck its hallow'd claim, And add to misery's scroll another name. Poor lost MATILDA! now in silence laid Within the early grave thy sorrows made. Sleep on!--his heart still holds thy image dear, Who view'd, through life, thy errors with a tear; Who ne'er with stoic apathy repress'd The heartfelt sigh for loveliness distress'd. That sigh for thee shall ne'er forget to heave; 'Tis all he now can give, or thou receive. When last I saw thee in thy envied bloom, That promised health and joy for years to come, Methought the lily nature proudly gave, Would never wither in th' untimely grave.

Ah, sad reverse! too soon the fated hour Saw the dire tempest 'whelm th' expanding flower! Then from thy tongue its music ceased to flow; Thine eye forgot to gleam with aught but woe; Peace fled thy breast; invincible despair Usurp'd her seat, and struck his daggers there. Did not the unpitying world thy sorrows fly? And, ah! what then was left thee--but to die! Yet not a friend beheld thy parting breath, Or mingled solace with the pangs of death: No priest proclaim'd the erring hour forgiven, Or sooth'd thy spirit to its native heav'n: But Heaven, more bounteous, bade the pilgrim come, And hovering angels hail'd their sister home. I, where the marble swells not, to rehearse Thy hapless fate, inscribe my simple verse. Thy tale, dear shade, my heart essays to tell; Accept its offering, while it heaves--farewell!

TO ------.

AN IMPROMPTU.

O Sue! you certainly have been A little raking, roguish creature, And in that face may still be seen Each laughing love's bewitching feature!

For thou hast stolen many a heart; And robb'd the sweetness of the rose; Placed on that cheek, it doth impart More lovely tints--more fragrant blows!

Yes, thou art Nature's favourite child, Array'd in smiles, seducing, killing; Did Joseph live, you'd drive him wild, And set his very soul a-thrilling!

A poet, much too poor to live, Too poor in this rich world to rove; Too poor for aught but verse to give, But not, thank God, too poor to love!

Gives thee his little doggerel lay;--One truth I tell, in sorrow tell it: I'm forced to give my verse away, Because, alas! I cannot sell it.

And should you with a critic's eye Proclaim me 'gainst the Muse a sinner, Reflect, dear girl I that such as I, Six times a-week don't get a dinner.

And want of comfort, food, and wine, Will damp the genius, curb the spirit: These wants I'll own are often mine;--But can't allow a want of merit.

For every stupid dog that drinks At poet's pond, nicknamed divine; Say what he will, I know he thinks That all he writes is wondrous fine!

THE STEAM-BOAT.

Say, dark prow'd visitant! that o'er the brine _Stalk'st_ proudly--heeding not what wind may blow, What chart, what compass, shapes that course of thine, Whence didst thou come, and whither dost thou go?

Art thou a Monster born of sky and sea? Art thou a Pagod moving in thine ire? Were I a Savage I must bend to thee, A Ghiber? I must own thee "God of fire."

The affrighted billows fly thy hissing rout, Thy wake is followed by turmoil and din, Blackness and darkness track thy course without, And fire and groans and vapours strive within.

And they who cling about thee--who are they? And canst thou be that fabled boat, that waits On the dark banks of Styx for souls? Oh, say! Let me not burst in ignorance--thy freight.

Thus spake I, wandering near the Brighton shore, Straining my very eye-balls from my _Cab;_ First came two "ten-horse" laughs--and then a roar, "Be off, queer Chap, or I'll soon stop your gab!"

Then swept she onward, breathing mist and cloud, While from my bosom this reflection broke; Although I think the steam-boat something proud, Such _lofty_ questions often end in _smoke_. To all Grandiloquents a hint _I_ deem it, And whilst I live, I'll ever such _esteem_ it.

SONNET.

TO LYDIA,

ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

Bless'd be the hour that gave my LYDIA birth, The day be sacred 'mid each varying year; How oft the name recals thy spotless worth, And joys departed, still to memory dear! If matchless friendship, constancy, and love, Have power to charm, or one sad grief beguile, 'Tis thine the gloom of sorrow to remove, And on the tearful cheek imprint a smile. May every after-season to thee bring New joys, to cheer life's dark eventful way, Till time shall close thee in his pond'rous wing, And angels waft thee to eternal day! Loved friend, farewell! thy name this heart shall fill, Till memory sinks, and all its griefs are still!

TO SARAH, WHILE SINGING.

Written at the Cottage of T. LEWIS, Esq. Woodbury Downs.

In the retirement of this lovely spot, Sacred to friendship, industry, and worth, To boundless hospitality and mirth, Be ever peace and joy--all care forgot, Save that which carest for a higher, holier, lot!

And thou, sweet girl, whose lovely modest mien, Cheers the gay banquet with unconscious wiles, Long mayest thou grace it with affection's smiles, The vocal syren of this sylvan scene. Warbling thy sweetest notes 'midst flowers and woodlands green.

Long be the social circle's grace and pride, Of parents' hopes, the dearest and the best, "The Dove of promise to this ark of rest:" Who, when around the world's fierce billows ride, Beareth the branch that speaks of the receding tide!

_July, 1827_

TO THADDEUS.[1]

Farewell! loved youth, for still I hold thee dear, Though thou hast left me friendless and alone; Still, still thy name recals the heartfelt tear, That hastes MATILDA to her wish'd-for home.

Why leave the wretch thy perfidy hath made, To journey cheerless through the world's wide waste? Say, why so soon does all thy kindness fade, And doom me, thus, affliction's cup to taste?

Ungen'rous deed! to fly the faithful maid Who, for thy arms, abandon'd every friend; Oh! cruel thought, that virtue, thus betray'd, Should feel a pang that death alone can end.

Yet I'll not chide thee--And when hence you roam, Should my sad fate one tear of pity move, Ah! then return! this bosom's still thy home, And all thy failings I'll repay with love.

Believe me, dear, at midnight, or at morn, In vain exhausted nature strives to rest, Thy absence plants my pillow with a thorn, And bids me hope no more, on earth, for rest.

But if unkindly you refuse to hear, And from despair thy poor MATILDA have; Ah! don't deny one tributary tear, To glisten sweetly o'er my early grave.

MATILDA.

[Footnote 1: The above lines were written at the request of a lady, and meant to describe the feelings of one "who loved not wisely, but too well."]

YOUTH AND AGE.

I love the joyous thoughtless heart, The revels of the youthful mind, 'Ere sad experience points the dart, Which wounds so surely all mankind.

It glads me when the buoyant soul, Unconscious ranges, fancy free, Draining the sweets of pleasure's bowl, And thinking all as blest as he.

Ah! me, yet sad it is to know, The many griefs the future brings, That time must change that note to woe, Which now its merry carrol sings.

This "summer of the mind," alas! Must have its autumn--leafless, bare, When all these pleasing phantoms pass, And end in winter, age, and care!

Such, such is life, the moral tells-- The tempest, and its sunny smiles, A warning voice the cheerful bells, The knell of death, our youth beguiles!

SENT FOR THE ALBUM

OF THE REV. G---- C----,

With a Drawing of the Head of an Eminent Artist.

Dear Sir, you remember, when Herod of Jewry Had given a ball, how a shocking old fury Demanded, so bent was the vixen on slaughter. The head of St. John at the hand of her daughter: Now do not detest me, nor hold me in dread, Because, like King Herod, I send you a head: Not a saint's, by-the-bye, although _taken from life_, But a head of my friend, by the hand of my wife.

WRITTEN

UNDER AN ELEGANT DRAWING OF A DEAD CANARY BIRD,

By Miss A.M. TURNER, Daughter of the Eminent Engraver.

_Death_ to the very _life!_ not the closed eye, Not those small paralytic limbs alone, But every feather tells so mournfully Thy fate, and that thy _little_ life has flown.

Manhood forbids that I should weep, and yet Sadness comes o'er my spirit, and I stand Gazing intensely, and with mute regret, Turn from the wonder of the artist's hand.

Exquisite artist! could I praise thee more Than by the silent admiration? no! And now I try to praise I must deplore How feeble is the verse that tells thee so; But thou art gaining for thyself a fame Worthy thyself, thy sex, and thy dear father's name!

LINES

SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF

THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

Genius of England! wherefore to the earth Is thy plumed helm, thy peerless sceptre cast? Thy courts of late with minstrelsy and mirth Rang jubilant, and dazzling pageants past; Kings, heroes, martial triumphs, nuptial rites--

Now, like a cypress, shiver'd by the blast, Or mountain-cedar, which the lightning smites, In dust and darkness sinks thy head declined, Thy tresses streaming wild on ocean's reckless wind.

Art thou not glorious?--In that night of storms, When He, in Power's supremacy elate, Gaul's fierce Usurper! fulminating fate, The Goth's barbaric tyranny restored, And science, art, and all life's fairer forms, Sunk to the dark dominion of the sword: Didst thou not, champion of insulted man! Confront this stern Destroyer in his pride? Didst thou not crush him in the battle shock, While recent victory shouted in his van, And shrunk the nations, shadow'd by his stride? Yea, chain him howling to yon desert rock, Where, thronging ghastly from uncounted graves, His victims murmur 'midst the groans of waves, And mock his soul's despair, his deep blaspheming ban!

Nor erst, in Liberty's avenging day, When, launching lightnings in her wrath divine, She rose, and gave to never-dying fame, Platæ, Marathon, Thermopylæ, Did each, did all, sublimer laurels twine Round Græcia's conquering brows, than Waterloo on thine!

Then, wherefore, Albion! terror-struck, subdued, Sitt'st thou, thy state foregone, thy banner furl'd? What dire infliction shakes that fortitude, Which propt the falling fortunes of the world?-- Hush! hark! portentous, like a withering spell From lips unblest--strange sounds mine ear appal; Now the dread omens more distinctly swell-- That thrilling shriek from Claremont's royal hall, The death-note peal'd from yon terrific bell, The deepening gale with lamentation swoln-- These, Albion! these, too eloquently tell, That from her radiant sphere, thy brightest star has fall'n!

And art thou gone?--graced vision of an hour! Daughter of Monarchs! gem of England's crown! Thou loveliest lily! fair imperial flower! In beauty's vernal bloom to dust gone down; Gone when, dispers'd each inauspicious cloud, In blissful sunshine 'gan thy hopes to glow: From pain's fierce grasp, no refuge but the shroud, Destin'd a Mother's pangs, but not her joys, to know.

Lost excellence! what harp shall hymn thy worth, Nor wrong the theme? conspicuously in thee, Beyond the blind pre-eminence of birth, Shone Nature in her own regality! Coerced, thy Spirit smiled, sedate in pride, Fixt as the pine, while circling storms contend; But, when in Life's serener duties tried, How sweetly did its gentle essence blend, All-beauteous in the wife, the daughter, and the friend!

Not lull'd in langours, indolent and weak, Nor winged by pleasure, fled thy early hours; But ceaseless vigils blanch'd thy virgin cheek, In silent Study's dim-sequester'd bowers: Propitious there, to thy admiring mind, With brow unveil'd, consenting Science came; There Taste awoke her sympathies refined; There Genius, kindling his etherial flame, Led thy young soul the Muse's heights to dare, And mount on Milton's wing, and breathe empyreal air!

But chiefly, conscious of thy promised throne, Intent to grace that destiny sublime; Thou sought'st to make the historic page thine own, And win the treasures of recorded time; The forms of polity, the springs of power, Exploring still with inexhausted zeal; Still, the pole-star which led thy studious hour Through Thought's unfolding tracts--thy Country's weal! While Fancy, radiant with unearthly charms, Thus breathed the whisper Wisdom sanctified: "Eliza's, Anna's glories, arts, or arms, Beneath thy sway shall blaze revivified, And still prolonged, and still augmenting, shine Interminably bright in thy illustrious line!"

'Tis past--thy name, with every charm it bore, Melts on our souls, like music heard no more, The dying minstrel's last ecstatic strain, Which mortal hand shall never wake again-- But, if, blest spirit! in thy shrine of light, Life's visions rise to thy celestial sight; If that bright sphere where raptured seraphs glow, Permit communion with this world of woe; And sore, if thus our fond affections deem, Hope mocks us not, for Heaven inspires the dream-- Benignant shade! the beatific kiss That seal'd thy welcome to the shores of bliss, No holier joy instill'd, than then wilt feel If thine the task thy kindred's woes to heal; If hovering yet, with viewless ministry, In scenes which Memory consecrates to thee, Thou soothe with binding balm which grief endears, A Sire's, a Husband's, and--a Mother's tears!--