Poems (Holford)/On witnessing the decline of Health, Spirits, and Genius in a well-known Author

by Margaret Holford (1778-1852)

ON WITNESSING THE DECLINE  OF

 

HEALTH, SPIRITS, AND GENIUS,

 

IN A WELL-KNOWN AUTHOR.

 

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Now Phœbus has flung back the mantle of night,
And taught blushing nature her charms to unfold,
His orb o'er the mountains looks beamy and bright,
And the breast of the rivulet glistens with gold!

 "And cold is the bosom," exulting, I cried,
"That scorns to reflect back thy life-giving rays!
And dull is the stream that can silently glide,
Nor murmur in flowing, its tribute of praise!"

 For youth's rising energies gilded the hour,
And the quick throb of pleasure sprang high in each vein,
And Fancy imparted her magical pow'r
To each prize that Ambition was panting to gain.

 Thus S———d, the dawn of thy morning was bright,
Thus lucid and warm was the beam of thy noon!
And Hope's fairy flatteries shed o'er thy sight
Rosy mists, which were destin'd to vanish too soon!

 Bright forms, is it thus, that ye bloom and decay?
Is it thus, that ye glance in gay colours awhile?
Is it thus that ye fade with the swift-setting day,
Delusively promise, and transiently smile?

 Yes S———d, thy day-star is waning apace,
And sorrow and sickness have chosen their hour,
And as feebly concludes thy once vigorous race,
See Envy's grim smiles are beginning to low'r!

 Ah! little the sweet-warbled promise of morn
Presag'd fleeting Friendship's untimely decay,
Nor of life's dusky twilight, when dim and forlorn,
The gay hour of fame should be gliding away!

 Ah! even thy Muse, like the world's giddy throng,
Ungrateful forsakes thee, and shuns thy decline!
No longer she deigns to awaken thy song,
Or mingle her high-soaring spirit with thine;

 And the wreath which she gather'd in happier years,
Lov'd tribute, which only the Muse can bestow,
Now withering, neglected, and blighted with tears,
Hangs drooping and languidly over thy brow!

 Farewel silent lyre! for thy once cherish'd strain
So lofty and sweet thrills the bosom no more,
Thy strings are all broken, and never again
On the rapt ear of taste shall thy melodies pour!

 And S———d farewel! soon the slumber of years
Shall shed its repose o'er thy world-wearied breast*^[1]
But the dim smile of Memory shall shine thro' her tears,
As she rescues thy name from the regions of rest.

1. The accomplishment of this event too soon followed its prediction.