Slackens the strings of her enamour'd lyre,
The flood of gushing grief puts out her fire:
Else would she sing the deeds of other times,
Of saints and heroes sung in monkish rhymes;
Else would her soaring fancy burn to stray,
And thro' the cloister'd aisle would take her way,
Where sleep, (ah! mingling with the common dust)
The sacred bodies of the brave and just.
But vain the attempt to scan that holy lore,
These soft'ning sighs forbid the muse to soar.
So treading back the steps I just now trod,
Mournful and sad I seek my lone abode.
From a MS. of Chatterton's, in the British Museum.
Sweet are thy charming smiles, my lovely maid, Sweet as the flow'rs in bloom of spring array'd; Those charming smiles thy beauteous face adorn, As May's white blossoms gaily deck the thorn. Then why when mild good-nature basking lies Midst the soft radiance of thy melting eyes, When my fond tongue would strive thy heart to
And tune its tones to every note of love;
Why do those smiles their native soil disown,
And (chang'd their movements) kill me in a frown!
Yet, is it true, or is it dark despair,
That fears you're cruel whilst it owns you fair?
O speak, dear Hoyland! speak my certain fate,
Thy love enrapt ring, or thy constant hate.
If death's dire sentence hangs upon thy tongue,
E'en death were better than suspence so long.
From a MS. of Chatterton's, in the British Museum.
What language, Powel! can thy merits tell,
By Nature form'd in every path t'excel:
To strike the feeling soul with magic skill,
When every passion bends beneath thy will.
Loud as the howlings of the northern wind
Thy scenes of anger harrow up the mind;
But most thy softer tones our bosoms move,
When Juliet listens to her Romeo's love.
How sweet thy gentle movements then to see-
Each melting heart must sympathize with thee.
Yet, though design'd in every walk to shine,
Thine is the furious, and the tender thine;
Though thy strong feelings and thy native fire,
Still force the willing gazers to admire,
Though great thy praises for thy scenic art,
We love thee for the virtues of thy Heart.
ON HEARING HER PLAY ON THE HARPSICHORD.
From a MS. of Chatterton's, in the British Museum.
Had Israel's Monarch, when misfortune's dart Pierc'd to its deepest core his heaving breast, Heard but thy dulcet tones, his sorrowing heart At such soft tones, had sooth'd itself to rest.
Yes, sweeter far than Jesse's son's thy strains,
Yet what avail if sorrow they disarm;
Love's sharper sting within the soul remains,
The melting movements wound us as they charm.
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