FUGITIVE AND OCCASIONAL POETRY.
WRITTEN ON THE 19TH OF JULY, IN MEMORY OF HIS MAJESTY'S
SAY, glorious orb! whose undiminish'd lamp
Hath lighted countless nations to repose,
When didst thou mark in court, or bower, or camp,
A statelier train, or comelier forms, than those
Whose long array yon ample gates enclose?
The Chiefs are there, who bade the lion wave
On earth and ocean o'er Britannia's foes;
The Senate there, who, to the vanquish'd brave,
Her arts, her equal laws, her rescued freedom gave.
Worthy are they to clasp the gilded spur,
To pace with plumed head and garter'd knee,
While velvet glows beneath pale minever,
The sumptuous garb of antique chivalry;
For not at high Poitiers beat hearts more free,
Not hardier knights the proud Armada met,
Than gird thy golden pall, and beat for thee,
Monarch, whose rule in Albion's crown hath set
Gems that may Tudor mock, and shame Plantagenet.
And now that peerless crown adorns thy brow,
Thine arm sustains the sceptre of command;
Princes before thy throne their fealty vow,
And every voice, and each exultant hand,
Attests the homage of thy native land.
The white-robed choir respond, and music's wings,
Fraught with a nation's prayers, for Heaven expand;
From base to battlement the fabric rings,
And silence guards no more the sepulchre of kings.
Dreams my fond brain-or hath that sound affray'd
The slumbering tenants of the sculptured tomb?
Methinks I track along the dim arcade
Whose storied panes increase its twilight gloom,
Long-buried chiefs that wait the day of doom.
Sebert is there, who bade the cross divine
On Thorney's barren islet bud and bloom;
Meek Edward quits his desecrated shrine;
And Henry wakes, whose name shall with these walls decline.
Potent in arts alone, the wavering Sire
Leans on the dauntless son, his life's support,
On him whose wisdom curb'd the nobles' ire,
Whose valour won the Cambrian mountain fort;
And there strides on the Knight of Agincourt
In equal pace with him of Cressy's field.
Victors in vain, since Fortune's fickle sport
To jarring chiefs consign'd th' unblemish'd shield,
And left to babes the sword scarce Ascabart could wield.
Warriors and war's flood waves thus idly ebb;
But mark the pile where brass has learned to breathe, And stone, like dew-drops on Arachne's web,
Looks lightly down o'er bannered stalls beneath.
Thence come the peaceful kings with sword in sheath.
On Richmond's brow the blended roses twine,
Red Albin's thistle decks her Stuart's wreath,
But Erin's flower, for ages doom'd to pine,
Reserves its bloom to bless the Heir of Brunswick's line.
Nations repose: for man's impetuous pride,
His schemes, his strifes, by death's cold hand are hushed; Remorseless Mary walks at Edward's side;
Eliza views the beauteous foe she crush'd,
Nor paler grows her cheek that never blush'd;
Voluptuous Charles, thrice bound in Bourbon's chain, Meets great Nassau, with Bourbon's conquest flush'd; And Stuart's daughters, him whose golden rein
Ruled the white steed that ramp'd o'er Stuart's lost domain.
Silent the train recedes-but, ah! to him
Who claims their throne, that silence speaks more loud
Than the glad people's voice, their splendour dim
Dispels life's pageant like a summer cloud.
Pensive on him gaze all-the meek-the proud-
The valiant and the weak-but pensive most
Pale Richard's shade-see, see! the crimson'd shroud,
He lingering waves, and, ere in darkness lost,
Gives language to the looks of all the shadowy host.
"Monarch! the feast, the song, the banquet cup,
For thee shall glad yon rafter'd roof to-night;
And every angel form that bears it up,
Shall bathe his pinions in a flood of light.
For thee, in orient pearl, and plumage white,
Shall beauteous Albion lead her starry train,
For thee, the Prince, the Noble, and the Knight,
The lawn-robed Prelate, and the lowly swain,
Shall shout, till vales, and hills, and oceans, shout again.
"The hand untaught to serve, on thee shall tend,
And maple vie with gold thy touch to meet ;
The knee unused to kneel, to thee shall bend;
And, like its mountain lord, the falcon fleet
Shall stoop from air, and chirp thy hand to greet;
While trump, and drum, and clarion's thrilling call,
Herald the youthful Champion, at thy feet
To seal his challenge with the gauntlet's fall,
By high-born Howard back'd, and him who quell'd the Gaul.
"Quaff the full cup of bliss: yet, oh, beware!
As high it foam'd for me, when that fair roof,
My master-work, first spanned the yielding air,
And echo'd first the charger's clattering hoof,
My Champion too was there in arms of proof;
No hand opposed, no tongue defiance spoke ;
Thousands throng'd round, who stood ere long aloof,
And he who hired the assassin's kindlier stroke,
Knelt lowest of the low-the faithless Bolingbroke.
"Then trust not thou the flatterer's hollow voice,
Court not the wavering crowds' vociferous zeal,
Be just-if mortals deem thee just, rejoice-
But if the traitor's malison they deal,
To Him who made thee King, make thine appeal,
Be His strong arm thy buckler, He thy might;
So may'st thou stand unmoved, nor fear, nor feel
Seditious breath, that taints the breeze of night,
Or bold rebellion's shaft, that shames the noonday light.
"And in that hour, when mortal strength is weak,
When thou, like us, shalt own a tyrant's sway,
Supreme o'er Valour's arm, and Beauty's cheek,
And even o'er Virtue's tenement of clay,
With whom thy Sire and mine alike decay,
And thy fair daughter's bloom untimely show'd
Oh! in that awful hour be Heaven thy stay,
And there be thou enthroned, through His dear blood,
Who wore the thorn-wove crown, and dyed the Holy Rood."
TO THE MEMORY OF A LATE DISTINGUISHED CHARACTER.
Lawrence of virtuous Father, virtuous Son.
LONG threatening hung th' impending gloom,
While trembling Hope respired with pain,
And shrinking fear foresaw the doom
That sorrowing hearts could ill sustain :
The bolt is sped-we view aghast
The mighty ruin fall'n at last.
As some majestic sheltering oak,
With ample boughs, the forest's pride,
Victim of Heaven's own thunder stroke,
Spreads its lamented ruin wide;
The scatter'd tenants of its shade
With plaintive cries the ear invade.
Thus low on earth Machaon lies,
To us extinct, that mighty mind;
Long must we mourn the good and wise-
The noble-hearted, true, and kind :--
The yawning gulf, which all deplore,
Lies open to be fill'd no more.
Sprung from a long paternal line,
For virtue loved-for science famed-
'Midst Scotia's nobles first to shine,
His high maternal lineage claim'd;
Yet Genius on his favour'd head
New honours heap'd-new lustre shed.
Sprung from the noble and the brave
The saint, the scholar, and the sage,-
Though round his tomb no trophies wave,
His fame to every distant age
Shall flourish fresh in vernal grace,
And add new splendour to the race.
Cold is that heart whose fervid glow
Burst forth in many an ardent gleam;
Closed are those lips, whence wont to flow
Of eloquence the copious stream,
While wit and learning's blended powers
Bloom'd fair in academic bowers.
His was the clear and spotless life,
Pure as the lucid mountain stream;
And sordid art and petty strife,
And avarice with her golden dream,
Shrunk from that candid open mien
Where truth and honour shone serene.
The stream that with diminish'd force
Irriguous wanders through the mead,
Or, hid in shades, directs its course,
Each humbler plant unseen to feed;
While verdure fresh, and flow'rets gay,
Reviving mark its devious way:
An emblem fair its course supplied
Of bounty ever fresh and new,
That while it wander'd far and wide,
As silent moved as evening dew,
And heal'd disease, and soften'd woe,-
That stream, alas! has ceased to flow.
She who, to him supremely dear,
Dwelt in his generous bosom's core ;
They who, his pride and solace here,
Joy in a father's smile no more,
While o'er the treasure lost they moan,—
Mourn not unaided or alone.
Sickness, and want, and sorrow round,
Respond with answering sounds of woe,
Long must they mourn the skill profound,
That bade the healing balsam flow,
And added to the unbought cure
The aid that made it firm and sure.
Not to this favour'd isle alone,
Where art and genius soar so high, Where science mounts her western throne, And heavenward lifts her eagle eye, Was his much honour'd name confined, Who lived and thought for all his kind.
Where'er the sons of science strive
Our feeble nature's pangs to aid,
His fame immortal shall survive
With grateful honours duly paid,
Extensive as the healing art,
And dear to every generous heart:
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