TO THE REV. W. I. HORT

HUSH! ye clamorous cares, be mute!
Again dear harmonist, again
Through the hollow of thy flute

Breathe that passion-warbled strain ;
Till memory back each form shall bring
The loveliest of her shadowy throng,
And hope, that soars on sky-lark's wing,
Shall carol forth her gladdest song!

O skill'd with magic spell to roll

The thrilling tones that concentrate the soul!
Breathe through thy flute those tender notes again,
While near thee sits the chaste-eyed maiden mild;
And bid her raise the poet's kindred strain
In soft impassion'd voice, correctly wild.

In freedom's undivided dell

SISTER of lovelorn poets, Philomel!
How many bards in city garrets pent,
While at their window they with downward eye
Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell'd mud,
And listen to the drowsy cry of the watchmen,
(Those hoarse unfeather'd nightingales of time!)
How many wretched bards address the name,
And hers, the full-orb'd queen, that shines above.
But I do hear thee, and the high bough mark,
Within whose mild moon-mellow'd foliage hid,

Far from folly, far from men,

In the rude romantic glen,

Up the cliff, and through the glade,
Wand'ring with the dear loved maid,
I shall listen to the lay

And ponder on the far away;

Still as she bids those thrilling notes aspire,
'Making my fond attuned heart her lyre),
Thy honor'd form, my friend! shall reappear,
And I will thank thee with a raptured tear!

TO CHARLES LAMB.

1794.

WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM.

THUS far my scanty brain hath built the rhym
Elaborate and swelling;-yet the heart
Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers
1 ask not now, my friend! the aiding verse
Tedious to thee, and from thy anxious thought
Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know)
From business wand'ring far and local cares
Thou creepest round a dear loved sister's bed,
With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look,
Soothing each pang with fond solicitudes
And tenderest tones medicinal of love.
I, too, a sister had, an only sister-

She loved me dearly, and I doted on her;

To her I pour'd forth all my puny sorrows;
(As a sick patient in a nurse's arms)
And of the heart those hidden maladies
That e'en from friendship's eye will shrink ashamed.
O! I have waked at midnight, and have wept
Because she was not!-Cheerily, dear Charles!
Thou thy best friend shall cherish many a year;
Such warm presages feel I of high hope!
For not uninterested the dear maid

I've view'd-her soul affectionate yet wise,
Her polish'd wit as mild as lambent glories
That play around a sainted infant's head.
He knows (the Spirit that in secret sees,
Of whose omniscient and all-spreading love
Aught to implore were impotence of mind!)

Oh, I have listen'd, till my working soul,
Waked by those strains to thousand phantasies,
Absorb'd, hath ceased to listen! Therefore oft
I hymn thy name; and with a proud delight
Oft will I tell thee, minstrel of the moon
Most musical, most melancholy bird!
That all thy soft diversities of tone,
Though sweeter far than the delicious airs
That vibrate from a white-arm'd lady's harp,
What time the languishment of lonely love
Melts in her eye, and heaves her breast of snow
Are not so sweet, as is the voice of her,
My Sara
best beloved of human kind!
When breathing the pure soul of tenderness,
She thrills me with the husband's promised name!
1794.

Cease, restless gale," it seems to say,

"Nor wake me with thy sighing:

The honours of my vernal day
On rapid wings are flying.

"To-morrow shall the traveller come,
That erst beheld me blooming;
His searching eye shall vainly roam
The dreary vale of Sumin."

With eager gaze and wetted cheek
My wanton haunts along,
Thus, lovely maiden, thou shalt seek
The youth of simplest song.

But I along the breeze will roll

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

1794.

ON AN AMOROUS DOCTOR.

FROM Rufa's eye sly Cupid shot his dart,
And left it sticking in Sengrado's heart.
No quiet from that moment has he known,
And peaceful sleep has from his eyelids flown;
And opium's force, and what is more, alack!
His own oration's, cannot bring it back:
In short unless she pities his afflictions,

Despair will make him take his own prescriptions.

1796.

TRANSLATION.

DEPART in joy from this world's noise and strife
To the deep quiet of celestial life!
Depart! Affection's self reproves the tear
Which falls, O honour'd Parent! on thy bier;-
Yet Nature will be heard, the heart will swell,
And the voice tremble with a last Farewell!

TO A PRIMROSE,

(THE FIRST SEEN IN THE SEASON.)

-nitens, et roboris expers Turget et insolida est: at spe delectat.-Ovid.

THY smiles I note, sweet early flower,
That peeping forth thy rustic bower
The festive news of earth dost bring,
A fragrant messenger of spring!

But tender blossom, why so pale?
Dost hear stern winter in the gale?
And didst thou tempt th' ungentle sky
To catch one vernal glance and die?

Such the wan lustre sickness wears,
When health's first feeble beam appears;
So languid are the smiles that seek
To settle on thy care-worn cheek!
When timorous hope the head uprears,
Still drooping and still moist with tears,
If, through dispersing grief, be seen
Of bliss the heavenly spark serene.

EPIGRAM.

1796.

HOARSE Mævius reads his hobbling verse
To all, and at all times;

And finds them both divinely smooth,
His voice, as well as rhymes.

Yet folks say "Mævius is no ass:"-
But Mævius makes it clear,
That he's a monster of an ass,
An ass without an ear.

1797.

INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE DARK LADIE.

THE following poem is intended as the introduction to a somewhat longer one. The use of the old ballad word Ladie for Lady, is the only piece of obsoleteness in it; and as it is professedly a tale of ancient times, I trust that the affectionate lovers of venerable antiquity, as Camden says, will grant me their pardon, and perhaps may be induced to admit a force and propriety in it. A heavier objection may be adduced against the author, that in these times of fear and expectation, when novelties explode around us in all directions, he should presume to offer to the public a silly tale of old-fashioned love: and five years ago, I own I should have allowed and felt the force of this objection. But alas! explosion after explosion has succeeded so rapidly, that novelty itself ceases to appear new; and it is possible that now, even a simple story wholly uninspired with politics or personality, may find some attention amid the hubbub of revolutions, as to those who have remained a long time by the falls of Niagara, the lowest whispering becomes distinctly audible.

O LEAVE the lily on its stem;
O leave the rose upon the spray;

O leave the elder bloom, fair maids!
And listen to my lay.

A cypress and a myrtle-bough

This morn around my harp you twined, Because it fashion'd mournfully

Its murmurs in the wind.

And now a tale of love and woe,
A woful tale of love I sing;
Hark, gentle maidens, hark: it sighs
And trembles on the string.
But most, my own dear Genevieve,
It sighs and trembles most for thee!
O come and hear the cruel wrongs
Befell the Dark Ladie!

1799

INSCRIPTION BY THE REV. W. S. BOWLES.

IN NETHER STOWEY CHURCH.

LÆTUS abi; mundi strepitu curisque remotus,
Lætus abi! cœli qua vocat alma quies.

Ipsa Fides loquitur, lacrymanque incausat inamen,
Quæ cadit in restros, care pater, cineres.

Heu! tantum liceat meritos hos soliere ritus
Et longum tremula dicere voce, vale!

EPILOGUE TO THE RASH CONJUROR.
AN UNCOMPOSED POEM.

WE ask and urge-(here ends the story.)
All Christian Papishes to pay

That this unhappy conjuror may,

Instead of Hell, be put in Purgatory,—

For then there's hope ;

Long live the Pope!

1805.

PSYCHE.

THE butterfly the ancient Grecians made
The soul's fair emblem, and its only name-
But the soul escaped the slavish trade
Of mortal life!-For in this earthly frame
Ours is the reptile's lot, much toil, much blame,
Manifold motions making little speed,

And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed. 1808.

COMPLAINT.

How seldom, Friend! a good great man inherits
Honor or wealth, with all his worth and pains!
It sounds like stories from the land of spirits,
If any man obtain that which he merits.
Or any merit that which he obtains,

REPROOF.

FOR Shame, dear Friend! renounce this canting strain!
What would'st thou have a good man to obtain?
Place-titles-salary-a gilded chain-

Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain ?-
Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends!
Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
The great good man?-three treasures, love, and light,
And calm thoughts, regular as infant's breath;-
And three firm friends more sure than day and night-
Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.

APPOINTED FOR THE DEPARTURE OF A VERY WOR-
THY, BUT NOT VERY PLEASANT VISITOR, WHOM IT
WAS FEARED THE RAIN MIGHT DETAIN.

I KNOW it is dark; and though I have lain
Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain,

I have not once open'd the lids of my eyes,
But lie in the dark, as a blind man lies.
O Rain! that I lie listening to,

You're but a doleful sound at best:
I owe you little thanks, 'tis true
For breaking thus my needful rest,
Yet if, as soon as it is light,

O Rain! you will but take your flight,
I'll neither rail, nor malice keep,
Though sick and sore for want of sleep.
But only now for this one day,
Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

O Rain! with your dull two-fold sound,

The clash hard by, and the murmur all round!
You know, if you know aught, that we,
Both night and day, but ill agree:
For days, and months, and almost years,
Have limp'd on through this vale of tears,

Since body of mine and rainy weather,
Have lived on easy terms together
Yet if as soon as it is light,

O Rain! you will but take your flight,
Though you should come again to morrow,
And bring with you both pain and sorrow;
Though stomach should sicken, and knees shoulà
swell-

I'll nothing speak of you but well.

But only for this one day,

Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

Dear Rain! I ne'er refuse to say
You're a good creature in your way.
Nay, I could write a book myself,
Would fit a parson's lower shelf,
Showing how very good you are.-
What then? sometimes it must be fair,
And if sometimes, why not to-day?
dear Rain! do go away!

Do go,

Dear Rain! if I've been cold and shy,
Take no offence! I'll tell you why.
A dear old Friend e'en now is here,
And with him came my sister dear;
After long absence now first met,
Long months by pain and grief beset
With three dear Friends! in truth, we groan
Impatiently to be alone.

We three you mark! and not one more!
The strong wish makes my spirit sore.
We have so much to talk about,
So many sad things to let out;
So many tears in our eye-corners,
Sitting like little Jacky Horners—
In short, as soon as it is day,

Do

go, dear Rain! do go away.

And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain!
Whenever you shall come again,

Be you as dull as e'er you could;
(And by the bye 't is understood,
You're not so pleasant, as you're good ;)
Yet, knowing well your worth and place,
I'll welcome you with cheerful face;
And though you stay a week or more,
Were ten times duller than before;
Yet with kind heart, and right good will,
I'll sit and listen to you still;

Nor should you go away, dear Rain!
Uninvited to remain,

But only now, for this one day,
Do go, dear Rain! do go away.

TRANSLATION

1809.

OF A PASSAGE IN OTTFRIED'S METRICAL PARAPHRASE OF THE GOSPELS.

"THIS Paraphrase, written about the time of Charlemagne, is by no means deficient in occasional passages of considerable poetic merit. There is a flow and a tender enthusiasm in the following lines (at the