Page images




"COME, with that pensive brow, that forehead fair,
And that rich length of dark redundant hair;
Come, with those winning graces that enthrall'd,
And held my poor heart captive :"---so he call'd
To her who could not hear; yet not the less,
In dream and nightly vision he would press
Her matron lip of love, and he would strain
Her faithful bosom to his breast again,
Till Hope itself was fled, and, day by day,
The soft illusion melted all away.

Friend of my heart! to you I pour the strain
That wakes the Poet's widow'd griefs again;
Here in this breast his mirror'd sorrows see,
Each fond complaint again revives in me.
My heart reflects the melancholy line,
And more than half of Parnell's grief is mine.
With twinkling light behold, at midnight hour
The lamp is burning in the Poet's tower;
Pale o'er the page his studious brow is bent,
His eye still scans the sage's dark intent,


Dreaming with Plato,---was it but a dream?
Or him who, wandering by Cephisus' stream,
Gave to the listening vales the deep Socratic

Say what sweet voice the wearied heart shall cheer,
Win the glad smile, or wake affection's tear;
What form shall glide within the half-clos'd door,
What small light footstep press the silent floor:
What ivory arm around his neck shall twine,
And say, or seem to say,---this hour is mine!
What voice shall cry,---away, my love, away!
The nightingale is now on every spray,

Come, hear the enchanter's song, and welcome in the May!

Ah! say why here do art and nature pour
Their charms conjoin'd in many a varied store;
Why bloom, by Flora's hand adorn'd, my bowers,
Why dance my fountains,and why laugh my flowers?
Along each velvet lawn and opening glade
Why spreads the cedar his immortal shade?
The brooks that warble, and the hills that shine,
Charm every heart, and please each eye but mine.

Though gleams the page by jealous time unroll'd,
Where the long shelves expand their rows of gold,
Tho' their rich leaves the pictur'd missals spread'
With knightly tale, and gothic legend fed;
Woe to the wight who once those witching tales
has read!

Tho' round each latticed bower and shaded room
Soft airs waft fragrant with the citron bloom.
Their bright festoons the flowery woodbines braid
Wed tree to tree, and join the distant shade.
While from each sculptur'd urn, in beauteous row,
The rich geranium spreads its scarlet glow:
Beneath the southern sash the myrtle bears
Our ruder winters and inclement airs.

Though round the walls the pictur'd tablets shine,
And all the wealth of Titian's art is mine;
Yet no sweet voice its silver music wakes,
O'er my fond eye no form of beauty breaks,
No gentle hand my morning meal prepares,
My studious noon, my evening saunter shares;
No steps of gladness wander through the grove,
No lute is sounding from the soft alcove,
And when the summer sun sinks down to rest,
This cheek lies pillow'd on no loved one's breast.

Poet and friend! from every haunted grove,
Where, wild of wing, young fancy loves to rove;
Where'er thy devious footsteps wont to stray,
Each muse, each grace, companions of thy way,
Pause o'er the page which friendship gives to fame,
And mark the verse inscribed with Parnell's name.
See the poor minstrel leave his silent towers,
His moss-grown gardens, and neglected bowers.
Pleas'd for awhile with pilgrim-steps to roam,
He found in Twickenham's groves a dearer home,
And sooth'd alike by friendship and the muse,

For one brief moment would his sorrows lose :
With St. John's converse the slow hours beguile,
And win with song approving Harley's smile.
Yet duly, where the evening willows wave,
Seek the lone grot, and weep o'er Anna's grave.

"Where dost thou flow (methinks his voice I hear),
Thou nameless brook,whose warbles soothe my ear;
Where spread, thou soft and visionary scene,
Thy gentle lawns and sunny slopes of green.
How wild the music steals from yonder vale!
What sweets are breathing in that western gale!
Why gleams thy spire, sweet hamlet yet un-

Ah! might I call thy pastoral charms my own!
Find in thy shades the long forsaken lyre,
And wake to nobler flights the sleeping wing of

So duly as the vernal blossoms smile,
And win to gladness our reluctant isle,

When Venus wakes her loveliest smiles again,
Mounts her bright car, and calls her roseate train :
Charm'd by thy voice, I leave my books and bowers,
Well pleas'd with thee to share the social hours,
Secure to find (so close our fates agree),
The friend, and such as Parnell found, in thee.

Say (for thou know'st), how glides the various day, How time, with thee conversing, steals away. And oh! recall (too swift our pleasures fly,)

« PreviousContinue »