Short Poems

THE rumour of a good man's death
Sounds like a Virtue's parting breath.
The tears on Dysart's urn deplore
His generous heart that beats no more.
But Fortune is of Mercy's train:
He lives, and we are bless'd again.

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY .

Where are the banners now, that Pride unfurl'd?
Where now the Kings, and Masters of the World?
Imperious Death away their pageants bore,
And wrote this title, " We are all no more! "

The hand of Death his parting soul disarms:
He dies, in Virtue's love — in Beauty's arms:
Descending Angels consecrate the tear,
And they accept him — from an Angel here .

Friends that in joy have been together bless'd,
Are but united Rose-buds at the best,
But friends that brave Oppression's thunderingstrokes,
Are two combin'd inseparable Oaks .

To covet an appropriate bliss,
The Decalogue has made a sin;
But envy at a common kiss
Makes a poor guilt, not worth a pin.
Mine 's an offence that Kings might share,
It reaches Envy's proudest height;
A Sun-beam the inspiring Fair,
And Love my envy'd Brother's right.

From other leaves their glowing hues are fled,
The bough disowns them, for the leaves are dead:
But thine alone the Winter have defy'd,
And they are green , as in the Summer's pride.

In the ray that her eyes to your colours may give
Beauty's exquisite model again seems to live:
But the charm is imperfect that glows in her cheek,
As the form cannot move , and the lips cannot speak .

Y E Guardian Angels, who discover
How dearly all her Children love her,
Oh, listen to the Filial Prayer,
And shield her, with a Mother's care!
To charm, as long as breath endures,
The power is hers — the gift is yours;
Grant — for it 's all that we implore —
Her life — till she is lov'd no more!

Y E Guardian Angels, who discover
How dearly all her children love her,
Oh, listen to the filial prayer,
And shield her with a mother's care!
To charm as long as health endures,
The power is her's, the gift is yours:
Grant, for 'tis all that we implore,
Her life — till she is lov'd no more .

MY heart with joy, no Indian slave,
Its filial tribute proudly gave:
The Muse appear'd, and whisper'd thus:
" A Mother's rights are debts to us .
If jealous of the Poet's fame,
Still cherish the maternal claim,
Nor blush the feelings to display,
Which Cowper shar'd with Pope and Gray . "