When fit time and reason grant thee
Leave to quit the parent tree,
May some happy hand transplant thee
To a station suiting thee.
On some lover's faithful bosom
May'st thou then thy sweets resign;
And may each unfolding blossom
Open charms as sweet as thine.
Till that time may joys unceasing
Thy bard's every wish fulfil.
When that's come may joys increasing
Make thee blest and happier still.
Flourish fair, thou flower of Jessies,
Pride of each admiring swain—
Envy of despairing lasses—
Queen of Walkherd's lovely plain.
THE TRIUMPHS OF TIME
[From "The Champion">[
Emblazoned Vapour! Half-eternal Shade!
That gathers strength from ruin and decay;—
Emperor of empires! (for the world hath made
No substance that dare take thy shade away;)
Thy banners nought but victories display:
In undisturbed success thou'rt grown sublime:
Kings are thy subjects, and their sceptres lay
Round thy proud footstool: tyranny and crime
Thy serving vassals are. Then hail, victorious Time!
The elements that wreck the marble dome
Proud with the polish of the artisan—
Bolts that crash shivering through the humble home,
Traced with the insignificance of man—
Are architects of thine, and proudly plan
Rich monuments to show thy growing prime:
Earthquakes that rend the rocks with dreadful span,
Lightnings that write in characters sublime,
Inscribe their labours all unto the praise of Time.
Thy palaces are kingdoms lost to power;
The ruins of ten thousand thrones thy throne;
Thy crown and sceptre the dismantled tower,
A place of kings, yet left to be unknown,
Now with triumphing ivy overgrown—
Ivy oft plucked on Victory's brow to shine—
That fades in crowns of kings, preferring stone;
It only prospers where they most decline,
To flourish o'er their fate, and live alone in thine.
Thy dwellings are in ruins made sublime.
Impartial Monitor, no dream of fear,
No dread of treason for a royal crime,
Deters thee from thy purpose: everywhere
Thy power is shown: thou art arch-emperor here:
Thou soil'st the very crowns with stains and rust;
On royal robes thy havoc doth appear;
The little moth, to thy proud summons just,
Dares scarlet pomp to scorn, and eats it into dust.
Old shadows of magnificence, where now—
Where now and what your grandeur? Come and see
Busts broken and thrown down, with wreathless brow,
Walls stained with colours, not of paint, but thee.
Moss, lichens, ferns, and lonely elder tree;
That upon ruins gladly climb to bloom,
And add a beauty where't is vain to be,
Like to the soft moonlight in a prison's gloom,
Or lovely maid in youth death-smitten for the tomb.
Pride may build palaces and splendid halls;
Power may display its victories and be brave;
The eye finds weakest spots in strongest walls,
And meets no strength that can out-wear the grave.
Nature, thy handmaid and imperial slave,
The pomp of splendour's finery never heeds:
Kings reign and die: pride may no respite crave;
Nature in barrenness ne'er mourns thy deeds:
Graves, poor and rich alike, she overruns with weeds.