FRENEAU, Philip


Dim burnt the lamp, and now the phantom Death

Dim burnt the lamp, and now the phantom Death

Gave his last groans in horror and despair —

" All hell demands me hence, " — he said, and threw

The red lamp hissing through the midnight air.


The Wild Honey-suckle

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,

Hid in this silent, dull retreat,

Untouched thy honied blossoms blow,

Unseen thy little branches greet;

...No roving foot shall crush thee here,

...No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature's self in white arrayed,

She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,

And planted here the gaurdian shade,

And sent soft waters murmuring by;

...Thus quietly thy summer goes,

...Thy days declinging to repose.

Smit with those charms, that must decay,

I grieve to see your future doom;

They died--nor were those flowers more gay,

The flowers that did in Eden bloom;

...Unpitying frosts, and Autumn's power

...Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evenign dews

At first thy little being came:

If nothing once, you nothing lose,

For when you die you are the same;

...The space between, is but an hour,

...The frail duration of a flower.


The Vanity of Existence

In youth, gay scenes attract our eyes,

And not suspecting their decay

Life's flowery fields before us rise,

Regardless of its winter day.

But vain pursuits, and joys as vain,

Convince us life is but a dream.

Death is to wake, to rise again

To that true life you best esteem.

So nightly on some shallow tide,

Oft have I seen a splendid show;

Reflected stars on either side,

And glittering moons were seen below.

But when the tide had ebbed away,

The scene fantastic with it fled,

A bank of mud around me lay,

And sea-weed on the river's bed.


On Retirement

A HERMIT'S house beside a stream

With forests planted round,

Whatever it to you may seem

More real happiness I deem

Than if I were a monarch crowned.

A cottage I could call my own

Remote from domes of care;

A little garden, walled with stone,

The wall with ivy overgrown,

A limpid fountain near,

Would more substantial joys afford,

More real bliss impart

Than all the wealth that misers hoard,

Than vanquished worlds, or worlds restored-

Mere cankers of the heart!

Vain, foolish man! how vast thy pride,

How little can your wants supply!-

'Tis surely wrong to grasp so wide-

You act as if you only had

To triumph- not to die!