SONNET.
Ah! where is hid, if still it may survive
The canker’d tooth of Age and Time’s despight,
Ah! where is hid that Orb of glass so bright,
That Merlin for King Ryence did contrive;
That wond’rous Orb so bright, wherein did live,
Or ever Time had brought them into light,
The forms of things unborn, which to the sight
Its high-enchanted power would strangely give!—
For Hope, with counterfeit of this true Glass,
Doth so beguile the lover’s easy mind,
Still turning it to Fancy’s idiot eye,
That Reason’s self forgets her majesty
To join the gaze; till the fond phantoms pass,
And Grief and stern Repentance rise behind.
SONNET
TO PETRARCH.
O for that shell, whose melancholy sound,
Heard in Valclusa by the lucid stream
Of laurel-shaded Sorga, spread thy theme,
Fair Laura and her scorn, to all around
High-built Avignon, on the rocky mound
That banks the impetuous Rhone, and like a steam
From some rich incense rising, to the extreme
Of desolate Hesperia did rebound,
And gently waked the Muses:—so might I,
Studious of song like thee, and ah! too like
In sad complaint of ill-requited love,
So might I, hopeless now, have power to strike
Such notes, as lovers’ tears should sanctify,
And cold Fidele’s melting sighs approve.
TO A LADY,
WHO DESIRED SOME SPECIMENS OF THE AUTHOR’S POETRY.
Let not Eliza bid me now rehearse
The unvalued rhymes that long forgotten lie:
For all unfit is my rude-fashioned Verse
To meet the censure of her curious eye:
But for her sake a subject could I choose
To draw down fame and envy on the Bard,
Thy lovely Self should be my theme and Muse,
And thy sweet smile, Eliza, my reward.
EPITAPH
ON A CHILD WHO DIED OF A SCARLET FEVER IN THE FIFTEENTH MONTH OF HIS AGE. 1802.
Though thou wert dear, for lovely was thy form,
And fair thy mind, and hopeful from thy birth;
Though sudden was the pestilential storm
That beat thy tender blossom to the earth;
For thee we grieve not; certain that the soul
Yet sinless, bursting from its earthy clod,
Is borne on angel wings beyond the pole,
Where infant innocence hath place with God.
EPITAPH
ON SIR CHARLES TURNER, BART. IN THE FAMILY MAUSOLEUM AT KIRK LEATHAM, YORKSHIRE.
Beneath this hallow’d vault, this awful shade,
Amidst his generous Forefathers laid,
Lo Turner sleeps, the latest of his race,
In prime of manhood given to Death’s embrace.
Heir of their name, and of their virtues heir,
His heart was liberal, courteous, brave, sincere.
Nor that his only praise; his patient mind,
Cheerful in grief, in agony resign’d,
Long bore the tedious hours of cureless pain,
Which Love and Friendship strove to soothe in vain.
Farewell, dear Consort of my happier days!
To Thee this duty thy Theresa pays,
Lamenting still for Thee, ’till fate shall join
Her kindred spirit and her dust with thine.
LINES
WRITTEN AT THE TOMB OF WILLIAM OF WYKEHAM, IN WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL.
Wykeham, around thy venerable tomb
With fond affection still thy children come;
And tho’ no more the loud-voiced hymn they sing,
Still silent prayers and heartfelt wishes bring,
That thy departed Spirit, secure and blest,
May with the destined heirs of glory rest;
And, for thy pious bounty here bestow’d,
Treasure in Heaven may have, and joy in God!
TRANSLATION
OF A GREEK INSCRIPTION UPON A FOUNTAIN[21].
Αγροτα συν ποιμυαις, κ. τ. λ. Vitruvius, Lib. 8. c. 3.
Shepherd, if thirst oppress thee, while thy flock
Thou lead’st at noon by this Arcadian spring,
Here freely drink thy fill, and freely bring
Around my Naïads all thy fleecy stock:
But in the water wash not, lest thou feel
Loathing, and strange antipathy to wine;
Such power it hath to make thee hate the vine,
E’er since my fount did Prœtus’ daughters heal;—
For here Melampus bathed them, here he cast
A spell to purge their madness off, and hold
The secret taint; what time from Argos old
To rough Arcadia’s mountain heights he past.
[21] There was a fountain in Arcadia, which had the reputation of creating an aversion to wine in whoever happened to bathe in it, although the water was innocent and wholesome to drink: and the tradition was, that it had received this singular property from Melampus, a celebrated physician of antiquity, when he made use of it to cure certain Arcadian princesses, the daughters of Prœtus, of a strange species of madness. These young ladies fancied themselves to be changed into cows. The story is frequently alluded to by the poets; both Ovid and Virgil mention it.