Poetic Sketches

Excerpt

POETIC SKETCHES

ON THE DEATH OF LORD NELSON.


Swift through the land while Fame transported flies,
And shouts triumphant shake the illumin'd skies;
Britannia, bending o'er her dauntless prows,
With laurels thickening round her blazon'd brows,
In joy dejected, sees her triumph crost,
Exults in Victory won, but mourns the Victor lost.
Immortal Nelson! still with fond amaze,
Thy glorious deeds each British eye surveys,
Beholds thee still, on conquer'd floods afar:
Fate's flaming shaft! the thunderbolt of war!
Hurl'd from thy hands, Britannia's vengeance roars,
And bloody billows stain the hostile shores;
Thy sacred ire Confed'rate Kingdoms braves
And 'whelms their Navies in Sepulchral waves!

––Graced with each attribute which Heaven supplies
To Godlike Chiefs: humane, intrepid, wise;
His Nation's bulwark, and all Nature's pride,
The Hero liv'd, and as he liv'd––he died––
Transcendent Destiny! how blest the brave
Whose fall his Country's tears attend, shower'd on his
trophied grave!



SONNET.

MORNING.


Light as the breeze that hails the infant morn
  The Milkmaid trips, as o'er her arm she slings
  Her cleanly pail, some favorite lay she sings
As sweetly wild, and cheerful, as the horn.
O happy girl! may never faithless love,
  Or fancied splendor, lead thy steps astray;
  No cares becloud the sunshine of thy day,
Nor want e'er urge thee from thy cot to rove.
What tho' thy station dooms thee to be poor,
  And by the hard-earn'd morsel thou art fed;
  Yet sweet content bedecks thy lowly bed,
And health and peace sit smiling at thy door:
Of these possess'd––thou hast a gracious meed,
Which Heaven's high wisdom gives, to make thee rich indeed!



TO.............

AN IMPROMTU.


O Sub! you certainly have been,
  A little raking, roguish creature,
And in that face may still be seen,
  Each laughing loves bewitching feature!

For thou hast stolen many a heart––
  And robb'd the sweetness of the rose;
Plac'd on that cheek, it doth impart
  More lovely tints, more fragrant blows!

Yes, thou art nature's favorite child,
  Array'd in smiles, seducing, killing;
Did Joseph live, you'd drive him wild,
  And set his very soul a thrilling!

A poet, much too poor to live,
   Too poor, in this rich world to rove,
Too poor, for aught but verse to give,
  But not, thank God, too poor to love!

Gives thee his little doggerel lay––
  One truth I tell, in sorrow tell it,
I'm forc'd to give my verse away,
  Because, alas! I cannot sell it.

And should you with a critic's eye,
  Proclaim me 'gainst the Muse a sinner,
Reflect, dear girl! that such as I,
  Six times a week don't get a dinner.

And want of comfort, food, and wine,
  Will damp the genius, curb the spirit:
These wants I'll own are often mine;
  But can't allow a want of merit.

For every stupid dog that drinks
  At poet's pond, nicknam'd divine:
Say what he will, I know he thinks
  That all he writes is devilish fine!



SONNET.

NIGHT.


Now when dun Night her shadowy veil has spread,
  See want and infamy as forth they come,
  Lead their wan daughter from her branded home,
To woo the stranger for unhallow'd bread....