Written impromptu, on reading the following passage in Mr. Capel Lofft's beautiful and interesting Preface to Nathaniel Bloomfield's Poems, just published :— It has a mixture of the sportive, which deepens the impression of its melancholy close. I could have wished, as I have said in a short note, the conclusion had been otherwise. The sours of life less offend my taste than its sweets delight it.'
Go to the raging sea, and say, 'Be still!'
Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will;
Preach to the storm, and reason with Despair,
But tell not Misery's son that life is fair.
Thou, who in Plenty's lavish lap hast roll'd,
And every year with new delight hast told,
Thou, who recumbent on the lacquer'd barge,
Hast dropt down joy's gay stream of pleasant marge,
Thou may'st extol life's calm, untroubled sea,
The storms of misery never burst on thee.
Go to the mat, where squalid Want reclines,
Go to the shade obscure, where Merit pines:
Abide with him whom Penury's charms control,
And bind the rising yearnings of his soul,
Survey his sleepless couch, and standing there,
Tell the poor pallid wretch that life is fair!
Press thou the lonely pillow of his head,
And ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled;
Mark his dew'd temples, and his half-shut eye,
His trembling nostrils, and his deep-drawn sigh,
His muttering mouth contorted with despair,
And ask if Genius could inhabit there.
Oh, yes! that sunken eye with fire once gleam'd,
And rays of light from its full circlet stream'd;
But now Neglect has stung him to the core,
And Hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no more;
Domestic anguish winds his vitals round,
And added grief compels him to the ground.
Lo! o'er his manly form, decay'd and wan,
The shades of death with gradual steps steal on;
And the pale mother, pining to decay,
Weeps for her boy her wretched life away.
Go, child of Fortune! to his early grave,
Where o'er his head obscure the rank weeds wave;
Behold the heart-wrung parent lay her head
On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed.
Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there,
And tell us then that life is wondrous fair!
Yet Lofft, in thee, whose hand is still stretch'd forth
T'encourage genius, and to foster worth:
On thee, the unhappy's firm, unfailing friend, 'Tis just that every blessing should descend; 'Tis just that life to thee should only shew Her fairer side but little mix'd with woe.
WRITTEN IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.
SAD solitary Thought, who keep'st thy vigils,
Thy solemn vigils in the sick man's mind;
Communing lonely with his sinking soul,"
And musing on the dubious glooms that lie
In dim obscurity before him,-thee,
Wrapt in thy dark magnificence, I call
At this still midnight hour, this awful season,
When on my bed, in wakeful restlessness,
I turn me wearisome; while all around,
All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness;
I only wake to watch the sickly taper
Which lights me to my tomb.--Yea, 'tis the hand
Of Death I feel press heavy on my vitals,
Slow sapping the warm current of existence.
My moments now are few-the sand of life
Ebbs fastly to its finish.-Yet a little,
And the last fleeting particle will fall,
Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented:
Come then, sad Thought, and let us meditate
While meditate we may.-We have now
But a small portion of what men call time
To hold communion: for even now the knife,
The separating knife, I feel divide
The tender bond that binds my soul to earth.
Yes, I must die-I feel that I must die;
And though to me has life been dark and dreary,
Though Hope for me has smiled but to deceive,
And Disappointment still pursued her blandishments,
Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me
As I contemplate the dim gulf of death,
The shuddering void, the awful blank-futurity.
Ay, I had plann'd full many a sanguine scheme
Of earthly happiness-romantic schemes,
And fraught with loveliness; and it is hard
To feel the hand of Death arrest one's steps,
Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes,
And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades,
Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion.
Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry?
Oh! none;-another busy brood of beings
Will shoot up in the interim, and none
Will hold him in remembrance.
As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets
Of busy London:-Some short bustle 's caused,
A few inquiries, and the crowds close in,
And all's forgotten.-On my grassy grave
The men of future times will careless tread,
And read my name upon my sculptured stone;
Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears,
Recal my vanish'd memory:-I did hope
For better things!-I hoped I should not leave
The earth without a vestige;-Fate decrees
It shall be otherwise, and I submit.
Henceforth, oh world, no more of thy desires!
No more of hope! the wanton vagrant Hope!
I abjure all.—Now other cares engross me,
And my tired soul, with emulative haste,
Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for Heaven.
COME, Anna! come, the morning dawns,
Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies:
Come, let us seek the dewy lawns,
And watch the early lark arise;
While Nature, clad in vesture gay,
Hails the lov'd return of day.
Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade
Upon the moor, shall seek the vale;
And then, secure beneath the shade,
We'll listen to the throstle's tale:
And watch the silver clouds above,.
As o'er the azure vault they rove.
Come, Anna! come, and bring thy lute,
That with its tones, so softly sweet,
In cadence with my mellow flute,
We may beguile the noontide heat;
While near the mellow bee shall join,
To raise a harmony divine.
And then at eve, when silence reigns,
Except when heard the beetle's hum,
We'll leave the sober-tinted plains,
To these sweet heights again we'll come;
And thou on thy soft lute shall play
A solemn vesper to departing day.
WHEN pride and envy, and the scorn
Of wealth, my heart with gall embued,
I thought how pleasant were the morn
Of silence, in the solitude;
To hear the forest bee on wing,
Or by the stream, or woodland spring,
To lie and muse alone-alone,
While the tinkling waters moan,
Or such wild sounds arise, as say,
Man and noise are far away.
Now, surely, thought I, there's enow,
To fill life's dusty way;
And who will miss a poet's feet,
Or wonder where he stray:
So to the woods and waste I'll go,
And I will build an osier bower;
And sweetly there to me shall flow
The meditative hour.
And when the Autumn's withering hand
Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land,
I'll to the forest caverns hie:
And in the dark and stormy nights
I'll listen to the shrieking sprites,
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