Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glow'd;
Her banners like a midnight meteor, flow'd;
Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies!
She came, and scatter'd battles from her eyes!
Then Exultation waked the patriot fire,

And swept with wilder hand the Alcæan lyre.
Red from the tyrant's wound I shook the lance,
And strode in joy the reeking plains of France!

Fallen is the oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low,
And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the blow.
With wearied thought once more I seek the shade,
Where peaceful Virtue weaves the myrtle braid.
And O! if eyes whose holy glances roll,
Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul;
If smiles more winning, and a gentler mien
Than the love-wilder'd Maniac's brain hath seen
Shaping celestial forms in vacant air,

If these demand the impassion'd poet's care-
If Mirth and soften'd Sense and Wit refined,
The blameless features of a lovely mind;
Then haply shall my trembling hand assign
No fading wreath to beauty's saintly shrine.
Nor, Sara! thou these early flowers refuse-
Ne'er lurk'd the snake beneath their simple hues;
No purple bloom the child of nature brings
From Flattery's night-shade; as he feels, he sings.
September, 1792.

Great Son of Genius! sweet to me thy name,

Ere in an evil hour with alter'd voice

Thou badst Oppression's hireling crew rejoice,
Blasting with wizard spell my laurell'd fame.
Yet never, Burke! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl!
The stormy Pity and the cherish'd lure

Of Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul Wilder'd with meteor fires. Ah spirit pure' That error's mist had left thy purged eye: So might I clasp thee with a mother's joy!

SONNET.

THOUGH roused by that dark Vizir, Riot rude
Have driven our PRIEST Over the ocean swell
Though Superstition and her wolfish brood
Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell;
Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell
For lo! Religion at his strong behest
Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell,
And flings to earth her tinsel-glittering vest,
Her mitred state and cumbrous pomp unholy;
And Justice wakes to bid the Oppressor wail,
Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly:
And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won,
Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron veil
To smile with fondness on her gazing son!

SONNET.

WHEN British Freedom for a happier land
Spread her broad wings, that flutter'd with affright,
ERSKINE! thy voice she heard, and paused her flight
Sublime of hope! For dreadless thou didst stand
(Thy censer glowing with the hallow'd flame)
A hireless Priest before the insulted shrine,
And at her altar pour the stream divine
Of unmatch'd eloquence. Therefore thy name
Her sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast
With blessings heavenward breathed. And when

the doom

Of Nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb
Thy light shall shine: as sunk, beneath the West,
Though the great Summer Sun eludes our gaze,
Still burns wide Heaven with his distended blaze.

SONNET.

IT was some Spirit, SHERIDAN! that breathed
O'er thy young mind such wildly various power!
My soul hath mark'd thee in her shaping hour,
Thy temples with Hymettian flow'rets wreathed:
And sweet thy voice, as when o'er Laura's bier
Sad music trembled through Vauclusa's glado;
Sweet, as at dawn the lovelorn serenade
That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's listening our
Now patriot rage and indignation high
Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beam
dance

Meaning of Scorn and Wit's quaint revelry!
Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance
The Apostate by the brainless rout adored,
As erst that elder fiend beneath great Michael's sword

SONNET.

O WHAT a loud and fearful shriek was there,
As though a thousand souls one death-groan pour'd
Ah me! they view'd beneath a hireling's sword
Fallen KOSCIUSKO! Through the burthen'd air

(As pauses the tired Cossack's barbarous yell
Of tri imph) on the chill and midnight gale
Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell
The dirge of murder'd Hope! while Freedom pale
Bends in such anguish o'er her destined bier,
As if from eldest time some Spirit meek
Had gather'd in a mystic urn each tear
That ever on a Patriot's furrow'd cheek

Fit channel found; and she had drain'd the bowl
In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul!

SONNET.

As when far off the warbled strains are heard
That soar on Morning's wing the vales among,
Within his cage the imprison'd matin bird
Swells the full chorus with a generous song:
He bathes no pinion in the dewy light,
No Father's joy, no Lover's bliss he shares,
Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight;
His Fellows' freedom soothes the Captive's cares:
Thou, FAYETTE! who didst wake with startling voice
Life's better sun from that long wintry night,
Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt rejoice,
And mock with raptures high the dungeon's might:
For lo! the morning struggles into day,
And Slavery's spectres shriek and vanish from the
ray!

SONNET.

THOU gentle Look, that didst my soul beguile,
Why hast thou left me? Still in some fond dream
Revisit my sad heart, auspicious Smile!
As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam:
What time, in sickly mood, at parting day
I lay me down and think of happier years;
Of joys, that glimmer'd in Hope's twilight ray,
Then left me darkling in a vale of tears.
O pleasant days of Hope-for ever gone!
Could I recall you!-But that thought is vain.
Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone
To lure the fleet-wing'd travellers back again:
Yet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam
Like the bright rainbow on a willowy stream.

SONNET.

PALE Roamer through the Night; thou poor Forlorn!
Remorse that man on his death-bed possess,
Who in the credulous hour of tenderness
Betray'd, then cast thee forth to Want and Scorn!
The world is pitiless: the Chaste one's pride,
Mimic of Virtue, scowls on thy distress:
Thy loves and they, that envied thee, deride:
And Vice alone will shelter wretchedness!
O! I am sad to think, that there should be
Cold-bosom'd lewd ones, who endure to place
Fcul offerings on the shrine of Misery,
And force from Famine the caress of Love;
May He shed healing on the sore disgrace,
He, the great Comforter that rules above!

SONNET.

SWEET Mercy! how my very heart has bled
To see thee, poor Old Man! and thy gray hairs
Hoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares
To clothe thy shrivell'd limbs and palsied head.
My Father! throw away this tatter'd vest
That mocks thy shivering! take my garment-use
A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews
That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast.
My Sara too shall tend thee, like a Child:
And thou shalt talk, in our fire-side's recess,
Of purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness.
He did not so, the Galilæan mild,

Who met the Lazars turn'd from rich men's doors,
And call'd them Friends, and heal'd their noisome
Sores!

SONNET.

THOU bleedest, my poor Heart! and thy distress
Reasoning I ponder with a scornful smile,
And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the while
Swoln be ruine eye and dim with heaviness.
Why didst tnou listen to Hope's whisper bland?
Or, listening, why forget the healing tale,
When Jealousy with feverish fancies pale
Jarr'd thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand?
Faint was that Hope, and rayless!-Yet 't was fair
And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest:
Thou shouldst have loved it most, when most opprest
And nursed it with an agony of Care,
Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir
That wan and sickly droops upon her breast!

SONNET.

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ROBBERS." SCHILLER! that hour I would have wished to die,' If through the shuddering midnight I had sent From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent That fearful voice, a famish'd Father's cryLest in some after moment aught more mean Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout Black Horror scream'd, and all her goblin rout Diminish'd shrunk from the more withering scene! Ah Bard tremendous in sublimity!

Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood; Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood: Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy!

LINES

COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF

BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795. WITH many a pause and oft reverted eye

I climb the Coomb's ascent: sweet songsters near
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody:
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear.
Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock
That on green plots o'er precipices browse:
From the forced fissures of the naked rock
The Yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs

(Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,
I rest-and now have gain'd the topmost site.
Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets

My gaze! Proud Towers, and Cots more dear to me,
Elm-shadow'd Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea!
Deep sighs my lonely heart I drop the tear:
Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here!

LINES

IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER.

O PEACE! that on a lilied bank dost love
To rest thine head beneath an Olive Tree,
I would, that from the pinions of thy Dove
One quill withouten pain ypluck'd might be!
For O! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee,

And fain to her some soothing song would write,
Lest she Lesent my rude discourtesy,

Who vow'd to meet her ere the morning light,
But broke my plighted word—ah! false and recreant
wight!

Last night as I my weary head did pillow
With thoughts of my dissever'd Fair engross'd,
Chill Fancy droop'd wreathing herself with willow,

As though my breast entomb'd a pining ghost.

From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal boast,

Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way;
But leave me with the matin hour, at most!
As night-closed Floweret to the orient ray,

My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey."

But Love, who heard the silence of my thought,
Contrived a too successful wile, I ween:

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

THE stream with languid murmur creeps,
In Lumin's flowery vale:
Beneath the dew the Lily weeps,

Slow-waving to the gale.

"Cease, restless gale!" it seems to say, Nor wake me with thy sighing! The honors of my vernal day

On rapid wing are flying.

"To-morrow shall the Traveller come
Who late beheld me blooming:
His searching eye shall vainly roam
The dreary vale of Lumin."

With eager gaze and wetted cheek
My wonted haunts along,
Thus, faithful Maiden! thou shalt seek
The Youth of simplest song.

But I along the breeze shall roll

The voice of feeble power;
And dwell, the moon-beam of thy soul,
In Slumber's nightly hour.

THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA How long will ye round me be swelling, O ye blue-tumbling waves of the Sea? Not always in Caves was my dwelling,

Nor beneath the cold blast of the Tree. Through the high-sounding halls of Cathloma In the steps of my beauty I stray'd; The Warriors beheld Ninathỏma,

And they blessed the white-bosom'd Maid!

A Ghost! by my cavern it darted!

In moon-beams the Spirit was drestFor lovely appear the departed

When they visit the dreams of my rest! But, disturb'd by the Tempest's commotion, Fleet the shadowy forms of DelightAh cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean! To howl through my Cavern by Night.

IMITATED FROM THE WELSH

Ir, while my passion I impart,

You deem my words untrue,
O place your hand upon my heart-
Feel how it throbs for you!

Ah no! reject the thoughtless claim,
In pity to your lover!

That thrilling touch would aid the flame
It wishes to discover.

TO AN INFANT.

Ан cease thy tears and Sobs, my little Life'

I did but snatch away the unclasp'd Knife:
Some safer Toy will soon arrest thine eye,
And to quick Laughter change this peevish'

;

Poor Stumbler on the rocky coast of Woe,
Tutor'd by Pain each source of Pain to know!
Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire
Awake thy eager grasp and young desire
Alike the Good, the Ill offend thy sight,
And rouse the stormy sense of shrill affright!
Untaught, yet wise! 'mid all thy brief alarms
Thou closely clingest to thy Mother's arms,
Nestling thy little face in that fond breast
Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest!
Man's breathing Miniature! thou makest me sigh-
A Babe art thou-and such a thing am I!

To anger rapid and as soon appeased,

For trifles mourning and by trifles pleased,
Break Friendship's Mirror with a techy blow,

Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar

You roused each gentler sense As, sighing o'er the Blossom's bloom, Meek Evening wakes its soft perfume With viewless influence.

And hark, my Love! The sea-breeze moans
Through yon reft house! O'er rolling stones
In bold ambitious sweep,
The onward-surging tides supply
The silence of the cloudless sky
With mimic thunders deep.

Dark reddening from the channell❜d Isle* (Where stands one solitary pile

Unslated by the blast)

The Watch-fire, like a sullen star
Twinkles to many a dozing Tar

Rude cradled on the mast.

Even there-beneath that light-house towerIn the tumultuous evil hour

Ere Peace with Sara came,

Time was, I should have thought it sweet
To count the echoings of my feet,

And watch the storm-vex'd flame.

And there in black soul-jaundiced fit
A sad gloom-pamper'd Man to sit,

And listen to the roar:
When Mountain Surges bellowing deep
With an uncouth monster leap
Plunged foaming on the shore.

Then by the Lightning's blaze to mark
Some toiling tempest-shatter'd bark;
Her vain distress-guns hear;
And when a second sheet of light
Flash'd o'er the blackness of the night-
To see no Vessel there!

But Fancy now more gaily sings:
Or if awhile she droop her wings,

As sky-larks 'mid the corn,
On summer fields she grounds her breast:
The oblivious Poppy o'er her nest

Nods, till returning morn.

O mark those smiling tears, that swell
The open'd Rose! From heaven they fell,
And with the sun-beam blend.
Bless'd visitations from above,
Such are the tender woes of Love
Fostering the heart, they bend!

When stormy Midnight howling round
Beats on our roof with clattering sound,
To me your arms you'll stretch:
Great God! you'll say-To us so kind,
O shelter from this loud bleak wind
The houseless, friendless wretch!

The tears that tremble down your cheek, Shall bathe my kisses chaste and meek

The Holmes, in the Bristol Channes.