Charles Tompson

I.
Gay blooming goddess of the flow'ry year,
Enchanting Spring, thou youth of nature, hail!
What artless beauties in thy train appear,
What balmy fragrance swells th' ambrosial gale,
...

Hast thou not seen some captive bird
Impatient flit within the wire,
And seek the bliss of liberty,
With anxious fond desire?
...

It flies—the gilded vessel flies,
That wafts my Daphnis o'er the main,
A lovelier sun, to distant isles
...

A Song.

AIR, “JESSIE O' DUMBLAIN.’
Calm Eve hangs her shades o'er yon wood-crowned blue mountain,
...

When first above the briny surge
Australia reared her tow'ring crest,
The roaring gales confounded fle
...

The Late Much Lamented Governor of Australia

What mournful cause, on every sorrowing brow,
Sheds the dark poppies of corroding woe,
Shrouds every thought in melancholy deep,
...

From this dull portal (whence th' expectant eye
Surveys the partial, forest-bounded sky,
Roves o'er a portion of neglected ground,
With ruin'd huts and fences scatter'd round,
...

“With cheerless gloom and storm-portending clouds
Rude Winter brushes from Antarctic wilds,
The front of Heav'n, in murky vapors shrouds,
Then bursts his sounding freightage o'er our isles
...

Written on a Summer Evening.
Now sinks the sun behind the western hills,
And balmy Eve assumes her placid sway,
Soft whispers murmur from the tinkling rills
...

In Imitation of Cowper

Dark lowered the sky, the rumbling thunder roll'd,
And light'ning's vivid flash, athwart the gloom,
Appalling, seemed to burst the valt of heaven;
...

O, for a beam, from Sion's sacred hill,
Of inspiration! then my soaring muse
Would wake, with hope, her bold aspiring lyre
To notes of rapture! Such the seer inspired,
...

In a slave-cultured isle, on the verge of the main,
Sable Zimeo's form was reclined;
He wept his dark destiny, gazed on his chain,
And mingled his sighs with the wind.
...

Farewell! yet, while the rolling billows
Waft you o'er their parent deep,
Let the shade of recent friendship
Sometimes sympathise and weep!
...

O Thou who, unexpected, steal'st serene
Into the bosom of the fertile year,
Tell me of climates which I ne'er have seen,
And let me feel the fragrance thou dost bear!
...

My Sylvia frowns on her love:
Ah! hope from this bosom is fled,
That syren that o'er my fond heart,
So lately her influence shed.
...

“O, festus dies hominis!” . . . O, the Joyful Day of Man!
Why, (when the hours of school-day bliss are o'er,
And puerile pleasures charm the mind no more,
...

Strophe I.
Strike, strike the bold convivial lyre!
Let lofty paeans wake the soul!
Let ivy'd bands each heart entwine,
...

On Her Birth-day.
Sweet breathe the gales. Apollo round him strews
Bright beams of gold, and melts-the vernal dews,
While not a cloud, through all th' etherial way,
...

On Her Birth-day

Lives there a heart that never felt the pow'r
Of Beauty's eye, in love's exstatic hour,
Or, free alike from every passion's sway,
...