The nameless charm, that, as we chase it, flies,
Now paints the cheek, now sparkles in the eyes,
We find not here-and wonder as we gaze,
In what consists the want which it betrays —
Coldly the bright original confess,
And marvel that the copy charms us less.
Yet blush not, painter! thou hast done thy part,
The fault is not in thee, nor in thine art.
All, all is here its baffled skill can teach-
The real portrait is beyond its reach.
Yet is that portrait's true perfection traced
On tablets whence it cannot be effaced.
Thou who hast seen her, yet canst question where,
Go gaze within, and thou shalt find it there,
Graved by the hand of nature, not of art,
And traced by memory's pencil on the heart!
WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, (AT AN EARLY AGE,) on
BEING ASKED FOR SOME ORIGINAL LINES.
AH! deem not that to me belong
The powers which gifted poets know;
It is not mine to wake the song,
Or bid the measured numbers flow.
If e'er, in childhood's playful hour,
The sportive wreath I twined,
Or soothed, beneath its galling power,
A soul to grief resigned,-
That time is past! within this heart
There lurks no wish for praise,
And even friendship's winning art
Must fail to fan the blaze.
Yet well if such a gift were mine
The lay might friendship claim,
Since moments offered at its shrine,
Are worth an age of fame!
But 'twill not be ! the potent spell
Is not bestowed on me,
That bids the soul with anguish swell,
Or thrill with ecstacy!
The lyre is shivered in my hand,
That erst the careless ear could gain
No grief so deep, no joy so bland,
To wake its chords again!
But livelier tones it should produce,
To answer the demand you made,
Since, e'en in pleading my excuse,
Obedience still is paid.
"Tis o'er! but though the sounds are past, Less brief be friendship's reign;
If these have served to bind it fast,
They are not breathed in vain.
WRITTEN IN A BLANK PAGE OF A LIFE OF WALLER.
WIT! canst thou shield the traitor, coward, liar?
Is meanness' self revered if thou inspire?
Yet happier he, who, true to honour's race,
Trusts to no sparkling thoughts to ward disgrace;
Whose actions scorn to need his tongue's defence,
Nor call on wit to dim the eyes of sense.
Happiest of all, in whom are both combined;
All the heart's worth with playful humour joined.
He, when through tangled paths condemned to stray,
Where danger crosses virtue on her way,
He calls, oh wit, thy all persuasive force,
To chain the hands that check her in her course.
Won by thy suasive words, hate drops her sword,
And justice yields -not pardon, but reward.
How strange a paradox my fate is found!
To freedom born, I yet full oft am bound;
Deaf- yet the melody of praise I seek;
Dumb yet a thousand languages I speak!
In my own merits though alone I'm great,
Obsequious pages on my footsteps wait.
My wealth is ne'er enjoyed until transferred,
And voice I give, though mine is never heard.
For me, the pencil's bright creations rise;
Blind though I be, I feast all other eyes.
To me the labours of the bard belong,
That charm the world with witchery of song.
The pealing organ and the warbling lute,
Without my aid, were dissonant or mute.
Soldiers themselves will to my columns flee —
E'en reverend chapters find repose with me.
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