190
Poetry.
ADDRESS
To Alexander Dundas C. an Infant apparently near Dissolution.
Go, lovely babe, in meekness rob’d,
Go, ere thy feelings have been prob’d
By falsehood’s stings, or keen regret,
Go from a world with ills beset;
Go from the pure maternal breast,
To which thou art so fondly prest;
Go from thy father’s dear embrace,
Go to thy better biding-place;
Go from this restless speck below,
This scene of perfidy and woe!
Go from this sin-fraught, mad'ning earth,
And burst into immortal birth;
Go wash’d in thy Redeemer’s blood,
Go and partake with him the good,
Which, ere this globe’s foundation, he
Prepar’d in heaven, sweet boy, for thee.
Such counsel reason strives to give———
But, oh! thy sire would have thee live!
If there be in Lavater’s rules
More than the baseless dreams of schools,
The grand formation of thy head
Would have thy steps to glory sped;
Thy tow'ring front, thy marking eye,
Express a mind, a courage high,
Supreme in council or command,
A blessing to thy native land.
Thou might’st have liv’d like Pitt to rule,
Like him disinterested, cool,
Decisive, firm, serenely great,
Stay and preserver of the state;
Or else, like Rosslyn, dealt our laws,
And justly judg’d the righteous cause,
All eloquent, like him, have mov’d
Thy hearers’ souls, and truth approv’d;
Or, like thy other namesake[1], shone,
Th’ unshaken bulwark of the throne,
Devoting with a patriot’s zeal,
Time, talent, to the public weal,
Diffusing good on all around,
The friend of worth wherever found.
Or had dread war thy service claim’d,
Thou might’st in tight have foremost flam’d,
Perhaps some act sublimely bold,
Had down the tide of ages roll’d
‘Mongst Britain’s bravest sons thy name,
Emblazon’d by the hand of fame,
Thou might’st like them have France defied———
Like Wolfe, like Abercrombie, died!
Like Nelson, or like Moore, their grateful country’s pride.
Delusive visions!———but last night
These fancies fill’d me with delight!
Now—sad reverse!———convulsive pains
Rack thee, and writhe thy tortur’d veins;
Thy life and death are in the scale,
And who can say which will prevail?
God, God alone!———Here let me rest———
Whatever he ordains is best.
THE HEAVY HEART.
Go, lie thee down, old man, and die!
For fate prepares th’ unerring dart:
Come then, thou last expiring sigh,
And prove the warning of my heart!
My heart is such a changeling grown,
It weighs so heavy in my breast,
I scarce can think it is my own———
Some other is my bosom’s guest.
But whose it is I do not know:
Mary, I’m sure it is not thine;
For not one joy does it bestow,
To no one good does it incline.
No, ’tis not thine———I would it were,
For then I never should complain;
Then I should all those virtues share,
Which in thy gentle bosom reign.
Then I the tender thought should know,
The wish from sordid int'rest free,
The sigh that heaves for others’ woe,
And friendship’s faithful sympathy.
- ↑ Lord M.
