INSCRIBED IN THE YEAR 1801,
On the Back of a Landscape, drawn by the Rev. William Bree, of Coleshill in Warwickshire.
HERE, from the hand of Genius, meets your eye The tangled foliage of a shadowy dell;
Meets it, in Nature's truth;-and see, the brook
Thro' yon wild thicket bursts its way oblique,
Hurrying and dashing thro' the lonely wood.
On the Back of a Companion Landscape.
FROM the same vivid pencil now appear
The social comforts. Love them, as they rise
On the soft confines of a scene sublime!
Look up the right-hand Glade, it surely leads
To the embosom'd Village. Snowy white
The raiments see, which cleanliness prepares
Against the Sabbath-Morn. The good, old horse,
Mark him, he drags, with weary neck, the cart,
Bearing to yonder mill the bags, well fill'd
With life's best nutriment. The mill-house mark,
Standing on the steep verge of the same brook,
Which late we saw laborious work its way
Over rough stones, and crags, and roots of trees,
Roaming the wood-wild solitude;—but now
Bright it emerges to the haunts of Men,
To light, to usefulness!-Observe yon mill
Dash the white waters from the clattering wheel;
Hark! thro' the eye we hear it!-Cheering din,
Thou break'st the mountain silence merrily!
TO HARMODIUS AND ARISTOGEITON.
WITH myrtle will I braid my sword,
Such as the brave Harmodius bore;
When Athens hailed her rights restored,
And proud Hipparchus was no more:
Nor art thou, dear Harmodius, dead!
Thine are the islands of the blest,
Where Heroes old, stout Diomed,
And the swift son of Peleus rest.
My sword with myrtle will I braid,
Such as Aristogeiton bore;
When, at Minerva's shrine, the blade
Dropped with the victim-tyrant's gore.
Dear patriot pair! your fame shall bloom
Immortal in the poet's strain;
Who, by the Tyrant's righteous doom,
Bade Athens flourish free again.
ON THE BACK OF A LANDSCAPE FROM GLOVER,
PAINTED BY MISS FLEMMING OF LICHFIELD.
Ir is a golden view, the sunny glow
Sleeps on the water. Of unnumber'd tints
Gorgeous, this bordering wood, with its proud oak,
That lords it on the bank, have now put on
The burnish'd livery of autumnal suns
Ere yet their fires grow pale. Pure, glassy stream,
The forest, skirting to thine utmost verge,
Curtains thee amply; while the far-off hill
Lifts its grey, barren summit, faintly gleam'd.
Look on the Herd, how leisurely they pace,
In social line, the narrow shrubby lane
Descending to the flood! Do you not see
A luxury of quiet in their step,
Congenial to the scene?-and, farther on,
In yonder little goats, how calm they sit
Close to the brink, and, with declining head,
Muse on their watry image!-Then the Boy,
Heedfully following the full-udder'd Train
On his staid horse, while up the left-hand glade
Streams the rich setting sun, and on his back,
And shoulders, warmly plays! No child, I ween,
Of Fancy he, for sure his sober eye
Marks little of the beauty he beholds,
Yet we perceive a measureless content
Sit on his sun-burnt cheek.-Dale, to thy charms,
Pays or the Poet's, or the Painter's mind,
A better homage?-Tis a right good Boy,
He loves the Brutes he follows; they love him,
And we will own he earns his supper well.
ON THE DEATH OF HELIODORA.
FROM THE GREEK OF MELEAGER.
THESE tears be thine, O lost in early bloom!
(All, all that now affection can bestow.)
Tears wept in anguish: o'er thy honoured tomb
Love, in fond memory, pours the stream of woe.
Yes, my dead Heliodora, ever dear!
Long, long for thee shall Meleager grieve;
Still shall thy shade, while yet he lingers here,
These empty gifts to Acheron receive.
Ah! where is now my lovely blossom?-torn,
By Death untimely torn, in dust to fade.
But this fair flower, which all admired and mourn,
O Earth fold softly in thy bosom laid!
FROM THE ITALIAN OF CHIABRERA.
BEAUTEOUS Roses, not with Morn
From the thorn
Scattering sweet but transient pleasures;
You, whom, round the lips display'd,
Love has made
Guardians of his pearly treasures!
Belle rose porporine,
Che tra spine
Sull' Aurora non aprite;
Ma ministre degli Amori
Bei tesori
Di bei denti custodite:
* All the poems marked † 4, in this volume, and the succeeding volumes, are by the late French Laurence, M. P. L.L.D. a man not less eminent for his numerous virtues, than for his exten, sive learning, and powerful talents. Ep.
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