« ForrigeFortsæt »
WRITI EN AT BRIGHTHELMSTONE.
And turn no more the giddy rounds
Of pleasure's wanton chace,
Eternity, and space !-
Who deck'd with N-'s name a feeble page ; Explain the cause that guides,
Has arm'd no bitter stings of Satan's rage. Precipitates the tides,
Por shameless folly dips her shafts in gall; Their laws, their measure, scan,
The dews of praise, a precious ointment, fall. And liberty, and man!
In every grace, beneath your sweet control; Like him, the bird of Jove!
-"What waste," she cries, “in such pursait,
Let Newton sail the sky !
Permitted to your guidance come and share To drink the liquid light,
The talents trusted to their fruitful care! In angry seas and night.
Your hymn of triumph— tis no song of mine; Amid fresh dews and flowers !
The sober lesson ours.
What humbler regions give!
Let others soar to fall and die!
'Tis ours to creep, and live."
[roar; He lanch'd the bark, and brav'd the tempest's
ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING He trusted here the faith of simple swains,
No more let science tempt thy searching eyes One shepherd wander'd on the lonely hill,
Beyond the bounds prescrib'd to mortal sight, One village-maid explor'd the distant rill. No more advent'rous mount the lofty skies, But mark the glittering scenes succeeding these; And daring, penetrate the realms of light. See peopled all the shores, and healing seas; With humble mind go trace thy Maker's hand Yet, friend to Britain, flows alike the wave
In every smiling valley, fertile plain; With India's treasures, and defrauds the grave.
Adore bis bounty in the cultur'd land, Had fate now plac'd him on this fairy land,
Revere his wisdom in the stormy main! The thoughtless Charles had linger'd on the strand,
Nor thoughtless view the vast tremendous sea, Nor danger chill'd, nor high ambition fir'd Whose course impetuous power divine resThat wanton bosom, by the loves inspir’d:
(cree, His languid sails the monarch here had furld,
Whoge rushing tide, control'd by Heaven's de. Had gain'd a Nn's smile, and lost the world.
Forbears to violate the flow'ry plains.
While splendid gems the face of Hear'n adom;
Nor beedless view the radiant lamps of night, FROM BRIGHTHELMSTONE.
Nor heedless view the Sun that gilds the morn: Come, Stella, let us climb the heights
But turn with praise to Him who reigns above,
Supreme o'er works that speak almighty Where purer spirits flow,
power; And upward point our mental flights,
0! turn a grateful bosom breathing love, And mock the scenes below.
And learn the noblest lesson-to adore, ' Matthew xxv.
2 Charles the IId. after the battle of Worcester, escaped to France in a fishing-boat, from Brigathelmstone.
BY MISS G
ON A YOUNG GENTLEMAN'S DEATH...INSCRIPTION. 307
Blest mansion then, simplicity's abode, ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG Where siniling innocence look'd up to God, GENTLEMAN.
Where nature's genuine gracescharm'd the heart,
Or nature, polish'd but by classic art. (beams, Go, moumful spirit, wing thy dreary way, Leave a lov'd mansion, leave the cheerful day; | The saint's high rapture, and the poet's dreams,
There fancy, warm'd with brightest, chastest A naked wanderer on the winter's wind,
While virtue left, delighting there to dwell, Ah leave, reluctant, youth and strength behind! The pensive mountain, and the hermit's cell. Not long a wanderer, to that happier shore
There the good teacher held by turns to youth Be Heaven thy guide, where mourning is no The blaze of fiction and pure light of truth, In purer mansions, in a form divine, (more!
Who, less by precept than example fir'd, Immortal youth, immortal joy, be thine !
Glow'd as he taught, inspiring and inspir’d.
Nor think, gay revellers, this awful roof
Echoed no sounds but wisdom's harsh reproof; INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN. The social board, attendant mirth, was there,
The smile unconscious of to morrow's care, O you, who mark what flowrets gay,
With every tranquil joy of wedded life, What gales, what odours breathing ncar,
The gracious children, and the faithful wife. What sheltering shades froin summer's ray
In dance, in song, in harmless sports approvid, Allure my spring to linger here :
There youth has frolick'd, there soft maids have Yet see me quit this margin green,
lov'd. Yet see me deaf to pleasure's call,
There one, distinguish'd one-not sweeter blows Explore the thirsty haunts of men,
In simpler ornament attir'd, the rose, Yet see my bounty flow for all.
The rose she cull’d to deck the nuptial lower, O learn of me--no partial rill,
Herself as fair-a transitory flower. No slumbering selfish pool be you;
Thus a short hour and woods and turrets
The good, the great, the beauteous, perish all,
And scorners sit on virtue's vacant thrones. DESON'S HOUSE, AT KINGSTON,
See neighbouring Combe's old genius quit its POOR-HOUSE, AND
Not Warwick's ' name preserv'd his gothic WERE the broad path-way fronts yon ancient Nor distant see new royal domes deride
What half remains of Wolsey's ancient pride! seat, Approach not, stranger, with unballow'd feet, While yet this humbler pile survives to prove Nir mock the spot, unshelter'd now, and bare! A mansion worthy of its master's love: The grove's old honours rose majestic there: Like bim, still welcomes to its liberal door It's giant arms extending to defend
Whom most he honour'd, honouring most the Thyrererend temples, man's and virtue's friend!
poor; Secure thy walk that unpierc'd gloom along,
Like him, the lisping infant's blessing shares, No storm approach'd to silence Homer's song;
And age's gratitude in silent prayers... No beam to wound thy Heav'n-directed eye : While such partake the couch, the frugal feast, The world's near tumult swept unheeded by.
No regal chambers boast an equal guest; Now, low as thine, these towering heads are laid, For, gracious Maker, by thy own decree, No more embower the mansion in their shade, Receiving mercy is receiving Thee !Time-honour'd pile! that owning thee its lord, Saw ancient manvers, ancient faith, restor'd; " Combe-Neville, near Kingston, built by the In renovated youth beheld again
king-making earl of Warwick. Baturnian days, the good Eliza's reign.
lhe new apartments at Hampton Court, With thee too sheltering many an angel guest, raised on the ruins of part of Wolsey's palace. For what, but Heaven, serener than thy breast?
ON THE CONVERTING THE LATE BIR. WOOD
CUTTING DOWN THE GREAT WALK OF NIGH TREES BEFORE IT.