« IndietroContinua »
It is Maria's voice I hear;
So calls the woodlark in the grove,
At once 'tis music and 'tis love.
And art thou come! and art thou true!
On a lady famed for her Caprice.
How cold is that bosom which folly once fired,
How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd;
How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired,
If sorrow and anguish their exit await,
From friendship and dearest affection remov'd; How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate,
Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unlov'd.
Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you;
So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear: But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true,
And flowers let us cull for Maria's cold bier.
We'll search through the garden for each silly flower,
For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed.
We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay;
There keen Indignation shall dart on his prey,
Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire.
HERE lies, now a prey to insulting neglect,
What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam:
Want only of wisdom denied her respect,
Want only of goodness denied her esteem.
PINNED TO MRS. WALTER RIDDELL'S CARRIAGE
IF you rattle along like your Mistress's tongue,
Your speed will outrival the dart;
But a fly for your load, you'll break down on the road,
EPITAPH FOR MR. WALTER RIDDELL
Sic a reptile was Wat, sic a miscreant slave,
That the worms ev'n damn'd him when laid in his grave;
EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS TO MARIA
FROM those drear solitudes and frowsy cells,
"Alas! I feel I am no actor here!"
"Tis real hangmen real scourges bear!
Prepare Maria, for a horrid tale
Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale;
Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy poll'd,
By barber woven, and by barber sold,
Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest care,
I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar;
Or, haughty Chieftain, 'mid the din of arms.
While sans-culottes stoop up the mountain high,
Blest Highland bonnet! once my proudest dress,
The shrinking Bard adown the alley skulks,
And dares the public like a noontide sun.
Whose spleen (e'en worse than Burns's venom, when
And pours his vengeance in the burning line,)-
And even the abuse of Poesy abus'd?—
Who called her verse a Parish Workhouse, made
A Workhouse! ah, that sound awakes my woes,
Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour?
Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell,
And make a vast monopoly of hell?
Thou know'st the Virtues cannot hate thee worse;
The Vices also, must they club their curse?
Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all?
Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares;
Who says that fool alone is not thy due,
Our force united on thy foes we'll turn,
My periods that deciphering defy,
And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply!
EPITAPH ON A NOTED COXCOMB
Capt. Wm. Roddick, of Corbiston.
LIGHT lay the earth on Billy's breast,
ON CAPT. LASCELLES
WHEN Lascelles thought fit from this world to depart, Some friends warmly thought of embalming his heart; A bystander whispers-"Pray don't make so much o't, The subject is poison, no reptile will touch it."
ON WM. GRAHAM, ESQ., OF MOSSKNOWE
"STOP thief!" dame Nature call'd to Death,
As Willy drew his latest breath;
How shall I make a fool again?
My choicest model thou hast taʼen.
ON JOHN BUSHBY, ESQ., TINWALD DOWNS
HERE lies John Bushby-honest man,
SONNET ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDELL
Of Glenriddell and Friars' Carse.
No more, ye warblers of the wood! no more;
Thou young-eyed Spring! gay in thy verdant stole,
How can ye charm, ye flowers, with all your dyes?
How can I to the tuneful strain attend?
That strain flows round the untimely tomb where Riddell lies.
Yes, pour, ye warblers! pour the notes of woe,
And soothe the Virtues weeping o'er his bier:
The man of worth-and hath not left his peer!
Thee, Spring! again with joy shall others greet;
THE LOVELY LASS O' INVERNESS
THE lovely lass o' Inverness,
Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For, e'en to morn she cries, alas!
"Drumossie moor, Drumossie day-
"Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,