« 이전계속 »
ON A LOCK OF HAIR.
I Ask no talisman to shield from harm
A far more noble, far more potent charm,
Than e'er was wrought by wise enchanter's care. While on my breast reclines this treasur'd hair,
Not one of all the dark and busy swarm
Of imps unholy, fraught with wild alarm,
But vanish all, like phantoms of the night;
Can rest the troublous phantoms of affright:
R. A. P.
PRELIMINARIES OF PEACE, 1801.
BY THE REV. V. FITZTHOMAS.
Macrum arbitrium opimo bello potius,
Her baneful torch when civil fury hurl'd Wide o'er the wondering and the weeping world, While frantic Foes in blood their footsteps dy'd, And earth and heaven with impious rage defy'd;Reluctant Britain, but unus'd to fear, Stretch'd her broad shield and grasp'd the fatal spear;
Her conquering banners on the Atlantic spread, Through Asia's plains triumphant armies led."Her threats in vain the indignant * Saib braves,"Nor walls protect him, nor surrounding slaves,"'Reft of his crown, his wealth the Victor's prize,"'Mid heaps of vulgar slain the Sultan lies,"His captive progeny their woes relate,"And silent vassals weep their Master's fate f."
• Tippoo is a word, in English ears, of so undignified and unpoelical sound, that the less appropriate one of Saib, has been adopted as sufficiently so, in this country, to describe the person it is here intended to represent.
t The lines in these two pieces inclosed between inverted commas were not intended for recitation.
Her thunders aw'd the north's conspiring powers,
Heart-easing mirth no smother'd sighs alloy,
Spoken at the Theatre Royal, Cheltenham,
NOVEMBER 7, 1801.
BY THE SAME.
race! Pace! Pace!
Of English words, (the tender heart can tell,)
Yon blessed pair who kindly vow to sever
Ten times a day, for ever, and for ever,
Should Jove but hear, and bid them separate dwell,
Would mutter love, and hesitate Farewell.
"Thus while in garrets vile dull volumes swell,
"The starving Poet bids the Muse farewell."
Farewell! sad sound to Courtiers in disgrace,
Farewell to power, to pension, and to place!
The Veteran sighs it at the last review,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of war, to you;
Britons, with wealth reward him, and renown,
Bind up his wounds, ye fair, his labours crown;
Of war, and all its pomps, and horrors fell,
O, may we take a long and last farewell,
To heaven-born Peace our plighted vows renew,
And never, never rashly, bid adieu!
Is the poor Player then, who from the stage
Reflects the feelings of the passing age,
Deck'd with the robe, the sceptre and the sword,
Now a proud Warrior, now a supple Lord,
Is he alone exempt from what he shews,
And acts the passion that he never knows?
Believe it not; our secret I'll reveal,
They feign the best, most tenderly who feel *;
But I, the humblest of my tribe, must live,
A sad exception to the rule I give:
To night I find how little is my art,
Indeed I feel, yet cannot play, this part,
But mar the tale my faultering tongue should tell,
Actor no more, I scarce can say—Farewell.
* our secret I'll reveal, They feign the best most tenderly who feel; "Here lies the golden secret, learn to feel,"
Aciob, a Poem by Robert Lloyd.