Occasioned by reading an Inscription on the Tombstone of Captain Christensen, of Krajore, in Norway, who died in consequence of the Bite of his Dog, when it was mad.
Ah! hapless stranger! who, without a tear, Can this sad record of thy fate survey? No angry tempest laid thee breathless here, Nor hostile sword, nor Nature’s mild decay.
The fond companion of thy pilgrim feet, Who watch’d thee in thy sleep, who moan’d if miss’d, And sprung with such delight his Lord to greet, Imbu’d with death the hand he oft had kiss’d.
And here, remov’d from Love’s lamenting eye, Far from thy native cat’racts’ awful sound, Far from thy dusky forests’ pensive sigh, Thy poor remains repose on alien ground; Yet Pity oft shall sit beside thy stone, And sigh as tho’ she mourn’d a brother gone.
_Who asked the Author what Childhood resembled_.
How like is childhood to the lucid tide That calmly wanders thro’ the mossy dell, Sweeps o’er the lily by the margin’s side, And, as it kisses, murmurs out, Farewell!
_Who, until her Sister, honoured the Author by walking with him in the Evening_.
Adieu! dear girl! if we are doom’d to part, Take with thee, take, the blessing of this heart, Due to thy gentle mind, and cultur’d sense; Perhaps ’twill please, but, sure, can’t give offence. Tho’, when we met, the solar ray was gone, And on our steps the moon-beam only shone, Yet well I mark’d thy form and native grace, And all the sweet expression of thy face; And pleas’d I listen’d as thy accents fell, Accents that spoke a feeling mind so well Lo, when the birds repose at ev’ning hour, The sweetest of them carols from her bow’r! So, when the dews the garden’s fragrance close, The night-flow’r[19] blooms, the rival of the rose!
[19] One of the creeping cereuses, usually known by the name of the night-flower, is said to be as grand and as beautiful as any in the vegetable system. It begins to open in the evening, about seven o’clock; is in perfection about eleven, perfuming the air to a considerable distance, and fades about four in the morning.
O Study! while thy lovers raise Thy name with all the pow’r of praise, Frown not, thou nymph with piercing mind! If in this bosom thou should’st find That all thy deep, thy brilliant, lore, Which charm’d it once, now charms no more: Frown not, if, on thy classic line, One strange, uncall’d-for, tear should shine; Frown not, if, when a smile should start, A sigh should heave an aching heart: If Mem’ry, roving far away, Should an unmeaning homage pay, Should ask thee for thy golden fruit, And, when thou deign’st to hear her suit, Should turn her from the proffer’d food, To tread the shades of Solitude: Frown not, if, in the humble line, Ungrac’d by any thought of thine, Should but that gentle name appear, Fond cause of ev’ry joy and fear; I love, tho’ rude, I love it more, Than all thy piles of letter’d lore: Frown not if ev’ry airy word, Which Beauty breathes, or Love has heard, More rich, more eloquently, flow, To Mem’ry gives a warmer glow, Than all by thee so much approv’d, The wit of age on age improv’d. Go, then! and, since it is denied That thou shalt be my radiant guide! Leave me to sigh, to weep, to prove How little Learning is to Love.