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Page 3
No more does old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,
Raise a flame in the breast, for the war laurell'd wreath,
Near Askalon's Towers John of Horiston[1] slumbers,
Unnerv'd is the hand of his minstrel by death.
Paul and Hubert too sleep in the valley of Cressy,
For the safety of Edward and ENGLAND they fell,
My fathers! the tears of your country redress ye,
How you fought! how you died! still her annals can tell.
On [2]Marston with Rupert[3] 'gainst traitors contending,
Four Brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field
For Charles the Martyr their country defending,
Till death their attachment to royalty scal'd.
Shades of heroes farewell! your descendant departing,
From the seat of his ancestors, bids ye adieu!
Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting
New courage, he'll think upon glory, and you.
Though a tear dims his eye at this sad separation,
'Tis nature, not fear, which commands his regret;
Far distant he goes with the same emulation,
In the grave, he alone can his fathers forget.
Your fame, and your memory, still will he cherish,
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown;
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish,
When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own.
1803.
[Footnote 1: Horiston Castle, in _Derbyshire_, an ancient seat of the
B--r--n family.]
[Footnote 2: The battle of _Marston Moor_, where the adherents of
CHARLES I. were defeated.]
[Footnote 3: Son of the Elector Palatine, and related to CHARLES I. He
afterwards commanded the Fleet, in the Reign of CHARLES II.]
* * * * *
TO E----.
Let Folly smile, to view the names
Of thee and me in friendship twin'd,
Yet virtue will have greater claims
To love, than rank with vice combin'd.
And though unequal is _thy_ fate,
Since title deck'd my higher birth;
Yet envy not this gaudy state,
_Thine_ is the pride of modest worth.
Our _souls_ at least congenial meet,
Nor can _thy_ lot _my_ rank disgrace;
Our intercourse is not less sweet,
Since worth of rank supplies the place.
_November_, 1802.
* * * * *
ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR AND VERY DEAR TO
HIM.
* * * * *
Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb,
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.
2.
Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
That clay where once such animation beam'd;
The king of terrors seiz'd her as his prey,
Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd.
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