Oft, panic-struck, I sink, dismay’d,
Call, with expiring faith, for aid;
When all my efforts useless seem,
Emptied of force as in a dream,
My courage knows to persevere,
Entwin’d, o’ergrown, o’ertowered by fear!
As he who summoned in the night,
At sudden wreck, in wild affright,
Once throws his arms around a mast,
Continues still to hold it fast,
When sight and strength and aim are flown,
When cold, benumb’d, and senseless grown,
My soul, by hurrying tempests driven,
Though blinded from the light of Heaven,
Clinging, all hope, all comfort o’er,
Must yet awaken on the shore!
To Mr. And Mrs. EVERARD,
On their only Son’s being in the Navy, 1811.
Talent and beauty, and the heart’s warm glow,
Gilding with Heavenly light his path below,
Few with such rare felicity have won,
In that rich prize, a dear and only son;
And fewer but those faculties would doom
To the soft prison of a pamper’d home;
Check his bold wishes when they soar’d on high,
And see well-pleas’d each early vision die;
But ye, enweaving, as to me appears,
With his bright hopes, those of maturer years,
Hallowing the web, with all that parents feel,
The saintly trust in Heav’n, the patriot’s zeal,
The aching doubts, that still tenacious wind
Around the lofty and the tender mind;
Ye, with a more than Roman virtue, yield,
To the proud strife of Albion’s liquid field,
This darling; and, in whispers, bid him wear
The finest wreath that buds and blossoms there;
And I could almost say I heard a strain
Pronounce—the sacrifice should not be vain!
To the Hon. Lady J——,
With the Picture of her Grand-daughter, the present Lady Petre.
Behold the semblance of thy flower!
I could not fill its leaves with dew,
Shew its tints varying with the hour,
Its motion as the zephyrs blew.
And beauty too were more complete,
Appearing on the native stem,
In midst of buds and blossoms sweet,
And catching graces, charms from them.
Or blooming under eyes like thine,
Whose fond, soft gaze, whose tender tear,
Must also, losing power divine,
Awake no answering sweetness here.
For much of loveliness must sleep,
E’en when inspir’d and led by truth;
The faithful pencil aims to keep
Mildness and innocence and youth.
To Mrs. A.
An Hour was before me, no creature more bright,
More airy, more joyous, e’er sprang on my sight.
To catch and to fetter I instantly tried,
And “thou art my slave, pretty vagrant,” I cried.