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POEMS

BY

MATILDA BETHAM.


1808.


TO LADY ROUSE BOUGHTON, AS A TESTIMONY OF RESPECT AND GRATITUDE FOR
LONG CONTINUED FRIENDSHIP, THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS INSCRIBED BY HER
OBLIGED HUMBLE SERVANT, MATILDA BETHAM.

_New Cavendish-street,_

Feb. 3, 1809.



ADVERTISEMENT.

Before this book was printed, I thoughtlessly concluded there must be a
preface; but, on consideration, see no particular purpose it would
answer, and gladly decline a task I should have undertaken with much
timidity and reluctance. All I feel necessary to premise, is, that the
tale in the Old Shepherd's Recollections is founded on an event which
happened in Ireland; and that last spring I suppressed the song ending
in page 65 [The Old Man's Farewell], some time after it had been in the
hands of the composer, from meeting accidentally with a quotation in a
magazine that resembled it.





CONTENTS.

    POEMS.--
    The Old Fisherman
    Lines to Mrs. Radcliffe, on first reading The Mysteries of
        Udolpho
    The Heir
    To a Llangollen Rose, the day after it had been given me by
        Miss Ponsonby
    L'Homme de l'Ennui
    The Grandfather's Departure
    Reflections occasioned by the Death of Friends
    To Mrs. T. Fancourt
    To a Young Gentleman
    Fragment

    SONGS.--
    "Thrice lovely Babe"
    "What do I love?"
    A Sailor's Song
    Another
    Once more, then farewell!
    Henry, on the Departure of his Wife from Calcutta
    Sonnet
    On the Regret of Youth
    Elegy on Sophia Graham
    To Miss Rouse Boughton
    To the Same
    To the River which separates itself from the Dee at Bedkellert
    The Old Man's Farewell
    Song--Distance from the Place of our Nativity.
    The Old Shepherd's Recollections
    Reflection
    Retrospect of Youth
    The Daughter
    Youth unsuspicious of evil
    The Mother
    Edgar and Ellen




POEMS.


THE OLD FISHERMAN.

    'My bosom is chill'd with the cold,
      My limbs their lost vigour deplore!
    Alas! to the lonely and old,
      Hope warbles her promise no more!

    'Worn out with the length of my way,
      I must rest me awhile on the beach,
    To feel the salt dash of the spray,
      If haply so far it may reach.

    'As the white-foaming billows arise,
      I reflect on the days that are past,
    When the pride of my strength could despise
      The keen-driving force of the blast.

    'Though the heavens might menace on high,
      I would still push my vessel from shore;
    At my calling undauntedly ply,
      And sing as I handled the oar.

    'When fortune rewarded my toil,
      And my nets, deeply-laden, I drew,
    I hurried me home with the spoil,
      And its inmates rejoic'd at the view.

    'Though the winds and the waves were perverse,
      I was sure to be welcom'd with glee;
    My presence the cares would disperse,
      That were only awaken'd for me.

    'Whether weary, with toiling in vain,
      Or gay, from abundant success,
    I heard the same blessing again,--
      I met the same tender caress:

    'I fancied the perils repay'd,
      That could such affection ensure;
    By fondness and gratitude sway'd,
      I was eager to dare and endure.

    'My cot did each comfort contain,
      And that gave my bosom delight;
    When drench'd by the winterly rain,
      I watch'd in my vessel at night.

    'But, alas! from the tyrant, Disease,
      What love or what caution can save!
    A fever, more harsh than the seas,
      Consign'd my poor wife to the grave.

    'My children, so tenderly rear'd,
      And pining for want of her care,
    Though more by my sorrows endear'd,
      Could not rescue my heart from despair.

    'I tempted the dangers of night,
      And still labour'd hard at the oar,
    My sufferings appear'd to be light,
      But I suffer'd with pleasure no more.

    'And yet, when some seasons had roll'd,
      I seem'd to awaken anew;
    My children I lov'd to behold,
      How tall and how comely they grew.

    'My boy became hardy and bold,
      His spirit was buoyant and free;
    And, as I grew thoughtful and old,
      Was loud and oppressive to me.

    'But the girl, like a bird in the bower,
      Awaken'd my hope and my pride;
    She won on my heart ev'ry hour,
      And I could not the preference hide.

    'I mark'd the address and the care,
      The manner endearing and mild,
    Not dreaming those qualities rare
      Were to murther the peace of my child:

    'That grandeur would ever descend
      To seek for so lowly a bride,
    Or his fair one, a lover pretend,
      From all she held dear to divide:

    'That beauty was priz'd like a gem,
      Expected to dazzle and shine,
    Whose value the world would contemn,
      Unless trac'd to some Indian mine:

    'Alas! hapless girl! had I known
      Thou hadst learnt to repine at thy lot;
    That splendour and rank were thy own,
      Thy home and thy father forgot:

    'That lore and ambition assail'd,
      Thou hadst left us, whatever befel!
    My pardon