Haste on my breast such dews to rain!
My ever-lov'd, return again!
The pause has check'd my spirit glad;
Deep, doubting hope is ever sad;
But sadder thoughts now intervene
To cloud that sweet and tranquil scene.
Direr than absence is the foe,
Who waits to give the fatal blow:
Weeping within that mansion fair
Sits Filial Love-Death hovers there.
He comes not now to lead the bloom
Of youth to an undreaded tomb;
He comes not now to tame the pride
Of matron health confirm'd and tried;
Not tow'ring man provokes his rage;
'Tis woman, feebleness, and age.
And yet, nor beauty early cropp'd,
Nor manhood's strength untimely dropp'd,
Could waken more regretful sighs,
Or more with sorrow blend surprise.
For she, his noble prey, had stood
Like an old oak in Sherburn wood,
In varied verdure richly deck'd,
Whose ample branches wav'd uncheck'd;
And though dead boughs commingling grew,
Abrupt and bare, of darker hue;
Though weeds minute and yellow moss,
With varied tints, the bark emboss;
Yet lovely was its pleasant shade,
Lovely the trunk with moss inlaid,
Lovely the long-hair'd lichens grey,
Lovely its pride and its decay.
Such, Macclesfield, thou wert! Old Time ( Himself had spar'd thy beamy prime m Uninjur'd, as on Grecia's strand
He views the works of Phidias' hand;
Boast of the world! whose heav'nly forms
Can chain the winds, arrest the storms, ga)
And bid the sun, the dews, the air,
Perfection's noblest image spare.
So Time had past o'er thee, bright dame;
All chang'd; but thou wert still the same..
Still skill'd to give the fading flower
More brilliant life by Painting's power;
Still skill'd the nimble steel to ply
With quick inventful industry;
Still skill'd to frame the moral rhyme,
Or point with Gospel truths the lay sublime;
But rarer yet, 'mid age's frost
The fire of youth thou hadst not lost;
Still at another's bliss could'st glow;
Still melt to hear another's woe;
Still give the poor man's cares relief;
Still bend to soothe the mourner's grief.
Though near a century's course had sped,
And bleach'd thy venerable head,
By age's vice and woe untold
Thy years remain'd-Thou wert not old!
And so to live and so to die,
Is endless rare felicity.
But there is one*, whose ready tear
Bedews thy pale cheek on thy bier;
One, whom my heart, my tongue, my lays,
Dare to admire, but not to praise.
+ The Right Hon. Lady Mary Parker.
O friend of Zosia! friend of all,
Whom misery, pain, and want enthral!
Be comforted! though ne'er again
Thy mother's hand thy hand shall strain;
Though never shall she feel thy cares,
Congenial joys her spirit shares:
Congenial, yet superior, giv'n
By sister angels in her native heav'n.
Oh! who would weep the lov'd-one dead,
When death is bliss! be comforted.
Why thus in fond, though vain, relief,
With weeping praise perpetuate grief!
Why on the dead, the absent, muse?
And joy from present friends refuse!
Why dwell on yonder mournful dome,
And shun those friends' delightful home!
"Twere hard to sing thy varying charm,
Thou Cottage, Mansion, Village, Farm*:
Thou beautiful Epitome
Of all that useful is and rare,
Where Comfort sits with smiling air,
And laughing Hospitality.
'Twere hard to sing-And harder still
The dearer charms those halls that fill.
"Twere hard to sing-The sun is low;
Quick to the lovely Farm we go,
Its strongest spells to find;
And cluster'd round the blazing fire,
When beauty, virtue, wit inspire,
O they that learn not to admire,
Dull must they be, and deaf, and blind!
* Watlington farm: the residence of William Hayward, Esq.
THE CAPTURE OF BAGDAD, 1787.
TO RICHARD LOVEL EDGWORTH, ES3.
To Mr. Edgworth this Ode is inscribed, because a penciled observation of that gentleman, on a note relative to this subject, in the Occasional Epistles, viz. "this would be a fine subject for Mr. Irwin's Muse," induced the attempt, to add another illustration of the power of Music, to the unrivalled Odes of Dryden, Pope, and Collins.
'BARE the sabre, poise the lance,
"Bid the chosen bands advance;
"Rous'd by the trumpet's quick'ning breath,
"Let each warrior spurn at death.
"Lo! the sacred banner flies,
" Beacon bright of Paradise!
"Give our Prophet for the word,
"To edge anew the OTHMAN Sword:
"To pity's spell each heart to steel,
"That none the ties of nature feel;
"Should manhood shun the vengeance blade,
"Or beauty's form the point invade:
"Or infancy, with potent eye,
"Or reverend age, for mercy cry:
"So may I, holy OMAR! want thy grace,
"If one escape of ALI's hateful race!"
This mandate, streaming blood, Issued hoarse, from Tygris' flood,
Where AMURATH, victorious, rode. BAGDAD, in vain, resists his mighty powers, Her walls convulse! dispart, her towers! Fear, flight, her pale defenders goad,
While sabres storm the breach, and javelins drift in showers!
The servile soldiery the death-word hear,
More savage grow in cruelty's career,
And stain, with harmless gore, the warrior's generous spear!
In wrathful mood,
The Sultan stood;
Smiles on the field,
Which nought could yield,
But anguish to the good!
Hark! what notes distil from far,
Discordant to the din of war?
Now, through the sad and transient calm,
Pouring Music's healing balm.
Those notes pervade the royal ear-
Musician sweet! what fruitless zeal
Wakes thy lyre, for PERSIA's weal?
Can song the harden'd breast assail,
Or charm to rest, the dagger'd hand?
When justice and compassion fail,
And lucre spurs the bigot band?
Arrested in his sanguine current wide,
Fell AMURATH, indignant, eyes
the tower,
the Bard, those numbers to the tide,
And shook the apathy of lawless power:
His hand he rais'd, the dulcet sounds to still,
But doubt his purpose crost-now first irresolute in ill!
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