When from thy face Health’s latest relic fled,
Where Hope might flatter, with reluctant tread,—
Still, darting forward from the weight of woe,
Thy soul with all its energy would glow;
Still with the purest passion wouldst thou prove
The glow of friendship and the warmth of love.
And ah! to sacred Memory ever nigh,
Thy wit and humour claim the passing sigh:
When, thro’ the hour, with unresisted skill,
I’ve seen thee mould each feature to thy will,—
When friends drew round thee with attentive ear,
Pleas’d with the raill’ry which they could not fear.
Oh! how I’ve heard thee, with concealing art,
Join in the song, tho’ sorrow rent thy heart;
How have I seen thee too, with venial guile,
O’er many an anguish force the faithless smile,—
Seen suffering Nature check each sigh, each fear,
To rob maternal fondness of a tear!
Alas! those scenes are past!—Vain was the pray’r
That ask’d of Fate to soften and to spare;
Ah! vain, if wit and virtue could not save
Thy youthful honours from an early grave.
But yet, if here my warm fraternal love
May claim alliance with the realms above;
If kindred Nature, with perpetual bloom,
Transplanted springs, and lives beyond the tomb;
Thy pitying soul shall smile upon my grief,
Shall feel a pang that wishes not relief;
In visions still shall shield me as I go,
Along this gloomy wilderness of woe;
Shall still regard me with peculiar pride,
On earth my brother, and in heav’n my guide!
Methinks I see thee reach th’ empyrean shore,
And heav’n’s full chorus hails one angel more;
While ’mid the seraph-forms that round thee fly,
Thy father meets thee with ecstatic eye!
He springs exulting from his throne of rest,
Extends his arms, and clasps thee to his breast!
[Footnote A: The piano-forte, on which he excelled.]
“The Golden Days of good Queen Bess.”
To my Muse give attention, and deem it not a mystery
If I jumble up together music, poetry, and history,
To sing of the vices of wicked Queen Bess, sir,
Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir,
Detested be the memory of wicked Queen Bess, sir,
Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir.
In saying she would die a maid, she, England! did
But what she did, and what she died—I hope you will excuse me:
A gallant Earl a miracle of passion for her fed, sir;
She kiss’d him, and she clos’d the scene by striking off his head, sir!
Detested be, &c.
Oh! rude ungrateful Scotland! had thy desolated Queen,
No blue eyes ever known, nor had she beauteous been, sir,
The envy of our old rival hag she might have baffled, sir,
Nor with her guiltless blood have crimson’d o’er the scaffold, sir.
Detested be, &c.