Short Poems

The mounting minde that hasts to climbe,
when Fortune whirles her wheele:
With double dolour is deprest,
if downe he chaunce to reele.

From bounteous Heaven, as early show'rs are found,
With wond'rous pow'r to fertilize the ground;
Thus, oft the heavy storms of grief and woe,
Bid the sweet buds of heav'nly virtue blow;
They glow with thee, A SPASIA ! — May they bring.
A glorious harvest — an unfading spring!

FROM THE GREEK

I was the Sibyl! — In this marble cell
Sleep the pale lips that breathed the oracle.
Death's sceptre stoop'd upon my virgin brow;
Then voice and beauty fled! All's silent now.
Yet still with Hermes and the Nymphs I rove,
Elysian spirit! — I was Phaebus' love.

WRITTEN AT THE RECTORY, AT BYFLEST

Witness ye Skies — oh Earth give ear —
Behold a host of Angels near!
They speak a Truth of matchless worth,
The hour that gave a Saviour birth!
The deepest shades of Night, profound,
Shall echo with the glorious sound!

FROM THE GREEK .

Be Greece her hero's sepulchre ,
Be Persia's fleets the trophy there,
The epitaph be Xerxes' name.
The column , Salamis! — to shame
The weak ingratitude that gave
T HEMISTOCLES a narrow grave.

As Scipio smylde to cloke his couert smarte,
What tyme he sawe his happy state declyne:
So some alike doe shadowe griefe of harte,
With outwarde myrth, when inwardly they pyne.
And to the worlde yeelde forth such shewes of ioye,
As fewe would deeme, they once did tast annoye.
When they in deede, with S CIPIOS griefe complayne,
Their short regarde, for long employed payne.

FROM THE GREEK .

Troy fell with Hector, and no champion's spear,
From that o'erwhelming hour, taught Greece to fear.
With A LEXANDER perished Pella's name;
Thus one great mind is life, and power, and fame.

Way up on Clinch Mountain where the wild geese fly high,
I'll think of little Allie en lay down en die.

You may boast of yore knowledge, en brage o' yore sense,
'Twill all be forgotten a hundred years hence.

Oh Lulu, oh Lulu, oh Lulu, my dear.
I'd give the whole world if my Lulu was hyer.

( " O palais, sois benie. " )

Palace and ruin, bless thee evermore!
Grateful we bow thy gloomy tow'rs before;
For the old King of France hath found in thee.
That melancholy hospitality
Which in their royal fortune's evil day,
Stuarts and Bourbons to each other pay.

You ask, dear Car , what mistress I would chufe?
Not one too strictly coy, nor yet too loose;
Whose unaffected character would prove
Like Delia modest, yet a friend to love;
No prudish air to damp the genial joy,
And charms enough to satisfy, — not cloy.