Thomas Oldham

Let us, my Friends, our mirth forbear, While yonder Censor mounts the chair: His form erect, his stately pace,

Still, as the fleeting seasons change, From joy to joy poor mortals range, And as the year pursues its round,

'Tis night: the busy, ceaseless noise of day No more is heard; the now-deserted-streets Lie dark and silent; London's weary swarms

In depth of loneliest wood, amid the din Of midnight storm and thunder, spoke Despair, While Horror, shuddering, heard that voice alone.

SPRING. Muse of the pastoral reed and sylvan reign, Divine inspirer of each tuneful swain,

DAVID. My task is done; no further will I mow; I faint with hunger, and with heat I glow.

When to the region of the tuneful Nine, Rapt in poetic vision, I retire, Listening intent to catch the strain divine

Sweet little warbler! art thou dead? And must I hear thy notes no more? Then will I make thy funeral bed;

Cease, daubers! profane not the theme, I implore ye! But leave him, O leave him alone with his glory! *        *        *        *        *

'Should you e'er be unwell, send directly for me; To cure you I'll haste with all possible speed, Prescribe and find medicine without any fee.'

Still, still his bell-like voice rings through my head; Yet not one bright thought cheers my mental view; O! would that I were deaf, asleep, or dead!

Words upon words impetuous rush along, And tread each other's brains out as they throng. *        *        *        *        *

That sermon, reverend Sir, which you have bought, To save your idle brain the toil of thought, You read in such a dull, lethargic tone,

Thou able, boaster! Virgil to translate! Can'st thou, then, be so vain, so shallow-pated? To a far higher intellectual state,

May European Liberty In Moscow's flames her torch relume! And Gallic Tyranny

Henceforth at miracles who'll dare to mock? No wonder Orpheus' lyre could move the brutes, Or Moses' rod strike water from the rock;

Satan, says scripture, like a roaring lion, Goes about, seeking whom he may devour. What should a priest, then, chiefly keep his eye on?

Reform! reform! cries out the longing nation; The people hail their own-elected House; On tiptoe stands the general expectation:

The labourers in the vineyard toil (So numerous are their creeds) Far less to cultivate the soil,

'March on! march swiftly on!' the people cry, Let us pursue Truth, Knowledge, Liberty! March not so fast, my friends! or you will find,

Too long within the House has darkness dwelt, Egyptian darkness, by the nation felt; Therefore, though demagogues, whose deeds are ill,

Pale is Amelia's face, And red Lavinia's nose is; The sisters ever jar:

Why, when I praise you, Ma'am, why tell me flat, All flattery you despise? Self-love, the greatest flatterer, tells you that,

By faith alone, you say, not works, Man must obtain salvation; If you are saved, the doctrine needs

Mark! how the Rose, when Phoebus burns, Averts her blushing face; Mark! how the Sun-flower fondly turns

Bury, for practice bold and skill Deserves to be of note; He cures by means that well might kill,

Perplexing case! your pardon, Friends, I pray, My head so turns, I know not what to say; However, since I've dared to come before ye,

Has then, the Paphian Queen at length prevail'd? Has the sly little Archer, whom my Friend Once would despise, with all his boyish wiles,

Mortal! whoe'er thou art, that passest by, Stop, and behold this stone with heedful eye! Here lies a Youth, whom Death's resistless power,

Ye! who this hallow'd ground with reverence tread, Where sleep in honour'd urns the illustrious dead, To trace the achievements of the Sons of Fame,

Lo! Byron's tomb! Here, deeply pensive, scan The greatness, and the littleness of man.

Lo! here, on this lone isle amid the deeps, From his proud height of conquest, greatness hurl'd, Buried in silent night, Napoleon sleeps!

Lo! here are Nelson's honour'd relics laid; Britons! your Country's Genius calls you here, And bids you pay to your lost Hero's shade

What, what can knowledge, virtue, fame, avail? Crown they with happiness our mortal state? Ah! no: what dire, unthought-of woes assail!

Here lies interr'd Voltaire; no letter'd name Can boast more brilliant, more extensive fame. On him what various gifts did heaven confer!

Champion of justice and humanity, He toil'd, through life, to set the Negro free: At length, Britannia spoke the godlike word

O all ye Sons of Taste! with raptured sight Behold this image of the God of light; Admire its whole, admire its every part;

"What other men have dared, I dare," He said. "I'm daring, too: And tho' they told me to beware,

(Supposed To Be Written Near His Tomb.) Milton! the name of that divinest Bard

(Supposed To Be Written Near His Tomb.) Behold! this marble tablet bears inscribed The name of Shakspeare!

Critic! should I vouchsafe to learn of thee, Correct, no doubt, but cold my strains would be: Now, cold correctness! I despise the name;

Your book I've read: I would that I had not! For what instruction, pleasure, have I got? Amid that artful labyrinth of doubt

Crippled his limbs, and sightless are his eyes; I view the youth, and feel compassion rise. He sings! how sweet the notes! in pleased amaze

(Supposed To Be Written By Miss B***, His Sister.) At God's command the vital spirit fled, And thou, my Brother! slumber'st with the dead.

What adverse passions rule my changeful breast, With hope exalted, or by fear deprest! Now, by the Muse inspired, I snatch the lyre,

Thou Cherub fair! in whose blue, sparkling eye New joys, anticipated, ever play; Celestial Hope! with whose all-potent sway

I felt thee, Horror! rush upon my soul, Thy hideous band my frighted fancy saw; Spare me, O spare me! cease thy dire controul,

This, this is inspiration's hour! Poetic Genius, rushing on my soul, Rouses her every sense, her every power,

Whence the shouts of public joy, Whence the galaxies of light, That strike the deafen'd ear?

Thanks for thy song, sweet Bird! thanks for thy song! O! 'twas delightful; how have I been lost As in a blissful dream! how has my soul

What fine aerial Shape, In orient colours dight, Springs from the world unknown

What majesty! what elegance and grace! The form how perfect! how divine the face! In admiration rapt, I gazing stand:

O! should I ever dare profane With venal touch the hallow'd lyre, Let me be banish'd from the Muses' train;

The piece, to-night, is of peculiar kind, For which the appropriate name is hard to find; No Comedy, 'tis clear; nor can it be,

Lo! Time, at last, has brought, with tardy flight, The long-anticipated, wish'd-for night; How on this blissful night, while yet remote,

Ere Reason rose within my breast, To enforce her sacred law, Still would some charm, in every maid,

Yes, I could love, could softly yield To passion all my willing breast, And fondly listen to the voice

Come along, jolly Bacchus! no longer delay; See'st thou not how the table with bottles is crown'd? See'st thou not how thy votaries, impatient to pay

Ye scenes beloved! O welcome once again! Forbidden long to my desiring sight, Now, now! triumphant o'er disease and pain,

Again has Time his annual circle run, And April ushers in my natal day: Since first my infant eyes beheld the sun,

Come, my dear Love, and let us climb yon hill, The prospect, from its height, will well reward The toil of climbing; thence we shall command

Amid the jingle of the rhyming throng I mark with transport some diviner song; Sweet to their native heaven the strains aspire,

O! what a nameless feeling of delight Stole o'er my wondering spirit, like a gleam From opening heaven! dost thou, then, Fancy, deign

Should Phoebus e'er desert my mind, And should the Nine their aid refuse, Enchanting Girl! I still could find

Sing, lovely Girl! to hear Thee sing Hush'd is the listening air; My spirit trembles on the wing,

Long to the world have all the mouths of Fame, O Paganini! thunder'd forth thy name; Nations have vied their plausive voice to raise,

Fairest and loveliest of the sun-born train That o'er the varying year alternate reign; Whose eye, soft-beaming with thy father's fire,

No longer Beauty's many-colour'd robe Adorns the autumnal scene; no longer play The Zephyrs with her tresses; she has fled

Though thou hast seen my locks are gray, Ah! do not, Julia, turn away; Nor, though the bloom of Spring is thine,