Read Ebook: Poems by Betham Matilda

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Ebook has 324 lines and 22421 words, and 7 pages

O yes! they own the wond'rous spell, And to each form their hands divine Give, with nice art, the temper'd swell, The chasten'd touch and faultless line!

Each fiction under their command, Assumes an air severely true, And, every vision, wildly grand, Life's measur'd pace and modest hue.

Reason and fancy, rival powers! Unite, their RADCLIFFE to befriend; To decorate her way with flowers, The minor graces all attend!

This piece, with the exception of a few lines, has appeared in the Athenaeum.

THE HEIR.

See yon tall stripling! how he droops forlorn! How slow his pace! how spiritless his eye! Like a dark cloud in summer's rosy dawn, He saddens pleasure as he passes by.

Long kept in exile by paternal pride, He feels no joy beneath this splendid dome; For, till the elder child of promise died, He knew a dearer, though a humbler home.

Then the proud sail was spread! The youth obey'd, Left ev'ry friend, and every scene he knew; For ever left the soul-affianc'd maid, Though his heart sicken'd as he said--Adieu; And nurses still, with superstitious care, The sigh of fond remembrance and despair.

TO A LLANGOLLEN ROSE,

THE DAY AFTER IT HAD BEEN GIVEN BY MISS PONSONBY.

Soft blushing flow'r! my bosom grieves, To view thy sadly drooping leaves: For, while their tender tints decay, The rose of Fancy fades away! As pilgrims, who, with zealous care, Some little treasur'd relic bear, To re-assure the doubtful mind, When pausing memory looks behind; I, from a more enlighten'd shrine, Had made this sweet memento mine: But, lo! its fainting head reclines; It folds the pallid leaf, and pines, As mourning the unhappy doom, Which tears it from so sweet a home!

Forlornly I wander, forlornly I sigh, And droop my head sadly, I cannot tell why: When the first breeze of morning blows fresh in my face, As the wild-waving walks of our woodlands I trace, Reviv'd for the moment I look all around, But my eyes soon grow languid, and fix on the ground.

I have yet no misfortune to rob me of rest, No love discomposes the peace of my breast; Ambition ne'er enter'd the verge of my thought, Nor by honours, by wealth, nor by power am I caught; Those phantoms of folly disturb not my ease, Yet Time is a tortoise, and Life a disease.

With the blessings of youth and of health on my side, A temper untainted by envy or pride; No guilt to corrode, and no foes to molest; There are many who tell me my station is blest. This I cannot dispute; yet without knowing why-- I feel that my bosom is big with a sigh.

Oh! why do I see that all knowledge is vain; That Science finds Error still keep in her train; That Imposture or Darkness, with Doubt and Surmise, Will mislead, will perplex, and then baffle the wise, Who often, when labours have shorten'd their span, Declare--not to know--is the province of man?

In life, as in learning, our views are confin'd, Our discernment too weak to discover the mind, Which, subdued and irresolute, keeps out of sight; Or if, for a moment, her presence delight, Our air is too gross for the stranger to stay; And, back to her prison she hurries away!

If my own narrow precincts I seek to explore, My wishes how vain, my attainments how poor! Tenacious of virtue, with caution I move; I correct, and I wrestle, but cannot approve; Till, bewilder'd and faint, I would yield up the rein, But I dare not in peace with my errors remain!

With zeal all awake in the cause of a friend, With warmth unrepress'd by my fear to offend, With sympathy active in hope or distress, How keen and how anxious I cannot express, I shrink, lest an eye should my feelings behold, And my heart seems insensible, selfish and cold.

I strive to be gay, but my efforts are weak, And, sick of existence, for pleasure I seek; I mix with the empty, the loud, and the vain, Partake of their folly, and double my pain. In others I meet with depression and strife; Oh! where shall I seek for the music of life?

THE GRANDFATHER'S DEPARTURE.

The Old Man press'd Palemon's hand; To Lucy nodded with a smile; Kiss'd all the little ones around; Then clos'd the gate, and paus'd awhile.

"When shall I come again!" he thought, Ere yet the journey had begun; It was a tedious length of way, But he beheld an only son.

And dearly did he love to take A rosy grandchild on his knee; To part his shining locks, and say, "Just such another boy was he!"

And never felt he greater pride, And never did he look so gay, As when the little urchins strove To make him partner in their play.

But when, in some more gentle mood, They silent hung upon his arm, Or nestled close at ev'ning pray'r, The old man felt a softer charm;

And upward rais'd his closing eye, Whence slow effus'd a grateful tear, As if his senses own'd a joy, Too holy for endurance here.

No heart e'er pray'd so fervently, Unprompted by an earthly zeal, None ever knew such tenderness, That did not true devotion feel.

As with the pure, uncolour'd flame, The violet's richest blues unite, Do our affections soar to heav'n, And rarify and beam with light.

REFLECTIONS

OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF FRIENDS.

My happiness was once a goodly tree, Which promis'd every day to grow more fair, And rear'd its lofty branches in the air, In sooth, it was a pleasant sight, to see! Amidst, fair honey-suckles crept along, Twin'd round the bark, and hung from every bough, While birds, which Fancy held by slender strings, Plum'd the dark azure of their shining wings, Or dipp'd them in the silver stream below, With many a joyful note, and many a song!

When lo! a tempest hurtles in the sky! Dark low'r the clouds! the thunders burst around! Fiercely the arrowy flakes of lightning fly! While the scar'd songsters leave the quiv'ring bough, The blasted honey-suckles droop below, And many noble branches strew the ground!

Though soon the air is calm, the sky serene, Though wide the broad and leafy arms are spread, Yet still the scars of recent wounds are seen; Their shelter henceforth seems but insecure; The winged tribes disdain the frequent lure, Where many a songster lies benumb'd or dead; And when I would the flow'ry tendrils train, I find my late delightful labour vain.

Affection thus, once light of heart, and gay, Chasten'd by memory, and, unnerv'd by fear, Shall sadden each endearment with a tear, Sorrowing the offices of love shall pay, And scarcely dare to think that good her own, Which fate's imperious hand may snatch away, In the warm sunshine of meridian day, And when her hopes are full and fairest blown.

TO MRS. T. FANCOURT,

July 15, 1803.

I love not yon gay, painted flower, Of bold and coarsely blended dye, But one, whose nicely varied power May long detain the curious eye.

I love the tones that softly rise, And in a fine accordance close; That waken no abrupt surprise, Nor leave us to inert repose.

I love the moon's pure, holy light, Pour'd on the calm, sequester'd stream; The gale, fresh from the wings of night, Which drinks the early solar beam;

The smile of heaven, when storms subside, When the moist clouds first break away; The sober tints of even-tide, Ere yet forgotten by the day.

Such sights, such sounds, my fancy please, And set my wearied spirit free: And one who takes delight in these, Can never fail of loving thee!

TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

July 29th, 1803.

Dear boy, when you meet with a rose, Admire you the thorns very much? Or like you to play with a ball, When the handling it blisters your touch!

Yet should it be firm and compact, It is easy to polish it nice; If the rose is both pretty and sweet, The thorns will come off in a trice.

The thistle has still many more, As visible too in our eyes, But who will take pains with a weed, That nobody ever can prize?

'Tis what we deem precious and rare, We most earnestly seek to amend; And anxious attention and care, Is the costliest gift of a friend.

We all have our follies: what then? Let us note them, and never look bluff! Without any caressing at all, They will cling to us closely enough.

Weeds are of such obstinate growth, They elude the most diligent hand; And, if they were not to be check'd, Would quickly run over the land.

If some could be taken away, That hide part of your worth from the view; The conquest perhaps would be ours, But the profit is wholly to you.

FRAGMENT.

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