Poems — Background and Themes

y Within the church-porch drear and dark, Upon the vigil of Saint Mark, And, lovely maiden! you shall see What youth your husband is to be.”

Rebecca, when the night grew dark, Upon the vigil of Saint Mark, (Observ’d by Paul, a roguish scout, Who guess’d the task she went about,) Stepp’d to St Stephen’s Church to see What youth her husband was to be.

Rebecca heard the screech-owl cry, And saw the black bat round her fly; She sat, ’till, wild with fear, at last Her blood ran cold, her pulse beat fast; And yet, rash maid! she stopp’d to see What youth her husband was to be.

Rebecca heard the midnight chime Ring out the yawning peal of time, When shrouded Paul, unlucky knave! Rose like a spectre from the grave; And cried, “Fair maiden, come with me. For I your bridegroom am to be.”

Rebecca turn’d her head aside, Sent forth a hideous shriek, and died! While Paul confess’d himself, in vain, Rebecca never spoke again! Ah! little, hapless maid! did she Think Death her bridegroom was to be.

Rebecca! may thy story long Instruct the giddy and the young. Fright not, fond youths! the timid fair; And you too, gentle maids! beware; Nor seek by lawless arts to see What youths your husbands are to be.

TO AN AURICULA, BELONGING TO ——.

Thou rear’st thy beauteous head, sweet flow’r Gemm’d by the soft and vernal show’r; Its drops still round thee shine: The florist views thee with delight; And, if so precious in _his_ sight, Oh! what art thou in _mine_?

For she, who nurs’d thy drooping form When Winter pour’d her snowy storm, Has oft consol’d me too; For me a fost’ring tear has shed,— She has reviv’d my drooping head, And bade me bloom anew.

When adverse Fortune bade us part, And grief depress’d my aching heart, Like yon reviving ray, She from behind the cloud would move, And with a stolen look of love Would melt my cares away.

Sweet flow’r! supremely dear to me, Thy lovely mistress blooms in thee, For, tho’ the garden’s pride, In beauty’s grace and tint array’d, Thou seem’st to court the secret shade, Thy modest form to hide.

Oh! crown’d with many a roseate year, Bless’d may she be who plac’d thee here, Until the tear of love Shall tremble in the eye to find Her spirit, spotless and refin’d, Borne to the realms above!

And oft for thee, sweet child of spring! The Muse shall touch her tend’rest string; And, as thou rear’st thine head, She shall invoke the softest air, Or ask the chilling storm to spare, And bless thy humble bed.

_On the Departure of Sir John Borlase Warren, K.B_.

TO TAKE THE COMMAND OF A SQUADRON.

Oh! why does sorrow shade thy face, Where mind and beauty vie with grace? Say, dost thou for thy hero weep, Who gallantly, upon the deep, Is gone to tell the madd’ning foe, Tho’ vict’ry laid our Nelson low, We still have chiefs as greatly brave, Proudly triumphant on the wave? Dear to thy Country shalt thou be, Fair mourner! and her sympathy Is thine; for, in the war’s alarms, Thou gav’st thine hero from thine arms; And only ask’d to sigh alone, To look to heav’n, and weep him gone. Oh! soon shall all thy sorrow cease, And, to thine aching bosom, peace Shall quick return;—another tear To love and joy, supremely dear, Shall give thy gen’rous mind relief— That tear shall gem the laurel leaf.

TO MISS ——, ACCOMPANIED BY A ROSE AND A LILY.

I look’d the fragrant garden round For what I thought would picture best Thy beauty and thy modesty; A lily and a rose I found,— With kisses on their leaves imprest, I send the beauteous pair to thee.

Nature’s imperfect child, to whom The world is wrapt in viewless gloom, Can unresisted still impart The fondest wishes of his heart.

And he, to whose impervious ear The sweetest sounds no charms dispense, Can bid his inmost soul appear In clear, tho’ silent, eloquence.

But we, my Julia, not so blest, Are doom’d a diff’rent fate to prove,— To feel each joy and hope supprest That flow from pure, but hidden, love.

UPON ANACREON MOORE’S SAYING THAT HE DISLIKED SINGING TO MEN.