Non ulla Musis pagina gratior,
Quam quae severis ludicra jungere
Novit, fatigatamque nugis
Utilibus recreare mentem.
1809.
&c. &c. &c.
MADAM,
In dedicating the following Poems to your Ladyship, I cannot helpregretting that they are not more worthy of such an honour; that Imight consequently have used it as an humble mode of expressingmy sense of the happy and enlightened hours which I have passed inyour Ladyship’s society, and of the polite attentions which Ihave at various times received from you, and the gallant object ofyour connubial affection, particularly at the House of British Embassyat Petersburgh, where you afforded to the Ladies of the North a justrepresentation of the dignified virtue, cultivated mind, andattractive beauty, of the higher order of females of your own country.
I have the honour to remain,
Madam,
Your Ladyship’s
Obedient faithful Servant,
Temple. June 1809
This Volume is submitted to the Public with all that diffidence whichought to attend the publication of Verses, many of which were writtenin the gay and happy era of boyhood, and others in subsequent periodsof maturer life, as a relief from more arduous pursuits.
They lay no pretensions to the depth and solidity of the effusions ofthe Muse in her elevated flights; they are the few wild notes of thesimple shepherd, and do not even affect to imitate the rich cadence ofthe scientific musician.
If the Author might, without the imputation of vanity, select for thema place in the Temple of Poetry, he would endeavour to class them inthat niche which is appropriated for the reception of the light andplayful Vers de Societé.
Should the Reader find them but little worthy of his approval, he willnot have reason at the same time to condemn their prolixity: theirbrevity will, at least in some degree, atone for their want of fireand fancy.
It is thought proper to state that some of the following Poems haveappeared before at various times, in a fugitive shape; and that thePoetry in the Author’s Tours is here collected.
&c. &c.
In a Wood on the Side of the River Dart,
IN DEVONSHIRE.
Tell me, thou grotto! o’er whose brow are seen
Projecting plumes, and shades of deep’ning green,—
While not a sound disturbs thy stony hall,
While all thy dewy drops forget to fall,—
Why canst thou not thy soothing charms impart,
And shed thy quiet o’er this beating heart?
Tell me, thou richly-painted river! tell,
That on thy mirror’d plane dost mimic well
Each pendent tree and every distant hill,
Tipp’d with red lustre, beauteous, bright, and still,—
Can I not, gazing on thy tranquil tide,
Shed ev’ry grief upon thy rocky side?
Or must I rove thy margin, calm and clear,
The only agitated object near?
Oh! tell me, too, thou babbling cold cascade!
Whose waters, falling thro’ successive shade,
Unspangled by the brightness of the sky,
Awake each echo to a soft reply,—
Say, canst thou not my bosom-grief befriend,
And bid one drop upon my heart descend?
When all thy songsters soothe themselves to sleep.
Ah! must these ach