Son of the brave! no longer weep; Thy father's course pursue: His compass guides thee through; ON RECEIVING A BRANCH OF MEZEREON, WHICH FLOWERED AT WOODSTOCK, DECEMBER, 1809. Mrs. Tighe. ODOURS of Spring, my sense ye charm With fragrance premature; And 'mid these days of dark alarm, Almost to hope allure. Methinks with purpose soft ye come Of May's blue skies, abundant bloom, Alas! for me shall May in vain The powers of life restore; These eyes that weep and watch in pain No, no, this anguish cannot last! Beloved friends, adieu! The bitterness of death were past, Could I resign but you. But oh! in every mortal pang To all in life its love would clasp Yet why, immortal, vital spark! Look up, my soul: through prospects dark, And bid thy terrors rest; Forget, forego thy earthly part, Thine heavenly being trust: Ah, vain attempt! my coward heart Oh ye! who sooth the pangs of death Still pour the fervent prayer: And ye, whose smile must greet my eye Who breathe for me the tender sigh, And shed the pitying tear Whose kindness (though far far removed My grateful thoughts perceive, Pride of my life, esteemed, beloved, My last sad claim receive! Oh! do not quite your friend forget, And speak of her with fond regret Who asks your lingering thoughts, SONNET. Mrs. Tighe. As nearer I approach that fatal day Which makes all mortal cares appear so light, Behold, how quickly melted from your sight By which Hope led the wandering cheated soul; Wearied, she seeks repose, and owns at last How sighs, and tears, and youth, were spent in vain, While languishing she mourned in Folly's sad control. LINES ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN. Anonymous. YES, grief will have way—but the fast falling tear Whose vanity flew round him, only while fed By the odour his fame in its summer-time gave ;— Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the dead, Like the Ghole of the East, comes to feed at his grave! Oh! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow, The relics of him who died-friendless and lorn! How proud they can press to the funʼral array Of one, whom they shunn'd in his sickness and sorrow :— How bailiffs may seize his last blanket, to-day, Whose pall shall be held up by nobles, to-morrow! "Was this then the fate! future ages will say, When some names shall live but in history's curse; When Truth will be heard, and these Lords of a day Be forgotten as fools, or remember'd as worse;— "Was this then the fate of that high-gifted man, "Through each mode of the lyre, and was master of all ! "Whose mind was an essence, compounded with art "And could call up its sunshine, or bring down its showers! "Whose humour, as gay as the fire-fly's light, "Play'd round every subject, and shone as it play'd ;— "Whose wit, in the combat, as gentle as bright, "Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade ; "Whose eloquence-bright'ning whatever it tried, Yes--such was the man, and so wretched his fate ;- |