Thus will the spring-flow’r bud and blow, Wrapp’d round in many a fold of snow; But, if an ice-wind pierce the sky, ’Twill drop upon its bed, and die!
UPON THE REV. MR. C——’S IMPROMPTU COMPOSITIONS OF SOME OF BOWLES’S SONNETS.
No sweeter verse did e’er inspire A kindred Muse with all its fire; Nor sweeter strains could Music lend, To sooth the sorrows of her friend.
Associate Genius bids them flow With sounds that give a charm to woe; We weep as tho’ it were our own, As if our hearts were play’d upon.
The leaves are flutter’d by no tell-tale gales, Clear melts the azure in the rosy west, Scarce heard, the river winds along the vales, And Eve has lull’d the vocal grove to rest.
To yon thick elms, my Delia! let us rove, As slow the glories of the day retire; There to thy lute breathe dulcet notes of love, While thro’ the vale they linger and expire.
Those honey’d tones, that melt upon the tongue,— Thy looks, serener than the scenes I sing,— Thy chaste desires, which angels might have sung, Alone can quiet in this bosom bring, Which burns for thee, and, kindled by thine eyes, Bears a pure flame—the flame that never dies!
WRITTEN AT KILKENNY, ON THE THEATRICALS OF THAT CITY.
Amid the ruins of monastic gloom, Where Nore’s meand’ring waters wind along, Genius and Wealth have rais’d the tasteful dome, Yet not alone for Fashion’s brilliant throng;—
In Virtue’s cause they take a noble aim; ’Tis theirs in sweetest harmony to blend Wit with Compassion, Sympathy with Fame, Pleasure the means, Beneficence the end[10].
There, if on Beauty’s cheek the tear appears (Form’d by the mournful Muse’s mimic sigh), Fast as it falls, a kindred drop it bears, More sadly shed from genuine Misery.
Nor, if the laughter-loving Nymph delight, Does the reviving transport perish there; Still, still, with Pity’s radiance doubly bright, Its smiles shed sunshine on the cheek of Care.
So, if Pomona’s golden fruit descend, Shook by some breeze, into the lake below, Quick will the dimple, which it forms, extend, Till all around the joyous circles flow.
Bless’d be the liberal mind, th’ undaunted zeal, That bade loud Folly from the Stage retire; That teach us how to think, and how to feel, And once again our godlike Bard admire!