VERSES

WRITTEN IN STONELEIGH PARK.

THE rudest trunk by Nature's hand that's wrought
May teach us more than ever sage has taught:
Ye patriarchal oaks, that mock the span
Of man's existence-(miserable man!)

Ye teach me this, that even in decay
Ye thrive, when the proud mind is worn away.

Ye richly-foliaged woods, that seem but one,
Girding yon uplands with your emerald zone,
Ye tell me there's analogy between
Youth's liveliness, and your most cheerful green.
When the light plays upon your leaves, we glow
With inward joy ourselves; I feel it now.

When sombre shades the brightest hues displace, Steals o'er our hearts their "melancholy grace," 'Tis the bard's golden chain that seems to bind Nature's best energies with those of mind;

For when creation's wonder-works we see,
We feel within us the divinity!

Whence springs this holy feeling? from delight
In looking up to God through works so bright!

Here might Zeluco for a moment feel
(But for a moment) a religious zeal.
Thus Satan gazed on Paradise awhile,
And half forgot his hate, revenge, and guile.

WRITTEN AT ROME.

WE need not fear, in these enlighten'd times,
Hildebrand's power, or Alexander's crimes :
Or that fierce Pope,* unspiritual lord

Of Roman faith, who grasp'd the temporal sword.
But here is Superstition's last strong-hold:
Still here, release from Purgatory's sold;
And here the women, pious in their way,
At noon read Casti,† though at eve they pray:
How eloquent their looks; beneath the lashes
Of their dark eyes the soul of passion flashes!
Alternately they read their prayers, and paint;
Now woo a lover, now invoke a saint!
Such are the Portias, the Cornelias now,

So well is heeded here the marriage vow.

November, 1818.

* Julius II.

says,

CASTI, a profligate writer, author of certain "Novelle," as Forsyth "too excellently wicked."

TO THE REV. W. W.

ON THE BIRTH-DAY OF HIS DAUGHTER.

THIS is indeed to all a lovely morn: But chief to thee, for on this day was born Thy lovely daughter, lovelier with a mindO think I flatter not how pure, refined! Pure as the dreams of holiest saints, and mild As the soft slumbers of an infant child. Yet 'tis possess'd of wisdom, wit, and sense: Her eyes beam forth that mind's intelligence. Thy smiles paternal, faintly tell us now What genuine raptures in thy bosom glow. The fulness of delight is scarce exprest By words; we only see that thou art blest.

DIVES LOQUITUR.

IN IMITATION OF A GREAT POET

"Ecce iterum Crispinus."

I.

HAD I the wit of Newstead's noble bard,
I'd sacrifice it all, again to be

The child I was, when on that smooth

green

I drove my hoop along with mickle glee,
Or climb'd, with eager haste, yon cherry-tree.
Happy are they who need not e'er regret

The long-past days of careless infancy;

sward

Whom friends have ne'er betray'd, nor knaves beset, Who never have been caught in woman's subtle net.

II.

Of this enough, the storm has ceased to rage;
I live-but how, it matters not,—I live !—
"All, all is vanity "-thus spoke the sage :
Yet there remains one pleasure-'tis to give.