Sidebilder
PDF
ePub

FRAGMENT,

WRITTEN IN 1547.

Ir right be ract, and overronne,

And pow'r take part with open wronge, If fear by force do yeld too sone, The lack is like to last too long.

If God for goodes shall be implac'd,
If right for riches lose hys shape,
If world for wisdom be embrac'd,
The gesse is great, and hurt may hap.

Among good things I prove and finde,
The quiet lyfe doth most abound,
And sure to the contented mynde,
There is no riches may be found.

I heard a herdman once compare

[ocr errors]

That quiet nights he had mo slept,

And had mo mery dayes to spare

Than he which ought the beast he kept.

I would not have it thought hereby,
The dolphin swimme I mean to teach,
Nor yet to learne the fawlcon fly,
I rowe not so far past my reach.

But as my part above the rest,

I well to wish, and well to will,

So tyll my breathe shall fayle my brest,
I will not cease to wish you still.

British Chronicle.

TO THE MEMORY OF MR. BOSCAWEN, A MIDSHIPMAN IN THE NAVY,

Son of the late Admiral, who was unfortunately drowned as he was bathing in a pond belonging to Sir Charles Price, of Jamaica.

WRITTEN NEAR HIS GRAVE.

FORLORN, from shade to shade I rove,
By friendship's sacred spirit led,
Where horror wraps the twilight grove,
That glooming seems to mourn the dead.

Dear youth! tho' hence I wander far,
Thy fate will cloud each rising morn;
And lo! with ev'nings dewy star,

My tears shall bathe thy distant urn.

Remembrance often, with a sigh,

Shall view the spot where many a maid,
And many a swain, with swimming eye,
The tender rite of sorrow paid.

Remembrance often shall impart

The smile of bliss on Albion's brow,
When kindling in thy youthful heart
She saw the beam of valour glow.

Yes, Albion's genius, with amaze,

Did oft thy warrior looks devour;
Proud to behold thy youthful gaze,

High fix'd on Glory's star-clad tower.

How few the sighs of virtue mourn!

For few, alas! the friends she knows—
Yet here she moves a pilgrim lorn,
To bid her son in peace repose.

With sculpture let the marble groan,
Where flatt'ry mocks the lifeless ear→
How nobler far thy nameless stone,
Embalm'd by pity's simple tear.

Peter Pindar.

EPIGRAM.

WHY, foolish painter, give those wings to Love!

Love is not light, as my sad heart can prove;
Love hath no wings, or none that I can see,
If he can fly-Oh! bid him fly from me.

INSCRIPTION

FOR A FAIRY GROUND.

COME, trip it through the fairy ground,
Here Oberon his revels keeps,

His palace 'neath yon wild-rose stands ;
Tread soft, for now the monarch sleeps;

Until, faint gleaming through the trees,
The moon beams tremble on the stream;
Then loud he winds his agate horn,

And little footsteps print the green.

Stately ambition, come not here,

Thy haughty steps these flowers will wound; Unfeeling avarice, turn aside,

No buried earth can here be found.

The liberal mind alone shall ken
The beauties of yon crystal wave,
Th' untainted heart alone shall find

Sweet slumbers in yon moss-grown cave.

[blocks in formation]

VERSES.

'Tis said that under distant skies,
(Nor you the fact deny,)

What first attracts an Indian's eyes
Becomes his deity.

Perhaps a lily, or a rose,

That shares the morning ray, May to the waking swain disclose The regent of the day.

Perhaps a plant in yonder grove,
Or some rich fragrant flow'r,
May tempt his vagrant eyes to rove
Where blooms the sov'reign pow'r,

Perch'd on the cedar's topmost bough, And gay with gilded wings, Perchance the patron of his vow, Some artless linnet sings.

Vain futile idols, bird, or flow'r,

To tempt a vot'ry's pray'r!

How would his humble homage tow'r, Should he behold my fair?

« ForrigeFortsett »