The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1839-11-19 00:00:00

13artrp.

Mr. Charles Swain, whose writings are the most charming
contributions to the Forget Me Not for 1840, says, " This
is the eleventh year since my first appearance in your little
register of sweet affections. Since then, how many are
dead! Hemans, Landon, Jewsbary, Hogg, Neele, Mac-
nish, Carrington, Scott, Mackay Wilson, Inglis; and how
many more ?" And he adopts the theme in a touching
tone :

A VISION OF TOMBS

Addressed to the " Forget-me-

.Not."

Forget them hot ! oh, still forget them not !
The bards whose spirit bath inspired thy page ;
Be not the memory of the dead forgot,
Whose genius is thy proudest hermitage!
Alas for life ! what bosom might presage
The shadow of the grave was with each name !
Some, gray and lonely at the door of age!
Some in the golden morning of their fame—
Yet on the path of death all stricken down the same !
A vision of far tombs oppress'd m.y sight ;
I saw Kilmeny wandering down the glen,
To seek her Shepherd by the hill's lone height,
Her Ettrick Bard, she ne'er might find again I
And Scott—that ocean 'mid the stream of men !
That Alp, amidst all mental greatness rear'd !
He, too; bow'd down to Death's recording pen :
And Neele, Galt, Inglis, Malcolm—names endear'd—
Pan'd pale, as one by one their xision'd tombs appeaed
The voice of Spring is breathing! where art thou,
Daughter of Genius, whose exalted mind
From Nature's noblest and sublimest brow
Snatch'd inspiration? thou, whose art combined
Passions most pure, affections most refined ;
Whose muse with silver clarion wakes the land,
Thrilling the finer feelings of mankind !
Thine is the song to arm a patriot hand,
Or start a thousand spears 'midst Freedom's mountain band
Thine is the song to fill the mother's heart,
Whose children bless thee—Hemans—round her knee
Thine is the gifted page that can impart
A beauty born of immortality !
The temple—shrine—and tronhied urn—to thee
Were themes enduring ! wliere'er,Grief had trod,
Or Hope fled tired from human misery,
Thou stood'st with song uplifted to thy God,
Thou soothedst the mourner's tears e'en by the burial sod
The beauteous spirit of the minstrel dead
Comes with the harmonies and hues of morn !
Sits with my sorrowing heart when day hath fled,
And folds her glorious wings—Elysian born !
A broken rose and violet dim adorn
With their expressive grace her silent lyre :
But, oh ! the wreath by that immortal worn !
The inspiration and the seraph fire,
Which light those pleading eyes that unto heaven aspire !
Still mourns Erinna—ever by that coast,
Whose dismal winds shriek to each weeping cloud,
Whose waves sweep solemn as a funeral host,
Still mourns she Love's own minstrel, in her shroud :
The Sappho of that isle, in genius proud ;
The improvisatrice or our land;
The daughter of our soil—our fame endowed;
For her Erinna seeks the fatal strand,
And lifts to distant shores her wo-prophetic hand!
The blighted one! the breast, whose sister-tear
Sprang to each touch of feeling, heaves no more !
Our Landon, silent on her funeral bier,
Far from our heart, sleeps on a foreign shore ;
The voice of her—the song-inspired—is o'er;
Oh, she who wept for others found no tone
To soothe the many parting griefs she bore ;
None had a tear for that sweet spirit lone—
All sorrows found a balm save that fair minstrel's own !
Thou, who receivedst her rose-encircled head,
Our Minstrel in the bloom of her young fame,
Give back our lost and loved ! Restore our dead! •
Return once more her first and dearest name !
We claim her ashes ! 'tis a nation's claim !
Her—in her wealth of mind—to thee we gave !
Yet—plea.' we for the duet of that dear frame :
Oh, bear her world-lamented o'er the wave !
Let England hold at last—'tis all she asks—her grave !