Poems by Sir John Carr Non ulla Musis pagina gratior, Quam quae severis ludicra jungere Novit, fatigatamque nugis Utilibus recreare mentem. 1809. POEMS. DEDICATION. TO LADY WARREN, &c. &c. &c. _MADAM_, In dedicating the following Poems to your Ladyship, I cannot help regretting that they are not more worthy of such an honour; that I might consequently have used it as an humble mode of expressing my sense of the happy and enlightened hours which I have passed in your Ladyshipâs society, and of the polite attentions which I have at various times received from you, and the gallant object of your connubial affection, particularly at the House of British Embassy at Petersburgh, where you afforded to the Ladies of the North a just representation of the dignified virtue, cultivated mind, and attractive beauty, of the higher order of females of your own country. I have the honour to remain, Madam, Your Ladyshipâs Obedient faithful Servant, JOHN CARR. _Temple. June_ 1809 PREFACE. This Volume is submitted to the Public with all that diffidence which ought to attend the publication of Verses, many of which were written in the gay and happy era of boyhood, and others in subsequent periods of maturer life, as a relief from more arduous pursuits. They lay no pretensions to the depth and solidity of the effusions of the Muse in her elevated flights; they are the few wild notes of the simple shepherd, and do not even affect to imitate the rich cadence of the scientific musician. If the Author might, without the imputation of vanity, select for them a place in the Temple of Poetry, he would endeavour to class them in that niche which is appropriated for the reception of the light and playful _Vers de SocietÃ©_. Should the Reader find them but little worthy of his approval, he will not have reason at the same time to condemn their prolixity: their brevity will, at least in some degree, atone for their want of fire and fancy. It is thought proper to state that some of the following Poems have appeared before at various times, in a fugitive shape; and that the Poetry in the Authorâs Tours is here collected. POEMS, &c. &c. VERSES WRITTEN IN A GROTTO _In a Wood on the Side of the River Dart_, IN DEVONSHIRE. Tell me, thou grotto! oâer whose brow are seen Projecting plumes, and shades of deepâning green,â While not a sound disturbs thy stony hall, While all thy dewy drops forget to fall,â Why canst thou not thy soothing charms impart, And shed thy quiet oâer this beating heart? Tell me, thou richly-painted river! tell, That on thy mirrorâd plane dost mimic well Each pendent tree and every distant hill, Tippâd with red lustre, beauteous, bright, and still,â Can I not, gazing on thy tranquil tide, Shed evâry grief upon thy rocky side? Or must I rove thy margin, calm and clear, The only agitated object near? Oh! tell me, too, thou babbling cold cascade! Whose waters, falling throâ successive shade, Unspangled by the brightness of the sky, Awake each echo to a soft reply,â Say, canst thou not my bosom-grief befriend, And bid one drop upon my heart descend? When all thy songsters soothe themselves to sleep. Ah! must these aching eyes for ever weep? And must their frequent waters, like thine own, Drop, idly drop, on unimpressive stone? Or, when my beauteous fair shall deign to grace The humid foliage of thy mossy base, Canst thou not tell how many a rock below Impedes to kiss thy waters as they flow? In _her_ mind canst thou not the feeling rear To stop, or thus caress, each genuine tear? Teach her, oh! teach her, then, thou cold cascade! Pour all thy lessons for the lovely maid! And thou, blessâd grotto! let thy silence prove Her mute consenting answer to my love! And thou, bright river! as thou rollâst along, Bear on thy wandâring wave a loverâs song! Strong as thy current, as thy waters pure, Teach her to feel the passion I endure! LINES TO THE MEMORY OF MY DEAR BROTHER, W.T.P. CARR, ESQ. âmanibus date lilia plenis: Purpureos spargam flores. _Aeneid_, lib. vi. Thoâ no funereal grandeur swell my song, Nor genius, eagle-plumâd, the strain prolong,â Thoâ Grief and Nature here alone combine To weep, my William! oâer a fate like thine,â Yet thy fond prayâr, still lingâring on my ear, Shall force its way throâ many a gushing tear: The Muse, that saw thy opâning beauties spread, That lovâd thee living, shall lament thee dead! Ye graceful Virtues! while the note I breathe, Of sweetest flowârs entwine a funâral wreath,â Of virgin flowârs, and place them round his tomb, To bud, like him, and perish in their bloom! Ah! when these eyes saw thee serenely wait The last long separating stroke of Fate,â When round thy bed a kindred weeping train Callâd on thy voice to greet them, but in vain,â When oâer thy lips we watchâd thy faultâring breathâ When louder grief proclaimâd thâapproach of death,â Throâ evâry vein an icy horror chillâd, Colder than marble evâry bosom thrillâd. Unsettled still, thoâ exercisâd to grieve, Scarce would my mind the alterâd sight believe; Familiar scenes a transient calm inspire, Poor fluttâring Fancy fannâd the vain desire, âTill with sad proof thy wasted relics rise, And restless Nature pours uncallâd-for sighs. Ah! long, my William! shall thy picture rest, Time shall not wear it, imagâd in my breast; Yes, thou shall live while fond remembrance lives, âTill he who mourns thee asks the line he gives. No common joy, no fugitive delight, Regret like this could in my breast excite; For then my sorrow had been less severe, And tears less copious had bedewâd the bier. From the same breast our milky food we drew, Entwinâd affection strengthenâd as we grew; Why further trace? The flattâring dream is oâerâ Thy transient joys and sorrows are no more! All, all are fled!âAnd, ah! whereâer I turn, Insulting Death directs me to thy urn, Throws his cold shadows round me while I sing. Damps evâry nerve, and slackens evâry string. So, when the Moon trims up her waning fire, Sweep the night-breezes oâer thâAeolian lyre; Lingâring, perchance, some wild pathetic sound Lulls the lorn ear, and dies along the ground. Ye kindred train! who, oâer the parting grave, Have mournâd the virtues which ye could not save. Ye know how Memâry, with excursive powâr, Extracts a sweet from evâry faded hour;â From scenes long past, regardless of repose, She feeds her tears, and treasures up her woes. Thou tuneful, mute, companion[1] of my care! Where now thy notes, that lingerâd in the air? That linger still!âVain thy harmonious store,â Thy sweet persuasive triumphs are no more. Thy mournful image strikes my wandâring eye; Sad, near thy silent strings, I sit and sigh. Cold is that band which Music formâd her own, When evâry chord resignâd its sweetest tone. Ah! long, fair source of rapture, shall thou rest, Silent and sad, neglected and unprest, âTill years, lovâd shade! superior powârs resign, Or raise one note more eloquent than thine. Thoâ withâring Sickness markâd thee in the womb, And formâd thy cradle but to form thy tomb, Yet, like a flowâr, she bade thee reach thy prime, The fairer victim for the stroke of Time. When fond Invention vainly sought thine ease, The wave salubrious and the morning breeze,â When even Sleep, sweet Sleep! refusâd thy call, Sleep! that with sweet refreshment smiles on all,â When, till the morn, thine eyes, unclosâd and damp, Tracâd thy sad semblance in the glimmâring lamp,â When from thy face Healthâs latest relic fled, Where Hope might flatter, with reluctant tread,â Still, darting forward from the weight of woe, Thy soul with all its energy would glow; Still with the purest passion wouldst thou prove The glow of friendship and the warmth of love. And ah! to sacred Memory ever nigh, Thy wit and humour claim the passing sigh: When, throâ the hour, with unresisted skill, Iâve seen thee mould each feature to thy will,â When friends drew round thee with attentive ear, Pleasâd with the raillâry which they could not fear. Oh! how Iâve heard thee, with concealing art, Join in the song, thoâ sorrow rent thy heart; How have I seen thee too, with venial guile, Oâer many an anguish force the faithless smile,â Seen suffering Nature check each sigh, each fear, To rob maternal fondness of a tear! Alas! those scenes are past!âVain was the prayâr That askâd of Fate to soften and to spare; Ah! vain, if wit and virtue could not save Thy youthful honours from an early grave. But yet, if here my warm fraternal love May claim alliance with the realms above; If kindred Nature, with perpetual bloom, Transplanted springs, and lives beyond the tomb; Thy pitying soul shall smile upon my grief, Shall feel a pang that wishes not relief; In visions still shall shield me as I go, Along this gloomy wilderness of woe; Shall still regard me with peculiar pride, On earth my brother, and in heavân my guide! Methinks I see thee reach thâ empyrean shore, And heavânâs full chorus hails one angel more; While âmid the seraph-forms that round thee fly, Thy father meets thee with ecstatic eye! He springs exulting from his throne of rest, Extends his arms, and clasps thee to his breast! [1] The piano-forte, on which he excelled. PARODY ON â_The Golden Days of good Queen Bess_.â To my Muse give attention, and deem it not a mystery If I jumble up together music, poetry, and history, To sing of the vices of wicked Queen Bess, sir, Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir, Detested be the memory of wicked Queen Bess, sir, Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir. In saying she would die a maid, she, England! did amuse ye. But what she did, and what she diedâI hope you will excuse me: A gallant Earl a miracle of passion for her fed, sir; She kissâd him, and she closâd the scene by striking off his head, sir! Detested be, &c. Oh! rude ungrateful Scotland! had thy desolated Queen, sir, No blue eyes ever known, nor had she beauteous been, sir, The envy of our old rival hag she might have baffled, sir, Nor with her guiltless blood have crimsonâd oâer the scaffold, sir. Detested be, &c. She dressâd just like a porcupine, and dinâd just like a pig, sir, And an over-running butt of sack she swallowâd at a swig, sir! Her brawny maids of honour ate and drank confounded hard, sir, And droves of oxen daily bled within her palace-yard, sir! Detested be, &c. In ruling she was wonderous tyrannical and surly; If a patriot only touchâd on the Queen or Master Burleigh, Sheâd send a file of soldiers in less than half an hour, sir, Just to bid him make his speeches to the prisons of the Towâr, sir! Detested be, &c. REBECCA, _A Ballad_. Rebecca was the fairest maid That on the Danubeâs borders playâd; And many a handsome nobleman For her in tilt and tourney ran; While fair Rebecca wishâd to see What youth her husband was to be. Rebecca heard the gossips say, âAlone from dusk till midnight stay Within the church-porch drear and dark, Upon the vigil of Saint Mark, And, lovely maiden! you shall see What youth your husband is to be.â Rebecca, when the night grew dark, Upon the vigil of Saint Mark, (Observâd by Paul, a roguish scout, Who guessâd the task she went about,) Steppâd to St Stephenâs Church to see What youth her husband was to be. Rebecca heard the screech-owl cry, And saw the black bat round her fly; She sat, âtill, wild with fear, at last Her blood ran cold, her pulse beat fast; And yet, rash maid! she stoppâd to see What youth her husband was to be. Rebecca heard the midnight chime Ring out the yawning peal of time, When shrouded Paul, unlucky knave! Rose like a spectre from the grave; And cried, âFair maiden, come with me. For I your bridegroom am to be.â Rebecca turnâd her head aside, Sent forth a hideous shriek, and died! While Paul confessâd himself, in vain, Rebecca never spoke again! Ah! little, hapless maid! did she Think Death her bridegroom was to be. Rebecca! may thy story long Instruct the giddy and the young. Fright not, fond youths! the timid fair; And you too, gentle maids! beware; Nor seek by lawless arts to see What youths your husbands are to be. LINES TO AN AURICULA, BELONGING TO ââ. Thou rearâst thy beauteous head, sweet flowâr Gemmâd by the soft and vernal showâr; Its drops still round thee shine: The florist views thee with delight; And, if so precious in _his_ sight, Oh! what art thou in _mine_? For she, who nursâd thy drooping form When Winter pourâd her snowy storm, Has oft consolâd me too; For me a fostâring tear has shed,â She has revivâd my drooping head, And bade me bloom anew. When adverse Fortune bade us part, And grief depressâd my aching heart, Like yon reviving ray, She from behind the cloud would move, And with a stolen look of love Would melt my cares away. Sweet flowâr! supremely dear to me, Thy lovely mistress blooms in thee, For, thoâ the gardenâs pride, In beautyâs grace and tint arrayâd, Thou seemâst to court the secret shade, Thy modest form to hide. Oh! crownâd with many a roseate year, Blessâd may she be who placâd thee here, Until the tear of love Shall tremble in the eye to find Her spirit, spotless and refinâd, Borne to the realms above! And oft for thee, sweet child of spring! The Muse shall touch her tendârest string; And, as thou rearâst thine head, She shall invoke the softest air, Or ask the chilling storm to spare, And bless thy humble bed. LINES TO LADY WARREN, _On the Departure of Sir John Borlase Warren, K.B_. TO TAKE THE COMMAND OF A SQUADRON. Oh! why does sorrow shade thy face, Where mind and beauty vie with grace? Say, dost thou for thy hero weep, Who gallantly, upon the deep, Is gone to tell the maddâning foe, Thoâ victâry laid our Nelson low, We still have chiefs as greatly brave, Proudly triumphant on the wave? Dear to thy Country shalt thou be, Fair mourner! and her sympathy Is thine; for, in the warâs alarms, Thou gavâst thine hero from thine arms; And only askâd to sigh alone, To look to heavân, and weep him gone. Oh! soon shall all thy sorrow cease, And, to thine aching bosom, peace Shall quick return;âanother tear To love and joy, supremely dear, Shall give thy genârous mind reliefâ That tear shall gem the laurel leaf. LINES TO MISS ââ, ACCOMPANIED BY A ROSE AND A LILY. I lookâd the fragrant garden round For what I thought would picture best Thy beauty and thy modesty; A lily and a rose I found,â With kisses on their leaves imprest, I send the beauteous pair to thee. SONG. Natureâs imperfect child, to whom The world is wrapt in viewless gloom, Can unresisted still impart The fondest wishes of his heart. And he, to whose impervious ear The sweetest sounds no charms dispense, Can bid his inmost soul appear In clear, thoâ silent, eloquence. But we, my Julia, not so blest, Are doomâd a diffârent fate to prove,â To feel each joy and hope supprest That flow from pure, but hidden, love. IMPROMPTU LINES, UPON ANACREON MOOREâS SAYING THAT HE DISLIKED SINGING TO MEN. By Beautyâs caresses, like Cupid, half-spoilâd, Thus Musicâs and Poesyâs favourite child Exclaimâd,âââTis, by Heaven! a terrible thing Before a _he_-party to sit and to sing!â âBy my shoul! Master Moore, you there may be right,â Said a son of green Erin; âthoâ dear to my sight Are all the sweet cratures, callâd women, I swear, Yet I think we can feel just as well as the fair: Thoâ youâd bribe us with songs, blood and âounds! let me say, Iâd not be a woman for one in your way.â LINES TO JULIA. Thoâ, Julia, we are doomâd to part, Thoâ unknown pangs invade this heart, For thee the light of love shall burn, To thee my soul in secret turn: Upon this bosom, swellâd with care, The thought of thee shall tremble there âTill Time shall close these weeping eyes, And close the soothing source of sighs. So, in the silence of the night, Shines on the wave the lunar light; With its soft image, bright, imprest, It heaves, and seems to know no rest: Its agitation soon is oâer; It sighs, and dies along the shore! LINES _To the Memory of Mrs. A.H. Holdsworth_, LATE OF MOUNT GALPIN, DEVONSHIRE. Tyrant of all our loves and friendships here, Behold thy beauteous victim!âAh! tis thine To rend fond hearts, and start the tendârest tear Where joy should long in cloudless radiance shine. Alas! the mourning Muse in vain would paint, Blest shade! how purely passâd thy life away, Or, with the meekness of a favourâd saint, How rose thy spirit to the realms of day. âTwas thine to fill each part that gladdens life, Such as approving angels smile upon;â The faultless daughter, parent, friend, and wife,â Virtues short-lived! they set just as they shone. Thus, in the bosom of some winding grove, Where oft the pensive melodist retires, From his sweet instrument, the note of love, Charms the rapt ear, but, as it charms, expires. Farewell, pure spirit! oâer thine early grave Oblivion neâer shall spread her freezing shade; Nature shall bid her richest foliage wave Where her reposing favârite child is laid. There widowâd fondness oft, when summers bloom. Shall with thy infant pledge of love repair; Oft shall they kneel beside thy mossy tomb, And tears shall dew the flowârs that blossom there. LINES _Written upon a Watch-String_, MADE AND PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ââ. Say, lovely Charlotte! will you let me prove What diffârent thoughts thy taste and beauty move? This woven chain, which graceful skill displays, Leads me to think of time, and heave a sigh; But when on thee and on thy charms I gaze, Time unrememberâd moves, or seems to die. LINES _Upon a Diamond Cross_, WORN ON HER BOSOM BY MISS C.M. Well on that neck, sweet Kitty! may you wear The sparkling cross, with hopes to soften Heaven; For trust me, thoâ so very young and fair, Thou hast some little sins to be forgiven:â For all the hopes which wit and grace can spread, For all the sighs which countless charms can move, Fall, lovely Kitty! on thy youthful head; Yet fall they gentlyâfor the crime is love. LINES TO FORTUNE, Occasioned by a very amiable and generous Friend of mine munificently presenting Miss E.S. with a Donation of Fifteen Thousand Pounds. Oh, Fortune! I have seen thee shed A plenteous showâr of treasure down On many a weak and worthless head, On those who but deservâd thy frown. And I have heard, in lonely shade, Her sorrows hapless Merit pour; And thou hast passâd the drooping maid, To give some pamperâd favârite more. But thoâ so cold, or strangely wild, It seems that worth can sometimes move; Thou hast on gentle Emma smilâd, And thou hast smilâd where all approve:â For Nature formâd her genârous heart With evâry virtue, pure, refinâd; And wit and taste, and grace and art, United to illume her mind. So dew-drops fall on some rare flowâr, That merits all their fostâring care, As thoâ they knew that, by their powâr, Grateful âtwould wider scent the air. A SONG. THE LOVER THE LUTE OF HIS DECEASED MISTRESS. Alas! but like a summerâs dream All the delight I felt appears, While misâryâs weeping moments seem A lingâring age of tears. Then breathe my sorrows, plaintive lute! And pour thy soft consoling tone, While I, a listâning mourner mute, Will call each tender grief my own. LINES WRITTEN IN A COTTAGE BY THE SEA-SIDE (_In which the Author had taken Shelter during a violent Storm_), UPON SEEING AN IDIOTIC YOUTH SEATED IN THE CHIMNEY-CORNER, CARESSING A BROOM. âTwas on a night of wildest storms, When loudly roarâd the raving main,â When dark clouds shewâd their shapeless forms, And hail beat hard the cottage pane,â Tom Fool sat by the chimney-side, With open mouth and staring eyes; A batterâd broom was all his pride,â It was his wife, his child, his prize! Alike to him if tempests howl, Or summer beam its sweetest day; For still is pleasâd the silly soul, And still he laughs the hours away. Alas! I could not stop the sigh, To see him thus so wildly stare,â To mark, in ruins, Reason lie, Callous alike to joy and care. God bless thee, thoughtless soul! I cried; Yet are thy wants but very few: The worldâs hard scenes thou neâer hast tried; Its cares and crimes to thee are new. The hoary hag[2], who crossâd thee so, Did not unkindly vex thy brain; Indeed she could not be thy foe, To snatch thee thus from grief and pain. Deceit shall never wring thy heart, And baffled hope awake no sighs; And true love, harshly forcâd to part, Shall never swell with tears thine eyes. Then long enjoy thy batterâd broom, Poor merry fool! and laugh away âTill Fate shall bid thy reason bloom In blissful scenes of brighter day. [2] It is generally believed by the peasants of Devonshire that idiotcy is produced by the influence of a witch. LINES _To a Laurel-Leaf_, SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ââ. Thoâ unknown is the hand that bestowâd thee on me, Sweet leaf! evâry fibre Iâll warm with a kiss: With the fame of her beauty thou well dost agree, Whose presence shews conquest, whose triumph is bliss! LINES OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF LIEUTENANT Jââ, _Who was killed by a Pistol-Shot_, ACCIDENTALLY DISCHARGED BY HIS FRIEND, CAPTAIN Bââ. With horror dumb, thoâ guiltless, stood Beside his dying friend, The hapless wretch who made the blood Sad from his side descend! âGive me thy hand; lovâd friend, adieu!â The genârous suffârer cried! âI do forgive and bless thee too;â And, having said it, died! And Pity, who stood trembling near Knew not for which to shed, So claimâd by both, her saddest tearâ The living or the dead! LINES TO AN ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY, Whose Timidity frequently agitated her, when pressed to gratify her Friends by her Musical Talents. âTis said (and I believe it too) That genuine merit seeks the shade; Blushing to think what is her due, As of her own sweet powârs afraid:â Thus, lovely maid! on fluttering wings, Thy powârs a thousand fears pursue, Which, like thy own harmonious strings, When pressâd _enchant_, and _tremble_ too! The pity, which we give, you owe, For mutual fears on both attend; While anxious thus you joy bestow, We fear too soon that joy will end! LINES TO MISS Lââ Dââ. When Heavân, sweet Laura! formâd thy mind, With genius and with taste refinâd, As if the union were too bright, It spread the veil of diffidence, That evâry ray, at first intense, Might shine as soft as lunar light. To frame a form then Nature strove, And callâd on Beauty and on Love, To lodge the mind they prizâd so well: Completed was the fair design; Thus blended dew-drops mildly shine Within the lilyâs spotless bell! LINES[3] _Written in a beautiful Spot_, THE FAVOURITE RETREAT OF DELIA. Streams ever limpid, fresh, and clear, Where Deliaâs charms renewâd appear, Ye flowârs that touchâd her snowy breast, Ye trees whereon she lovâd to rest, Ye scenes adornâd whereâer she flies, If grief shall close these woe-worn eyes, May some kind form, with hand benign, My body with this earth enshrine, That, when the fairest nymph shall deign To visit this delightful plain, That, when she views my silent shade, And marks the change her love has made, The tear may tremble down her face, As showârs the lilyâs leaves embrace; Then, like the infant at the breast, That feels a sorrow unexprest, That pang shall gentle Delia know, And silent treasure up her woe. [3] I am indebted to Petrarch for some of the imagery contained in these Lines. VALENTINE VERSES, _Sent to my young Friend, Miss Emma Trevelyan_, OF WALLINGTON-HOUSE, NORTHUMBERLAND. Emma! âtis early time for thee To hear the sounds of minstrelsy, That breathe around the rosy shrine Of honest old Saint Valentine. Too young art thou for strains of love; âTis not thy passion I would move; Instead of loverâs strains, I send The cordial wishes of a friend. Nobly has Nature done her duty, To give thee of thy motherâs beauty So large a shareâoh! then be thine The mental charms that in her shine! And may thy fatherâs taste refinâd Still add new graces to thy mind; And mayâst thou to each charm impart The genârous frankness of his heart. Then, my sweet Emma! thou shall move In many a heart more genuine love Than ever warmâd poetic line, Or sighâd in any Valentine. LINES WRITTEN UPON SEEING A BLIND YOUNG WOMAN IN NORTH WALES, Who supports herself, and an aged and infirm Mother, by selling Stockings and Gloves of her own Knitting, which she offers to Travellers as they pass by; in doing which she has been known to run close by the Side of a Carriage for several Miles. POOR BLIND BET. The morning purple on the hill, The village spire, the ivyâd towâr, The sparkling wheel of yonder mill, The grove, green field, and opâning flowâr, Are lost to thee! Dark child of Nature, as thou art! Yet thy poor bosom heaves no sigh; Eâen now thy dimpling cheeks impart Their knowledge of some pleasure nigh:â âTis good for thee! Thou seemâst to say âIâve sunshine too; âTis beaming in a spotless breast; No shade of guilt obstructs the view, And there are many not so blest, Who dayâs blush see. âDear are those eyes, by mine neâer seen, Which I protect from many a tear; Kind stranger! âtis on yonder green A motherâs aged form I rear: Oh! buy of me!â LINES UPON SEEING ââ _At one of the annual Banquets given in Guildhall_. Gorgeous and splendid was the sight; From myriad lamps a fairy light Enshrinâd in wreaths the Gothic wall, And heavânly music fillâd the hall! But there was oneâ(alas! that I Had ever seen)âthe melody Her voice surpassed, and brighter far Her eyes than evâry mimic star! I gazâd, until, oh! thought divine! I fancied she I saw was mine; But soon the beauteous vision flewâ The stranger-form I lovâd withdrew. Yet still she lives within my breast, There memâry has her form imprest:â Thus, when some minstrelâs strain is done, Sounds seem to breathe, for ever gone! YARRIMORE. [These Lines were written for a Lady who set them to Music.] My poor heart flutters like the sea Now heaving on the sandy shore; It seems to tell me you shall be Never again near Yarrimore. Far, far beyond the waves, I bend Mine eyes, if I can land explore; But oâer the waves I find no end,â Yet there they sayâs my Yarrimore. The hut he built is standing still, Deckâd with the shells he cullâd from shore; Our bowâr is waving on the hill, But where, alas! is Yarrimore? Within that bowâr Iâll sit and sigh, From dawn of day till day is oâer; And, as the wild winds oâer me fly, Iâll call on gentle Yarrimore! LINES TO MISS ââ, Upon her appearing at a Ball in an elegant Plaid Dress, AND HAVING REPEATEDLY BEFORE EXPRESSED HER PREFERENCE OF THE SCOTISH NATION. Is it that plaided thus you wish to prove How northern is the region of your love? Ah, Mary! thoâ, within that far-famâd clime, Deeds have been done that mock the wreck of Time; Thoâ there the brave have bled, or, oâer the wave, On distant shores have found a glorious grave; Thoâ there the mountain-nymph of song has pourâd Her loftiest strain, to bless the heroâs sword; Still, lovely wandârer, with a jealous eye, Oâer Scotiaâs hills we see thy fancy fly; For _here_ the warrior oft has raisâd his sword, The patriot too his noble blood has pourâd; _Here_ too the sweet Recorder of the brave Has sat and sung upon her heroâs grave. Then cease, romantic maid! ah, cease to rove; The very wood-dove loves its native grove: Oh! then, let Nature bid thy guileless heart Here shed its love, and all its warmth impart; And on the land that gave thee birth bestow The fondness which it claims, and treasures too. A SONG. TO THE MOON. Thou, lamp! the gods benignly gave, To light a lover on his way; Thou, Moon! along the silvâry wave, Ah! safe this fluttâring heart convey:â Sweet is thy light, and sweet thy shade, The _guide_ and _guardian_ of our bliss, A loverâs panting lips to lead, Or veil him in the ravishâd kiss. Her white robe floats upon the air; My Lyra hears the dashing oar: Ye floods, oh! speed me to my fair! My soul is with her long before. Oh! lightly haste, thy lover view, And evâry anxious fear resign; Ye towârs, no longer fearâd, adieu! The treasure which ye held is mine! LINES _Upon the Death of the Lady of Lieutenant-Colonel Adams_, WHO LATELY DIED OF A DECLINE IN THE EAST INDIES. When Time a mellowing tint has thrown Oâer many a scene to memâry dear. It scatters round a charm, unknown When first thâ impression rested there. But, oh! should distance intervene, Should Oceanâs wave, should changeful clime, Divideâhow sweeter far the scene! How richer evâry tint of time! Eâen thus with those (a treasurâd few) Who gladdenâd life with many a smile, Thoâ long has passâd the sad adieu, In thought we love to dwell awhile. Then with keen eye, and beating heart, The anxious mind still seeks relief From those who can the tale impart, How pass their day, in joy or grief. If haply health and fortune bless, We feel as if on us they shone; If sickness and if sorrow press, Then feeling makes their woes our own. âTwas thus of Mira oft I thought, Oft dwelt upon the scenes she gracâd: Her form in beautyâs mould was wrought, Her mind the seat of sense and taste. Long, hovâring oâer her fleeting breath, Love kept his watch in silent gloom; He saw her meekly yield to Death, And knelt a mourner at her tomb. When the night-breeze shall softly blow, When the bright moon upon the flood Shall spread her beams (a silvâry show), And dark be many a waving wood,â When, dimly[4] seen, in robes of white, A mournful train along the grove Shall bear the lamp of sacred light, To deck the turf of those they love,â Then shall the wood-dove quit its bowâr, And seek the spot were she is laid; Its wild and mournful notes shall pour A requiem to her hallowâd shade. And Friendship oft shall raise the veil Time shall have drawn oâer pleasures past, And Fancy shall repeat the tale Of happy hours, too sweet to last! But when she mourns oâer Miraâs bier, And when the fond illusion ends, Oh! then shall fall the genuine tear That drops for dear departed friends! [4] Mr. Hodges, in his Travels in India, page 28, mentions, that between Banglepoor and Mobgheir, it is the custom of the women of the family to attend the tombs of their friends after sun-set; and observes, âit is both affecting and curious to see them proceeding in groups, carrying lamps in their hands, which they place at the head of the tomb.â LINES TO MISS C. _On her leaving the Country_. Since Friendship soon must bid a fond adieu, And, parting, wish your charms she never knew, Dear Laura hear one genuine thought expressâd, Warm from the heart, and to the heart addressâd:â Much do I wish you all your soul holds dear, To sooth and sweeten evâry trouble here; But heavân has yielded such an ample store, You cannot ask, nor can I wish you, more; Blessâd with a sisterâs love, whose gentle mind, Still pure thoâ polishâd, virtuous and refinâd, Will aid your tendârer years and innocence Beneath the shelter of her riper sense. Charmâd with the bright example may you move, And, loving, richly copy what you love. Adieu! and blame not if an artless prayâr Should, self-directed, ask one momentâs care:â When years and absence shall their shade extend, Reflect who sighs adieu, and call himâfriend. LINES TO A ROBIN. _Written during a severe Winter_. Why, trembling, silent, wandârer! why, From me and Pity do you fly? Your little heart against your plumes Beats hardâah! dreary are these glooms! Famine has chokâd the note of joy That charmâd the roving shepherd-boy. Why, wandârer, do you look so shy? And why, when I approach you, fly? The crumbs which at your feet I strew Are only meant to nourish you; They are not thrown with base decoy, To rob you of one hour of joy. Come, follow to my silent mill, That stands beneath yon snow-clad hill; There will I house your trembling form, There shall your shivâring breast be warm: And, when your little heart grows strong, Iâll ask you for your simple song; And, when you will not tarry more, Open shall be my wicket-door; And freely, when you chirp âadieu,â Iâll wish you well, sweet warbler! too; Iâll wish you many a summer-hour On top of tree, or abbey-towâr. When Spring her wasted form retrieves, And gives your little roof its leaves, May you (a happy lover) find A kindred partner to your mind: And when, amid the tangled spray, The sun shall shoot a parting ray, May all within your mossy nest Be safe, be merry, and be blest. LINES TO DELIA, ON HER WEARING A MUSLIN VEIL. Say, Delia, why, in muslin shade, Ah! say, dost thou conceal those eyes? Such little stars were never made, Iâm sure, to shine throâ misty skies. Say, are they wrapt in so much shade, That they may more successful rise, Starting from such soft ambuscade, To catch and kill us by surprise? Or, of their various powârs afraid, Is it in mercy to our sighs, Lest love, oâer many a heart betrayâd, Should sob âa faithful votâry diesâ? Then, oh! remove the envious shade; Let others wear, who want, disguise: We all had sooner die, sweet maid, To see, than live without, those eyes. VERSES TO THE TOMB OF A FRIEND. Dearer to me, thou pile of dust! Thoâ with the wild flowâr simply crownâd, Than the vast dome or beauteous bust, By genius formâd, by wit renownâd. Wave, thou wild flowâr! for ever wave, Oâer my lovâd relic of delight; My tears shall bathe her green-robâd grave More than the dews of heavân by night. Methinks my Delia bids me go, Says, âFlorio, dry that fruitless tear! Feed not a wild flowâr with thy woe, Thy long-lovâd Delia is not here. âNo drop of feeling from her eye Now starts to hear thy sorrows speak; And, did thy bosom know one joy, No smile would bloom upon her cheek. âPale, wan, and torpid, droops that cheek, Whereon thy lip impressâd its red; Those eyes, which Florio taught to speak, Unnoticâd close amid the dead!â True, true, too idly mourns this heart; Why, Memâry, dost thou paint the past? Why say you saw my Delia part, Still pressâd, still lovâd her, to the last? Then, thou wild flowâr, for ever wave! To thee this parting tear is given; The sigh I offer at her grave Shall reach my sainted love in heaven! TIME AND THE LOVER. Oh, Time! thy merits who can know? Thy real nature who discover? The absent lover calls thee slow,â âToo rapid,â says the happy lover. With bloom thy cheeks are now refinâd, Now to thine eye the tear is given; At once too cruel and too kind,â A little hell, a little heaven. Go then, thou charming mystâry, go!â Yes, thoâ thou often dost amuse me, Thoâ many a joy to thee I owe, At once I thank thee and abuse thee. A ROUNDELAY. Wide throâ the azure blue and bright Serenely floats the lamp of night; The sleeping waves forget to move, And silent is the cedar grove; Each breeze suspended seems to sayâ âNow, Leline, for thy Roundelay!â My Deliaâs lids are closâd in rest; Ah! were her pillow but my breast! Go, dreams! one gentle word impart, In whispers place me by her heart; While near her door Iâll fondly stray, And sooth her with my Roundelay. But, ah! the Night draws in her shade, And glimmâring stars reluctant fade: Yet sleep, my love! nor mayâst thou feel The pangs which griefs like mine reveal: Adieu! for Morningâs on his way, And bids me close my Roundelay. FAREWELL LINES TO _BRISTOL HOT WELLS_. Bristol! in vain thy rocks attempt the sky, The wild woods waving on their giddy brow; And vainly, devious Avon! vainly sigh Thy waters, winding throâ the vales below;â In vain, upon thy glassy bosom borne, Thâ expected vessel proudly glides along, While, âmid thy echoes, at the break of morn Is heard the homeward ship-boyâs happy song;â For, ah! amid thy sweet romantic shade, By Friendship led, fair drooping Beauty moves; Thy hallowâd cup of health affords no aid, Nor charm thy birds, that chant their woodland loves. Each morn I view her throâ thy wave-girt grove, Her white robe fluttâring round her sinking form; Oâer the sweet ruin shine those eyes of love, As bright stars beaming throâ a midnight storm. Here sorrowing Love seeks a sequesterâd bowâr. Calls on thy spring to calm his troubled breast; Bright Hope alights not on his pensive hour, Nor can thy favourâd fountains yield him rest. Despair across his joys now intervenes, And sternly bids the little cherub fly; While his eyes close amid thy beauteous scenes. His last sighs bless the form that bids him die. Farewell, then, Bristol! thou canst yield no joy, Thy woods look darkenâd with funereal gloom, Sickness and Sorrow on thy green banks sigh, And all thy form is but a beauteous tomb. Ah! may each future suffârer, hovâring near, Raisâd by thy genial wave, delighted view Returning joy and health, supremely dear, Long lost to him who sadly sighs adieu! A SONG. These shades were made for Love alone,â Here only smiles and kisses sweet Shall play around his flowâry throne, And doves shall sentinel the seat. Come, Delia! âtis a genial day; It bids us to his bowâr repair:â âBut what will little Cupid say?ââ âSay! sweet?âwhy, give a welcome there.â There not a tell-tale beam shall peep Upon thy beautyâs rich display,â There not a breeze shall dare to sweep The leaves, to whisper what we say. LINES ON LADY Wââ APPEARING AT THE EXHIBITION. When lovely Delphine sought the crowded scene, The painterâs mimic powâr no longer movâd; All turnâd to gaze upon her beauteous mien, None envied her, for, as they lookâd, they lovâd. Amid the proud display of forms so fair, Of each fine tint the pencil can impart, Nature with rapture seemâd to lead her there, To prove how she could triumph over Art. LINES WRITTEN AT BRIGHTON. From Mirthâs bright circle, from the giddy throng, How sweet it is to steal away at eve, To listen to the homeward fisherâs song, Whilst dark the waters of the ocean heave;â And on the sloping beach to hear the spray Dash âgainst some hoary vesselâs broken side; Whilst, far illuminâd by the parting ray, The distant sail is faintly seen to glide. Yes, âtis Reflectionâs chosen hour; for then, With pensive pleasure mingling oâer the scene, Thâ erratic mind treads over life again, And gazes on the past with eye serene. Those stormy passions which bedimmâd the soul, That oft have bid the joys it treasurâd fly, Now, like thâ unruffled waves of Ocean, roll With gentle lapseâtheir only sound a sigh. The galling wrong no longer knits the brow, Ambition feels the folly of her aim; And Pity, from the heart expanding, now Pants to extend relief to evâry claim. Thus, as I sit beside the murmâring sea, And oâer its darkness trace lightâs parting streak, I feel, O Nature! that serenity Which vainly poetry like mine can speak! Oâer the drear tract of Time, Remembrance views Some dear, some long-departed, pleasure gleam;â So oâer the dark expanse the eye pursues Upon the watâry edge a transient beam. The spot fraternal love has sacred made, Solemn, yet sweet, like groves in twilight gloom, Memâry revisits, and beneath its shade Faintly it sees each faded joy re-bloom. By Fancy led, from Deathâs cold bed of stone, Lovely, thoâ wan, what cherishâd form appears? Oh! gentle Anna[5]! at thy name alone, Genius, and Grace, and Virtue, smile in tears. Half-wrappâd in mist I see thy figure move, Oâer thy pale cheek appears its wonted smile; With lunar lustre beam those looks of love, That once could life of evâry care beguile: Faintly I hear thy angel-voice again; Thereâs music in the sweet and dying sound; Like Philomelaâs soft and echoâd strain, It spreads a soothing consolation round. Adieu, blessâd shade!âImagination roves To distant regions, oâer thâ Atlantic wave; Ah! not to genial skies, or fragrant groves, To drop a tear upon a kindred grave. Hard was thy fate, Eliza[6]!âIt was thine, Thoâ wit thy mind, thoâ beauty gracâd thy form, Behind Afflictionâs weeping cloud to shine, With star-like radiance, in a night of storm. Fierce from the sun the fiery fever flew, And bade the burning sand become thy tomb! Oâer thee no willow drops its mourning dew, Nor spotless lilies oâer thy bosom bloom! Oh! when we stood around our brotherâs bier, And wept in lifeâs full bloom to see him torn, Ah! little did ye think that such a tear As then ye shed so soon your fate would mourn. Farewell, dear shades! accept this mournful song, At once the tribute of my grief and love; Fain would it try your virtues to prolong, Here prizâd and honourâd, and now blessâd above. [5] Mrs. Hodges, a sister of the author. [6] Mrs Fountaine, another sister of the author, who accompanied her husband to Africa, and died at the Government-house, in one of the British settlements on that coast, where she survived but a short time the death of three of her children. ECHO. Echo! thou sweet enchantress of the grove! Oh! cease to answer to the tones of love; Or teach my Delia in thine art divine, Thou loveliest nymph! to hear and answer mine! OCCASIONAL LINES _Repeated at an elegant Entertainment_ GIVEN BY LIEUTENANT-COLONEL Dââ TO HIS FRIENDS IN THE RUINS OF BERRY CASTLE, DEVONSHIRE.[7] By your permission, Ladies! I address ye, And for the boon you grant, my Muse shall bless ye. I do not mean in solemn verse to tell What fate the race of Pomeroy befell; To trace the castle-story of each year, To learn how many owls have hooted here; What was the weight of stone, which formâd this pile, Will on your lovely cheeks awake no smile: Such antiquarian sermons suit not me, Nor any soul who loves festivity. Past times I heed not; be the present hour In life, while yet it blooms, my chosen flowâr, For well I know, what Time cannot disown, Amidst this mossy pile of mouldâring stone, That Hospitality was never seen To spread more social joy upon the green; Or, when its noble and capacious hall Rang with the gambol gay, or graceful ball, More beauty never charmâd its ancient beaux Than what its honourâd ruins now enclose. Thanks to the clouds, which from the soaking showâr Preserve the votâries of the present hour; For, strange to tell, beneath the chilling storm, Lately the rose reclinâd her frozen form; Yet since, beneath the favour of the weather, We are (a laughing group) convenâd together, Pray let the Muse pursue her merry route, To shew what passâd before we all set out. To some fair damsel, who, intent to charm, Declares she thinks the weather fine and warm, Such words as these address her trembling earâ âI really think we shall have rain, my dear; Pray do not go, my love,â cries soft mama; âYou shall not go, thatâs flat,â cries stern papa. A lucky sunbeam shines on the discourse, The parents soften, and Miss mounts her horse. Each tickled with some laugh-inspiring notion, Behold the jocund party all in motion: Some by a rattling buggy are befriended, Some mount the cartâbut not to be suspended. The mourning-coach[8] is wisely counter-orderâd (The very thought on impious rashness borderâd), Because the luckless vehicle, one night, Put all its merry mourners in a fright, Who, to conduct them to the masquerade, Sought from its crazy wheels their moving aid. Usâd to a soleme pace, the creaking load Bounded unwillingly along the road; Down came the wholeâoh! what a sight was there! Oâer a blind Fiddler rollâd a Flowâr-Nymph fair; A glittâring Spaniard, who had lost his nose, Roarâd out, âOh! dân it, take away your toes;â A blooming Nun fell plump upon a Jew, Still to the good old cause of traffic true, Buried in clothes, exclaimâd the son of barter, âGot blesh my shoul! youâll shell this pretty garter?â Here let me pause;âthe Muse, in sad affright, Turns from the dire disasters of that night; Quite panic-struck she drops her trembling plumes, And thus a moralizing theme assumes:â Know, gentle Ladies, once these shapeless walls, Oâer whose grey wreck the shading ivy crawls, Composâd a graceful mansion, whose fair mould Led from the road the travâller, to behold. Oft, when the morning tingâd the reddâning skies, Far off the spiral smoke was seen to rise; At noon the hospitable board was spread, Then nappy ale made light the weary head; And when grey eve appearâd, in shadows damp, Each casement glitterâd with thâ enlivâning lamp; Here the laugh titterâd, there the lute of Love Fillâd with its melody the moon-light grove: All, all are fled!âTime ruthless stalks around, And bends the crumbling ruin to the ground: Time, Ladies, too (I know you do not like him, And, if a fan could end him, you would strike him), Will with as little gallantry devour From your fair faces their bewitching powâr; Then, like these ruins, beauteous in decay, Still shall you charm, and men shall still obey: Then, with remembrance soft, and tender smile, Perchance youâll think upon this mossy pile; And, with a starting tear of joy declare, âOh! how we laughâd, how merry were we there!â [7] The manor of Berry was given by William the Conqueror to one of his Normans, Ralph de la Pomerai, who built on it the castle which still bears his name, and in whose family it continued till the reign of Edward VI. when it was sold by Sir Thomas Pomeroy to Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, from whom it has descended to the present Duke. The castle is seated upon a rock, which rises almost perpendicularly from a narrow valley; through this valley winds a small stream of water, which drives the mill seen through the foliage of the surrounding woods from the turrets of the castle. In approaching the castle from the south, the path leads down the side of a hill through a thick wood; and on the north side of the valley, opposite the rock on which the castle stands, is a high ridge, partly covered with oak: these hills completely shut in the ruins on both sides. The valley stretches a considerable way both to the east and west, and opens a view at either end into the adjacent country. From the ivy-covered ruins of the fortress which now remain, it is scarcely possible to say what was its ancient form; but it is most generally supposed to have been quadrangular, having only one entrance, a large double portcullis, at the west end of the southern front, turreted and embattled, as was the whole of the front, with a tower at its eastern end, corresponding with that on the west. This front, with its gateway and turrets, are perhaps the only remains of the original structure. Winding steps, now almost worn away, lead to what once was a chapel, over the portcullis, and thence to the top of the turrets. In more modern times a magnificent building was erected within the walls of the castle by the Seymour family; but, although upwards of Â£20,000
{'title': 'Poems by Sir John Carr', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}