SONNET. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. Tis sweet to think the spirits of the blest May hover round the virtuous man's repose; And oft in visions animate his breast, And scenes of bright beatitude disclose. The ministers of Heaven, with pure control, May bid his sorrow and emotion cease, Inspire the pious fervour of his soul, And whisper to his bosom hallow'd peace. Ah, tender thought! that oft with sweet relief May charm the bosom of a weeping friend, Beguile with magic power the tear of grief, And pensive pleasure with devotion blend; While oft he fancies music, sweetly faint, The airy lay of some departed saint. RURAL WALKS. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. OH! may I ever pass my happy hours The airy upland and the woodland green, The valley, and romantic mountain scene; The lowly hermitage, or fair domain, The dell retired, or willow-shaded lane; "And every spot in sylvan beauty drest, And every landscape, charms my youthful breast." SONNET WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. [In 1808, a collection of her poems, which had long been regarded amongst her friends with a degree of admiration perhaps more partial than judicious, was submitted to the world, in the form (certainly an ill-advised one) of a quarto volume. Its appearance drew down the animadversions of some self-constituted arbiter of public taste, and the young poetess was thus early initiated into the pains and perils attendant upon the career of an author;-though it may here be observed, that, as far as criticism was concerned, this was at once the first and last time she was destined to meet with any thing like harshness or mortification. Though this unexpected severity was felt bitterly for a few days, her buoyant spirit soon rose above it, and her effusions continued to be poured forth as spontaneously as the song of the skylark.] I LOVE to hail the mild and balmy hour To mark the fading smile of closing day. Till the soft moonbeams tremble on the seas; While melting sounds decay on fancy's ear, Of airy music floating on the breeze. 1 The criticism referred to, and which, considering the circumstances under which the volume appeared, was certainly somewhat ungenerous, and quite uncalled for, ran as follows: "We hear that these poems are the 'genuine productions of a young lady, written between the ages of eight and thirteen years,' and we do not feel inclined to question the intelligence; but although the fact may insure them an indulgent reception from all those who have children dear,' yet, when a little girl publishes a large quarto, we are disposed to examine before we admit her claims to public attention. Many of Miss Browne's compositions are extremely jejune. However, though Miss Browne's poems contain some erroneous and some pitiable lines, we must praise the Reflections in a ruined Castle,' and the poetic strain in which they are delivered. The lines to Patriotism' contain good thoughts and forcible images; and if the youthful author were to content herself for some years with reading instead of writing, we should open any future work from her pen with an expectation of pleasure, founded on our recollection of this publication; though we must, at the same time, observe, that premature talents are not always to be considered as signs of future excellence. The honeysuckle attains maturity before the oak."-Monthly Review, 1809. 4 [New sources of inspiration were now opening to her view. Birthday addresses, songs by the seashore, and invocations to fairies, were henceforth to be diversified with warlike themes; and trumpets and banners now floated through the dreams in which birds and flowers had once reigned paramount. Her two elder brothers had entered the army at an early age, and were both serving in the 23d Royal Welsh Fusiliers. One of them was now engaged in the Spanish campaign under Sir John Moore; and a vivid imagination and enthusiastic affections being alike enlisted in the cause, her young mind was filled with glorious visions of British valour and Spanish patriotism. In her ardent view, the days of chivalry seemed to be restored, and the very names which were of daily occurrence in the despatches, were involuntarily associated with the deeds of Roland and his Paladins, or of her own especial hero, "The Cid Ruy Diaz," the Campeador. Under the inspiration of these feelings, she composed a poem entitled "England and Spain," which was published and afterwards translated into Spanish. This cannot but be considered as a very remarkable production for a girl of fourteen; lofty sentiments, correctness of language, and historical knowledge, being all strikingly displayed in it.—Memoir, p. 10, 11.] Too long have Tyranny and Power combined O gallant Frederic! could thy parted shade Have seen thy country vanquish'd and betray'd, How had thy soul indignant mourn'd her shame, Her sullied trophies, and her tarnish'd fame! When Valour wept lamented BRUNSWICK'S doom, And nursed with tears the laurels on his tomb; When Prussia, drooping o'er her hero's grave, Invoked his spirit to descend and save; Then set her glories-then expired her sun, And fraud achieved c'en more than conquest won! O'er peaceful realms, that smiled with plenty Has desolation spread her ample sway; Thus the wild hurricane's impetuous force Wave the dread banner, seize the glittering lance! How long shall despots and usurpers reign? Is virtue lost? is martial ardour dead? Illustrious names! still, still united beam, Be still the hero's boast, the poet's theme: So, when two radiant gems together shine, And in one wreath their lucid light combine; Each, as it sparkles with transcendant rays, Adds to the lustre of its kindred blaze. Descend, O Genius! from thy orb descend! Thy glowing thought, thy kindling spirit lend! As Memnon's harp (so ancient fables say) With sweet vibration meets the morning ray, So let the chords thy heavenly presence own, And swell a louder note, a nobler tone; Call from the sun, her burning throne on high, The seraph Ecstasy, with lightning eye; Steal from the source of day empyreal fire, And breathe the soul of rapture o'er the lyre! Hail, Albion hail, thou land of freedom's birth! Pride of the main, and Phoenix of the earth! Thou second Rome, where mercy, justice, dwell, Whose sons in wisdom as in arms excel ! Thine are the dauntless bands, like Spartans brave, Bold in the field, triumphant on the wave; In classic elegance and arts divine, To rival Athens' fairest palm is thine; For this thy noble sons have spread alarms, And bade the zones resound with Britain's arms! Calpè's proud rock, and Syria's palmy shore, Have heard and trembled at their battle's roar; The sacred waves of fertilising Nile Have seen the triumphs of the conquering isle; Not Mincio's banks, nor Meles' classic tide, Bright in the annals of th' impartial page, Britannia's heroes live from age to age! From ancient days, when dwelt her savage race, Spirit of ALFRED! patriot soul sublime! Your Albion still to freedom's banner true! Its awful head, and mocks the waste of years; Lo! where her pennons, waving high, aspire, Bold Victory hovers near, "with eyes of fire!" While Lusitania hails, with just applause, The brave defenders of her injured cause; Bids the full song, the note of triumph rise, And swells th' exulting pæan to the skies! And they, who late with anguish, hard to tell, Breathed to their cherish'd realms a sad farewell! Who, as the vessel bore them o'er the tide, Still fondly linger'd on its deck, and sigh'd; Gazed on the shore, till tears obscured their sight, And the blue distance melted into lightThe Royal exiles, forced by Gallia's hate To fly for refuge in a foreign stateThey, soon returning o'er the western main, Ere long may view their clime beloved again: And as the blazing pillar led the host Of faithful Israel o'er the desert coast, So may Britannia guide the noble band O'er the wild ocean to their native land. O glorious isle !-O sovereign of the waves! Thine are the sons who "never will be slaves!" See them once more, with ardent hearts advance, Is there no bard of heavenly power possess'd To thrill, to rouse, to animate the breast? Like Shakspeare o'er the secret mind to sway, And call each wayward passion to obey? Is there no bard, imbued with hallow'd fire, To wake the chords of Ossian's magic lyre; Whose numbers breathing all his flame divine, The patriot's name to ages might consign? Rise, Inspiration! rise! be this thy theme, And mount, like Uriel, on the golden beam! Oh, could my muse on seraph pinion spring, And sweep with rapture's hand the trembling string! Could she the bosom energies control, Iberian bands! whose noble ardour glows To pour confusion on oppressive foes; Intrepid spirits, hail! 'tis yours to feel The hero's fire, the freeman's godlike zcal! Not to secure dominion's boundless reign, Ye wave the flag of conquest o'er the slain; No cruel rapine leads you to the war, Nor mad ambition, whirl'd in crimson car. No, brave Castilians! yours a nobler end, Your land, your laws, your monarch to defend ! For these, for these, your valiant legions rear The floating standard, and the lofty spear! The fearless lover wields the conquering sword, Fired by the image of the maid adored! His best-beloved, his fondest ties, to aid, The father's hand unsheaths the glittering blade! For each, for all, for ev'ry sacred right, The daring patriot mingles in the fight! And e'en if love or friendship fail to warm, His country's name alone can nerve his dauntless arm ! He bleeds! he falls! his death-bed is the field! His dirge the trumpet, and his bier the shield! His closing eyes the beam of valour speak, The flush of ardour lingers on his check; Serene he lifts to heaven those closing eyes, Oh! ever hallow'd be his verdant grave- O thou, the sovereign of the noble soul! Thou source of energies beyond control! Queen of the lofty thought, the generous deed, Whose sons unconquer'd fight, undaunted bleed,— Inspiring Liberty! thy worshipp'd name The warm enthusiast kindles to a flame; Thy charms inspire him to achievements high, Thy look of heaven, thy voice of harmony. More blest with thee to tread perennial snows, Where ne'er a flower expands, a zephyr blows; Where Winter, binding nature in his chain, In frost-work palace holds perpetual reign; Than, far from thee, with frolic step to rove The green savannas and the spicy grove; Scent the rich balm of India's perfumed gales, In citron-woods and aromatic vales: For oh! fair Liberty, when thou art near, Elysium blossoms in the desert drear! Where'er thy smile its magic power bestows, There arts and taste expand, there fancy glows; The sacred lyre its wild enchantment gives, And every chord to swelling transport lives; There ardent Genius bids the pencil trace The soul of beauty, and the lines of grace; With bold Promethean hand, the canvass warms, And calls from stone expression's breathing forms. Thus, where the fruitful Nile o'erflows its bound, Its genial waves diffuse abundance round, Bid Ceres laugh o'er waste and sterile sands, And rich profusion clothe deserted lands. Immortal Freedom! daughter of the skies! To thee shall Britain's grateful incense rise. Ne'er, goddess! ne'er forsake thy favourite isle, Still be thy Albion brighten'd with thy smile! Long had thy spirit slept in dead repose, While proudly triumph'd thine insulting foes; Yet, though a cloud may veil Apollo's light, Proceed, proceed, ye firm undaunted band! Athenian valour join'd Laconia's might, Genius of chivalry! whose early days Tradition still recounts in artless lays; Whose faded splendours fancy oft recallsThe floating banners and the lofty halls, The gallant feats thy festivals display'd, The tilt, the tournament, the long crusade; Whose ancient pride Romance delights to hail, In fabling numbers, or heroic tale: Those times are fled, when stern thy castles frown'd, Their stately towers with feudal grandeur crown'd; Yet, though thy transient pageantries are gone, Theirs were the courts in regal pomp array'd, All that a poet's dream could picture bright, Yet vain their pride, their wealth, and radiant state, When freedom waved on high the sword of fate! In later times the gallant Cid arose, Burning with zeal against his country's foes; His victor-arm Alphonso's throne maintain'd, His laureate brows the wreath of conquest gain'd! And still his deeds Castilian bards rehearse, Inspiring theme of patriotic verse! High in the temple of recording fame, Iberia points to great Gonsalvo's name! Victorious chief! whose valour still defied The arms of Gaul, and bow'd her crested pride; |