Ah, sad reverse! too soon the fated hour
Saw the dire tempest ‘whelm th’ expanding flower! 
Then from thy tongue its music ceased to flow;
Thine eye forgot to gleam with aught but woe;
Peace fled thy breast; invincible despair
Usurp’d her seat, and struck his daggers there. 
Did not the unpitying world thy sorrows fly? 
And, ah! what then was left thee—­but to die! 
Yet not a friend beheld thy parting breath,
Or mingled solace with the pangs of death: 
No priest proclaim’d the erring hour forgiven,
Or sooth’d thy spirit to its native heav’n: 
But Heaven, more bounteous, bade the pilgrim come,
And hovering angels hail’d their sister home. 
I, where the marble swells not, to rehearse
Thy hapless fate, inscribe my simple verse. 
Thy tale, dear shade, my heart essays to tell;
Accept its offering, while it heaves—­farewell!

TO ------.

AN IMPROMPTU.

O Sue! you certainly have been
  A little raking, roguish creature,
And in that face may still be seen
  Each laughing love’s bewitching feature!

For thou hast stolen many a heart;
  And robb’d the sweetness of the rose;
Placed on that cheek, it doth impart
  More lovely tints—­more fragrant blows!

Yes, thou art Nature’s favourite child,
  Array’d in smiles, seducing, killing;
Did Joseph live, you’d drive him wild,
  And set his very soul a-thrilling!

A poet, much too poor to live,
  Too poor in this rich world to rove;
Too poor for aught but verse to give,
  But not, thank God, too poor to love!

Gives thee his little doggerel lay;—­One
  truth I tell, in sorrow tell it: 
I’m forced to give my verse away,
  Because, alas!  I cannot sell it.

And should you with a critic’s eye
  Proclaim me ’gainst the Muse a sinner,
Reflect, dear girl I that such as I,
  Six times a-week don’t get a dinner.

And want of comfort, food, and wine,
  Will damp the genius, curb the spirit: 
These wants I’ll own are often mine;—­But
  can’t allow a want of merit.

For every stupid dog that drinks
  At poet’s pond, nicknamed divine;
Say what he will, I know he thinks
  That all he writes is wondrous fine!

THE STEAM-BOAT.

Say, dark prow’d visitant! that o’er the brine
  Stalk’st proudly—­heeding not what wind may blow,
What chart, what compass, shapes that course of thine,
  Whence didst thou come, and whither dost thou go?

Art thou a Monster born of sky and sea? 
  Art thou a Pagod moving in thine ire? 
Were I a Savage I must bend to thee,
  A Ghiber?  I must own thee “God of fire.”

The affrighted billows fly thy hissing rout,
  Thy wake is followed by turmoil and din,
Blackness and darkness track thy course without,
  And fire and groans and vapours strive within.