This simple tablet marks a Father's bier, And those he loved in life, in death are near; Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son. For him, for them, a Daughter bade Whether on India's burning coasts it rise, Memorial of domestic charities. Still wouldst thou know why o'er the he toil, Or till Acadia's winter-fetter'd soil, He hears with throbbing heart and moisten'd eyes, In female grace the willow droops And, as he hears, what dear illusions marble spread, It opens on his soul his native dell, The minstrel harp is emblematic hung; The woods wild waving, and the What poet's voice is smother'd here in dust Till waked to join the chorus of the just, Lo! one brief line an answer sad supplies, Honour'd, beloved, and mourn'd, here Seward lies; Her worth, her warmth of heart, let friendship say, Go seek her genius in her living lay. PROLOGUE To Miss Baillie's Play of The Family Legend!' (1809.) 'Tis sweet to hear expiring Summer's sigh, Through forests tinged with russet, wail and die; Tis sweet and sad the latest notes to hear Of distant music, dying on the ear; But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand, We list the legends of our native land, Link'd as they come with every tender tie, Memorials dear of youth and infancy. water's swell; The plaided boatman, resting on his oar, Thine ear has heard, with scorn instead of awe, Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er Our buckskinn'd justices expound the Our humble stage shall offer to your Wire-draw the acts that fix for wires the pain, sight; Proudly preferr'd that first our efforts And for the netted partridge noose give Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and live; More proudly yet, should Caledon approve The filial token of a Daughter's love. THE POACHER. (1809.) (In imitation of Crabbe.) WELCOME, grave stranger, to our green retreats, Where health with exercise and freedom meets! the swain ; And thy vindictive arm would fain have broke The last light fetter of the feudal yoke, To give the denizens of wood and wild, Nature's free race, to each her freeborn child. Hence hast thou mark'd, with grief, Mock'd with the boon of one poor And long'd to send them forth as free Pour'do'er Chantilly the Parisian train, When musket, pistol, blunderbuss, combined, And scarce the field-pieces were left behind! Thrice welcome, Sage, whose philo- A squadron's charge each leveret's sophic plan heart dismay'd, By nature's limits metes the rights of On every covey fired a bold brigade; La Douce Humanité approved the man; Generous as he, who now for freedom bawls, Now gives full value for true Indian shawls: O'er court, o'er customhouse, his shoe who flings, Now bilks excisemen, and now bullies kings. Like his, I ween, thy comprehensive mind Holds laws as mouse-traps baited for mankind: Thine eye, applausive, each sly vermin sees, That baulks the snare, yet battens on the cheese; sport, For great the alarm indeed, yet small the hurt; Shouts patriotic solemnized the day, With some few added links resumes Then, since such scenes to France no more are known, Come, view with me a hero of thine own! One, whose free actions vindicate the cause Of silvan liberty o'er feudal laws. Seek we yon glades, where the proud oak o'ertops Sunk 'mid yon sordid blankets, till the sun Wide-waving seas of birch and hazel Stoop to the west, the plunderer's Or straggling hollies spread a brighter The tools and booty of his lawless trade; And his son's stirrup shines the badge To wait the associate higgler's evening On the bleak coast of frost-barr'd His sable brow is wet and wrung Labrador. Approach, and through the unlatticed window peepNay, shrink not back, the inmate is asleep; with pain, And his dilated nostril toils in vain ; For short and scant the breath each effort draws, And 'twixt each effort Nature claims a pause. Beyond the loose and sable neckcloth stretch'd, His sinewy throat seems by convulsion twitch'd, While the tongue falters, as to utterance loth, Sounds of dire import-watchword, threat, and oath. And liveliest on the chords the bow did glance When Edward named the tune and led the dance. Kind was his heart, his passions quick and strong, Hearty his laugh, and jovial was his song; Though, stupified by toil, and drugg'd And if he loved a gun, his father swore, Do the locks bristle and the eyebrows Even with the wretch by whom his arch fellow bled. For grouse or partridge massacred in Then, as in plagues the foul conta Was Edward Mansell once,-the light- And oft the owl renew'd her dismal When o'er the swamp he cast his blighting look, From the green marshes of the stagnant brook The bittern's sullen shout the sedges shook! The waning moon, with storm-presaging gleam, Now gave and now withheld her doubtful beam; The old Oak stoop'd his arms, then flung them high, Bellowing and groaning to the troubled sky; 'Twas then, that, couch'd amid the brushwood sere, In Malwood-walk young Mansell watch'd the deer: The fattest buck received his deadly shot, The watchful keeper heard, and sought the spot. Stout were their hearts, and stubborn was their strife; O'erpower'd at length, the Outlaw drew his knife. Next morn a corpse was found upon the fell The rest his waking agony may tell ! OH SAY NOT, MY LOVE. (In imitation of Moore.) Он say not, my love, with that mortified air, That your spring-time of pleasure is flown, Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair For those raptures that still are thine own. Though April his temples may wreathe with the vine, Its tendrils in infancy curl'd, 'Tis the ardour of August matures us the wine, Whose lifeblood enlivens the world. Though thy form, that was fashion'd as light as a fay's, Has assumed a proportion more round, And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze, Looks soberly now on the ground; Enough, after absence to meet me again, Thy steps still with ecstasy move; Enough, that those dear sober glances retain For me the kind language of love. THE BOLD DRAGOON. (1812.) 'Twas a Maréchal of France, and he fain would honour gain, And he long'd to take a passing glance at Portugal from Spain; With his flying guns, this gallant gay, And boasted corps d'arméeO he fear'd not our dragoons, with their long swords, boldly riding, Whack, fal de ral, &c. To Campo Mayor come, he had quietly sat down, Just a fricassee to pick, while his soldiers sack'd the town, When, 'twas peste! morbleu ! mon General, Hear the English bugle-call! And behold the light dragoons, with their long swords, boldly riding, Whack, fal de ral, &c. |