Thomas Oldham

Champion of justice and humanity,
He toil'd, through life, to set the Negro free:
At length, Britannia spoke the godlike word
Burst were the bonds, the shouts of Freedom heard!
Thy life-bonds, too, O Wilberforce! were riven,
Thy task was done, it was thy call to heaven!

O all ye Sons of Taste! with raptured sight
Behold this image of the God of light;
Admire its whole, admire its every part;
'Tis sculpture's master-work, the boast of Art.
Not with more glory in his heavenly sphere
The God appears, than in his Image here.

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

"Did I say one? Forgive me, dear;
    That was a grave mistake,
For when I've taken one, I fear,
    One hundred more I'll take.

"'Tis sweet one kiss from you to win,
    But to stop there? Oh, no!
One kiss is only to begin;
    There is no end, you know."

The maiden rose from where she sat
    And gently raised her head:
"No man has ever talked like that,
    You may begin," she said.

(Supposed To Be Written Near His Tomb.)

Milton!
        the name of that divinest Bard
Acts on Imagination like a charm
Of holiest power; with deep, religious awe
She hails the sacred spot where sleep entomb'd
The relics that enshrined his godlike soul.

O! with what heartfelt interest and delight,
With what astonishment, will all the sons
Of Adam, till the end of time, peruse
His lofty, wondrous page! with what just pride
Will England ever boast her Milton's name,
The Poet matchless in sublimity!
E'en now in Memory's raptured ear resound
The deep-toned strains of the Miltonic lyre;
Inspiring virtuous, heart-ennobling thought,
They breathe of heaven; the imaginative Power
No longer treads the guilt-polluted world,
But soars aloft, and draw...

(Supposed To Be Written Near His Tomb.)

Behold! this marble tablet bears inscribed
The name of Shakspeare!
            What a glorious theme
For never-ending praise! His drama's page,
Like a clear mirror, to our wondering view
Displays the living image of the world,
And all the different characters of men:
Still, in the varying scenes, or sad, or gay,
We take a part; we weep; we laugh; we feel
All the strong sympathies of real life.
To him alone, of mortals, Fancy lent
Her magic wand, potent to conjure up
Ideal Forms, distinctly character'd,
Exciting fear, or wonder, or delight.

The works of Shakspeare! are they not a fane,
Majestic as the canopy of heaven,
Embracing all created things, a fane
His superhuman genius has upraised,
To N...

Critic! should I vouchsafe to learn of thee,
Correct, no doubt, but cold my strains would be:
Now, cold correctness! I despise the name;
Is that a passport through the gates of fame?
Thy pedant rules with care I studied once;
Was I made wiser, or a greater dunce?
Hence, Critic, hence! I'll study them no more;
My eyes are open'd, and the folly's o'er.
When Genius opes the floodgates of the soul,
Fancy's outbursting tides impetuous roll,
Onward they rush with unresisted sway,
Sweeping fools, pedants, critics, all away
Who would with obstacles their progress stay.
As mighty Ocean bids his waves comply
With the great luminaries of the sky,
So Genius, to direct his course aright,
Owns but one guide, the inspiring God of light.

Your book I've read: I would that I had not!
For what instruction, pleasure, have I got?
Amid that artful labyrinth of doubt
Long, long I wander'd, striving to get out;
Your thread of sophistry, my only clue,
I fondly hoped would guide me rightly through:
That spider's web entangled me the more:
With desperate courage onward still I went,
Until my head was turn'd, my patience spent:
Now, now, at last, thank God! the task is o'er.
I've been a child, who whirls himself about,
Fancying he sees both earth and heaven turn round;
Till giddy, panting, sick, and wearied out,
He falls, and rues his folly on the ground.

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
I listen, listen, and admiring gaze.
Still, as he catches inspiration's fire,
Sweeping with bolder hands the obedient strings,
That mix, harmonious, with the strains he sings,
He pours into the music all his soul,
And governs mine with strong, but soft controul:
Raptured I glow, and more and more admire.
His mortal ailments I no longer see;
But, of divinities my fancy dreams;
Blind was the enchanting God of soft desire;
And lame the powerful Deity of fire;
His bow the magic rod of Hermes seems;
And in his voice I hear the God of harmony.

(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.
Alas! how art thou changed! I scarcely dare
To gaze on thee; dread sight! death, death is there.
How does thy loss o'erwhelm my heart with grief!
But tears, kind nature's tears afford relief.
Reluctant, sad, I take my last farewell:
Thy virtues in my mind shall ever dwell;
Thy tender friendship felt so long for me,
Thy frankness, truth, thy generosity,
Thy tuneful tongue's persuasive eloquence,
Thy science, learning, taste, wit, common sense,
Thy patriot love of genuine liberty,
Thy heart o'erflowing with philanthropy;
And chiefly will I strive henceforth to feel
Thy firm religious faith and pious zeal,
Enlighten...

What adverse passions rule my changeful breast,
With hope exalted, or by fear deprest!
Now, by the Muse inspired, I snatch the lyre,
And proudly to poetic fame aspire;
Now dies the sacred flame, my pride declines,
And diffidence the immortal wreath resigns.
Friends, void of taste, warm advocates for trade,
With shafts of ridicule, my peace invade:
'A Poet!' thus they sneeringly exclaim
'Well may you court that glorious, envied name;
For, sure, no common joys his lot attend;
None but himself those joys can comprehend.

O, superhuman bliss, employ sublime,
To scribble fiction, and to jingle rhyme!
Caged in some muse-behaunted, Grub-street garret,
To prate his feeders' promptings, like a parrot!
And what, though want and scorn his life assail?
What, tho...

Thou Cherub fair! in whose blue, sparkling eye
New joys, anticipated, ever play;
Celestial Hope! with whose all-potent sway
The moral elements of life comply;
At thy melodious voice their jarrings cease,
And settle into order, beauty, peace;
How dear to memory that thrice-hallow'd hour
Which gave Thee to the world, auspicious Power!
Sent by thy parent, Mercy, from the sky,
Invested with her own all-cheering ray,
To dissipate the thick, black cloud of fate
Which long had shrouded this terrestrial state,
    What time fair Virtue, struggling with despair,
Pour'd forth to pitying heaven her saddest soul in prayer:
    Then, then she saw the brightening gloom divide,
    And Thee, sweet Comforter! adown thy rainbow glide.
    From the veil'd awful future, to her v...

    I felt thee, Horror! rush upon my soul,
    Thy hideous band my frighted fancy saw;
    Spare me, O spare me! cease thy dire controul,
    And let my trembling hand the vision draw.

    Lo! what terrific Forms around thee wait,
    The monstrous births abhorr'd of Mind and Fate!
    Murder, with blood of innocence defiled;
    Despair, deep-groaning; Madness screaming wild;
    Mid clouds of smoke, the fire-eyed Fury, War,
Through gore and mangled flesh whirl'd in her thundering car;
        Plague, sallow Hag! who arms her breath
        With thousand viewless darts of death;
And Earthquake, image of the final doom,
That, bursting fierce his anguish'd mother's womb,
Whelms nations in the yawning jaws of night,
And palsies mighty Nature with affright.

    This, this is inspiration's hour!
    Poetic Genius, rushing on my soul,
    Rouses her every sense, her every power,
    And with a force too mighty to controul
    Inspires the warm, enthusiastic song:
    Now will I sing, O Wellington! of thee;
    To thee my plausive strains, of right, belong;
For thee my lyre shall pour its choicest harmony.
    Long have I fondly mused the theme sublime;
    And from my grateful heart of patriot flame
    In secret, offer'd incense to thy name;
    But dared not with unhallow'd rhyme
        Profane the British Hero's fame.
        Thrice welcome this propitious time!
Now, joining with my Country's minstrel-band,
Thy deeds, O Wellington! will I rehearse
        In lofty never-dying verse,
To which Britannia's se...

            Whence the shouts of public joy,
            Whence the galaxies of light,
            That strike the deafen'd ear?
            That charm the dazzled sight?
    While Night, arrested in her highest way,
Stands wondering at the scene, and doubtful of her sway?
            Hark! Fame exalts her voice:
    'Britannia triumphs, let her sons rejoice!
    The Gallic Foe, that dared her vengeance brave,
    Lies whelm'd in death beneath the blood-stain'd wave;
    Britannia thunder'd o'er the rebel main,
His distant billows heard, and own'd her awful reign.'

    Be hush'd my soul! in still amazement mourn!
            O fly the giddy train!
    From their inhuman transports turn
            With pity, with disdain!
    Strip, strip, from Victory t...

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
Been wafted in a sea of melody!
Scarce yet am I awake, yet scarce myself:
Still with the enchanting music's dying breath
The air is kept in motion, and conveys
Sweet whispers to the finely-listening ear;
Or is it but an echo from the cell
Of memory that deludes my doating sense?
Ah! now 'tis gone; Silence resumes her sway,
And o'er my hearing spreads her subtile web;
But she resumes it, changed, methinks, in nature,
More soft, more amiable, as if inform'd
With the departed soul of harmony.

Thanks for thy song, sweet Bird! it well deserves
All my heart's gratitude; for it has still'd
Its anxious throbbings, and remov...

What fine aerial Shape,
In orient colours dight,
Springs from the world unknown
Upon my wondering sight?

Loosely through various space
The lovely Figure flows,
And leaves the sleeping air
Unconscious as it goes.

Hark! a spontaneous strain
Its fairy gait attends;
In concord every sound
With every movement blends.

Lo, now! the passive Form
Moves as the music leads;
Each motion from each note,
Harmoniously proceeds.

By the same sense, methinks,
At once I hear and see;
And ears and eyes and mind
Are all one harmony.

Along my shivering nerves
The mingled raptures thrill,
And strangely take my soul,
And rule it as they will;

True to the magic force,
That shifts a thousand ways,
An ...

What majesty! what elegance and grace!
The form how perfect! how divine the face!
In admiration rapt, I gazing stand:
Is this a statue wrought by mortal hand?
No! 'tis Apollo's self, methinks I see;
I feel the presence of the Deity.

O! should I ever dare profane
With venal touch the hallow'd lyre,
Let me be banish'd from the Muses' train;
Ne'er let me feel their heart-ennobling fire!
Unworthy of a Poet's glorious name,
Let me be doom'd to everlasting shame!