Poems.

by Sir John Carr.

PREFACE.

This Volume is submitted to the Public with all that diffidence which ought to attend the publication of Verses, many of which were written in the gay and happy era of boyhood, and others in subsequent periods of maturer life, as a relief from more arduous pursuits.

They lay no pretensions to the depth and solidity of the effusions of the Muse in her elevated flights; they are the few wild notes of the simple shepherd, and do not even affect to imitate the rich cadence of the scientific musician.

If the Author might, without the imputation of vanity, select for them a place in the Temple of Poetry, he would endeavour to cla.s.s them in that niche which is appropriated for the reception of the light and playful _Vers de Societe_.

Should the Reader find them but little worthy of his approval, he will not have reason at the same time to condemn their prolixity: their brevity will, at least in some degree, atone for their want of fire and fancy.

It is thought proper to state that some of the following Poems have appeared before at various times, in a fugitive shape; and that the Poetry in the Author's Tours is here collected.

POEMS,

VERSES

WRITTEN IN A GROTTO

_In a Wood on the Side of the River Dart_,

IN DEVONSHIRE.

Tell me, thou grotto! o'er whose brow are seen Projecting plumes, and shades of deep'ning green,-- While not a sound disturbs thy stony hall, While all thy dewy drops forget to fall,-- Why canst thou not thy soothing charms impart, And shed thy quiet o'er this beating heart?

Tell me, thou richly-painted river! tell, That on thy mirror'd plane dost mimic well Each pendent tree and every distant hill, Tipp'd with red l.u.s.tre, beauteous, bright, and still,--

Can I not, gazing on thy tranquil tide, Shed ev'ry grief upon thy rocky side?

Or must I rove thy margin, calm and clear, The only agitated object near?

Oh! tell me, too, thou babbling cold cascade!

Whose waters, falling thro' successive shade, Unspangled by the brightness of the sky, Awake each echo to a soft reply,-- Say, canst thou not my bosom-grief befriend, And bid one drop upon my heart descend?

When all thy songsters soothe themselves to sleep.

Ah! must these aching eyes for ever weep?

And must their frequent waters, like thine own, Drop, idly drop, on unimpressive stone?

Or, when my beauteous fair shall deign to grace The humid foliage of thy mossy base, Canst thou not tell how many a rock below Impedes to kiss thy waters as they flow?

In _her_ mind canst thou not the feeling rear To stop, or thus caress, each genuine tear?

Teach her, oh! teach her, then, thou cold cascade!

Pour all thy lessons for the lovely maid!

And thou, bless'd grotto! let thy silence prove Her mute consenting answer to my love!

And thou, bright river! as thou roll'st along, Bear on thy wand'ring wave a lover's song!

Strong as thy current, as thy waters pure, Teach her to feel the pa.s.sion I endure!

LINES TO THE MEMORY OF MY DEAR BROTHER,

W.T.P. CARR, ESQ.

--manibus date lilia plenis: Purpureos spargam flores.

_Aeneid_, lib. vi.

Tho' no funereal grandeur swell my song, Nor genius, eagle-plum'd, the strain prolong,-- Tho' Grief and Nature here alone combine To weep, my William! o'er a fate like thine,-- Yet thy fond pray'r, still ling'ring on my ear, Shall force its way thro' many a gushing tear: The Muse, that saw thy op'ning beauties spread, That lov'd thee living, shall lament thee dead!

Ye graceful Virtues! while the note I breathe, Of sweetest flow'rs entwine a fun'ral wreath,-- Of virgin flow'rs, and place them round his tomb, To bud, like him, and perish in their bloom!

Ah! when these eyes saw thee serenely wait The last long separating stroke of Fate,-- When round thy bed a kindred weeping train Call'd on thy voice to greet them, but in vain,-- When o'er thy lips we watch'd thy fault'ring breath-- When louder grief proclaim'd th'approach of death,-- Thro' ev'ry vein an icy horror chill'd, Colder than marble ev'ry bosom thrill'd.

Unsettled still, tho' exercis'd to grieve, Scarce would my mind the alter'd sight believe; Familiar scenes a transient calm inspire, Poor flutt'ring Fancy fann'd the vain desire, 'Till with sad proof thy wasted relics rise, And restless Nature pours uncall'd-for sighs.

Ah! long, my William! shall thy picture rest, Time shall not wear it, imag'd in my breast; Yes, thou shall live while fond remembrance lives, 'Till he who mourns thee asks the line he gives.

No common joy, no fugitive delight, Regret like this could in my breast excite; For then my sorrow had been less severe, And tears less copious had bedew'd the bier.

From the same breast our milky food we drew, Entwin'd affection strengthen'd as we grew; Why further trace? The flatt'ring dream is o'er-- Thy transient joys and sorrows are no more!

All, all are fled!--And, ah! where'er I turn, Insulting Death directs me to thy urn, Throws his cold shadows round me while I sing.

Damps ev'ry nerve, and slackens ev'ry string.

So, when the Moon trims up her waning fire, Sweep the night-breezes o'er th'Aeolian lyre; Ling'ring, perchance, some wild pathetic sound Lulls the lorn ear, and dies along the ground.

Ye kindred train! who, o'er the parting grave, Have mourn'd the virtues which ye could not save.

Ye know how Mem'ry, with excursive pow'r, Extracts a sweet from ev'ry faded hour;-- From scenes long past, regardless of repose, She feeds her tears, and treasures up her woes.

Thou tuneful, mute, companion[A] of my care!

Where now thy notes, that linger'd in the air?

That linger still!--Vain thy harmonious store,-- Thy sweet persuasive triumphs are no more.

Thy mournful image strikes my wand'ring eye; Sad, near thy silent strings, I sit and sigh.

Cold is that band which Music form'd her own, When ev'ry chord resign'd its sweetest tone.

Ah! long, fair source of rapture, shall thou rest, Silent and sad, neglected and unprest, 'Till years, lov'd shade! superior pow'rs resign, Or raise one note more eloquent than thine.

Tho' with'ring Sickness mark'd thee in the womb, And form'd thy cradle but to form thy tomb, Yet, like a flow'r, she bade thee reach thy prime, The fairer victim for the stroke of Time.

When fond Invention vainly sought thine ease, The wave salubrious and the morning breeze,-- When even Sleep, sweet Sleep! refus'd thy call, Sleep! that with sweet refreshment smiles on all,-- When, till the morn, thine eyes, unclos'd and damp, Trac'd thy sad semblance in the glimm'ring lamp,-- When from thy face Health's latest relic fled, Where Hope might flatter, with reluctant tread,-- Still, darting forward from the weight of woe, Thy soul with all its energy would glow; Still with the purest pa.s.sion wouldst thou prove The glow of friendship and the warmth of love.

And ah! to sacred Memory ever nigh, Thy wit and humour claim the pa.s.sing sigh: When, thro' the hour, with unresisted skill, I've seen thee mould each feature to thy will,-- When friends drew round thee with attentive ear, Pleas'd with the raill'ry which they could not fear.

Oh! how I've heard thee, with concealing art, Join in the song, tho' sorrow rent thy heart; How have I seen thee too, with venial guile, O'er many an anguish force the faithless smile,-- Seen suffering Nature check each sigh, each fear, To rob maternal fondness of a tear!

Alas! those scenes are past!--Vain was the pray'r That ask'd of Fate to soften and to spare; Ah! vain, if wit and virtue could not save Thy youthful honours from an early grave.

But yet, if here my warm fraternal love May claim alliance with the realms above; If kindred Nature, with perpetual bloom, Transplanted springs, and lives beyond the tomb; Thy pitying soul shall smile upon my grief, Shall feel a pang that wishes not relief; In visions still shall shield me as I go, Along this gloomy wilderness of woe; Shall still regard me with peculiar pride, On earth my brother, and in heav'n my guide!

Methinks I see thee reach th' empyrean sh.o.r.e, And heav'n's full chorus hails one angel more; While 'mid the seraph-forms that round thee fly, Thy father meets thee with ecstatic eye!

He springs exulting from his throne of rest, Extends his arms, and clasps thee to his breast!

[Footnote A: The piano-forte, on which he excelled.]

PARODY

ON